I saw the Horse lying dead on the ground and growled in frustration.
       I had spent the past week tracking this Horse down the Skirfane River, only to find he had died a scant few hours before I reached him.  A Horse with his belly sliced open and his neck broken couldn't satisfy my curiosity.
       He certainly didn't do any favors for my stomach.  People like Bats or Mice can hold a horrible amount of blood in their small bodies, more than the innocent might expect.  A Horse is worse, much worse.  I didn't envy whomever would clean up the body.
       I glanced at the dagger I held in my paw, but it told me nothing useful.  I snapped it back into its sheath, then  opened my mind, scrying for any white or black magic spells on the corpse.  I found the tatters of a black magic spell, soaked into the Horse's torn abdomen like a shadow on the morning sun.  Shivering, I quickly got out of the way of the quartet of Mice detailed to haul the Horse off to burial.  Glancing around at the folks gawking at the corpse lying in the middle of their village, I noted none of them to be very large, mostly Mice and Bats common in the Repense lands along the lower Skirfane River.  I saw a few people from larger races, but, aside from the dead Horse, I happened to be the largest person there.
       I wandered over to the Bat standing on a nearby wagon.  From his vantage point, the little guy watched me with a guarded expression, the same sort of look I got from officials in small villages who didn't like the trouble my kind chased.
       "Nasty piece of work," I remarked, deciding not to tell him about the traces of black magic I had found.  Better he thought this just a normal murder.  "Think the Mice can handle him?"  I heard someone retching behind me and winced in sympathy.
       "Don't worry," the Bat shrugged.  "For two free rounds of ale, they'll do anything."
       "I'd wager they'll want that ale when all is said and done," I grinned sadly.
       "I'm not taking that wager," the Bat gave a little, squeaky laugh devoid of mirth.
       "Yeah.  Anyway, the good news is you shouldn't have any more trouble," I got down to business.  "This Horse, when did he come into town?"
       "Last night, according to Gilly," the Bat informed me.
       "That sounds about right," I rubbed my paws together.  "He's wanted by some folk up in the Skirfane Greens for theft."
       "You have got to be joking," the Bat said in disbelief.  "The Greens?  Nothing happens there!"
       "I know," I agreed.  "They'll probably be talking about this one for generations."
       Just ask any pup living upriver, and they'll tell you the same thing – dullness runs riot in the rolling, grass-covered highlands comprising the Skirfane Greens.  Instead of spending a lifetime herding stinking animals and generally getting bored out of their skulls, some youngsters prefer to run off and see the world, maybe joining some mercenary outfit or possibly wending their way to Triskellian in hopes of making their fortune.  Most such intrepid children would regret their decision to leave home, perhaps lamed by the inglorious reality of battle or possibly forced into nastier things.  I lucked out, finding a career well suited to my talents and personality early on in my life.
       I don't like to talk about where I came from or about my parents, a Wolf hedge witch who entertained males on the side and my Dog father, whomever he might have been.  Let's just say, if I hadn't grown up bigger, tougher, and smarter than the other pups in our dinky village, I would have lead a miserable childhood.  I fled home at the tender young age of nine and might have vanished into obscurity like so many other youngsters had not a chance encounter lead me to my calling.
       I'm a Wolf Dog witch hunter who specializes in monsters.  When a rouge mage conjures up some sorcery-born monster or the shambling undead suffer a bout of afterlife insomnia, people call for me, Rafferty Gilfane, to clean up the mess.
       "The bad news is he's not the first person to die," I continued.  "Two days ago, two of his companions were praying in church when a Black Dog burst in and wrung their necks like they were so much wet laundry."
       "A Black Dog?" the Bat's voice climbed to a pitch that hurt my ears.  "Please say you're joking!"
       "I wish I was," I didn't let his disbelief ruffle me.  "But there's a whole congregation who saw it happen."
       The Skirfane Greens could be lonely and empty between the small villages and isolated homes, perfect breeding ground for tall tales about monsters and ghosts that prey on the unwary traveler.  Smart folk know most of those creatures qualified as humbug, story time bogeys to thrill one's audience during the cold nights or to frighten youngsters into being good.
       But not all could be explained by overactive imaginations.
       The Black Dogs existed.  Everyone in the Skirfane Greens knew they did.  Some claim they're spectral Dogs created by the powerful and long-vanished Autarchs to guard some fabulous treasure.  Others believe they're the phantoms of unbaptized children, executed criminals, or whatever S'allumer-forsaken folk chills one's blood.  A lot of balderdash and exaggeration had been built up over the centuries, making it difficult to separate the legend from the reality.  One thing everyone could agree on, the Black Dogs loved to prowl after lone travelers in the dark, spooking them whenever possible.
