'Why don't you just crawl back into your coffin and rot, you slimy little maggot,' Agnes said. It wasn't that good, but impromptu insults are seldom well crafted.
Lacrimosa leapt at her, but something else was wrong. Instead of gliding through the air like velvet death she lurched like a bird with a broken wing. But fury let her rear up in front of Agnes, one claw out to scratch-
Agnes hit her as hard as she could and felt Perdita get behind the blow as well. It shouldn't have been possible for it to connect, the girl was quick enough to run around Agnes three times before it could, but it did.
The people of Escrow watched a vampire stagger back, bleeding.
The mayor raised his head.
Agnes went into a crouch, fists raised.
'I don't know where Granny Weatherwax went,' she said. 'Maybe she is in here with me, eh?' A flash of mad inspiration struck her and she added, in Granny's sharp tones, 'And if you strike me down again I'll bite my way up through your boots!'
'A nice try, Miss Nitt,' said the Count, striding towards her. 'But I don't think so-'
He stopped, clutching at the gold chain that was suddenly around his neck.
Behind him the mayor hauled on it with all his weight, forcing the vampire to the ground.
The citizens looked at one another, and all moved at once.
Vampires rose into the air, trying to gain height, kicking at clutching hands. Torches were snatched from walls. The night was suddenly full of screams.
Agnes looked up at Vlad, who was staring in horror. Lacrimosa was surrounded by a closing ring of people.
'You'd better run,' she said, 'or they'll-'
He turned and lunged, and the last thing she saw was teeth.
The track downhill was worse than the climb. Springs had erupted in every hollow, and every path was a rivulet.
As Granny and oats lurched from mud slough to bog, Oats reflected on the story in the Book of Om - the story, really - about the prophet Brutha and his journey with Om across the burning desert, which had ended up changing Omnianism for ever. It had replaced swords with sermons, which at least caused fewer deaths except in the case of the really very long ones, and had broken the Church into a thousand pieces which had then started arguing with one another and finally turned out Oats, who argued with himself.
Oats wondered how far across the desert Brutha would have got if he'd been trying to support Granny Weatherwax. There was something unbending about her, something hard as rock. By about halfway the blessed prophet might, he felt guiltily, have yielded to the temptation to... well, at least say something unpleasant, or give a meaningful sigh. The old woman had got very crotchety since being warmed up. She seemed to have something on her mind.
The rain had stopped but the wind was sharp, and there were still occasional stinging bursts of hail.
'Won't be long now,' he panted.
'You don't know that,' said Granny, splashing through black, peaty mud.
'No, you're absolutely right,' said Oats. 'I was just saying that to be cheerful.'
'Hasn't worked,' said Granny.
'Mistress Weatherwax, would you like me to leave you here?' said Oats.
Granny sniffed. 'Wouldn't worry me,' she said.
'Would you like me to?' said Oats.
'It's not my mountain,' said Granny. 'I wouldn't be one to tell people where they should be.'
'I'll go if you want me to,' said Oats.
'I never asked you to come,' said Granny simply.
'You'd be dead if I hadn't!'