Well, this was it, then. Famous Last Stand. Plucky Dog Defends His Master. What a Good Dog. Shame there’d be no one left to tell anyone…
He barked, ‘Mine! Mine!’ and leapt snarling towards the nearest shape.
A huge paw swatted him out of the air and then pinned him down, spreadeagled, in the snow.
He looked up past white fangs and a long muzzle into eyes that seemed familiar.
‘Hmine,’ growled the wolf. It was Angua.
The coaches slowed to a walk on a road that was rough with potholes under the unbroken snow, every one a wheel-breaking trap in the dark.
Vimes nodded to himself when he saw lights flickering beside the road a few miles into the pass. On either side, old landslides had formed banks of scree, down which the forests had spilled.
He dropped quietly off the back of the coach and vanished into the shadows.
The leading coach stopped at a log which had been dropped across the road. There was some movement, and then the driver swung himself down into the mud and set off at a dead run back down the pass.
Figures moved out of the trees. One of them stopped at the door of the first coach and tried the handle.
For a moment the world held its breath. The figures must have sensed it, because the man was already leaping aside when there was a click and the whole door and its surrounding frame blew outwards in a cloud of splinters.
The thing about fires, Vimes had once observed, was that only an idiot got between them and a troll holding a 2,OOOlb crossbow. All Hell hadn’t been let loose. It was merely Detritus. But from a few feet away you couldn’t tell the difference.
Another figure reached for the door of the second coach just before Vimes fired out of the darkness and hit his shoulder with a butcher’s sound. Then Inigo dived out through the window, rolled with unclerk-like grace as he hit the ground, rose in front of one of the bandits and brought his hand around, edge first, on the man’s neck.
Vimes had seen this trick before. Usually it just made people angry. Occasionally it managed an incapacitating blow.
He’d never seen it remove a head.
‘Everybody stop!’
Sybil was pushed out of the coach. Behind her a man stepped out. He was holding a crossbow.
‘Your Grace Vimes!’ he shouted. The word bounced back and forth between the cliffs.
‘I know you’re here, Your Grace Vimes! And here is your lady! And there are many of us! Come out, Your Grace Vimes!’
Flakes of snow hissed over the fires.
There was a whisper in the air followed by a second smack of steel into muscle. One of the hooded figures collapsed into the mud, clutching at its leg.
Inigo got slowly to his feet. The man holding the crossbow appeared not to notice.
‘It is like chess, Your Grace Vimes! We have disarmed the troll and the dwarf! And I have the queen! And if you shoot at me can you be sure I won’t have time to fire?’
Firelight glowed on the twisted trees bordering the road.
Several seconds passed.
Then the sound of Vimes’s crossbow landing in the circle of light was very loud.
‘Well done, Your Grace Vimes! And now yourself, if you please!’
Inigo made out the shape that appeared at the very edge of the light, with both hands up.
‘Are you all right, Sybil?’ said Vimes.
‘A bit cold, Sam.’
‘You’re not hurt?’
‘No, Sam.’
‘Keep your hands where I can see them, Your Grace Vimes!’
‘And are you going to promise me you’ll let her go?’ said Vimes.
A flame flickered near Vimes’s face, a bright pool in the darkness, as he lit a cigar.
‘Now, Your Grace Vimes , whyever should I do that? But I am sure AnkhMorpork will pay a lot for you!’
‘Ah. I thought so,’ said Vimes. He shook the match out, and the cigar end glowed for a moment. ‘Sybil?’
‘Yes, Sam?’
‘Duck.’
There was a second filled only with the indrawing of breath, and then as Lady Sybil dived forward Vimes’s hand came around from behind him in an arc, there was a silken sound, and the man’s head was flung back.
Inigo leapt and caught the man’s crossbow as it was dropped, then rolled and came up firing. Another figure staggered.
Vimes was aware of a commotion elsewhere as he grabbed Sybil and helped her back into the coach. Inigo had vanished, but a scream in the dark didn’t sound like anyone Vimes knew.
And then … only the hiss of snow in the fire.
‘I … think they’re gone, sir,’ said Cheery’s voice.
‘Not as fast as us! Detritus?’