       The Black Dogs don't appear to be limited to just the Greens.  Travelers and townsfolk all across Calabria have reported Black Dogs haunting roadways at night and spooking people with their eerie howls.  Even the normally unimaginative Avoirdupois tell tales of Black Dogs scaring the Horse folk in the remote and lonely corners of their plains.   I wouldn't be surprised if they roamed outside of our island of Calabria as well.
       "Oh, dear," the Bat chittered to himself in consternation.  I couldn't fault him for being nervous.  Normal sensational deaths put people on edge.  Add a monster in the mix, and officials' innards are bound to tie up into knots.  "Some of the lads claimed they saw a huge, shaggy Dog, as big as a Horse almost!  'Twas black as night with big, red eyes like burning coals."
       "When did they see it?" I asked before the Bat worked himself into too much of a lather.
       "Late last night," Bat gestured with a wing.  "Right about here, in fact.  No one wanted to investigate until the sun came up."
       "I don't blame them," I considered that, listening to the huffs and squeaks of the Mice as they managed to hoist the Horse's body onto the wagon.  "Do you know if the Horse was traveling with someone?"
       "I have no idea.  You could try Gilly's over there," the Bat pointed to a nearby building, the only tavern in the village.
       I thanked the Bat and headed for the tavern.  Inside, a short talk with Gilly, a portly Mouse with a twinkle in his eye undimmed by the gruesome death not far from his front doorstep, revealed the Horse had arrived with a haughty female Ermine companion.
       "They weren't the fondest of companions, if that's what you're thinkin'," Gilly told me as he restocked his barrels of beer and ale.  "They argued a lot until she stormed out in a huff.  He went after her.  She came back in some time later and went to her room.  She looked rattled, but, when we heard of the Black Dog, we figured that might have had somethin' to do with it."
       "Where is she now?" I wanted to know.
       "She left not long after dawn with some traders," Gilly scratched at the white fur on his chin.  "Said somethin' about gettin' to Château Riviere as soon as possible."
       Armed with that information, I set out again, bumming a ride from a couple of friendly Badgers driving their wagon full of goods downriver.  I figured I had about three days to intercept the Ermine before she reached the fort of Château Riviere at the mouth of the Skirfane River where it poured into the Bay of Auvrich.  Once there, she could catch a ship and sail to Triskellian where neither I nor the Black Dog could reach her.
       As evening set in, we stopped in another town.  Leaving the badgers to their business, I checked the local inn, hoping my quarry had also chosen to stay the night there.
       "Yep, there's an Ermine here," said the innkeeper, an aged Wolf whose limp betrayed a youth spent fighting in some Bisclavret mercenary outfit.  "Damned peculiar, too.  She paid for an entire room for herself.  Said she didn't want company."
       "Damned peculiar indeed," I whistled.  Normally, travelers had to share a room on account of limited space and lack of funds.  If the Ermine paid extra just to sleep alone, she must have access to a lot of money.  That implied nobility, the gentry, or a well-off merchant.
       "Yep, paid in dinarii, not these copper-noses the Duke hands out," the innkeeper shifted his eyes about conspiratorially as he worked behind the bar.  "She in some sort of trouble?"
       "Yes, but not in the way you think," I recognized a cue for a story.  People loved to hear the news in far-off places.  "There's been some trouble up in the Greens.  A friend of mine sent for me to come up and help out."  Whenever he could linger near me, I told the innkeeper about my journey, not forgetting the incident in the church or the death of the Horse.
       "A Black Dog?" the innkeeper drew his silver-furred brows together.  "Ain't heard of such things."
       "They don't really like wandering this far south," I quickly described the Black Dogs to him.
       "They sound like right evil creatures," the innkeeper remarked when I finished.  "Thank Helloise they don't come down here."
       "They're not evil, per say," I disagreed.  "After all, one entered a house of S'allumer and killed two people.  No evil supernatural creature could do that."
       "That's true, that's true," the innkeeper bobbed his head.  "Ah!  There's the little devil you're after."
       I followed the innkeeper's pointing paw and saw a middle-aged Ermine climbing down from the upstairs gallery.  She wore a travel-stained dress of good quality and some light boots for her small feet.  She moved with well-bred grace, her fear betrayed by glances over her shoulders and the occasional start whenever someone made too loud of a noise.
       I wended my way through the inn, catching up with the Ermine when she started back up the stairs.  If I played my cards right, I could worm my way into her graces.
       "Pardon me, Miss," I called out to her.  The Ermine jumped as if she had been shot and whirled to face me, a paw on her breast as if trying to keep her heart from beating its way out of her ribs.
       "My stars!  You startled me!" the Ermine gasped.  "What do you want?"
       "Allow me to introduce myself as Rafferty Gilfane," I bowed gallantly.  "I believe you need my services."
       "No, no," the Ermine shook her head vehemently.  She took a step up the stairs, away from me.  "I do not need a bodyguard.  Good night!"
       "Wait!" I held a paw out towards her.  "I'm not a mercenary.  I'm a witch hunter–"  The Ermine flinched at my words.
       "No, no!" her eyes darted around the inn.  "I definitely do not want your help.  Please do not bother me!"
       "But–" I tried.
