Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 37: When the Goat Girl Dressed the Milk Cow

"They shall attack faster than you swing," observed Dark Michael. "You must begin before they move."

Barnaby did not answer. He was too busy waving the axe, backing towards the wall of the pit.

"Granted, if you swing uselessly, you will tire and die," considered the ghost. Voice calm and dry; not bothering to raise his hat above his eyes.

"Sainted Lucif's damned piss pot take you for its kettle," growled Barnaby.

"What take me for who?"

Shit, thought Barnaby. "Sorry. Sir."

A shadow-fiend with eyes of rose petal flame leaped past the next swing. Hands scrabbling for his neck, too close for Barnaby to strike. So he turned, rushed at the wall of the pit. Crashed into it, stunning the creature. It fell to the floor. Barnaby kicked it away, then swung. The head rolled, rose-petal eyes dimming to dark.

He wheeled about, putting back to wall. A second creature launched itself. Barnaby brought the axe down in an overhand chop that cleft the creature's head. It shrieked, clawing at the blade. Barnaby put a foot upon the creature, tugging free his axe.

"Well done, boy."

Barnaby took a moment to gather breath. There remained three shadow-fiends. Their fiery eyes considering Barnaby, the two fallen denizens of Infernum. Consideration done, they backed away, crawling up the sides of the pit, scurrying towards the door and the freedom of the night.

Barnaby watched them depart. Panting as if he'd run five circuits round Mill Town. Arms trembled so he could scarce hold the axe; while legs shook so he needed the wall to stand.

"Close your eyes, take a deep breath," advised Michael.

Barnaby closed eyes, took breath, opened eyes. Then shook himself, feeling better. At length, he began walking towards the rope, working not to stagger.

"Where are you going?"

"After the creatures, sir."

At which answer Dark Michael at last raised hat brim to see his pupil.

"Why?"

Barnaby considered. "Well, sir, they'll be eating folk in the streets, and maybe in their beds. Sir."

"That's Persephone's problem. Hark to the bells? The alarm already sounds. You've done your part."

Barnaby shook his head. Sheathing Dragontooth so he could climb the rope.

"We brought those creatures into the city, Master Michael. My da always told me 'Face your mistakes as you face your mirror'. Not that we had a proper mirror. Just a polished pan to shave with." He tugged at his beard in recollection of more clean-shaven days.

Dark Michael made no reply. Not with sarcastic word nor glowering eye. He merely slouched in shadows, observing Barnaby climb the rope, draw his axe again. That done, the miller's son exited the chamber in search of fiends from Infernum.

It came to no long search. The street outside swarmed with the creatures. Howling and hissing, as though conducting discussion of deepest importance. But the creatures had not expected Barnaby to follow. He had time to cut two down with one great scything swing; then put his back to the wall beside the door, beneath a bright lantern.

Not far from the doorway lay the body of Crow. The mangled throat still leaking into the street cobbles. More than one fiend knelt to drink from the cooling pools. While Crow stared up with eyes still wide and white with whatever last vision he'd pocketed from this living world.