Thus, he made himself into a cat again, and slinked down the hallways, darting between furniture as he made his way back to Brannagh's room.

He could undoubtedly kill the dog now that he had a weapon; even though it was also a spirit, it no longer had the element of surprise, and Sif prided himself on the idea of having much more experience. He was certainly more intelligent.

The same laundress from before was going down the hall, humming to herself. Sif brushed up against her leg, trying to act friendly, and then went to Brannagh's door, meowing at it.

" Oh, you don't want to go in there, child, he's not fond of ye," she said, ignoring him and turning to enter a different room.

Sif meowed plaintively, and scratched at the door, standing up with his front paws against it. If only she wasn't there! He'd open it himself if he was alone, but now he was having to beg for favors like a regular cat.

" I'm tellin' you, no means no," the woman harrumphed again. " Master Brannagh will have my head."

She went into the room opposite Brannagh's, leaving the door open as she began stripping down the bedsheets.

What could he do but pace in front of the door and wail? He set out to annoy her as much as possible.

She continued on, intentionally trying to ignore him; he redoubled his efforts, as she began to cuss under her breath.

" If I open the damn door will ye be done with it?" she finally snapped, throwing a quilt down into her basket. " Nothin' in there for a cat, anyway!"

He cried as pitifully as he could.

" Fine! Have at it!" she cried just as dramatically, stomping over and throwing the door open.

Sif darted inside, and in the shadow of the door, quickly shifted back into his human form. He slammed it shut and pulled the bolt, trying to keep her from seeing him; he heard her exclaim in surprise, and try it with no success.

" Come on out, you miserable slavehound," he hissed, looking about the room. It seemed the same as it had been before, though now the window was boarded over with a few planks of wood.

A thin mist slid from out of the wardrobe, collecting and condensing until it congealed into the massive, misshapen form of a dog, somehow both skeletal and over-muscled.

" Foolish little cat, coming back for me to chew on," it growled, slobbery, bracing itself to attack.

" Ysout," Sif called, palm outstretched, and to his relief the gleaming lance indeed reformed itself in his grip, shimmery and pulsing. As soon as he knew it was done manifesting, felt its physical weight, he stanced himself to counter the dog-

It jumped, maw wide open, and crashed into Sif with such force that he was knocked off of his feet, slamming into the ground and knocking his head on the door; its teeth crushed around the length of Sif's lance, and it shook its head back and forth, growling, its claws digging into Sif's stomach. He flailed, hissing, and threw it off by kicking with both legs, feet digging into its abdomen, into muscle and rib.

As soon as most of its weight was off him, he collected himself and hopped back up, holding his lance in front of him; the dog withdrew slightly, now leery, and they both paced around each other, looking for any openings.

Sif knew, broadly, that this thing wasn't very intelligent; it knew how to fight, and how to insult him, but perhaps not much more beyond that. When he thought about it this way, even Nelmar had been a more challenging opponent.

He feinted to the side, and, as he expected, the dog fell for it, leaping forward to try and maul him; Sif whirled around, striking it across the head with the flat of his lance's blade, and then sweeping its legs out from under it while it was dazed. But when he doubled back to strike the finishing blow, it lunged up again, disoriented and snapping wildly- its teeth caught on Sif's left arm, and it began shaking him viciously, blood flying.

" Shit-!" Sif cursed, stumbling back, trying to keep the dog from knocking him down again, trying to keep a grip on his lance, trying- and then he realized that it was really, truly stupid, because his other arm was still free, still holding Ysout-

So he blindly shoved it up, through the dog's body, and its manic attack became frenetic heaving, a long and pained howl, blood flooding up from its maw and spewing across Sif's mangled arm.

He kicked it again, pulling his lance from its body, and though he had drawn himself into a defensive position, it seemed as though that one blow had defeated it. He watched in horrified fascination as it rolled on the floor, retching blood, as its body began to melt down into a sickly red slime, steaming. It began to laugh.

" Nasty cat! Nasty cat! My master will save me!" it boasted as it melted, puked, flailing in a puddle of itself. " Master! Save me! Master!"

Sif's ears pricked, his breath catching in his throat- he could hear, ever so faintly, steps coming down the hall. Towards them.

Had the laundress fetched someone?

With no time to think, Sif shifted back into a cat, his arm still healing, squeezed under the bed, and hid himself behind a leather traveling bag.

The bolt on the door lifted on its own, and as the dog's corpse stilled, a skeleton lying in a pool of something resembling blood, the door creaked open.

" I know you're still in here, familiar," Brannagh said, voice low and deathly.

He began to pace around the ruined, blood spattered room.

" You're stronger than I thought you'd be," he continued. " Killed my best hound. I suppose I should commend that."

He suddenly, sharply kicked the wardrobe. Sif hunkered down as flat as he could, hoping he wouldn't be seen. He'd have a clear line out the door when Brannagh got to the other side of the bed... But was it a trap?

" I'll let you live for now," Brannagh said. "But you must take a message back to your master."

Sif's heart was beating so fast that it became like the sound of falling trees, crashing into all his senses.

" Look at me, cat," Brannagh commanded. "Look, and understand."

A deep fear was welling in Sif's heart, and he wondered if this, too was a trick; a trick to make him reveal himself...

But he crept forward anyway, just enough to look, trying to keep Brannagh from seeing him.

And Brannagh was still facing away from him, looking at the wardrobe. But the fear intensified; it became revulsion and disbelief.

Brannagh was removing his priest uniform, his cloak.

" You will never recover the copper shaman," he said. " I've already taken it apart."

He was wearing a patchwork leather vest.

He picked up a treated leather scroll off the table, and let it fall open.

Sif realized his back leg was touching the leather bag.

All of it, all of it, was covered in ink, thin orange bolts, like lightning... The same as how Douglásc was scribed with water, Helna with flowers...

Overwhelmed by the horror of it, Sif blindly darted out from under the bed, crashing across the room and into the hall. He heard Brannagh call after him as he went, and heard him laughing; an awful, hoarse laugh, just like his dog's.

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