       "Good night!" she cried, hiking up the hem of her dress as she scurried up the stairs and into her room.
       I stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, thinking over my options.  Suspicions welled up in my head, but I shoved them aside for the moment.  Right now, I had to persuade her to let me tag along with her in the morning.  I climbed up to the gallery and rapped on her door.
       "It's me, Rafferty Gilfane," I said.  "I know what's after you.  If you want to escape your black pursuer, you'd best get some help."  I waited for a beat, but, unsurprisingly, I heard no sign of the Ermine.  "Just remember, if the Black Dog wants to, he will barge right in and kill you, witnesses or no witnesses.  I'll be downstairs when you're ready."
       I retreated downstairs, listening for the Ermine, but to no avail.  Her door stayed closed all night.
       "I hear tell someone's seen a Black Dog last night," the innkeeper told me as he served breakfast the next morning.  I pricked up my ears and listened intently, pleasing the old-timer to no end.  "Ol' Ennis was out past dark, walking down the road to town when he heard footsteps behind him, 'trash – trash – trash'.  He felt something hot pouring down the fur on the back of his neck, like someone breathing down on him.  Ol' Ennis was fair near ready to jump out of his skin.  Instead, he lifted his walking stick and turned to face whoever was behind him."  The innkeeper matched action to words, twisting on a foot as if ready to fight off a foe sneaking up behind him.  I noticed several of the nearby folk had fallen silent so they could hear his yarn.
       "And then what happened?" I prompted him, though I could easily guess what Ennis had seen.
       "He saw this huge, shaggy, black thing," the innkeeper continued with relish.  "He looked up and saw two red eyes glaring down at him, glowing hot as if burning into his very soul.  It was a Black Dog, as big as a cumal."  The innkeeper spread his arms as if about to embrace one of those large livestock animals.
       "I hope Ennis didn't try to hit him," I remarked, alarmed.
       "Haha!  Nope," the innkeeper chuckled.  "I wager he was too scared for that."
       "Good," I relaxed.  "Where I come from, we always say you shouldn't attack a Black Dog, or they'll kill you right there."  I drew a paw across my throat.
       "I reckon Ol' Ennis got lucky," the innkeeper nodded wisely.  "All he did was scream.  Don't let him tell you otherwise.  A couple of families heard him squeal like a little pup."
       "Ouch.  At least he's alive." I grimaced.  I didn't bother to tell him that some folks thought seeing a Black Dog meant death within a year, either to the person who witnessed it or to someone that person knew.
       "Yep," the innkeeper confirmed.  "When they heard him scream, some folks went rushing out to see what was the matter.  They found Ennis quivering in the dirt, poor fellow.  No sign of a Black Dog anywhere."
       "Scary," I said.  "That's quite a story, innkeep.  I bet you'll be wowing the grandpups with that one."
       "Yep," the innkeeper looked thoughtful as he returned to business and I got back to my breakfast.  A moment later, a presence at my side made me glance up into the cold eyes of the Ermine, her delicate face now framed by a bonnet.  Both the worn satchel over her shoulder and the short sword she carried looked out of place.  From the looks of the satchel, I guessed she carried another sword inside it.
       "Mister Giffin?" she said, a haughty tilt to her little, white chin.
       "Gilfane," I corrected her.  "What can I do for you?"
       "I would like to take you up on the offer you made last night," she answered.  Her eyes flicked towards the innkeeper.  Aha, she must have overheard him talking about the Black Dog.  "You are correct.  I need the protection.  I am willing to pay you when we reach Château Riviere."
       "Good enough for me," I finished the last bite of my breakfast.  "Just let me get my gear, and I'll be ready to go when you are."
       "Be quick about it," she snapped.  "I want to get started as soon as possible."  To get away from the Black Dog, no doubt.
       I grabbed my coat and my own pack of supplies.  I checked my sword and dagger before getting up.  The Ermine gave me a frigid look, then led the way outside, where I plopped my hat over my ears.
       "Hey, Miss," I stopped her as she made her way towards a wagon a crew of Foxes busily hitched to their dray.  "Let me take that sack off your paws.  You look loaded down enough as it is."
       "My name is Lady Marie d'Lissemanteau," she glared at me.  Somehow, she managed to look down her nose at me despite my greater height.  "Not 'Miss'.  And I am perfectly capable of carrying this by myself."
       "All right, all right," I held up my paws in a placating manner.  Now would not be the best time for me to confront her about the contents of the satchel.  "I just thought you'd like some help is all."
       "I'll tell you when I want help," she growled.  She spun on her heel and continued on to the wagon.
       Several times that day, I noticed d'Lissemanteau watching me.  Something cold and calculating stirred behind those dark brown eyes, something which put my witch hunter instincts on edge.
       Once we stopped at another town that evening, I got off the wagon first and offered to help d'Lissemanteau down.  She reluctantly accepted, her eyes sliding to the dagger on my belt.  I knew right then she hadn't been fooled by my charade.
       "You'd best get yourself a room, m'Lady," I told her as we entered the inn.  "I can stay downstairs."
