‘One that’s better than “What are you?”‘ Oats whispered.
Granny’s hand twitched. She opened her mouth again, arched her body against the rope and then slumped back against the pillow.
Agnes touched her forehead, and drew her hand back sharply.
‘She’s burning up! Hodgesaargh! Bring some water!’
‘Coming, miss!’
‘Oh, no. . .’ whispered Oats. He pointed to the ropes. They were unknotting themselves, stealthily moving across one another like snakes.
Granny half rolled, half fell out of the bed, landing on her hands and knees. Agnes went to pick her up and received a blow from an elbow that sent her across the room.
The old witch dragged the door open and crawled out into the rain. She paused, panting, as the drops hit her. Agnes swore that some of them sizzled.
Granny’s hands slipped. She landed in the mud and struggled to push herself upright.
Blue-green light spilled out from the mews ‘s open door. Agnes looked back inside. Hodgesaargh was staring at a jam jar, in which a point of white light was surrounded by a pale blue flame that stretched well beyond the jar, and curled and pulsed.
‘What’s that?’
‘My phoenix feather, miss! It’s burning the air!’
Outside, Oats had pulled Granny upright and had got his shoulder under one of her arms.
‘She said something,’ he said. “I am”, I think. . .’
‘She might be a vampire!’
‘She just said it again. Didn’t you hear?’
Agnes moved closer, and Granny’s limp hand was suddenly gripping her shoulder. She could feel the heat of it through her sodden dress and made out the word in the hiss of the rain.
‘Iron?’ said Oats. ‘Did she say iron?’
‘There’s the castle forge next door,’ said Agnes. ‘Let’s get her in there.’
The forge was dark and cold, its fire only lit when there was work to be done. They pulled Granny inside and she slipped out of their grip and landed on hands and knees on the flagstones.
‘But iron’s no good against vampires, is it?’ said Agnes. ‘I’ve never heard of people using iron-‘
Granny made a noise somewhere between a snort and a growl. She pulled herself across the floor, leaving a trail of mud, until she reached the anvil.
It was simply a great long lump of iron to accommodate the half-skilled metal-bashing occasionally needed to keep the castle running. Still kneeling, Granny grabbed at it with both hands and laid her forehead against it.
‘Granny, what can-‘ Agnes began.
‘Go where the others . . . are,’ Granny Weatherwax croaked. ‘It’ll need three . . . witches if this goes . . . wrong . . . you’ll have to face . . . something terrible. . .’
‘What terrible thing?’
‘Me. Do it now.’
Agnes backed away. On the black iron, by Granny’s fingers, little flecks of rust were spitting and jumping.
‘I’d better go! Keep an eye on her!’
‘But what if-‘
Granny flung her head back, her eyes screwed shut.
‘Get away!’ she screamed.
Agnes went white.
‘You heard what she said!’ she shouted, and ran out into the rain.
Granny’s head slumped forward against the iron again. Around her fingers red sparks danced on the metal.
‘Mister priest,’ she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘Somewhere in this place is an axe. Fetch it here!’
Oats looked around desperately. There was an axe, a small double-headed one, lying by a grindstone.
‘Er, I’ve found one,’ he ventured.
Granny’s head jerked back. Her teeth were gritted, but she managed to say, ‘Sharpen it!’
Oats glanced at the grindstone and licked his lips nervously.
‘Sharpen it right now, I said!’
He pulled off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, took up the axe and put a foot on the wheel’s treadle.
Sparks leapt off the blade as the wheel spun.
‘Then find some wood an’ . . . cut a point on it. And find . . . a hammer. . .’
The hammer was easy. There was a rack of tools by the wheel. A few seconds’ desperate
rummaging in the debris by the wall produced a fence post.
‘Madam, what are you wanting me to-‘
‘Something . . . will get up . . . presently,’ Granny panted. ‘Make sure . . . you know well . . . what it is. . .’
