'And a bad one too…,' Puttinger wheezed.
Rossamund had spent some time with a fulgar on the way to Winstermill all those weeks ago, and now here he was feeling the working of a wit. So this is what it is to suffer their frission… The sensation quickly passed, leaving a sick headachy funk.
The nicker on the road was gone.
There was a smarting flash from the ruined coach-some kind of illuminating potive that quickly became a glaring rose-colored flare lifted high by a small, slight figure. A woman was struggling from the wreck, dazzling the scene with a brilliant ruby light that stung the eyes. The monsters shied from that strange red glare, retreating into the darkness between tangled trunks.
'Ah! Bitterbright!' growled Lampsman Assimus, shielding his sight with an outstretched arm. 'That's a smart bit of skoldin'.'
'Aye,' Grindrod growled, 'but wantonly witting and blinding us won't help us help them. Make ready and keep a squint so ye can see into that blasted night.'
Amazed, struggling to see what was happening, Rossamund squinted, his eyes watering in the quick, painful brilliance. Bitterbright was powerful chemistry that took great skill to keep burning, and amid the confusion he was desperate to see its maker.
Bold again, the monsters paced a careful circle about the woman, some of them showing as black shadows against the flare as they stalked between the calendars and the lamplighters, their feral stink wafting over the prentice-watch. The smallest nicker was at least seven foot, as far as Rossamund could tell, the biggest maybe over nine. A-bristle with stiff fur, sharp and slender horns curving back wickedly over their long skulls, they swayed menacingly as they bobbed and lurched in complete and unnerving silence. Slowly the nickers arranged themselves with grim deliberation.
Lamplighter-Sergeant Grindrod kept his eye fixed on the monsters. 'Level on that nearest brute.We'll see if we can't even odds a little.'
No sooner had he said this than a slight figure sprang out from the carriage, a girl in strange costume, long hair flailing as she leaped. An angry, frightened call followed her, something like 'Threnody, no!' The girl came on, dancing toward a monster, clutching at her temple. Once more Rossamund felt that weird and deeply unpleasant giddiness of frission contract in the middle of his head then quickly flex in the pit of his stomach. His vision failed briefly this time and he reeled, as did all those of the prentice-watch. Bellicos retched; Rossamund's fellow prentice Wrangle vomited and, finally overcome, three other boys collapsed.
Grindrod swore as he staggered. 'Lackbrained wit! What's she playing at?'
'They're stinkin'calendars!' Rossamund heard Assimus' angry whisper.
Rossamund had read of such as these.They were a society of women-lahzars, skolds, pistoleers and the rest-set to doing good, protecting the weak and pursuing other noble causes.
The agony rapidly passed, as it had before, leaving its aching in Rossamund's skull. Yet he kept enough of his senses to see that though his fellow lighters were reeling, the monsters were not suffering much at all.The striving of the long-haired calendar had done little to deter the nickers. She was not practiced enough at her witting-it was random, inept. And now the monsters pounced, the largest blocking Rossamund's view of her in its ravenous intent.
Again they felt the wit's wild frission, driving every one of the prentice-watch still standing to his knees. One of the nickers fell too. With a weird shriek, two more oddly dressed figures pounced from the shattered wood and frame while a third, bearing the bitterbright, struggled after. By the swaying rose light the two dashed to the young wit's defense, prancing and whirling, dancing about her as they began a mortal struggle with the horn-ed nickers, their hands trailing long, lacerating wires.The monsters shied and cast about wildly, raging with disturbing strangled yips as the figures harried and slit first at one then another, keeping them at bay, pirouetting clear of every swipe.
One of the dancers misstepped, and that was her end as the horn-ed nicker gripped and ripped and clawed her-an end more terrible yet than Licurius' at the carving nails of the grinnlings. Bile bubbled up from his gullet as Rossamund tried to conceive how a living person could so quickly be bent and rent to a meaningless mash. Not even the stoutest proofing could stop such elemental strength. Even as this woman was slain the other dancer became frantic and, with a grieving wail, danced madly about the killer of her sister, cutting at it over and over, slicing off one of its horns, severing a mangled arm, removing an ear. Another beast sprang from a thicket, snatched the flailing woman about her stomach and chewed its great fangs into her face.With a flash-and-bang that echoed through the spindly, spiny wood, someone still inside the cabin fired a pistola-a salinumbus by the flat, heavy slap of the discharge. Hit low with the shot, this ambuscading nicker tottered, dropping its maimed prey.Another thick pistol-crack and a glare of orange flickered about the head of the beast, followed quickly by boisterous crackling. Its head afire, the creature collapsed back with a strange, husky howling, tripping over its victims and falling to the earth. The glare of its burning added light to the furor.
As these things were happening, several nickers had closed with the long-haired wit, who cowered and sent out ineffectual flutterings of her witting powers. Even from where he stood, Rossamund could feel threwd emanating from these monsters as the beasts sought to best their prey through anguish and mad terror alone.
His fellow prentices whimpered.
'Pernicious threwd!' cursed Assimus.
'Take your aim on that leftmost basket!' Grindrod cried.
The prentice-watch brought up their firelocks.
'Fire!'
With a sharp, rattling clatter the quarto fired, startling the horn-ed nickers, gun-smoke obscuring their view.
One of the monsters collapsed under many hits of musket ball and crumpled gasping to the verge. Sets of glimmering monster eyes-maybe four, maybe five-regarded the lighters malignantly.
'Reload! Reload!' Grindrod demanded, and the prentices hurried to comply.
The long-haired calendar sank to her knees.
The monsters looked to her again and closed for the slaying.
Yet the smallest calendar staggered in between. It was she who had set the bitterbright to burning and kept it bright for her sisters to see. She flung the glare at an encroaching nicker, the red glimmer dimming rapidly now that she no longer fed its chemistry. The beast recoiled as the potive struck and a smolder set in its fur, quickly turning to ruby flames that engulfed head and shoulders. Regardless, two others approached slavering noiselessly, tongues lolling and licking at the smell of blood and smoke.
By the light of the failing bitterbright Rossamund could see that this brave woman wore the conical hat of a skold and white spoor lines down both sides of her face. A thick hackle of cream-colored fur wrapped about her neck and shoulders, and strange little wings protruded from her back. She looked fragile, vulnerable, doomed.
One set of glowing eyes, however, had stayed fixed on the prentices hurrying new rounds into their fusils. This nicker chose them as its next victims and pounced, taking five yards with each springing lope.
'By quarto!' Grindrod hollered.
The lantern-sticks struggled to get their weapons up in time as in five strides the beast was halfway toward them, foul breath steaming from its gnashing teeth.
Rossamund lifted his arm ready to throw his chemistry.
'Level!'
The horn-ed terror arched itself as it ran at them, ready to pounce. Almost in unison the other nickers lashed at the calendars… and froze as if each was stricken. The monster rushing them toppled and skidded along the road in midstride.
'What the…!' Grindrod exclaimed.
'Saved,' whimpered Crofton Wheede.
'She's a bane!' marveled Assimus. Both skold and wit, banes were rare and extraordinary.
Indeed, the calendar, though clearly struggling, was now touching her left temple, a gesture characteristic of a wit. The prentice-watch looked on in awe as, with a precise show of frightening potency, the woman caused the largest beast before her to writhe in paroxysms of agony while holding the other two frozen. So skilled was she that, unlike her long-haired compatriot, she sent no wild washings of frission to trouble the lampsmen and their charges. All Rossamund could feel was a vague fluttering in his innards.