       "I think it would be best if we stay together, Mister Gilfane," d'Lissemanteau frowned at me.  "For some reason, I don't trust you."  That made two of us.  Short of Helloise Herself coming down from the heavens and trumpeting d'Lissemanteau's virtue, I had no intention of confining myself in the same room as the Ermine.
       "All the more reason we shouldn't share a room," I surveyed the inn, but nothing out of the ordinary jumped out at me.  "It would be most improper.  Tongues would wag."
       "Very well, Mister Gilfane," d'Lissemanteau let me have the point.
       Once she retreated into her room without a word, I settled onto a stool and waited, glancing at d'Lissemanteau's room on occasion.  Would she check and recheck every nook and cranny of her room, searching for any possibility the Black Dog might somehow slip in?  Did she shiver in her bed, wondering if the Black Dog would suddenly break down her door and slay her?
       After sunset, I abandoned my seat and meandered outside to stretch my legs.  I stood outside the inn for a time, looking up at the stars and feeling the cool night breeze ruffle my fur.  I heard the inn door thump open and closed behind me.  I turned and saw d'Lissemanteau standing several paces away from me, no longer wearing her bonnet or satchel.  The moment had come.
       "Mister Gilfane," the Ermine's voice cut through the air as sharp as the steel of the hunting sword in her paw.  "Do you think me a fool?"
       "Nope," I glanced to either side, but saw nobody out and about on the moonlit street.  As I expected, the townsfolk had all retreated into their homes for the night.
       "You are after the sword," her words weren't a question.
       "Yep," I confirmed her guess.  "Some good people died because of you."
       "Peasants," sneered d'Lissemanteau.  I could see her eyes glitter like obsidian chips in the moonlight.  "I am playing for bigger stakes than your hypocritical morality.  Sacrifices must be made for the greater cause.  Which leads me to you.  Why do you follow me, Mister Gilfane?"
       "The Black Dog–" I started to say.
       "A convenient excuse," she interrupted.  "No, I suspect you have been following me from the Greens."
       "Yep," I didn't deny it.  "I know you've been poking around the Greens for over a month.  A friend of mine sent for me to stop you, but I got there too late.  You and your friends had already run off with the Sword of Whatchamacallit."
       "Whatchamacallit," I could hear disdain drip from her voice.  Considering the name I had been given twisted my tongue, I thought "Whatchamacallit" a definite improvement.  "Fool.  The Sword of Zaqtusibtuqate is a very ancient and very powerful sword.  Of what use is it rusting away in some barrow?"
       "Oh, they have their reasons, I'm sure," I shrugged.  "Body-snatching spirit or something.  I followed you down the river because I wanted to save you and your friends from the Black Dog chasing you.  Too bad I was too late for your pals.  They're all dead, all three of them."
       "Dead?" d'Lissemanteau seemed more curious than shaken by the news.
       "Their necks snapped like twigs," I twisted my paws against each other, as if wringing a wet cloth.  "And don't give me that innocent look.  You know as well as I do who did it.  Furthermore, I know you tried to kill the Horse."
       "I did not kill Rodewig," she stated flatly.
       "No, the Black Dog did that," I concurred.  "But it was you who stabbed him in the belly and put that black magic spell on him."
       "He was a coward," scorn wrinkled her fuzzy muzzle.  "I did not come so far just to give up the sword at the slightest sign of difficulty.  Yes, Mister Gilfane, I know the Black Dog has been chasing us.  My fool brother and his friend thought they could find shelter at that church.  Rodewig thought giving back the sword would save our lives.  They were wrong."
       "You tried to kill them all," I guessed.
       "No, I wanted them alive to suffer, only that Black Dog," she spat out the name as if tasting something vile, "gave them a more merciful end than they deserved."
       "You're a necromancer," I glanced at her hunting sword.  If she had done to that short sword what I thought she had...
       "Ha!" she sneered.  "Black magic is but a tool, a tool we Éteignoirs will use to crush your hypocritical religion."
       "M'Lady," I sighed.  Though it answered several of questions plaguing me, the arrogance loosening d'Lissemanteau's tongue rankled my fur.  "I'm obliged to give you this one chance.  Give up the Sword of Whatchamacallit and you can walk away from this with your life."
       "Never!" d'Lissemanteau gave a short bark of laughter.  "The Sword of Zaqtusibtuqate is too important."
       "Who bloody cares about the sword?" I snapped.  "The Sword of Whatchamacallit is useless to you."
       "It is Zaqtusibtuqate!" screeched d'Lissemanteau.
       "Whatever," I sighed.  "Even to a pedant, it's useless."
       "Pedant?" d'Lissemanteau leveled her sword at me, her body quivering with anger.  "No, Mister Gilfane.  The sword will ensure my House will no longer be dominated by those Avoirdupois tartuffes!"
       With that condemnation of religious phonies, she lunged at me, intent on skewering my belly.  I danced back, somehow aware I did not want that sword touching me despite the chain mail I wore under my shirt.  I whipped out my own sword and blocked her strikes, no easy task when it comes to a slippery and tricky fighter like an Ermine.  An unexpected swipe from her sword nearly made me drop my own.  She immediately took advantage of my fumble, flicking my sword out of my paw and sending it skidding off into the night.  An evil grin curled her whiskers as she stood in a fencer's stance, her sword pointed straight at me.  I cursed myself for underestimating her skill.
