Carpe Jugulum

'Ah, Mrs Ogg,' said the Count, waving the soldiers away im-patiently. 'And your majesty. And Agnes... Now... was it three for a girl? Or three for a funeral?'

The stone cracked under Nanny's feet as Magpyr walked forward.

'Do you think I'm stupid, dear ladies?' he said. 'Did you really think I'd let you run around if there was the least chance that you could harm us?'

Lightning crackled across the sky.

'I can control the weather,' said the Count. 'And lesser creatures which, let me tell you, includes humans. And yet you plot away and think you can have some kind of... of duel? What a lovely image. However...'

The witches were lifted off their feet. Hot air curled around them. A rising wind outside made the torches of the mob stream flames like flags.

'What happened to us harnessing the power of all three of us together?' hissed Magrat.

'That rather depended on him standing still!' said Nanny.

'Stop this at once!' Magrat shouted. 'And how dare you smoke in my castle! That can have a very serious effect on people around you!'

'Is anyone going to say, "You'll never get away with it"?' said the Count, ignoring her. He walked up the steps. They bobbed helplessly along ahead of him, like so many balloons. The hall doors slammed shut after him.

'Oh, someone must,' he said.

'You won't get away with this!'

The Count beamed. 'And I didn't even see your lips move-'

'Depart from here and return to the grave whence thou camest, unrighteous revenant!'

'Where the hell did he come from?' said Nanny, as Mightily Oats dropped to the ground in front of the vampires.

He was creeping along the minstrel gallery, said Perdita to Agnes. Sometimes you just don't pay attention.

The priest's coat was covered with dust and his collar was torn, but his eyes blazed with holy zeal.

He thrust something in front of the vampire's face. Agnes saw him glance down hurriedly at a small book in his other hand.

'Er... "Get thee hence, thou worm of Rheum, and vex not "'

'Excuse me?' said the Count.

'"-trouble not more the-"

'Could I just make a point?'

' "-thou spirit that troubles thee, thou'... What?'

The Count took the notebook out of Oats's suddenly unresisting hand.

'This is from Ossory's Malleus Maleficarum,' he said. 'Why do you look so surprised? I helped write it, you silly little man!'

'But... you... but that was hundreds of years ago!' Oats managed.

'So? And I contributed to Auriga Clavorum Maleficarum, Torquus Simiae Maleficarum... the whole damn Arca Instrumentorum, in fact. None of those stupid fictions work on vampires, didn't you even know that?'The Count almost growled. 'Oh, I remember your prophets. They were mad bearded old men with the sanitary habits of a stoat but, by all that's crazed, they had passion! They didn't have holy little minds full of worry and fretfulness. They spoke the idiot words as though they believed them, with specks of holy foam bubbling away in the corners of their mouths. Now they were real priests, bellies full of fire and bile! You are a joke.'

He tossed the notebook aside and took the pendant. 'And this is the holy turtle of Om, which I believe should make me cringe back in fear. My, my. Not even a very good replica. Cheaply made.'

Oats found a reserve of strength. He managed to say, 'And how would you know, foul fiend?'

'No, no, that's for demons,' sighed the Count.

He handed the turtle back to Oats.

'A commendable effort, none the less,' he said. 'If I ever want a nice cup of tea and a bun and possibly also a cheery sing-song, I will be sure to patronize your mission. But, at the moment, you are in my way.'

He hit the priest so hard that he slid under the long table.

'So much for piety,' he said. 'All that remains is for Granny Weatherwax to turn up. It should be any minute now. After all, did you think she'd trust you to get it right?'

The sound of the huge iron doorknocker reverberated through the hall.

The Count nodded happily. 'And that will be her,' he said. 'Of course it will. Timing is everything.'

The wind roared in when the doors were opened, swirling twigs and rain and Granny Weatherwax, blown like a leaf. She was soaked and covered in mud, her dress torn in several places.

Agnes realized that she'd never actually seen Granny Weatherwax wet before, even after the worst storm, but now she was drenched. Water poured off her and left a trail on the floor.

'Mistress Weatherwax! So good of you to come,' said the Count. 'Such a long walk on a dark night. Do sit by the fire for a while and rest.'

'I'll not rest here,' said Granny.

'At least have a drink or something to eat, then.'

'I'll not eat nor drink here.'

'Then what will you do?'

'You know well why I've come.'

She looks small, said Perdita. And tired, too.

'Ah, yes. The set-piece battle. The great gamble. The Weatherwax trademark. And... let me see... your shopping list today will be... "if I win I will expect you to free everyone and go back to Uberwald,' am I right?'

'No. I will expect you to die,' said Granny.

To her horror, Agnes saw that the old woman was swaying slightly.