2. The Sending of Eight

The road from Ankh-Morpork to Quirm is high, white and winding, a thirty-league stretch of potholes and half-buried rocks that spirals around mountains and dips into cool green valleys of citrus trees, crosses liana-webbed gorges on creaking rope bridges and is generally more picturesque than Picturesque. That was a new word to Rincewind the wizard (Being Unseen University failed. ) It was one of a number he had picked up since leaving the charred ruins of Ankh-Morpork. Quaint was another one. Picturesque meant - he decided after careful observation of the scenery that inspired Twoflower to use the word - that the landscape was horribly precipitous. Quaint, when used to describe the occasional village through which they passed, meant fever-ridden and tumbledown.

Twoflower was a tourist, the first ever seen on the Discworld. Tourist, Rincewind had decided, meant " idiot".

As they rode leisurely through the thyme-scented bee-humming air, Rincewind pondered on the experiences of the last few days. While the little foreigner was obviously insane, he was also generous and considerably less lethal than half the people the wizard had mixed with in the city-Rincewind rather liked him. Disliking him would have been like kicking a puppy.

Currently Twoflower was showing a great interest in the theory and practice of magic.

" It all seems, well, rather useless to me, " he said. " I always thought that, you know, a wizard just said the magic words and that was that. Not all this tedious memorising. "

Rincewind agreed moodily. He tried to explain that magic had indeed once been wild and lawless, but had been tamed back in the mists of time by the Olden Ones, who had bound it to obey among other things the Law of Conservation of Reality; this demanded that the effort needed to achieve a goal should be the same regardless of the means used. In practical terms this meant that, say, creating the illusion of a glass of wine was relatively easy, since it involved merely the subtle shifting of light patterns. On the other hand, lifting a genuine wineglass a few feet in the air by sheer mental energy required several hours of systematic preparation if the wizard wished to prevent the simple principle of leverage flicking his brain out through his ears.

He went on to add that some of the ancient magic could still be found in its raw state, recognisable- to the initiated - by the eightfold shape it made in the crystalline structure of space-time. There was the metal octiron, for example, and the gas octogen. Both radiated dangerous amounts of raw enchantment.

" It's all very depressing, " he finished.

" Depressing? "

Rincewind turned in his saddle and glanced at Twoflower's Luggage, which was currently ambling along on its little legs, occasionally snapping its lid at butterflies. He sighed.

" Rincewind thinks he ought to be able to harness the lightning, " said the picture-imp, who was observing the passing scene from the tiny doorway of the box slung around Twoflower's neck. He had spent the morning painting picturesque views and quaint scenes for his master, and had been allowed to knock off for a smoke.

" When I said harness I didn't mean harness, snapped Rincewind. " I meant, well I just meant that - I dunno, I just can't think of the right words. I just think the world ought to be more sort of organised. "

" That's just fantasy, " said Twoflower.

" I know. That's the trouble. " Rincewind sighed again. It was all very well going on about pure logic and how the universe was ruled by logic and the harmony of numbers, but the plain fact of the matter was that the disc was manifestly traversing space on the back of a giant turtle and the gods had a habit of going round to atheists' houses and smashing their windows.

There was a faint sound, hardly louder than the noise of the bees in the rosemary by the road. It had a curiously bony quality, as of rolling skulls or a whirling dicebox. Rincewind peered around. There was no-one nearby.

For some reason that worried him.

Then came a slight breeze, that grew and went in the space of a few heartbeats. It left the world unchanged save in a few interesting particulars. There was now, for example, a five-metre tall mountain troll standing in the road. It was exceptionally angry. This was partly because trolls generally are, in any case, but it was exacerbated by the fact that the sudden and instantaneous teleportation from its lair in the Rammerorck Mountains three thousand miles away and a thousand yards closer to the Rim had raised its internal temperature to a dangerous level, in accordance with the laws of conservation of energy. So it bared its fangs and charged.

" What a strange creature, " Twoflower remarked,

" Is it dangerous? "

" Only to people! " shouted Rincewind. He drew his sword and, with a smooth overarm throw, completely failed to hit the troll. The blade plunged on into the heather at the side of the track.