       I grabbed for my dagger, yanking it out of its sheath.  My dagger's sturdy handle fit my paw as if made for it, and its long blade glowed brightly.  A light singing filled the air as the dagger detected black magic nearby.  I could see the moonlight shine off d'Lissemanteau's eyes as they widened in astonishment.
       "I was right!" she exclaimed.  "And you accuse me of theft?"
       "I stole nothing," I kept my eyes on hers.  "They gave me this dagger."
       "You know the Black Dogs," her eyes narrowed.
       "Yep," I stepped carefully as we warily circled each other.  "Last chance, m'Lady.  Give up the sword, and I'll let you go in peace."
       "Never!" she bounced forward, her sword slicing for my gizzard.  I twisted aside, parrying her sword with my dagger.  The blade of her sword snapped with a sharp retort as my dagger shattered the black magic cast upon it.  D'Lissemanteau squealed and dropped her sword as if it had burned her.  Undamaged, my dagger sang in a glowing arc as I swung it towards d'Lissemanteau.  The Ermine tottered backwards, clutching her paw to her breast.  Pain creased her face and hate flickered in her eyes.  She raised a paw, ready to strike me down with a spell.
       Cue the huge, black paw wrapping around her neck and hoisting her up off her feet.  The massive, shaggy shape of a Black Dog rose up behind the astonished Ermine, his eyes shining red in the moonlight.  I took a deep breath.  I didn't look forward to the next few minutes.
       "Mister Gilfane," d'Lissemanteau's voice quivered in fright.  "Please help me.  I'm sorry.  I was only doing what I thought best."
       "I can't," I told her sadly.  "I gave you your chance.  I'm sorry, m'Lady."
       "Mister G–" a sickening crack cut off her plea.  The Black Dog set the limp body of Marie d'Lissemanteau on the ground.  I stared at the dead Ermine, feeling sick to my stomach.  I could handle a death by combat, but a cold execution like this perturbed me greatly.
       "You know she deserved it," a slight eerie quality permeated the low growl from the Black Dog.
       "I know, Skriker," I mumbled.
       "Will you bring the sword?" the Black Dog asked.
       "Yeah," I shook myself out of my thoughts, roused by a dangerous note in Skriker's voice.  "Gurty's waiting for it.  You know I'll deliver."
       "And the dagger?" Skriker gave me a sharp look
       "Yea– no, I'm keeping it," I stepped back from Skriker as he loomed menacingly over me.  "Hey!  I didn't hear you complain when Gurty gave it to me!  You even said it was time for it to return to the wider world!"
       "Which does not mean I liked saying it!" snapped Skriker.  "Take care of it, Gilfane, and pray that you do not disappoint my sister, or you will join this worm in death."
       I opened my mouth to say something, but the Black Dog had already vanished into the night.
       Fortunately for me, the next morning, plenty of townsfolk insisted Skriker had prowled the countryside that night, spooking people several times and causing at least one death from sheer fright.  Unable to link me to d'Lissemanteau's death, the local authorities reluctantly let me leave town late the next day, taking d'Lissemanteau's satchel and the Sword of Whatchamacallit inside it with me.  I retraced my steps upriver back to the lonely hills of the Skirfane Greens.
       A question nagged at me during the trip.  How had d'Lissemanteau known where to find the sword?  Who told her about it in the first place?  I could think of only one disturbing possibility – Black Dogs in Avoirdupois lands had informed these Éteignoirs about it for some reason.  Among the usual Black Dog phantoms and specters haunting the rest of Calabria, might real Black Dogs like Gurty and Skriker also exist, maybe somewhere deep among the Horse-folks' demesne?
       "Perhaps.  Perhaps not," Gurty told me when I asked her after I gave her the satchel holding the Sword of Whatchamacallit.  She passed it to the nearby Skirker, who glowered at me through the moonlight shining down on this lonely spot in the Greens, then disappeared into the shadows of some nearby rocks.  Not for the first time, a chill shivered down my spine all the way to the tip of my tail.
       Gurty examined me carefully.  I tried not to feel too nervous.  Gurty had been the one to rescue me when I had run away from home and later inspire me to become a witch hunter.  I knew I could trust her, but her thoughtful expression troubled me.
       "You've grown much in the past few years," she sighed.  "But there are some things you're not ready for yet, Raff.  Yes, other living Black Dogs exist.  Yes, the Autarchs created us for a reason, although I doubt they anticipated us becoming templates of a sort for all these phantom Black Dogs haunting our island.  Perhaps, in time, you and your kin will be ready for the secrets we guard, but not now, not yet.  And that, my dear pup, is all I shall say about the matter."  She waggled a clawed finger at me, looking for a moment more like a mother than a monster.
       That ended the discussion, but still, I wondered.  Who were these Éteignoirs, and why did they want a dangerous artifact like the sword?  Would someone follow d'Lissemanteau's footsteps and find something else that shouldn't be found?  Would Gurty and Skriker be able to stop them?
       Sometimes boredom didn't seem so bad after all.
___________________________________________________________

