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