There was the faintest of sounds, like the rattle of old teeth. The sword struck a boulder concealed in the heather - concealed, a watcher might have considered, so artfully that a moment before it had not appeared to be there at all. It sprang up like a leaping salmon and in mid-ricochet plunged deeply into the back of the troll's grey neck.

The creature grunted, and with one swipe of a claw gouged a wound in the flank of Twoflower's horse, which screamed and bolted into the trees at the roadside. The troll spun around and made a grab for Rincewind.

Then its sluggish nervous system brought it the message that it was dead. It looked surprised for a moment, and then toppled over and shattered into gravel (trolls being silicaceous lifeforms, their bodies reverted instantly to stone at the moment of death).

" Aaargh, " thought Rincewind as his horse reared in terror. He hung on desperately as it staggered two-legged across the road and then, screaming, turned and galloped into the woods.

The sound of hoofbeats died away, leaving the air to the hum of bees and the occasional rustle of butterfly wings. There was another sound, too, a strange noise for the bright time of noonday.

It sounded like dice.

" Rincewind? "

The long aisles of trees threw Twoflower's voice from side to side and eventually tossed it back to him, unheeded. He sat down on a rock and tried to think.

Firstly, he was lost. That was vexing, but it did not worry him unduly. The forest looked quite interesting and probably held elves or gnomes, perhaps both. In fact on a couple of occasions he had thought he had seen strange green faces peering down at him from the branches. Twoflower had always wanted to meet an elf. In fact what he really wanted to meet was a dragon, but an elf would do. Or a real goblin.

His Luggage was missing, and that was annoying. It was also starting to rain. He squirmed uncomfortably on the damp stone, and tried to look on the bright side. for example, during its mad dash his plunging horse had burst through some rushes and disturbed a she-bear with her cubs, but had gone on before the bear could react. Then it had suddenly been galloping over the sleeping bodies of a large wolf pack and, again, its mad speed had been such that the furious yelping had been left far behind. Nevertheless, the day was wearing on and perhaps it would be a good idea - Twoflower thought - not to hang about, in the open. Perhaps there was a... he racked his brains trying to remember what sort of accommodation forests traditionally offered... perhaps there was a ginger bread house or something?

The stone really was uncomfortable. Twoflower looked down and, for the first time, noticed the strange carving.

It looked like a spider. Or was it a squid? Moss and lichens rather blurred the precise details. But they didn't blur the runes carved below it. Twoflower could read them clearly, and they said:

Traveller

the hospitable temple of

Bel-Shamharoth

lies one thousand paces Hubwards.

Now this was strange, Twoflower realized, because although he could read the message the actual letters were completely unknown to him. Somehow the message was arriving in his brain without the tedious necessity of passing through his eyes.

He stood up and untied his now-riddable horse from a sapling. He wasn't sure which way the Hub lay, but there seemed to be an old track of sorts leading away between the trees. This Bel-Shamharoth seemed prepared to go out of his way to help stranded travellers. In any case, it was that or the wolves. Twoflower nodded decisively.

It is interesting to note that, several hours later, a couple of wolves who were following Twoflower's scent arrived in the glade. Their green eyes fell on the strange eight-legged carving - which may indeed have been a spider, or an octopus, or may yet again have been something altogether more strange - and they immediately decided that they weren't so hungry, at that.

About three miles away a failed wizard was hanging by his hands from a high branch in a beech tree.

This was the end result of five minutes of crowded activity. First, an enraged she-bear had barged through the undergrowth and taken the throat out of his horse with one swipe of her paw. Then, as Rincewind had fled the carnage, he had run into a glade in which a number of irate wolves were milling about. His instructors at Unseen University, who had despaired of Rincewind's inability to master levitation, would have then been amazed at the speed with which he reached and climbed the nearest tree, without apparently touching it.

Now there was just the matter of the snake.

It was large and green, and wound itself along the branch with reptilian patience. Rincewind wondered if it was poisonous, then chided himself for asking such a silly question. Of course it would be poisonous.

" What are you grinning for? " he asked the figure on the next branch.

I CAN'T HELP IT, said Death. NOW WOULD YOU BE SO KIND AS TO LET GO? I CAN'T HANG AROUND ALL DAY.

" I can, " said Rincewind defiantly.

The wolves clustered around the base of the tree looked up with interest at their next meal talking to himself.

