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.