‘Sir?’
‘Are you Okay?’
‘Feelin’ very tactful, sir.’
‘You two take that coach, I’ll take this, and let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?’
‘Where’s Mister Skimmer?’ said Sybil.
There was another scream from the woods.
‘Forget him!’
‘But he’s-‘
‘Forget him!’
The snow was falling thicker as they climbed the pass. The deep snow dragged at the wheels, and all Vimes could see were the darker shapes of the horses against the whiteness. Then the clouds parted briefly and he wished they hadn’t, because here they revealed that the darkness on the left of him was no longer rock but a sheer drop.
At the top of the pass the lights of an inn glowed out on to the thickening snow. Vimes drove the carriage into the yard.
‘Detritus?’
‘Sir?’
‘I’ll watch our backs. Make sure this place is Okay, will you?’
‘Yessir.’
The troll jumped down, slotting a fresh bundle of arrows into the Piecemaker. Vimes spotted his intention just in time.
‘Just knock, sergeant.’
‘Right you are’, sir.’
The troll knocked and entered. The buzz of sound from inside suddenly ceased. Vimes heard, muffled by the door, ‘Der Duke of AnkhMorpork is coming in. Anyone have a problem wid dis? Just say der word.’ And in the background, the little humming, singing noise the Piecemaker made under tension.
Vimes helped Sybil down from the coach. ‘How do you feel now?’ he said.
She smiled faintly. ‘I think this dress will have to go for dusters,’ she said. She smiled a little more when she saw his expression.
‘I knew you’d come up with something, Sam. You go all slow and cold and that means something really dreadful’s going to happen. I wasn’t frightened.’
‘Really? I was scared shi-stiff,’ said Vimes.
‘What happened to Mister Skimmer? I remember him rummaging in his case and cursing-‘
‘I suspect Inigo Skimmer is alive and well,’ said Vimes grimly. ‘Which is more than can be said for those around him.’
There was silence in the main room of the inn. A man and a woman, presumably the landlord and his wife, were standing flat against the back of the bar. The dozen or so other occupants lined the walls, hands in the air. Beer dribbled from a couple of spilled mugs.
‘Everyt’ing normal an’ peaceful,’ said Detritus, turning round.
Vimes realized that everyone was staring at him. He looked down. His shirt was torn. Mud and blood caked his clothes. Melted snow dripped off him. In his right hand, unregarded, he was still holding his crossbow.
‘Bit of trouble on the road,’ he said. ‘Er, you know how it is.’
No one moved.
‘Oh, good gods. Detritus, put that damn thing
down, will you?’
‘Right, sir.’
The troll lowered his crossbow. Two dozen people all began to breathe again.
Then the skinny woman stepped around from behind the bar, nodded at Vimes, carefully took Lady Sybil’s hand from his, and pointed towards
the wide wooden stairs. The black look she gave Vimes puzzled him.
Only then did he realize that Lady Sybil was shaking. Tears were running down her face.
‘And, er, my wife is a bit shaken up,’ he said weakly. ‘Corporal Littlebottom!’ he yelled, to cover his confusion.
Cheery stepped through the doorway.
‘Go with Lady Syb-‘
He stopped because of the rising hubbub. One or two people pointed. Someone laughed. Cheery stopped, looking down.
‘What’s up?’ Vimes hissed.
‘Er, it’s me, sir. AnkhMorpork dwarf fashions haven’t really caught on here, sir,’ said Cheery.
‘The skirt?’ said Vimes.
‘Yes, sir.’
Vimes looked around at the faces. They seemed more shocked than angry, although he spotted a couple of dwarfs in one corner who were definitely unhappy.
‘Go with Lady Sybil,’ he repeated.
‘It might not be a very good id-‘ Cheery began.
‘Gods damn it!’ shouted Vimes, unable to stop himself. The crowd went silent. A ragged bloodstained madman holding a crossbow can command a rapt audience. Then he shuddered. What he wanted now was a bed, but what he wanted, before bed, more than anything, was a drink. And he couldn’t have one. He’d learned that long ago. One drink was one too many.
‘All right, tell me,’ he said.