IT WON'T HURT, said Death. If words had weight, a single sentence from Death would have anchored a ship.

Rincewind's arms screamed their agony at him. He scowled at the vulture-like, slightly transparent figure.

" Won't hurt? " he said. " Being torn apart by wolves won't hurt? "

He noticed another branch crossing his dangerously narrowing one a few feet away. If he could just reach it...

He swung himself forward, one hand outstretched. The branch, already bending, did not break. It simply made a wet little sound and twisted. Rincewind found that he was now hanging on to the end of a tongue of bark and fibre, lengthening as it peeled away from the tree. He looked down, and with a sort of fatal satisfaction realized that he would land right on the biggest wolf.

Now he was moving slowly as the bark peeled back in a longer and longer strip. The snake watched him thoughtfully.

But the growing length of bark held. Rincewind began to congratulate himself until, looking up, he saw what he had hitherto not noticed. There was the largest hornets' nest he had ever seen, hanging right in his path.

He shut his eyes tightly.

Why the troll? he asked himself. Everything else is just my usual luck, but why the troll? What the hell is going on?

Click. It may have been a twig snapping, except that the sound appeared to be inside Rincewind's head. Click, click. And a breeze that failed to set a single leaf atremble.

The hornets' nest was ripped from the branch as the strip passed by. It shot past the wizard's head and he watched it grow smaller as it plummeted towards the circle of upturned muzzles.

The circle suddenly closed.

The circle suddenly expanded.

The concerted yelp of pain as the pack fought to escape the furious cloud echoed among the trees. Rincewind grinned inanely.

Rincewind's elbow nudged something. It was the tree trunk. The strip had carried him right to the end of the branch. But there were no other branches. The smooth bark beside him offered no handholds. It offered hands, though. Two were even now thrusting through the mossy bark beside him; slim hands, green as young leaves. Then a shapely arm followed, and then the hamadryad leaned right out and grasped the astonished wizard firmly and, with that vegetable strength that can send roots questing into rock, drew him into the tree. The solid bark parted like a mist, closed like a clam.

Death watched impassively.

He glanced at the cloud of mayflies that were dancing their joyful zigzags near His skull. He snapped His fingers. The insects fell out of the air. But, somehow, it wasn't quite the same.

Blind Io pushed his stack of chips across the table, glowered through such of his eyes that were currently in the room, and strode out. A few demigods tittered. At least Offler had taken the loss of a perfectly good troll with precise, if somewhat reptilian, grace.

The Lady's last opponent shifted his seat until he faced her across the board.

" Lord, " she said, politely.

" Lady, " he acknowledged. Their eyes met.

He was a taciturn god. It was said that he had arrived in the Discworld after some terrible and mysterious incident in another Eventuality. It is of course the privilege of gods to control their apparent outward form, even to other gods; the Fate of the Discworld was currently a kindly man in late middle age, greying hair brushed neatly around features that a maiden would confidently proffer a glass of small beer to, should they appear at her back door. It was a face a kindly youth would gladly help over a stile. Except for his eyes, of course. No deity can disguise the manner and nature of his eyes. The nature of the two eyes of the Fate of the Discworld was this: that while at a mere glance they were simply dark, a closer look would reveal - too late! - that they were but holes opening on to a blackness so remote, so deep that the watcher would feel himself inexorably drawn into the twin pools of infinite night and their terrible, wheeling stars...

The lady coughed politely, and laid twenty-one white chips on the table. Then from her robe she took another chip, silvery and translucent and twice the size of the others. The soul of a true Hero always finds a better rate of exchange, and is valued highly by the gods.

Fate raised an eyebrow.

" And no cheating, Lady. " he said.

" But who could cheat Fate? " she asked. He shrugged.

" No-one. Yet everyone tries. "

" And yet, again, I believe I felt you giving me a little assistance against the others? "

" But of course. So that the endgame could be the sweeter, lady. And now... "

He reached into his gaming box and brought forth a piece, setting it down on the board with a satisfied air. The watching deities gave a collective sigh. Even the Lady was momentarily taken aback. it was certainly ugly. The carving was uncertain, as if the craftsman's hands were shaking in horror of the thing taking shape under his reluctant fingers. It seemed to be all suckers and tentacles. And mandibles, the lady observed. And one great eye.

