The blade flashed at my human. The thought of the sharp, cold weapon seeking the gut of my charge, the funniest, kindest, most talented human whom any dog has ever had the pleasure of knowing, well… I thought I felt it in my own heart. I made a noise too feral for words and flew towards the swirling mass, a blur of cape, sash, leather and cord. The seneschal—the warden, now—dove forward, slashing with his trowel but was not fast enough.

The assassin made contact, but due to the awkwardness of the wrist-mounted blade (a design I have never seen before, and though I am no expert on human weapons, it seems for good reason), he rather punched Commander Zideo instead of stabbing him. Still, the sight of Zideo’s inflated cheeks as the wind was knocked out of him will haunt me for all my days, I am sure. The blow had the effect of knocking Zideo back away from his nimble attacker.

What followed was a confusing melee. The trowel flashed, and although it did not break skin (how could it?), I heard the clank of tin against steel. My teeth sought his thigh. My thoughtful mind evaporated and my beast instincts replaced it with thoughts of gore, splashing blood, death, defilement. I thought to sever that vulnerable artery in his leg, and failing that, drag him out of reach of my human. My teeth only closed on soft fabric instead, and I thrashed backward, hearing it rip.

The assassin’s feet shot out from under him and he yelped like a pup. Zideo careened against a freestanding arch. A vase of unknowable antiquity tottered in its niche on the wall, and fell, showering us with clay fragments and dust.

Human aircraft always need to be re-explained to me (they are not birds, some have assured me, but they do fly?) but one facet that always stuck with me was the thought of “locking on.” Apparently they can look very hard at one another in the sky, and enter a state or cast a spell that causes their attacks to be unable to miss. In that split second when that hated man collapsed on the floor, I spat out a shred of his cloak and “locked onto” his throat: bare, open to attack, a fleshy bundle of necessary organs—trachea, larynx, carotid artery, and if I bit deep enough….

I was upon him, but again closed my jaws on nothing. He rolled swiftly, and Helmgarth’s kick, meant to disable the assassin, sent me flying.

Airborne, I made the yipping sound that no human, no matter how heartless, no matter his aim or affiliation, can bear. My left shoulder was pain, and I rolled and scrabbled my claws against the stone floor. A curse on Lisa for having them ground down! (Not really, Lisa, if you ever read this account. It is only how I felt in that heated moment. I’m sorry.) Pain never stopped a dog, though, and in a flash I was up, growling at both Helmgarth, whose hand was over his mouth, and the assassin, who had quickly scaled one of the arches, though it held few cracks for footholds. Zideo emerged out of nowhere and shoved the warden.

“Uncool! You kicked my dog, you shitbird! What were you-”

I barked at top volume at the man in the cloak. He threw his garment out to either side like wings, and swooped. The three fell in a knot, and when I could make sense of the situation, the had a knee on each of their chests. I had to jump out of the way to avoid being crushed by the man’s boots, and I tripped on the uneven stones of the grotto.

“Who sent you, knave?” coughed Helmgarth. The wrist-blades were at both of their throats. His back was to me, but he was a centimeter away from taking my human away from me forever. If I pounced on him, Zideo would be dead in an instant.

I rolled to my feet beneath the statue of the raging human, bespectacled and clawing the air. He looked upon the scene with outrage, mindless with fury. In utter defiance of the impermeable truth before him. He was impotent anger incarnate.

I barked that defiance, as vociferously as I had ever done in my life. I rejected reality beneath his livid visage. I barked louder than I did when those dimwitted squirrels taunted me from the yard. Louder than when the waddling armadillo had watched me from the road.

“Your city will fall before the next—” annoyed and interrupted by my ruckus, he glanced back at me, then tried again. “The city will—dog! Shut up!” I raged and roared. “The city—shut the fuck up back there!” I gnashed and snarled and barked and barked and barked. “Dog! Shut up!” said the white-cloaked assassin, turning to me. I didn’t. I did not shut up! He twisted his torso, pointed the wrist-blade meant for Zideo at me. “If you don’t sh-”

The trowel flashed, and the assassin cried out. He flexed his arms, thrusting downward. “No!” shouted Zideo.

