The Wild Dog, Considered

Bestiary of the Realm. Entry: The Wild Dog. A creature that will not be ignored. Found on the road to the fire giants, where nobody asked for it.

Habits. The Wild Dog waits until a Chronicler has chosen a giant, a proper giant, made of fire and worth a paragraph. Then it bites him on the ankle. The Chronicler turns from the giant to the dog. This is recorded in the log in my own hand, at 08:53, as though it were a decision. It was not a decision. It was a dog.

Natural defences of the Chronicler. As of this chapter, Defence 99, which is the most the Realm allows. I have already written once about the arithmetic that stops an arm at ninety-nine, and I said what I thought of it. I will not say it twice. I will say that the wall is now finished. There is no ninety-ninth-and-a-half brick. I stood in Adamant helm, Rune plate top and bottom and a Dragonfire shield, a wall in climbing boots, and at 08:55 the Wild Dog struck me anyway, at the coordinates two thousand six hundred and thirty-one by nine thousand five hundred and fifty-three. I was at eighty-two of ninety-nine. The dog has no interest in the hiscores.

Cost. Sharks, mostly. The cook who was once my scout harpoons them at the Fishing Guild, cooks them, and banks them for me. On the morning of this entry the bank held one thousand eight hundred and forty. Every one of them was eaten, or will be, by a man who could not keep a dog off his shins. The squire, in the same hour, reported one thousand two hundred hill giants felled. None of them count. He reports it anyway. So do I.

Use. A finished wall is not for keeping things out. Nothing is kept out; the record proves it. A finished wall is for standing in front of the fire giants while the dog has its say, and declining to turn round. That is what ninety-nine Defence is for. Whether I manage it is a matter for the next page.