The prentices were running now in line, a maneuver for which they had had little training. Soon their formation was only a ragged farce of a file.Yet what they lacked in skill they compensated for in speed. Straggling, struggling to breathe, they were near enough to the fortress now to hear the terrible, distant baying of the manse's dogs lusting to be let at the mighty beast. With this came the distant clattering of alarm posts tumbled out on drums, and the dong-dong-dong of the warning bell hung high in the Specular, the bell tower of the southern gatehouse.Yet as close as they were, Rossamund doubted they could reach the manse in time. The battlements buzzed and milled with agitation as little, far-off people called encouragement from the walls.
"Leg it, lads! Leg it!"
Soldiers began firing from the ramparts, their muskets cracking hot but doing little more than fouling the air with their fumes. A few spent balls thwipped through the tangled grasses on either side of the road, posing more danger to the boys than the beast, and the ragged shooting soon stopped.
Ahead of them the butcher's truck kept at its cracking pace, the winded donkey whipped to push beyond all endurance. It neared the Approach and the succor of Winstermill, and Rossamund bitterly wished he was upon it; yet instead of going up the steep ramp, the truck clattered on to disappear into the Bowels beneath the fortress.
At the head of the prentices' line, Crofton Wheede stumbled as the road changed from tamped clay to pavers of dressed stone. He tripped out of file, dragging Giddian Pillow with him. The other prentices avoided the tumble, but Rossamund proved less nimble.Wheede's toppling fodicar caught him about the shin and pulled him down. He saw a glimpse of gray sky and whirling horizon and hit the ground with a lazy puff of fine road-dust, his hat spinning off into the Harrowmath grass. A deft roll and Rossamund was up on his feet again looking east, then west, then east again. Threnody slowed, this time to help him, fright now clear on her face, but the other prentices ran on, screaming panicked encouragements over their shoulders.Wheede and Pillow scrabbled to their feet and were off like hares from a covert, pelting after the others without a rearward look, deserting fodicars, fusils, knapsacks, even a mess-kid in their renewed flight. Red-faced and gasping, Puttinger half turned but, seeing the lads back on their feet, continued his own retreat.
With quick glances left and right, Rossamund could see that he was not going to get away. None of them were: not Sebastipole nor Grindrod nor the lampsmen dashing after them, not even Puttinger and the fleeing prentices. Only the butcher's truck was safe-the very one that had brought this terror. Surely there was something he could do other than run uselessly? Surely he could attempt something to help his fellows escape?
From his salt-bag he took out one of two leakvanes he carried. The small box contained two scripts separated by a heavy film of treated velvet. When mixed these burst into a repellent of the foulest kind. He had never used a leakvane, nor seen one till he joined the lighters, and under less testing circumstances might have hesitated to try it.Yet, with carelessness born of necessity, Rossamund pulled the red velvet tab that kept the two volatiles apart and hurled the box as far as he could-a surprising way for so small a lad. The leakvane landed with a skipping bounce on the Pettiwiggin, falling between him and the retreating lampsmen. Rossamund had no idea how long it would take for the chemistry to erupt from it and only hoped it would not go off till after the men had passed over.
The guns of Winstermill spoke again, five deep, rippling coughs, booming so close in succession they were almost one sound. The distinct and frightening howl of twenty-four-pounder cannon shot came high and to the right.Three shots went well wide. One glanced off the umbergog's right arm to ricochet crazily into the Harrowmath hay. The last was a direct hit. It struck squarely in the monster's ribs with a thick, dull slap, forcing a coughing belch from the Trought. The creature's flesh rippled violently under the blow, but the shot did not penetrate and dropped uselessly to the road. The umbergog staggered and bellowed at the buzzing walls of Winstermill. A thin cheer of many smaller voices answered it faintly from the battlements.
Before the beast the four men of the rear guard fled, and as they ran the leakvane burst prematurely ahead of them with a hissing pop. Too soon it sent out a foul, warding steam, a smoking hedge that hung between Rossamund and the senior lighters. They waved their arms angrily and the prentice could hear Grindrod's indignation carry on the wind.
"What are ye doing, ye twice-stunted ape!" he roared. "Are ye trying to trap and kill us?"
The leer leaped through the repellent and, following his lead, Bellicos darted about the side of the boiling smoke. So encouraged, Assimus and the lamplighter-sergeant hastily followed.
The fortress guns boomed a third time.The tearing shriek of their shots quickly followed.
With surprising and terrifying dexterity the beast ducked their fire and sprang forward, leaping nearly one hundred yards, as Rossamund could tell it, in that single bound.
