Carpe Jugulum - Terry Pratchett [81]
“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 jamjar, 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 occasional 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—” Oats began.
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 ax. Fetch it here!”
Oats looked around desperately. There was an ax, 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 ax 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! 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 sizzled. He touched the