The Fifth Elephant - Terry Pratchett [106]
Vimes waded to the rim of ice and tried to pull himself up out of the water, but it creaked ominously under his weight and cracks zigzagged across its surface.
The wolf came closer, moving with caution. Vimes made another desperate attempt; a slab of ice came free and tipped up, and he disappeared under the water.
The creature waited a few moments and then inched farther out over the ice, growling as fine cracks spread out like stars under its paws.
A shadow moved in the shallow water below it. There was an explosion of water and breath as Vimes broke through the ice under the werewolf, grabbed it around the waist, and fell back.
A claw ripped along Vimes’s side, but he gripped as hard as he could with arms and legs as they rolled under the ice. It was a desperate test of lung capacity, he knew. But he wasn’t the one who’d just had the air squeezed out of him. He held on, while the water clanged in his ears and the thing scrabbled and scratched at him and then, when there was nothing else left but to let go or drown, he punched his way up to the air.
Nothing lashed at him. He cracked his way through the ice to the bank, dropped on his hands and knees, and threw up.
Howling started, all around the mountains.
Vimes looked up. Blood was coursing down his arms. The air stank of rotten eggs.
And there, high on a hill a mile or so off, was the clacks tower.
…with its stone walls and door that could be bolted…
He stumbled forward.
The snow underfoot was already giving way to coarse grass and moss. The air was hotter now, but it was the clammy heat of a fever. And then he looked around, and realized where he was.
There was bare dirt and rock in front of him, but here and there parts of it were moving and going blup.
Everywhere he looked, there were fat geysers. Rings of ancient, congealed, yellow fat, so old and rancid that even Sam Vimes wouldn’t dip his toast in it unless he was really hungry, encircled sizzling little pools. There were even black floating bits, which on a second glance turned out to be insects that were slow learners in a hot fat situation.
Vimes recalled something Igor had said. Sometimes, dwarfs working the high strata, where the fat had congealed into a kind of tallow millennia ago, dwarfs occasionally found strange ancient animals, perfectly preserved but fried to a crisp.
Probably…Vimes found himself laughing, out of sheer exhaustion…probably battered to death.
Mwahahaa.
The snow was heavy now, making the fat pools spit.
He sagged to his knees. He ached all over. It wasn’t just that his brain was writing checks that his body couldn’t cash. It had gone beyond that. Now his feet were borrowing money that his legs hadn’t got, and his back muscles were looking for loose change under the sofa cushions.
And still nothing was coming up behind him. Surely they must’ve crossed the river by now?
Then he saw one. He could have sworn it hadn’t been there a moment ago. Another one trotted out from behind a nearby snowdrift.
They sat watching him.
“Come on, then!” Vimes yelled. “What are you waiting for?”
The pools of fat hissed and bubbled around Vimes. It was warm here, though. If they weren’t going to move, then neither was he.
He focused on a tree on the edge of the fat geysers. It looked barely alive, with greasy splashes on the end of the longer branches, but it also looked climbable. He concentrated on it, tried to estimate the distance and whatever speed he might be capable of.
The werewolves turned to look at it, too.
Another one had entered the clearing at a different point. There were three watching him now.
They weren’t going to run until he ran, he realized. Otherwise it wouldn’t be fun.
He shrugged, turned away from the tree…and then turned back and ran. By the time he was halfway there he was afraid his heart was going to climb up his throat, but he ran on, jumped awkwardly, caught a low branch, slipped, struggled gasping to his feet, grabbed the branch again and managed to pull himself up, expecting at every second