"Run!" Sebastipole commanded. "Perhaps your chemistry will purchase us a little space!"
Puttinger and the prentices were near Winstermill's precipitate ramp; perhaps they would be safe after all? Rossamund could only wish he were among them.
The umbergog was closing. Only a single lantern-span and the clouds of leakvane repellent stood between. The young prentice was sure he could feel its powerful footfalls through the paving of the Pettiwiggin, yet when he dared a rearward look the creature had slowed. The smoke of the leakvane had been spread about by contrary breezes, and the reek boiled broadly over the road, going down either side of the dike and into the thick weeds. The Trought was obviously confounded and pulled short stupidly, turning its dripping nose up at the fume. So close and so tall was the creature that it eclipsed the rising sun.
The leer, the prentice and the three lighters ran. They had not gone far when Rossamund realized with horror that somehow Threnody was still behind them, making a stand before the hefty beast. Even now she took careful aim at the giant with her fusil while it sniffed bemusedly at the leakvane's brume. Realizing what Threnody was doing, Sebastipole pulled up and turned, unshouldering, cocking and sighting his long-rifle in a single, easy action.
Hiss-CRACK! went Threnody's fusil, its gun-smoke acrid, the sound of Sebastipole's own fire quickly following.
One of the shots was true. It struck the umbergog just as the brute was daring to push through the broiling barrier of repellent. The monster gave a mighty yelp far out of proportion with the smallness of the hit and staggered back, cracking the paving with its footfall and sending up a spray of gravel and dust.
Such was the sting of skold-shot.
With gloved hands, the leer instantly took another skold-shot ball from a cartridge box hung over his shoulder and, quick and cool, reloaded his long-barreled firelock.
Ahead of them Threnody did the same.
"I would appreciate it if you would come away now, m'dear," Sebastipole called to her, but she did not acknowledge.
The nicker, its abdomen now splattered with new-flowing gore, bounded at them, head up, mouth gaping, its ponderously oversized antlers pointing wide along its back. Rossamund could feel the pounding of its mighty strides shaking the road beneath his feet.
Undaunted, both Threnody and Sebastipole coolly fired again.
Hissss-C-CRACK! No more than a hundred yards from them, a gout of ichor came from the top of the umbergog's head, and a piece of shattered antler spun off. A prodigious shot, whosever it was. The beast cried its agony again as it was sent headlong, sprawling upon its knees across the road and sliding down into the Harrowmath.
Sebastipole, seeing Rossamund, called, "If you have another of those leakvane boxes, I suggest you employ it now-we could do with the help, I think."
Rossamund quickly produced the second leakvane from his salumanticum. He pulled its red velvet tab, gave it a brisk shake and tossed the little box a short way up the road.
"Now, let us be off!" Sebastipole cried.
The Herdebog Trought was getting to its feet again, pulling itself up by those powerful arms, coughing and snuffling and shaking its great, bloodied head.
As they ran, Sebastipole put himself between the monster and the two prentices.
Rossamund fossicked about in his salt-bag for a dose of Frazzard's powder. He did not know how it might work on a nicker so big, but some potive in hand, however inadequate, felt far better than none. He looked back over his shoulder.
Half standing, the Herdebog Trought peered at Rossamund, Threnody and the valiant leer as if seeing them for the first time, then at the fleeing lamplighters, almost to the Approach now, almost home. It seemed puzzled, sniffing once more at the air, stooping to smell the ground and casting about confusedly. Rossamund did not get the same sense of pure malignancy from this creature as he did from the horn-ed nickers. The umbergog felt driven more by anger than malice.
The second leakvane burst at last with a whoof! of toxic smoke. Giving a wild bovine shout, the startled monster leaped up and over them, passing close overhead. With a great shudder of the ground and cracking of flagstones it landed on the opposite side of their small group. By some cause of Providence, the Herdebog Trought had let them be. It lumbered away down the Pettiwiggin, covering a prodigious distance even as Rossamund watched, its attention fixed on the tunnel-mouth into which the butcher's van had fled.
Grindrod and the two lampsmen were close to the fortress now. They had caught up to the prentices, who were struggling to make the last few dozen yards.The nicker was gaining on them all. The musketry resumed on the walls. Puffs of dirt flicked up as balls missed or deflected from the monster's shaggy hide.
Rossamund could just see Bellicos turn and stand his ground. He cried something over his shoulder and flourished a pistol. There was a tiny puff of thick white from his hand and a pathetic pop of pistol shot.
The nicker hesitated. It must have been hit.