Author's Notes



       So reads East Anglia's first recorded mention of Black Shuck, one of Britain's Black Dogs, a group of supernatural canines that have haunted the English countryside for centuries and are still said to exist to the present day.
       Black Dogs have been recorded throughout England and beyond.  They have allegedly been seen in Wales, the Channel Islands and the Isles of Man, Normandy in France, the USA, and Latin America.   They don't look alike, some appearing as huge hounds, others as little dogs, some without heads (but still with eyes), while others have only one eye.  They also haven't always been dogs, malevolent, or black for that matter.
       "Black Dog" is the second Rafferty Gilfane adventure I've written, set within Sanguine Publication's Ironclaw RPG world setting.  This story imports the Black Dog legend into the pseudo-early Renaissance Europe island Calabria.  While I have chosen to present the Black Dogs as legendary canines bred as guardians by the mysterious Autarchs who once ruled Calabria, Game Masters looking for inspiration should not feel encumbered by my interpretation.  There's plenty of room in Calabria for more supernatural and ghostly Black Dogs.  A good resource to look at is Shuckland (http://www.hiddenea.com/shuckland/introduction.htm), a website that collects various stories about various Black Dogs.
       "Black Dog" appeared in Sanguine Publication's fourth issue of Claw Marks emagazine and is set within the Ironclaw - Jadeclaw world (here called Monderévélé ("Known World") for simplicity).   Sources for in-continuity material include the Ironclaw core book and its Avoirdupois and Bisclavret supplements.

Specific Notes from the story –

       "...down the Skirfane River..." – The Skirfane River is a medium-sized river flowing down western Calabria before emptying into a bay on the southwestern coast.  The action in "Black Dog" takes place alongside this river within the forested lands of the Repense, a House of Bats known for scholarly and astrological pursuits.

