The Golem's Eye

Mind those claws, you idiot!"
    "Just shove over. I tell you, my backside's in plain view now. They might spot it."
    "That could win us the battle on its own."
    "Keep that wing under control! You nearly had my eye out."
    "Change into something smaller, then. I suggest a nematode worm."
    "If you elbow me one more time..."
    "It's not my fault. It's that Bartimaeus who put us here. He's such a pomp—"
    It was a painful display of laxity and incompetence, in short, and I refrain from recording it in full. The hawk-headed warrior folded its wings, stepped forward, and roused the sentries' attention by banging their heads together smartly. [4]

    [4] Five heads knocking into one another in quick succession. It was like an unusual executive toy.
     
    "And what kind of sentry duty do you call this?" I snapped. I was in no mood to mess about here; six months of continual service had worn my essence thin. "Cowering behind a Shield, bickering like fishwives... I ordered you to keep watch."
    Amid the pathetic mumbling and shuffling and staring at feet that followed, the frog put up its hand.
    "Please, Mr. Bartimaeus, sir," it said, "what's the good of watching? The British are everywhere—sky and land. And we've heard they've got a whole cohort of afrits down there. Is that true?"
    I pointed my beak at the horizon, narrow-eyed. "Maybe."
    The frog gave a moan. "But we ain't got a single one, have we? Not since Phoebus bought it. And there's marids down there, too, we've heard, more than one. And the leader's got this Staff—real powerful, it is. Tore up Paris and Cologne on the way here, they say. Is that true?"
    My crest feathers ruffled gently in the breeze. "Maybe."
    The frog gave a yelp. "Ohh, but that's just dreadful, ain't it? We've no hope now. All afternoon the summonings have been coming thick and fast, and that means only one thing. They'll attack tonight. We'll all be dead by morning."
    Well, he wasn't going to do our morale much good with that kind of talk. [5]  I put a hand on his warty shoulder. "Listen, son... what's your name?"
     
    [5] i.e., accurate.
     
    "Nubbin, sir."
    "Nubbin. Well, don't go believing everything you hear, Nubbin. The British army's strong, sure. In fact, I've rarely seen stronger. But let's say it is. Let's say it's got marids, whole legions of afrits, and horlas by the bucket-load. Let's say they're all going to come pouring at us tonight, right here at the Strahov Gate. Well, let them come. We've got tricks to send them packing."
    "Such as what, sir?"
    "Tricks that'll blow those afrits and marids right out of the air. Tricks we've all learned in the heat of a dozen battles. Tricks that mean one sweet word: survival."
    The frog's bulbous eyes blinked at me. "This is my first battle, sir."
    I made an impatient gesture. "Failing that, the Emperor's djinn say his magicians are working on something or other. A last line of defense. Some hare-brained scheme, no doubt." I patted his shoulder in a manly way. "Feel better now, son?"
    "No, sir. I feel worse."
    Fair enough. I was never much cop at those pep talks. "All right," I growled. "My advice is to duck fast and when possible run away. With luck, your masters will get killed before you are. Personally, that's what I'm banking on."
    I hope this rousing speech did them some good, for it was at that moment that the attack came. Far off, there was a reverberation on all seven planes. We all felt it: it was a single note of imperious command. I spun around to look out into the dark, and one by one, the five sentries' heads popped up above the battlements.
    Out on the plains, the great army surged into action.
    At their head, soaring on the updrafts of a sudden ferocious wind, came the djinn, armored in red and white, carrying slender pikes with silver tips. Their wings hummed; their screams made the tower shake. Below, on foot, a ghostly multitude: the horlas with their carved bone tridents, skipping into the huts and houses outside the walls in search of prey. [6]  Beside them, vague shadows flitted, ghuls and fetches, wraiths of cold and misery, insubstantial on every plane. And then, with a great chattering and champing of jaws, a thousand imps and foliots rose from the earth like a dust storm or a monstrous swarm of bees. All these and many others came a-hurrying toward the Strahov Gate.
     
    [6] They found no one, as their disappointed keening soon attested. The suburbs were deserted. Almost as soon as the British army crossed the Channel,