But one shot from such a sidearm, skold-shot or otherwise, could never stop such a gargant-not even Sebastipole or Threnody's fine aim had managed that-and the beast recovered in an instant.
Sebastipole loaded and fired his long-rifle as quick as he might in support of the lampsman, scoring a glancing hit on the monster's rump, a fine shot that did naught to stop it.
Wailing "No!" Rossamund watched helpless as the Trought galloped forward and caught up Bellicos in its gangling violence, crumpling and crushing the fellow as it ran on, flinging what remained to the eight winds. A cry of indignant dismay came from the watchers on the wall. Bravely the fellow had stood and bravely he had fallen, gaining a precious little space for his comrades.
With Grindrod, the two remaining lighters and the prentices still on the road, the umbergog was upon them.Yet just as it had disregarded Sebastipole,Threnody and Rossamund, the nicker ignored the prentice-watch too as they scattered either side of the conduit into the concealing weeds below. The beast stayed fixed on the Bowels and, ignoring all the firelocks firing, lumbered right up to the great gap in the foundations. The Trought was too big to fit within, and reached into the tunnel with its great arms, bellowing into the cavity in rage. There was a clamorous ring of metal as the ponderous grille was let to drop on the umbergog's questing limb. Roaring, clearly wounded in head and body, the beast wrenched free of the pinning portcullis.
The yowling of the dogs became louder as the heavy bronze portals of Winstermill were swung open to release a company of troubardiers, the manse's entire complement. They were led by Josclin, the lighters' only scourge. His entire head was wrapped with protective bandages of potive-treated fascins. The soldiers with him stepped high and stoutly, going out to defend their brothers, long spittendes-barbed, cross-pieced pikes-ready in their hands, their boots clattering boldly on the dressed stone of the Approach.
Another was with them, wrapped in a cloak of orange, blue and white. It was the Lady Dolours, without her wings, her bald head wrapped in a soft cap. Standing on the edge of the ramp and looking down on the Trought, she raised a hand to her forehead. Rossamund suddenly feared for the Trought's life: regardless of poor Bellicos, he was sure the beast did not deserve such an end. Fully expecting the poor Trought to expire instantly, he was amazed when the hugeous thing stumbled away from the fortress, slipping down the side of the highroad dike.
Why does she not kill it?
Rossamund could see Plod and Wheede huddled on the same side of the road, frozen in confusion, wailing their fright. Close by, the Trought, equally distressed, collapsed to its haunches in the grass of the Harrowmath, steam rising from its heaving back into the morning cold.
The troubardiers pressed forward with a derisive yell. Spittendes lowered in bristling threat, they formed on the road with dangerous alacrity. The scourge stepped before them, standing on the verge, twirling a sling filled with some deadly potive. Ten yards from the panting beast he gave a shout and flung his chemistry. The nicker raised an arm to ward off the hissing projectile, and the potive struck it with a dirty splash. The Trought recoiled screaming as part of its forearm was dissolving to the bone. Even its ponderous mass was not enough to save it from the ancient script.
The troubardiers charged down the side of the dike with a battle-yell, joined by the yammering dogs led by their handlers from the gate, and by the jeers of the lighters on the wall. Threnody shouted with them, thrilling to the hope of victory soon won, thrilling to the hope of revenge. Rossamund just watched, not knowing who to feel most sad for: man or beast.
At last the monster half turned and staggered to its feet for several heavy steps, then made off into the long grass of the Harrowmath.With pestilential steam streaming from the bubbling stump of its left arm it fled north, faster than the heavy pediteers could follow. The dogs were let go at last, great black tykehounds dashing out from the fortress and down the Approach, past the ranks of the troubardiers, to chase the wounded creature down and hold it at bay. Cheers grew louder, great hoots of victory from the men on the walls, many shouting the lead dogs' names.
"Fly, Druker!"
"At 'em, Griffstutzig!"
"Get the masher, boys!"
The troubardiers halted at the base of the dike and gave voice to another derisive cry as the Herdebog Trought quit the scene.
In the awful silence that followed, Rossamund retrieved his hat from the southern slope of the highroad. Torn between his grief for Bellicos and for the Trought, he joined Threnody and Sebastipole as they returned hastily to the manse. For much of the way no one said anything, the prentice hugging himself as his awareness of the cold returned.
"Will they kill it, sir?" he asked in a small voice.
"Most certainly," Sebastipole returned. "The brute has killed one of our own and must be slain in turn."
