Comes a Horseman by Robert Liparulo Page A

had been native to his family for thirty generations. Immediately, a furry body scrambled atop the maps and trash that littered the floor next to the driver’s seat. It spun in a quick circle where the passenger seat had been before Olaf heaved it onto the side of the road. The dog was Freya, an exceptionally beautiful creature, but the smallest of the three and too timid around the others.
    â€œAfhverju í veröldinni ertu fúl?”
    Recognizing Olaf ’s teasing tone, the animal leaned back on her haunches and moaned at him.
    â€œHvao?”
    The dog shimmied closer and lowered her head. Olaf scratched the heavy fur between her ears and ran his hand down her neck and back as far as he could reach. Despite her position as runt of the pack, she was a massive animal; ninety pounds at least. Olaf had trained her to take down her prey by hurling herself into their chests. He knew from experience that the blow could break ribs. He felt the bands of muscles under her pelt and shook his head at the power they represented. Breeding wolf-dog hybrids had been a part of his people’s culture for as long as the storytellers could remember. They had perfected the genetic composition of the breed: the wolf’s strength and hunting instincts mixed with the teachability and loyalty of the German shepherd. To their masters, they were attentive servants and companions; to their masters’ enemies, they were as lethal as lions. After a minute of scratching and rubbing, he gave the animal several pats and returned his hand to the wheel.
    He approached a junction and saw a break in the trees across the road. He eased off the gas. The van slowed abruptly, as if it were underwater. When he reached for the stick shift, he felt Freya’s moist nose. She’d known just where to position herself. Olaf scolded her sharply and shoved her muzzle away. “Not now,” he mumbled in his ancient tongue. She scurried into the back, where one of her companions promptly snapped at her.
    He pulled off the road, aligning his tires with two deep ruts from previous excursionists: local revelers and hunters, no doubt. Before passing beyond the first copse of aspens and pines, he stopped and switched off the headlamps. Lights from another vehicle headed toward him from a few miles off. Otherwise, he was alone. He allowed the van to drift into the forest, guided as if on rails by the tire tracks. Shortly, he reached a clearing, pulled into an obvious turnaround, and killed the engine.
    He swung the door open into the utter stillness of an alpine meadow. When he’d purchased the van two weeks ago, the door hinges screeched like hawks. A few minor adjustments and WD-40 gave them the silence he required. He had also installed a new starter and battery and performed a major tune-up. He liked the harmlessness the aging van exuded, but he couldn’t have it stranding him after a killing. Outside, he called to the dogs; they bounded over the driver’s seat and out the door. They zigzagged their way through the long grass to the trees at the far end of the meadow, where they sniffed the air and sprayed the foliage to claim their territory.
    The moon gave the area a dreamlike luminance. It reminded him of home. The ache in his chest, the pain he tapped to fuel his rage when his tasks necessitated it—this ache deepened and left him short of breath. Around the passenger’s side, he opened the sliding door. A stained paper cup and crumpled magazine fell out. He pushed back the trash that had not yet escaped. Another of his modifications was a false floor. The van was old enough and odd enough that most people would not immediately suspect anything wrong with the elevation of the rear compartment; plus, he had covered the plywood not with wall-to-wall shag but with rusty sheet metal and patches of the original carpet. He reached under the van to a small button and pushed it, causing a section of the floor to pop up.
    In