" I thought such as He died out at the beginnings of Time, " she said.

" Mayhap our necrotic friend was loathe even to go near this one, " laughed Fate. He was enjoying himself.

" It should never have been spawned. "

" Nevertheless, " said Fate gnomically. He scooped the dice into their unusual box, and then glanced up at her.

" Unless, " he added, " you wish to resign...? "

She shook her head.

" Play, " she said.

" You can match my stake? "

" Play. "

Rincewind knew what was inside trees: wood, sap, possibly squirrels. Not a palace.

Still-the cushions underneath him were definitely softer than wood, the wine in the wooden cup beside him was much tastier than sap, and there could be absolutely no comparison between a squirrel and the girl sitting before him, clasping her knees and watching him thoughtfully, unless mention was made of certain hints of furriness.

The room was high, wide and lit with a soft yellow light which came from no particular source that Rincewind could identify. Through gnarled and knotted archways he could see other rooms, and what looked like a very large winding staircase. And it had looked a perfectly normal tree from the outside, too.

The girl was green - flesh green. Rincewind could be absolutely certain about that, because all she was wearing was a medallion around her neck. Her long hair had a faintly mossy look about it. Her eyes had no pupils and were a luminous green.

Rincewind wished he had paid more attention to anthropology lectures at University.

She had said nothing. Apart from indicating the couch and offering him the wine she had done no more than sit watching him, occasionally rubbing a deep scratch on her arm.

Rincewind hurriedly recalled that a dryad was so linked to her tree that she suffered wounds in sympathy.

" Sorry about that, " he said quickly. " it was just an accident. I mean, there were these wolves, and-"

" You had to climb my tree, and I rescued you, " said the dryad smoothly. " How lucky for you. And for your friend, perhaps? "

" Friend? "

" The little man with the magic box, " said the dryad.

" Oh, sure, him, " said Rincewind vaguely. " Yeah, I hope he's okay. "

" He needs your help. "

" He usually does. Did he make it to a tree too? "

" He made it to the Temple of Bel-Shamharoth. "

Rincewind choked on his wine. His ears tried to crawl into his head in terror of the syllables they had just heard. The Soul Eater-before he could stop them the memories came galloping back. Once, while a student of practical magic at Unseen University, and for a bet, he'd slipped into the little room off the main library - the room with walls covered in protective lead pentagrams, the room no-one was allowed to occupy for more than four minutes and thirty-two seconds, which was a figure arrived at after two hundred years of cautious experimentation.

He had gingerly opened the Book, which was chained to the octiron pedestal in the middle of the rune-strewn floor not lest someone steal it, but lest it escape for it was the Octavo, so full of magic that it had its own vague sentience. One spell had indeed leapt from the crackling pages and lodged itself in the dark recesses of his brain. And, apart from knowing that it was one of the Eight Great Spells, no-one would know which one until he said it. Even Rincewind did not. But he could feel it sometimes, sidling out of sight behind his Ego, biding its time...

On the front of the Octavo had been a representation of Bel-Shamharoth. He was not Evil, for even EVIL has a certain vitality - Bel-Shamharoth was the flip side of the coin of which Good and Evil are but one side.

" The Soul Eater. His number lyeth between seven and nine; it is twice four, " Rincewind quoted, his mind frozen with fear. " Oh no. Where's the Temple? "

" Hubwards, towards the centre of the forest, " said the dryad. " it is very old. "

" But who would be so stupid as to worship Bel-him? I mean, devils yes, but he's the Soul Eater-"

" There were - certain advantages. And the race that used to live in these parts had strange notions. "

" What happened to them, then? "

" I did say they used to live in these parts. " The dryad stood up and stretched out her hand. " Come. I am Druellae. Come with me and watch your friend's fate. It should be interesting. "

" I’m not sure that-" began Rincewind.

The dryad turned her green eyes on him.

" Do you believe you have a choice? " she asked.

A staircase broad as a major highway wound up through the tree, with vast rooms leading off at every landing. The sourceless yellow light was everywhere. There was also a sound like - Rincewind concentrated, trying to identify it- like far off thunder, or a distant waterfall.

" It's the tree, " said the dryad shortly.

" What's it doing? " said Rincewind.