Kill or be killed, went Rossamund's thoughts. "Oh," he said aloud. "That was some frank shooting, sir," he ventured after a lengthy silence. He said this with sad yet genuine admiration, trying hard to ignore the red stains of Bellicos' pointless ruin on the road. "And you too, miss," he said to Threnody.
Flushed, staring out toward the far-off, fleeing umbergog, Threnody had said nothing since her valiant stand. She now gave a zealous, self-satisfied smile. "I just wish it had been doglocks in my hands and not a fusil," she said warmly.
In his turn the leer bowed his head in thanks for Rossamund's compliment. "Improved aim is one of the genuine boons of this vile biologue," Sebastipole said mildly as he removed his sthenicon with a sucking intake of breath. For several beats the leer seemed as if he had been struck a heavy blow, slowing his pace, dazed and blinking rapidly. "But you, young woman, have clearly got a fine eye," he finally continued, still giving his head small, violent shakes.The sthenicon was returned to its ordinary-looking box, and a kerchief produced into which Sebastipole blew his nose over and over. "And I thank you both for standing stoutly with me through it." He acknowledged them both with an admiring nod and Threnody smiled again, clearly thinking she could now take her place among the men.
Rossamund did not feel so confident. "I am so sorry for the leakvane bursting too quick, sir. It was-"
"Not another thought, young sir!" Sebastipole insisted. "It was well intended and did its trick in the end.Tarbinaires like those leakvanes of yours are contrary contraptions even in the wisest hands."
Dolours came down to them as they walked up the Approach, full of concern for her mistress's daughter. She went to wrap an arm about Threnody, but the girl bristled and with an angry sound refused the bane's comfort. Dolours looked to the heavens for a moment and followed.
Within the manse's fortified bosom, they found Grindrod and the prentice-watch gathered safe at last, formed up on Evolution Square as if they had just returned from a typical lantern-dousing. Every boy looked exhausted, harrowed; most bore tear stains on their cheeks. Crofton Wheede still wept even as he tried to hide it.
The lamplighter-sergeant was doing his best to console the traumatized boys. "Well, ye lads have surely had a violent passage through yer prenticing…" It was with almost obvious relief that he turned his attention to Rossamund. "As for ye, Master Come-lately, ye're a fool of fools, boy! I'll have yer gizzards for gaiter straps for putting yer vile puffings in our way! I thought it was the end of me! Of all the sponge-headed bedizened… Were you trying to kill us all?"
"That will be enough, sergeant-lighter," Sebastipole warned, becoming very grave. "You know very well the placing of the leakvane was intended only to deter the nicker and give us a screen to retreat behind."
"I'll remind ye, Sebastipole," Grindrod said, leaning into the leer's face, "that the prentices are my charge-"
"And I'll remind you, Grindrod, that both you and they are mine," returned the lamplighter's agent, stepping to a grateful Rossamund's side.
Grindrod stared at Sebastipole and then changed his tack. "Fine bit of marksmanship, leer," he said. "Almost as good as the girl."
Sebastipole simply blew his nose and turned his attention to Rossamund. He gave the prentice an owlish look. "It has been a pleasure to serve with you, young master Rossamund." He smiled politely. "I go to join the inevitable coursing party. We will trap it and so bring its end. Thank you again for your assistance, sir." He looked over at Threnody, who stood silent on the edge of the group, unsure how to join in. "And you, young woman. I would happily have either of you at my side on any future outing."
Rossamund was even more confounded. This was high praise, but it left him terribly troubled. What part had he played in what was to be the Trought's ineluctable end? The killing of the horn-ed nickers had seemed right, necessary, but the Trought's destruction brought only baffled dismay. Indeed, Rossamund felt most angry at the butchers, for baiting the beast. Was it really swine's lard I smelled?
Threnody did not answer either, but stood with arms folded and chin raised.
Mister Sebastipole was quickly away, clearly intent on joining the group that was forming by the gate, eager to hunt the nicker that had just slain one of their own. The clamor of the tykehounds could still be heard coming distantly from the Harrowmath.
Grindrod bent right down into Rossamund's face. "Ye, sir, will never make it to lampsman if ye get in the way of yer fellow lighters and near cause their deaths."
Rossamund fumed silently. He had done all he could to protect and defend his fellows. Mister Sebastipole had said he had done rightly; he would not back down. Nevertheless, he was wise enough to not speak. He knew what little good it would do him.
"Ye can forget yer Domesday vigil tomorrow, lantern-stick!" the lamplighter-sergeant hissed. "Pots-and-pans for ye all day.Think yerself well off, for I would cheerfully make it worse!"