       "...then opened my mind, scrying for any white or black magic spells on the corpse.  I found the tatters of a black magic spell, soaked into the Horse's torn abdomen like a shadow on the morning sun." – Rafferty is capable of scrying – looking for spells with his mind's eye – only certain types of spells.   In Ironclaw, the "Scry Spirit" spell allows a cleric, necromancer, or other similar mage to look for both white and black magic.  Other types of magic have their own scrying spells, but they do not figure in this story.

       "...mostly Mice and Bats common in the Repense lands along the lower Skirfane River." – As mentioned above, the mostly peaceful Repense Bats live along the Skirfane River.  They govern a large number of Mice who look up to them with a mixture of awe and envy.  The Repense are themselves ruled by the Bisclavret, a House of Wolves that is one of four Major Houses in Calabria.

       "Just ask any pup living upriver, and they'll tell you the same thing – dullness runs riot in the rolling, grass-covered highlands comprising the Skirfane Greens." – And so is revealed a quick overview of Rafferty's childhood home.  However, as revealed later, the Skirfane Greens do have their spooky side.  The source of the Skirfane River lies somewhere in the Greens.

       "...if I hadn't grown up bigger, tougher, and smarter than the other pups..." – Here I reveal something of Rafferty's past, including his parentage.  I chose to make Rafferty a Wolf-Dog because I wanted him to have access to the privileges of the Wolf uppermost class in Bisclavret lands yet still be an outsider due his mixed pedigree.  The fact that he's bigger and tougher than either pureblooded Wolves or Dogs reflects a trait of real wolf-dogs.

       "'...two of his companions were praying in church when a Black Dog burst in and wrung their necks like they were so much wet laundry.'" – This reference to the Black Dogs was inspired by Reverend Fleming's quote at the start of this Author's Note.

       "...perfect breeding ground for tall tales about monsters and ghosts that prey on the unwary traveler." – The Skirfane Greens are not only described as lonely and dull, but the source of a number of stories about supernatural creatures, most of which are tall tales.  Many a scholar has vanished into the night searching for any truth behind these stories.  I thought this to be the perfect setting to place some Black Dogs.

       "The Black Dogs existed...spooking [travelers] whenever possible." – This paragraph introduces the background behind my particular take on the Black Dogs.  Of an as yet unrevealed race, the Autarchs once ruled Calabria somewhere around two thousand years previous to this story before mysteriously vanishing, leaving behind an empty Calabria and various structures and artifacts that baffle Calabrians to the present day.  The other guesses to the Black Dogs' identity are based on real legends of Black Dogs.

       "The Black Dogs don't appear to be limited to just the Greens." – Just as the real life Black Dogs are not limited to one lonely corner of England, neither are Monderévélé's.  I figure Black Dogs occur all over Calabria, especially in the plains controlled by the Avoirdupois, a House of Horses who are another of the four Major Houses of Calabria.  Also, while Rafferty does speculate that Black Dogs might exist outside of Calabria, they do not exist on Zhongguo's continent, Ironclaw's sister setting of Jadeclaw.

       "'...a huge, shaggy Dog...with big, red eyes like burning coals.'" – This is a common description of a Black Dog and probably one of the least bizarre.

       "...the fort of Château Riviere at the mouth of the Skirfane River where it poured into the Bay of Auvrich." – Château Riviere was built by the Bisclavret as a precaution to prevent rival Houses from sailing up the Skirfane River and invading Bisclavret land.  It's the only port city between Port Spar (seen in "The Giant Rat of Sumatra") and Calabria's capital city of Triskellion, but it doesn't cater to the shipping and merchant business those two ports do.

       "'...paid in denarii, not these copper-noses the Duke hands out...'" – The denar is the basic currency of Calabria.  Twenty-four denarii equal one aureal, which is used only by the wealthy.  As part of a number of questionable reforms, the Bisclavret minted a rival currency called the fibula which supposedly has a value of four denarii.  However, fibulae are easily counterfeited and denarii are still preferred among Bisclavret merchants.  The silver veneer on counterfeit fibulae is easily rubbed off, thereby earning them the nickname of "copper-noses".

       "'Ol' Ennis was out past dark...It was a Black Dog, as big as a cumal.'" – More Black Dogginess.  "Trash-trash-trash" is an onomatopoeia for the eerie squelching noises that are the footsteps of Skriker, a Black Dog from Lancashire, England.  Cumalaí are Ironclaw's version of real-life cattle – large reptilian creatures bred for food.

       "'Where I come from, we always say you shouldn't attack a Black Dog, or they'll kill you right there.'" – Rafferty mentions another trait of Skriker.