" Living. "

" I wondered about that. I mean, are we really in a tree? Have I been reduced in size? From outside it looked narrow enough for me to put my arms around. "

" It is. "

" Um, but here I am inside it? "

" You are. "

" Um, " said Rincewind.

Druellae laughed.

" I can see into your mind, false wizard! Am I not a dryad? Do you not know that, what you belittle by the name tree is but the mere four-dimensional analogue of a whole multidimensional universe which - no, I can see you do not. I should have realised that you weren't a real wizard when I saw you didn't have a staff. "

" Lost it in a fire, " lied Rincewind automatically.

" No hat with magic sigils embroidered on it. "

" It blew off. "

" No familiar. "

" It died. Look, thanks for rescuing me, but if you don't mind I think I ought to be going. If you could show me the way out-"

Something in her expression made him turn around. There were three he-dryads behind him. They were as naked as the woman, and unarmed. That last fact was irrelevant, however. They didn't look as though they would need weapons to fight Rincewind. They looked as though they could shoulder their way through solid rock and beat up a regiment of trolls into the bargain. The three handsome giants looked down at him with wooden menace. Their skins were the colour of walnut husks, and under it muscles bulged like sacks of melons.

He turned around again and grinned weakly at Druellae. Life was beginning to take on a familiar shape again.

" I'm not rescued, am I? " he said. " I'm captured, right? "

" Of course. "

" And you're not letting me go? " It was a statement.

Druellae shook her head. " You hurt the Tree. But you are lucky. Your friend is going to meet Bel-Shamharoth. You will only die. "

From behind two hands gripped his shoulders in much the same way that an old tree root coils relentlessly around a pebble.

" With a certain amount of ceremony, of course, " the dryad went on. " After the Sender of Eight has finished with your friend. "

All Rincewind could manage to say was, " You know, I never imagined there were he-dryads. Not even in an oak tree. "

One of the giants grinned at him.

Druellae snorted. " Stupid! Where do you think acorns come from? "

There was a vast empty space like a hall, its roof lost in the golden haze. The endless stair ran right through it.

Several hundred dryads were clustered at the other end of the hall. They parted respectfully when Druellae approached, and stared through Rincewind as he was propelled firmly along behind. Most of them were females, although there were a few of the giant males among them. They stood like god-shaped statues among the small, intelligent females. Insects, thought Rincewind. The Tree is like a hive.

But why were there dryads at all? As far as he could recall, the tree people had died out centuries before. They had been out-evolved by humans, like most of the other Twilight Peoples. Only elves and trolls had survived the coming of Man to the Discworld; the elves because they were altogether too clever by half, and the troller-folk because they were at least as good as humans at being nasty, spiteful and greedy. Dryads were supposed to have died out, along with gnomes and pixies.

The background roar was louder here.

Sometimes a pulsing golden glow would race up the translucent walls until it was lost in the haze overhead. Some power in the air made it vibrate.

" Now incompetent wizard, " said Druellae, " see some magic. Not your weasel-faced tame magic, but root-and-branch magic, the old magic. Wild magic. Watch. "

Fifty or so of the females formed a tight cluster, joined hands and walked backwards until they formed the circumference of a large circle. The rest of the dryads began a low chant. Then, at a nod from Druellae, the circle began to spin widdershins.

As the pace began to quicken and the complicated threads of the chant began to rise Rincewind found himself watching fascinated. He had heard about the Old Magic at University, although it was forbidden to wizards. He knew that when the circle was spinning fast enough against the standing magical field of the Discworld itself in its slow turning, the resulting astral friction would build up a vast potential difference which would earth itself in a vast discharge of the Elemental Magical Force.

The circle was a blur now, and the walls of the Tree rang with the echoes of the chant.

Rincewind felt the familiar sticky prickling in the scalp that indicated the build-up of a heavy charge of raw enchantment in the vicinity, and so he was not utterly amazed when, a few seconds later, a shaft of vivid octarine light speared down from the invisible ceiling and focused, crackling, in the centre of the circle.

There it formed an image of a storm-swept, treegirt hill with a temple on its crest. Its shape did unpleasant things to the eye.