Bodies struggled, and the cloaked man somersaulted backward and revealed what he had done. Blood trailed through the right-angled grouting between the stone tiles of the floor. My heart halted, and the deity’s fury that had come over me vanished, leaving ice throughout my body. The trowel clattered to the stone tiles, and Helmgarth clutched his abdomen. Zideo jumped to his feet.

“You ass ball!” said Zideo, detached from all sense. “You schmuck lord! You stabbed him! You absolute sack of fuck!” He knelt over Helmgarth, whose enormous backpack made it as though he was already half-sitting.

The assassin cleared his throat. “Ludopolis has seen its last sunset.” He retracted the wrist-blades and held his hands forth dramatically. “The principarchy will f-” He swatted a fragment of vase out of the air, thrown by Zideo. “I am speaking!”

I ran for him, “locking” onto his ankle, but he threw something at the ground. There was a pop, and a hiss, and smoke stung my eyes. I wheezed and sneezed, and the smoke stung my eyes. When my tears cleared, he still stood there.

“Bruh,” said Zideo.

“One moment…” said the assassin. He inspected a second smoke pellet in his hand. Then, suddenly, he sprinted out the door, his cloak a whipping white flag behind him. My angry barks chased him out of the grotto, but I returned to my human’s side.

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He leaned over Helmgarth. “You’re hit, bud,” Zideo said. “How is this supposed to work? He’s from one game and you’re from another.”

“Please, m’lord,” wheezed Helmgarth. “G-word.”

“Nobody can hear us,” complained Zideo. “Now can you focus? What do I do here? Do I stitch you up?”

Helmgarth’s chest rose and fell with effort. It was work for him to tilt his head downward and look at the dark red stain spreading from the rip in his tunic. He did not like what he saw, and prodded it once with his finger. His legs straightened and he quaked, gritting his teeth.

Helmgarth’s voice shook. “If m’lord will help me stand.”

Zideo looked dubious. “Not sure about that one, chief. What can I do?” He got an idea. “Can you just eat chicken? That’s what we did in Gleam’Blade (20ǂ1), we just slammed chicken for HP.”

Helmgarth glanced at the pool of red.

“You’re right,” said Zideo. “Okay, take my hand. It’s uh… it’s a long walk back to that field hospital we saw near the south gate, but we’ll get there together.”

Helmgarth shook his head, and made no move to stand. “Too far,” he coughed, “begging m’lord’s pardon.” He took two breaths as though he needed them badly. He spoke slowly, and raised his hand before the words came. “The Healers’ Academy,” he said. “You will need a map to find it.” I thought he was giving Zideo the thumbs-up, but he was pointing over his shoulder to his pack.

“I can do better than that,” said Zideo. He stood and announced, “Book! Where is the Healer’s Academy?”

I was uncertain whether the time-freezing effects of the Compendium would be beneficial for a wounded man—no, a dying one. The smell of death was settling over him. My nose froze, and my legs, and my neck. Helmgarth’s blood stopped dripping, and he groaned through his teeth. Pages fluttered into existence, and the book compiled itself before its master.

* Entry: Healers’ Academy

* Description: The primary medical facility serving greater Ludopolis with cross-genre HP restoration and medical-

“Lokershun!” shouted Zideo through a clenched jaw. “Whur issit!”

A page turned of its own volition.

* Location:

I could not see over his shoulder, but was yet made aware of the map the book displayed.

Down the arc shaped street, inward into the so-called Green Quarter, past the ruined tower. A golden line traced from our location on the hand-drawn map which could not be ignored, marking the way. Zideo gasped to see a glowing fairy point in the room with us. But it was not in the room, not really—even I could tell that it indicated something far away, fixed in the distance although visible through the walls.

Zideo made the book go away, and the fairy dot with it, although he still looked towards its location. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve got a waypoint or something. Let’s go.” He clasped Helmgarth’s hand, and pulled. Helmgarth cried out, but stood, leaning all of his weight and that of his pack against Zideo. “We got this, bud.” Blood ran down Helmgarth’s side. “On three. One, two…”

They took a successful step back toward the door. Helmgarth panted and bled. He stared at the door. “It is too far, m’lord,” said the warden.

