Carpe Jugulum (Discworld 23)

'Something... will get up... presently,' Granny panted. 'Make sure... you know well... what it is...'

'But you're not expecting me to behead-'

'I'm commandin' you, religious man l What do you really... believe? What did you... think it was all about? Singing songs? Sooner or later... it's all down to... the blood...'

Her head lolled against the anvil.

Oats looked at her hands again. Around them the iron was black, but just a little way from her fingers there was a faint glow to the metal, and the rust still sizzled. He touched the anvil gingerly, then pulled his hand away and sucked at his fingers.

'Mistress Weatherwax a bit poorly, is she?' said Hodgesaargh, coming in.

'I think you could certainly say that, yes.'

'Oh dear. Want some tea?'

'What?'

'It's a nasty night. If we're stopping up I'll put the kettle on.'

'Do you realize, man, that she might get up from there a bloodthirsty vampire?'

'Oh.' The falconer looked down at the still figure and the smoking anvil. 'Good idea to face her with a cup of tea inside you, then,' he said.

'Do you understand what's going on here?'

Hodgesaargh took another slow look at the scene. 'No,' he said.

'In that case-'

''s not my job to understand this sort of thing,' said the falconer. 'I wasn't trained. Probably takes a lot of training, understanding this. That's your job. And her job. Can you understand what's going on when a bird's been trained and'll make a kill and still come back to the wrist?'

'Well, no-'

'There you are, then. So that's all right. Cup of tea, was it?'

Oats gave up. 'Yes, please. Thank you.'

Hodgesaargh bustled off.

The priest sat down. If the truth were known, he wasn't sure he understood what was happening. The old woman had been burning up and in pain, and now... the iron was getting hot, as if the pain and the heat had been moved away. Could anyone do that? Well, of course, the prophets could, he told himself conscientiously, but that was because Om had given them the power. But by all accounts the old woman didn't believe in anything.

She was very still now.

The others had talked about her as though she was some great magician, but the figure he'd seen in the hall had been just a tired, worn-out old woman. He'd seen people down in the hospice in Aby Dyal, stiff and withdrawn until the pain was too great and all they had left was a prayer and then... not even that. That seemed to be where she was now.

She was really still. Oats had only seen stillness like that when movement was no longer an option.

Up the airy mountain and down the rushy glen ran the Nac mac Feegle, who seemed to have no concept of stealth. Progress was a little slower now, because some of the party broke away occasionally to have a fight amongst themselves or an impromptu hunt, and in addition to the King of Lancre there was now, bobbing through the heather, the fox, a stunned stag, a wild boar, and a weasel who'd been suspected of looking at a Nac mac Feegle in a funny way.

Verence saw, muzzily, that they were heading for a bank at the edge of a field, long deserted and overgrown, topped with some ancient thorn trees.

The pixies stopped with a jolt when the King's head was a few inches away from a large rabbit hole.

'Danna fittit!'

'G'shovitt, s'yust!'

Verence's head was banged hopefully against the wet soil once or twice.