‘But you’re not expecting me to behead-‘
‘I’m commandin’ you, religious man l What do you really . . . believe? What did you . . . think it was all about? Singing songs? Sooner or later . . . it’s all down to . . . the blood. . .’
Her head lolled against the anvil.
Oats looked at her hands again. Around them the iron was black, but just a little way from her fingers there was a faint glow to the metal, and the rust still sizzled. He touched the anvil gingerly, then pulled his hand away and sucked at his fingers.
‘Mistress Weatherwax a bit poorly, is she?’ said Hodgesaargh, coming in.
‘I think you could certainly say that, yes.’
‘Oh dear. Want some tea?’
‘What?’
‘It’s a nasty night. If we’re stopping up I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Do you realize, man, that she might get up from there a bloodthirsty vampire?’
‘Oh.’ The falconer looked down at the still figure and the smoking anvil. ‘Good idea to face her with a cup of tea inside you, then,’ he said.
‘Do you understand what’s going on here?’
Hodgesaargh took another slow look at the scene. ‘No,’ he said.
‘In that case-‘
”s not my job to understand this sort of thing,’ said the falconer. ‘I wasn’t trained. Probably takes a lot of training, understanding this. That’s your job. And her job. Can you understand what’s going on when a bird’s been trained and’ll make a kill and still come back to the wrist?’
‘Well, no-‘
‘There you are, then. So that’s all right. Cup of tea, was it?’
Oats gave up. ‘Yes, please. Thank you.’
Hodgesaargh bustled off.
The priest sat down. If the truth were known, he wasn’t sure he understood what was happening. The old woman had been burning up and in pain, and now . . . the iron was getting hot, as if the pain and the heat had been moved away. Could anyone do that? Well, of course, the prophets could, he told himself conscientiously, but that was because Om had given them the power. But by all accounts the old woman didn’t believe in anything.
She was very still now.
The others had talked about her as though she was some great magician, but the figure he’d seen in the hall had been just a tired, worn-out old woman. He’d seen people down in the hospice in Aby Dyal, stiff and withdrawn until the pain was too great and all they had left was a prayer and then . . . not even that. That seemed to be where she was now.
She was really still. Oats had only seen stillness like that when movement was no longer an option.
* * *
Up the airy mountain and down the rushy glen ran the Nac mac Feegle, who seemed to have no concept of stealth. Progress was a little slower now, because some of the party broke away occasionally to have a fight amongst themselves or an impromptu hunt, and in addition to the King of Lancre there was now, bobbing through the heather, the fox, a stunned stag, a wild boar, and a weasel who’d been suspected of looking at a Nac mac Feegle in a funny way.
Verence saw, muzzily, that they were heading for a bank at the edge of a field, long deserted and overgrown, topped with some ancient thorn trees.
The pixies stopped with a jolt when the King’s head was a few inches away from a large rabbit hole.
‘Danna fittit!’
‘G’shovitt, s’yust!’
Verence’s head was banged hopefully against the wet soil once or twice.
‘Hakkis lugs awa’!’
‘Bigjobs!’
One of the pixies shook his head. ‘Canna’ do’t, ken? Els’ y’ole carlin’ll hae oor guts fae garters . . .’
Unusually, the Nac mac Feegle fell silent for a moment. Then one of them said, ‘Na one’s got tha’ much guts, right eno’.’
‘An’ b’side, she’ll gi’us uskabarch muckell. We oathit. Y’ canna’ cross a hag.’
‘Al’ at it noo, then . . .’
Verence was dropped on the ground. There was a brief sound of digging, and mud showered over him. Then he was picked up again and carried through a much enlarged hole, his nose brushing tree roots in the ceiling. Behind him there was the sound of a tunnel being rapidly filled in.
Then there was just a bank where rabbits obviously lived, topped with thorn trees. Unseen in the wild night, the occasional wisp of smoke drifted among the trunks.
Agnes leaned against the castle wall, which was streaming with water, and fought for breath. Granny hadn’t just told her to go away. The command had hit her brain like a bucket of ice. Even Perdita had felt it. There was no question of not obeying.