Rincewind knew that if it was a temple to Bel-Shamharoth it would have eight sides. (Eight was also the Number of Bel-Shamharoth, which was why a sensible wizard would never mention the number if he could avoid it. Or you'll be eight alive, apprentices were jocularly warned. Bel-Shamharoth was especially attracted to dabblers in magic who, by being as it were beachcombers on the shores of the unnatural were already half-enmeshed in his nets. Rincewind's room number in his hall of residence had been 7a. He hadn't been surprised).

Rain streamed off the black walls of the temple. The only sign of life was the horse tethered outside, and it wasn't Twoflower's horse. For one thing, it was too big. It was a white charger with hooves the size of meat dishes and leather harness aglitter with ostentatious gold ornamentation. It was currently enjoying a nosebag.

There was something familiar about it. Rincewind tried to remember where he had seen it before.

It looked as though it was capable of a fair turn of speed, anyway. A speed which, once it had lumbered up to it, it could maintain for a long time. All Rincewind had to do was shake off his guards, fight his way out of the Tree, find the temple and steal the horse out from under whatever it was that Bel-Shamharoth used for a nose.

" The Sender of Eight has two for dinner, it seems. " said Druellae, looking hard at Rincewind. " Who does that steed belong to, false wizard? "

" I’ve no idea. "

" No? Well, it does not matter. We shall see soon enough. "

She waved a hand. The focus of the image moved inwards, darted through a great octagonal archway and sped along the corridor within. There was a figure there, sidling along stealthily with its back against one wall. Rincewind saw the gleam of gold and bronze.

There was no mistaking that shape. He'd seen it many times. The wide chest, the neck like a treetrunk, the surprisingly small head under its wild thatch of black hair looking like a tomato on a coffin... he could put a name to the creeping figure, and that name was Hrun the Barbarian.

Hrun was one of the Circle Sea's more durable heroes: a fighter of dragons, a despoiler of temples, a hired sword, the kingpost of every street brawl, He could even - and unlike many heroes of Rincewind's acquaintance - speak words of more than two syllables, if given time and maybe a hint or two.

There was a sound on the edge of Rincewind's hearing. It sounded like several skulls bouncing down the steps of some distant dungeon. He looked sideways at his guards to see if they had heard it. They had all their limited attention focused on Hrun, who was admittedly built on the same lines as themselves. Their hands were resting lightly on the wizard's shoulders.

Rincewind ducked, jerked backwards like a tumbler, and came up running. Behind him he heard Druellae shout, and he redoubled his speed. Something caught the hood of his robe, which tore off. A he-dryad waiting at the stairs spread his arms, hurtling towards him. Without breaking his stride Rincewind ducked again, so low that his chin was on a level with his knees, while a fist like a log sizzled through the air by his ear.

Ahead of him a whole spinney of the tree men awaited. He spun around, dodged another blow from the puzzled guard, and sped back towards the circle, passing on the way the dryads who were pursuing him and leaving them as disorganized as a set of skittles.

But there were still more in front, pushing their way through the crowds of females and smacking their fists into the horny palms of their hands with anticipatory concentration.

" Stand still, false wizard, " said Druellae, stepping forward. Behind her the enchanted dancers spun on, the focus of the circle was now drifting along a violet-lit corridor.

Rincewind cracked.

" Will you knock that off, " he snarled, " Let's just get this Straight, right? I am, a real wizard! " He stamped a foot petulantly.

" Indeed? " said the dryad. " Then let us see you pass a spell. "

" Uh-" began Rincewind. The fact was that, since the ancient and mysterious spell had squatted in his mind, he had been unable to remember even the simplest cantrap for, say, killing cockroaches or scratching the small of his back without using his hands. The mages at Unseen University had tried to explain this by suggesting that the involuntary memorising of the spell had, as it were, tied up all his spell-retention cells. In his darker moments Rincewind had come up with his own explanation as to why even minor spells refused to stay in his head for more than a few seconds.

They were scared, he decided.

" Um-" he repeated.

" A small one would do, " said Druellae, watching him curl his lips in A frenzy of anger and emberrassment. She signalled, and a couple of he-dryads closed in.

The spell chose that moment to vault into the temporarily-abandoned saddle of Rincewind's consciousness. He felt it sitting there, leering defiantly at him.

" I do know a spell, " he said wearily.

" Yes? Pray tell, " said Druellae.