       "...some folks thought seeing a Black Dog meant death within a year, either to the person who witnessed it or to someone that person knew." – This is a trait ascribed to some Black Dogs.

       "'My name is Lady Marie d'Lissemanteau...'" – The Lissemanteau are a Minor House under the rule of the Avoirdupois Horses. Of the Ermine race, they have a bad reputation that may or may not be deserved, but are often snubbed by other nobility anyway.

       "'The Sword of Zaqtusibtuqate...'" – I originally didn't intend to reveal the stolen sword's name, but Chuan Lin of Sanguine Marketing convinced me that d'Lissemanteau would make for an excellent dig at rules lawyers, role players who attempt to use an encyclopedic knowledge of a setting to gain a personal advantage of some sort.  Personally, I think Chuan's idea makes d'Lissemanteau's anger more logical.  For those curious, "Zaqtusibtuqate" is Dog Akkadian (like Dog Latin, but with Akkadian) for "pointy thing held in hand".  Rafferty's offhand remark about a possible body-snatching spirit in the sword is basically a possible reason why this particular MacGuffin is so dangerous.

       "'You're a necromancer'...If she had done to that short sword what I thought she had..." – In case it's not clear later, d'Lissemanteau cast a black magic spell on her sword.  The Ironclaw black magic spell "Instrument of Vengeance" allows a necromancer to do this.

       "'Black magic is but a tool, a tool we Éteignoirs will use to crush your hypocritical religion.'" – As can be expected in a medieval setting, the dominant religion – the Church of S'Allumer in Calabria's case – has its enemies.  In Avoirdupois lands, these enemies are the Éteignoirs, a shadowy and mysterious group dedicated to the Church's destruction.  Many Éteignoirs are of a rival religion called Heliodromancy while others are nobles who believe the Church has too much power.  Many Éteignoirs are necromancers, capable of casting black magic spells, including ones designed to foul up white magic spells.  However, as a citizen of Bisclavret lands, Rafferty would be mostly ignorant of the Éteignoirs.

       "'...The sword will ensure my House will no longer be dominated by those Avoirdupois tartuffes!'" – D'Lissemanteau apparently has a thing against the Church.  A tartuffe is a religious hypocrite, someone who pretends to be pious for their own ends.

       "My dagger's sturdy handle fit my paw...shattered the black magic cast upon it." – Raffety also has his own magical super-special weapon.  While black magic has "Instrument of Vengeance", white magic has no equivalent spell so far listed.  This disparity as well as the swords Amoracchius, Fidelacchius, and Esperacchius from the book series The Dresden Files inspired Rafferty's dagger.

       "'Mister G–'...but a cold execution like this perturbed me greatly." – Starting from this paragraph, the ending of this story has been revised.  Most notably, Skriker is no longer nice and compassionate, and the final scene between Rafferty and Gurty has been added.

       "'I know, Skriker,' I mumbled." – As mentioned above, Skriker is a Black Dog from Lancashire, England.

       "'Gurty's waiting for it.'" – The Gurt Dog of Somerset, England, is an example of a benevolent Black Dog, often said to protect and guide children and travelers.

       "I could think of only one disturbing possibility – Black Dogs in Avoirdupois lands had informed these Éteignoirs about it for some reason." – After I established Black Dogs existed in Avoirdupois lands, I realized they would provide a logical reason for d'Lissemanteau's poking about the Greens in the first place.

       "Among the usual Black Dog phantoms and specters haunting the rest of Calabria, might real Black Dogs like Gurty and Skriker also exist, maybe somewhere deep among the Horse-folks' demesne?" – Originally, I meant for Black Dogs to only be a tiny handful of creatures in Calabria, but real life Black Dogs are said to be all over England and selected areas beyond.  I revised the concept so that ghostly Black Dogs like ours occur across Calabria from the Bisclavret to the Avoirdupois lands.   For a Calabrian, the big surprise wouldn't be that Black Dogs exist; it would be that a few Black Dogs were alive.

       "'Yes, other living Black Dogs exist.  Yes, the Autarchs created us for a reason, although I doubt they anticipated us becoming templates of a sort for all these phantom Black Dogs haunting our island.'" – Here Gurty confirms some of the speculation about Black Dogs (she's nice that way), though her words only apply to her, Skriker, and others like them.

       "'Perhaps, in time, you and your kin will be ready for the secrets we guard, but not now, not yet.'" – According to legend, the Black Dog at Lyme Regis in Dorset, England, is supposed to be a guardian of treasure, hence why Gurty and Skriker are guarding the sword and who knows what else.