“No, it’s not,” said Zideo. “This one is easy. You have one goal, and that’s to get to the healers. So, get up and grind.” He did not let go of Helmgarth’s hand. “Ready?”

Helmgarth shook his head, but Zideo pulled him along. They took a step. They took another. Helmgarth’s bad knee failed, and he kneeled and bent over, snatching his hand back to himself and clutching his wound to himself like something precious and personal.

“It is too far,” repeated Helmgarth, this time with more breath than voice.

“Okay, well, what’s not too far?”

The man pointed through the door. His breath whistled in his throat. “Home,” he said. He was already kneeling in his own blood. “Potion.” The rest of his energy was spent on breathing, and lowering himself to the floor as gently as he was able. I wanted to help, but although we are many things to our humans, we are not crutches.

“Okay,” said Zideo. “I’ll go. I’ll find my way back to your rooftop. I’ll get one and come back. Okay?”

Helmgarth was not able to respond.

We went to the door, the overgrown passage of branches and vines. Zideo paused beneath the low ceiling. “Cormac,” he said, and he was afraid. He looked at the dying warden. I was afraid I knew what he was going to say next, and was determined not to obey it. “Stay.”

I wagged my tail and followed him into the overgrown passage of the Ludic Grotto.

“No,” he said. He wasn’t angry, but insistent. “Stay. Someone has to stay with him.” He made a face as though the words tasted sour, the same face I made when Lisa had dropped a freshly sliced jalapeño, and I made the mistake of snatching it. Seeing that I was not following him, he said, “Good boy, Cormac.”

Stars exploded in golden light. Supernovas of happiness burst against my skin. Electric currents of pleasure powered my limbs, and I slapped a nearby column with my wagging tail. I floated back to the dying man.

I turned my ears toward the passage and waited for any sign of his return. I detected the rattle of dice and the occasional laconic swear from the skeletons in the graveyard, the pop of fireworks beyond, and the low white noise of cheering crowds punctuated by children boo-ing one another and others imitating goat-bleats.

Helmgarth said nothing, but there was a shuffle of clothing and I saw that his bloodied hand was out. He reached for someone, but the only person there was myself.

Trotting quickly to his side, his hand closed around my ear.

I started to pull away at first, but realized he was giving me rubs. It felt selfish to receive a good ear-rub as someone’s final act in life, but it felt good and I sat beside the growing red current running between the stones.

With no medical skills or supplies, I began to lick his face. The warden smiled, too symmetrically. He seemed pleased, so I suppose it helped.

I could hear no sign of my human returning, no rapid footsteps in the passage, no hurried words exchanged with the skeletons.

Helmgarth’s eyes opened, and I realized that he was pointing. At first I licked his hands instinctively, but then it occurred to me to follow the direction of his finger. It pointed toward the faceless Cozy in the flowing, fluffy hoodie. Situating myself behind him, I bit a few places on his backpack until my teeth found structure, whether wire or thick leather, I do not know. It did not slip out of my jaws, and I pulled, turning him around, dragging him across the uneven stones. Blood traced his path like a red paintbrush. With much groaning on his part and grunting on mine, I was able to position him beneath the statue of the deity.

Helmgarth smiled, and although his neck rested on his own great rucksack and did not turn, I could see his pupils through the thin slits of his eyes and was sure he looked at me before he closed them. He took a deep, peaceful breath beneath the faceless deity, her controller, and her mudra of peace. It was a good breath. No rasping, no wheezing.

Commander Zideo burst into the grotto, waking me. “I’ve got it!” He stumbled forward and stared at us, and his face fell. He lowered the potion.

If there is ever a vote for best human, I am sure all other dogs will go against their nature, which would be to vote for their own, and vote for Commander Zideo instead. He had done his best, ran into a city of pure chaos where there was an assassin on the loose and returned with the potion. He sat down next to Helmgarth and sighed heroically. His eyes were wet.