Rincewind wasn't sure that he dared, although the Spell was trying to take control of his tongue. He fought it.

" You said you could read my mind, " he said indistinctly. " Read it. "

She stepped forward, looking mockingly into his eyes.

Her smile froze. Her hands raised protectively, she crouched back. From her throat came a sound of pure terror.

Rincewind looked around. The rest of the dryads were also backing away. What had he done? Something terrible, apparently.

But in his experience it was only a matter of time before the normal balance of the universe restored itself and started doing the usual terrible things to him. He backed away, ducked between the still-spinning dryads who were creating the magic circle, and watched to see what Druellae would do next.

" Grab him, " she screamed. " Take him a long way from the Tree and kill him! "

Rincewind turned and bolted.

Across the focus of the circle.

There was a brilliant flash.

There was a sudden darkness.

There was a vaguely Rincewind-shaped violet shadow, dwindling to a point and winking out.

There was nothing at all.

Hrun the Barbarian crept soundlessly along the corridors, which were lit with a light so violet that it was almost black. His earlier confusion was gone. This was obviously a magical temple, and that explained everything.

It explained why, earlier in the afternoon, he had espied a chest by the side of the track while riding through this benighted forest. Its top was invitingly open, displaying much gold. But when he had leapt off his horse to approach it the chest had sprouted legs and had gone trotting off into the forest, stopping again a few hundred yards away.

Now, after several hours of teasing pursuit, he had lost it in these hell-lit tunnels. On the whole, the unpleasant carvings and occasional disjointed skeletons he passed held no fears for Hrun. This was partly because he was not exceptionally bright while being at the same time exceptionally unimaginative, but it was also because odd carvings and perilous tunnels were all in a day's work. He spent a great deal of time in similar situations, seeking gold or demons or distressed virgins and relieving them respectively of their owners, their lives and at least one cause of their distress.

Observe Hrun, as he leaps cat-footed across a suspicious tunnel mouth. Even in this violet light his skin gleams coppery. There is much gold about his person, in the form of anklets and wristlets, but otherwise he is naked except for a leopardskin loincloth. He took that in the steaming forests of Howondaland, after killing its owner with his teeth.

In his right hand he carried the magical black sword Kring, which was forged from a thunderbolt and had a soul but suffers no scabbard. Hrun had stolen it only three days before from the impregnable palace of the Archmandrite of B'Ituni, and he was already regretting it. It was beginning to get on his nerves.

" I tell you it went down that last passage on the right, " hissed Kring in a voice like the scrape of a blade over stone.

" Be silent! "

" All I said was-"

" Shut up! "

And Twoflower...

He was lost, he knew that. Either the building was much bigger than it looked, or he was now on some wide underground level without having gone down any steps, or - as he was beginning to suspect - the inner dimensions of the place disobeyed a fairly basic rule of architecture by being bigger than the outside. And why all these strange lights? They were eight-sided crystals set at regular intervals in the walls and ceiling, and they shed a rather unpleasant glow that didn't so much illuminate as outline the darkness. And whoever had done those carvings on the wall, Twoflower thought charitably, had probably been drinking too much. For years.

On the other hand, it was certainly a fascinating building. Its builders had been obsessed with the number eight. The floor was a continuous mosaic of eight-sided tiles, the corridor walls and ceilings were angled to give the corridors eight sides if the walls and ceilings were counted and, in those places where part of the masonry had fallen in Twoflower noticed that even the stones themselves had eight sides.

" I don't like it, " said the picture imp, from his box around Twoflower's neck.

" Why not? " inquired Twoflower.

" It's weird. "

" But you're a demon. Demons can't call things weird. I mean, what's weird to a demon? "

" Oh, you know, " said the demon cautiously, glancing around nervously and shifting from claw to claw. " Things. Stuff. "

Twoflower looked at him sternly. " What things? "

The demon coughed nervously (demons do not breathe, however, every intelligent being, whether it breathes or not, coughs nervously at some time in its life. And this was one of them as far as the demon was concerned). " Oh, things, " it said wretchedly. " Evil things. Things we don't talk about is the point I'm broadly trying to get across, master. "

Twoflower shook his head wearily. " I wish Rincewind was here, " he said. " He'd know what to do. "

" Him? " sneered the demon. " Can't see a wizard coming here. They can't have anything to do with the number eight. " The demon slapped a hand across his mouth guiltily.

