The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [116]
Quire jumped to the ground, landing on the balls of his feet and dropping into a crouch. He could hear Spune screaming, and began to turn to look for him, but the dog he had shot came at him, its head horribly open and misshapen now.
It leaped at Quire’s face, and he barely got the discharged pistol up in time to block its jaws. A vile, musty stench of dead flesh and rotting fur washed over him. The hound bit down on the gun, and shook it with such terrible strength that it tore it from Quire’s grasp and pushed him on to his backside. The silence of the attack was uncanny and horrible. Quire could hear the faltering snorts of the horse, Merry Andrew shouting something, Spune wailing; but not a sound from the dog that was remorselessly trying to kill him.
Quire made to draw the sabre from its scabbard, trying to rise as he did so. The dog let the pistol fall from its mouth and came at him again. He fell on to his back, letting his own weight take him down, and got his foot into the creature’s chest as it lunged once more for his face.
He folded his knee, taking the hound’s weight and speed into his leg, then kicked out with all his strength. He meant to send it back the way it had come, but his boot slid off its slick, half-rotted fur and it went twisting and tumbling sideways instead. Again, it was quickly on to its feet, but he was ready for it now. He met its charge with the tip of the sabre’s blade, angled in along the line of its throat, punching through the skin of its barrel chest and bursting through the ribcage deep down into the chest cavity.
It was no way to use a sabre, but it had the desired effect. Durand had told him to aim for the heart, and he had been right. The hound fell on to its side. Its legs still shook, and its jaw still worked open and shut, but it could not rise. Quire left the sword buried in the beast and turned towards the farmhouse.
Spune was on the ground, no longer screaming; limp, as the second great dog shook him. Mowdiewarp was bent over the creature, stabbing it again and again in the back and flank with a butcher’s knife. Merry Andrew stood, feet firmly planted in a wide stance, back straight, right arm extended perfectly level, pointing his tiny pistol at the door of the farmhouse. Where Blegg stood, looking directly at Quire.
Quire heard the horse slumping down to the ground behind him.
“Aim for the heart,” he cried out to Merry Andrew, though he doubted the man could aim at much of anything with such a trinket of a gun.
Merrilees was not listening anyway.
“There’s the bastard I want,” he shouted, and fired.
Blegg’s shoulder twitched. That was the only way to tell that the shot had hit him. A tremor went through his face, perhaps; that contemptuous smile faltered for a second, before reasserting itself.
Merry Andrew howled in frustration, and fumbled for his powder pouch. Blegg took a single long step backwards and disappeared into the farmhouse.
Quire set his foot on the still twitching dog he had impaled, and pulled the sabre out. It came grudgingly, rasping against bone. He hurried over to where the other beast was blindly, mindlessly savaging Spune and pushed Mowdiewarp roughly aside. He took a moment or two to steady himself, and choose his spot, then drove the blade in between two ribs and skewered the heart.
“Bastard,” Merry Andrew was saying over and over again. “Bastard. Bastard.”
Quire did not know if it was meant for him, or Blegg, or God for that matter. He glanced down at Spune, who was pale and moaning. One arm of his jacket was entirely soaked through with blood, and he had an ugly wound to his cheek.
Merry Andrew started towards the farmhouse door.
“Wait, Merrilees,” Quire snapped. “You’ll need more than that wee gun if you’re going in there.”
When Merry Andrew glared at him, he nodded towards the cart.
“Bring the lanterns, if they’re still alight, and the oil. We’ll burn the place down.”
Quire retrieved his