Feet of Clay - Terry Pratchett [103]
He tried to get up, skidded on some cow’s moment of crisis, and sat down on a sheep. It went “blaaaart!” What kind of noise was that for a sheep to make?
He got up again and tried to make his way to the curb. “Shoo! Get out of the damn’ way, you sheep! Garn!”
A goose hissed at him and stuck out altogether too much neck.
Colon backed off, and stopped when something nudged him in the back. It was a pig.
It was no Mr. Dreadful. This wasn’t the little piggy that went to market, or the little piggy that stayed at home. It would be quite hard to imagine what kind of foot would have a piggy like this, but it would probably be the kind that had hair and scales and toenails like cashew nuts.
This piggy was the size of a pony. This piggy had tusks. And it wasn’t pink. It was a blue-black color and covered with sharp hair but it did have—let’s be fair, thought Colon—little red piggy eyes.
This little piggy looked like the little piggy that killed the boarhounds, disemboweled the horse, and ate the huntsman.
Colon turned around, and came face-to-face with a bull like a beef cube on legs. It turned its huge head from side to side so that each rolling eye could get a sight of the sergeant, but it was clear that neither of them liked him very much.
It lowered its head. There wasn’t room for it to charge, but it could certainly push.
As the animals crowded around him, Colon took the only way of escape possible.
There were men slumped all over the alley.
“Hello, hello, hello, what’s all this, then?” said Carrot.
A man who was holding his arm and groaning looked up at him. “We were viciously attacked!”
“We don’t have time for this,” said Vimes.
“We may have,” said Angua. She tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the wall opposite, on which was written in a familiar script:
NO MASTER…
Carrot hunched down and spoke to the casualty. “You were attacked by a golem, were you?” he said.
“Right! Vicious bugger! Just walked out of the fog and went for us, you know what they’re like!”
Carrot gave the man a cheerful smile. Then his gaze traveled along the man’s body to the big hammer lying in the gutter, and moved from that to the other tools strewn around the scene of the fight. Several had their handles broken. There was a long crowbar, bent nearly into a circle.
“It’s lucky you were all so well armed,” he said.
“It turned on us,” said the man. He tried to snap his fingers. “Just like that—aargh!”
“You seem to have hurt your fingers…”
“You’re right!”
“It’s just that I don’t understand how it could have turned on you and just walked out of the fog,” said Carrot.
“Everyone knows they’re not allowed to fight back!”
“‘Fight back,’” Carrot repeated.
“It’s not right, them walking around the streets like that,” the man muttered, looking away.
There was the sound of running feet behind them and a couple of men in blood-stained aprons caught up with them. “It went that way!” one yelled. “You’ll be able to catch up with it if you hurry!”
“Come on, don’t hang around! What do we pay our taxes for?” said the other.
“It went all round the cattle yards and let everything out. Everything! You can’t move on Pigsty Hill!”
“A golem let all the cattle out?” said Vimes. “What for?”
“How should I know? It took the yudasgoat out of Sock’s slaughterhouse so half the damn’ things are following it around! And then it went and put old Fosdyke in his sausage machine—”
“What?”
“Oh, it didn’t turn the handle. It just shoved a handful of parsley in his mouth, dropped an onion down his trousers, covered him in oatmeal and dropped him in the hopper!”
Angua’s shoulders started to shake. Even Vimes grinned.
“And then it went into the poultry merchant’s, grabbed Mr. Terwillie, and”—the man stopped, aware there was a lady present, even if