Young Writers Society

80 THE THIRD COMPANION

“Oh, my,” Christian squeaked. The other hellhounds had been large for dogs, level with his shoulders, still terrifying, but this beast towered over him. He hadn’t seen a hellhound so big since the one he’d seen in the maze on the night after the attack. The one he’d thrown a chunk of stone at before escaping with Rath.

This was the same hellhound. Ignoring as best he could his own fear and the whispered warnings of his companions, he took a step forward and said in a trembling voice, “I’m sorry I threw that rock at you.”

The growling did not stop, but the gargantuan dog made no move to attack. Encouraged, Christian went on. “I didn’t mean anything by it, but you did give me a dreadful fright.”

“What are you doing?” Tirion hissed behind him.

“Didn’t you see the guard dog wagging its tail at Finn and Rowan?” Christian whispered back. “I think they like being talked to.”

“So your plan is to talk it to death?” the elf asked heatedly, but Morrow put a hand on his shoulder and murmured, “Let him try. Our weapons are useless. All I’ve got left is a knife, and that not even iron.”

“His knife might do something,” Tirion muttered, but he turned away at another touch from the Rover.

The hellhound’s growling had grown louder as they spoke. Christian took another step toward it with his legs shaking so badly he thought they might give out at any moment.

“You see,” he squeaked, “you see, there was so much destruction, and everything was so quiet—well, you startled me.”

The hellhound stopped growling, though it cocked its head at him warily as if expecting some sort of trick. If Christian had had some trick he probably would have felt better about all of this. Instead he simply planned to talk until the hellhound—what, let them pass?—or grew bored with him and ate them anyway.

“But now,” he said. “Well—now I see there was nothing to be afraid of. You’re not so frightening after all.” (Utter lies.) “Just a big, cuddly dog, really.”

Wait, what if that was an insult? Maybe the hellhounds strove to frighten people. Maybe calling them cuddly was like calling a Narnian mouse cute.

The beast began to wag its tail with a whap-whap-whap, looking so pathetic Christian felt a rush of real sympathy for it.

“You must be joking,” Tirion said.

Christian ignored him. Encouraged by the hopeful lift of the hellhound’s ears, he took another step forward. His legs did not shake as badly as before.

“Just a big, cuddly dog,” he repeated. “That’s all you are, aren’t you? Not vicious at all. I’ll bet you’re just upset because everyone tries to kill you.”

(That certainly was a good reason to be upset.)

The hellhound whimpered, whined, and then, to his amazement, flopped over onto its side with its paws waving absurdly in the air.

“I must be dreaming,” Morrow said.

“What does it want?” Tirion asked.

“Why, a belly-rub, of course,” Christian said. Feeling both relieved and extremely silly, he pocketed the iron knife, neared the big dog, and scratched its massive belly, saying over and over again, “Who’s a good boy? That’s right, you are!”

“This is ridiculous,” said Tirion. “First a spider, now a hellhound. Are we to find that none of Goblin’s allies are evil creatures after all?”

Morrow shrugged. “That would make our job a lot easier. Be nice to have a hellhound on our side for once.”

“What I don’t understand,” the elf said, “is why they side with Goblin in the first place if they’re really so friendly.”

“Well,” said Christian, now fondling the hellhound’s floppy ears; they were surprisingly soft. “Maybe they’re a bit like Frankenstein’s monster.”

His companions looked at him blankly. He realized neither of them would know who Frankenstein was because Frankenstein did not exist in the Otherworld.

“It’s a book,” he said. “Frankenstein was a doctor who created a creature out of dead body parts and brought it to life. But he abandoned the creature when he succeeded because it was so hideous, and then of course everyone else who saw it was horrified and threw rocks at it or chased it with torches. I mean, if its own creator didn’t love it, who else would? So eventually it turned bad because everyone hated it.”

Tirion looked at him like he had lost his mind, but Morrow nodded thoughtfully and said, “So you think perhaps Goblin has been more—understanding of these creatures, and that’s why they fight for him.”

“Yes,” said Christian. “They say he’s quite ugly himself.” The hellhound rolled over and put its head close to his face.

“Look out,” Tirion said sharply, drawing his bow, but a moment later he lowered it again as Christian laughed: the hellhound was giving him giant, slobbery dog kisses. In moments he was drenched in saliva, which was unpleasant but preferable to getting eaten.

Morrow approached and let the hellhound sniff his hand before touching it. The elf, too, neared the giant dog, frowning and with his bow still in hand. The hellhound growled softly at his approach, but Christian said, “He’s alright. He’s just—more skeptical.”

“I hate to break up the fun,” Tirion said, “but there’s still a battle going on aboveground and we’ve got a mission to complete.”

“Will you come with us?” Christian asked the hellhound.

“Oh for the love of—”

Morrow touched the elf’s back with a faint smile and said, “Always the pessimist. Let the beast come with us, Tirion. It may be to our advantage.”

“Or it may be the death of us,” Tirion muttered, but he made no further objection as the hellhound rose to its feet with its tail wagging.

The Rover pulled his father’s battered map from his coat and consulted it.

“Three doors. Those must be the archways. The other two dead-end after not too long—this one looks like it goes on a ways, and then there should be a chamber—”

“Then let’s go,” Tirion said.

Morrow rolled the map up and put it back in his pocket. Christian put a hand on the hellhound’s side and followed the Rover king down the tunnel with the elf muttering darkly behind him.