The Fifth Elephant

When werewolf fights werewolf, there are advantages to either shape. It's an eternal struggle to get a position where hands beat claws. And body shapes have lives of their own, a dangerous attribute if it is allowed to act unchecked. A cat's instinct is to jump on something that moves, but this is not a correct action if what is moving has a fizzing fuse. The mind has to fight its own body for control and the other body for survival. Mix this together, and the noise suggests that there are four creatures in the whirling ball of rage. And each one of them has brought several friends. And none of them like any of the others.

A shadow made Vimes spin around. Detritus, in shining armour, was aiming the _ Piecemaker over the banister.

'Sergeant! No! You'll hit Angua too!'

'Not a problem, sir,' said Detritus, ' 'cos it won't kill 'em, so all we have to do, see, is sort out der bits dat are Wolfgang an' belt him over der head when he gets himself back together—'

'If you fire that in here his bits will be mixed up with our bits and there won't be big bits! Put the damn thing down!'

Wolfgang couldn't control his shape well, Vimes saw. He couldn't quite manage to be full wolf or full human, and Angua was making the most of that. She was ducking, weaving... biting.

But even if you put him down you couldn't put him out.

'Mister Vimes!' Now it was Cheery, beckoning urgently from the passage that led to the kitchen. 'You ought to come here right now!'

She was white-faced. Vimes nudged Detritus. 'If they separate, just grab him, right? Just try to hold him still!'

Igor was lying in the kitchen surrounded by broken, glass. Wolfgang must have landed on him and taken out his perpetual anger on a soft target. The patchwork man was bleeding heavily and lay like a doll that had been flung hard against a wall. 'Marthter,' he groaned.

'Can you do anything for him, Cheery?'

'I wouldn't know where to start, sir!'

'Marthter, you got to remember thith, right?' Igor groaned.

'Er, yes... what?'

'You got to get me into the ithehouthe downthtairth and let Igor know, underthtand?'

'Which Igor?' said Vimes desperately.

'Any Igor!' Igor clutched at Vimes's sleeve. 'Me heart'th had it, but me liver'th right ath ninepenthe, tell him! Nothing wrong with my brain that a good bolt of lightnin' won't thort out. Igor can have me right hand, he'th got a cuthtomer waiting. There'th yearth of good thervithe left in my lower intethtine. Left eye not up to much, but I darethay thome poor thoul can find a uthe for it. The right knee ith nearly new. Old M'th Prodzky down the road would value my hip jointth, tell him. Got all that?'

'Yes, yes, I think so.'

'Right. Remember... What goeth around, cometh around...'

Igor sank down.

'He's gone, sir,' said Cheery.

But he'll soon be up and on someone else's feet, Vimes thought. He didn't say it aloud. Cheery was soft hearted. Instead he said, 'Can you get him into his icehouse? By the sound of it Angua's winning—'

He ran back into the hall. It was a wreck. As he arrived Angua managed to get a headlock on Wolfgang and ran him into a wooden pillar. He staggered, and she spun and scythed his legs from under him with a kick.

I taught her that, Vimes thought, as her brother landed heavily. Some of that dirty fighting—that's Ankh-Morpork fighting, that is.

But Wolfgang was up again like a rubber ball and somersaulting over her head. That brought him to the front door. He smashed it open with a blow and leapt out into the street.

And... that was it. A room full of debris,

snowflakes blowing in, and Angua sobbing on the floor.

He picked her up. She was bleeding in a dozen places. That was as much of a diagnosis as Sam Vimes, not used these days to surveying naked young women at close quarters, thought he could decently attempt.

'It's all right, he's gone,' he said, because he had to say something.

'It's not all right! He'll lie low for a while and then he'll be back! I know him! It won't matter where we go! You've seen him! He'll just track us down and follow us and then he'll kill Carrot!'

'Why?'

'Because Carrot's mine!'

Sybil advanced down the stairs, carrying Vimes's crossbow.

'Oh, you poor thing,' she said. 'Come here, let's find something to cover you up. Sam, isn't there something you can do?'

Vimes stared at her. Built into Sybil's expression was the unquestioning assumption that he could do something.

An hour ago he'd been having breakfast. Ten minutes ago he'd been putting on this stupid uniform. In a real room, with his wife. And it had been a real world, with a real future. And suddenly the dark was back, spattered with red rage.

And if he gave in to it he'd lose. That was the beast screaming, inside, and Wolfgang was a better beast. Vimes knew he didn't have the knack, the mindless, driving nastiness; sooner or later his brain would start operating, and kill him.

Perhaps, said his brain, you start by using me...

'Ye-es,' he said. 'Yes, I think there is something I can do...'