Twoflower looked up at the ceiling.

" What was that? " he asked. " Didn't you hear something? "

" Me? Hear? No! Not a thing, " the demon insisted.

It jerked back into its box and slammed the door. Twoflower tapped on it. The door opened a crack.

" It sounded like a stone moving, " he explained.

The door banged shut. Twoflower shrugged.

" The place is probably falling to bits, " he said to himself.

He stood up.

" I say! " he shouted. " Is anyone there? "

AIR, Air, air, replied the dark tunnels.

" Hullo? " he tried. lo, Lo, lo.

" I know there's someone here, I just heard you playing dice! "

ICE, Ice, ice.

" Look, I had just-"

Twoflower stopped. The reason for this was the bright point of light that had popped into existence a few feet from his eyes. It grew rapidly, and after a few seconds was the tiny bright shape of a man. At this stage it began to make a noise, or, rather Twoflower started to hear the noise it had been making all along. It sounded like a sliver of a scream, caught in one long instant of time.

The iridescent man was doll-sized now, a tortured shape tumbling in slow motion while hanging in mid-air. Twoflower wondered why he had thought of the phrase " a sliver of a scream"... and began to wish he hadn't.

It was beginning to look like Rincewind. The wizard's mouth was open, and his face was brilliantly lit by the light of - what? Strange suns, Twoflower found himself thinking. Suns men don't usually see. He shivered.

Now the turning wizard was half man-size. At that point the growth was faster, there was a sudden crowded moment, a rush of air, and an explosion of sound. Rincewind tumbled out of the air, screaming. He hit the floor hard, choked, then rolled over with his head cradled in his arms and his body curled up tightly.

When the dust had settled Twoflower reached out gingerly and tapped the wizard on the shoulder.

The human ball rolled up tighter.

" It's me, " explained Twoflower helpfully. The wizard unrolled a fraction.

" What? " he said.

" Me. "

In one movement Rincewind unrolled and bounced up in front of the little man, his hands gripping his shoulders desperately. His eyes were wild and wide.

" Don't say it! " he hissed. " Don't say it and we might get out! "

" Get out? How did you get in? Don't you know-"

" Don't say it! "

Twoflower backed away from this madman

" Don't say it! "

" Don't say what? "

" The number. "

" Number? " said Twoflower. " Hey, Rincewind-"

" Yes, number! Between seven and nine. Four plus four"

" What, ei-"

Rincewind's hands clapped over the man's mouth. " Say it and we're doomed. Just don't think about, right. Trust me! "

" I don't understand, " wailed Twoflower.

Rincewind relaxed slightly; which was to say that he still made a violin string look like a bowl of jelly.

" Come on, " he said. " Let's try and get out. And I'll try and tell you. "

After the first Age of Magic the disposal of grimoires began to become a severe problem on the Discworld. A spell is still a spell even when imprisoned temporarily in parchment and ink. It has potency. This is not a problem while the book's owner still lives, but on his death the Spell book becomes a source of uncontrolled power that cannot easily be defused.

In short, spell books leak magic. Various solutions have been tried. Countries near the Rim simply loaded down the books of dead mages with leaden pentagrams and threw them over the Edge. Near the Hub less satisfactory alternatives were available. Inserting the offending books in canisters of negatively polarized octiron and sinking them in the fathomless depths of the sea was one (burial in deep caves on land was earlier ruled out after some districts complained of walking trees and five-headed cats) but before long the magic seeped out and eventually fishermen complained of shoals of invisible fish or psychic clams.

A temporary solution was the construction, in various centres of magical lore, of large rooms made of denatured octiron, which is impervious to most forms of magic. Here the more critical grimoires could be stored until their potency had attenuated.

That was how there came to be at Unseen University the Octavo, greatest of all grimoires, formerly owned by the Creator of the Universe. It was this book that Rincewind had once opened for a bet. He had only a second to stare at a page before setting off various alarm spells, but that was time enough for one spell to leap from it and settle in his memory like a toad in a stone.

" Then what? " said Twoflower.

" Oh, they dragged me out. Thrashed me, of course. "

" And no-one knows what the spell does? "

Rincewind shook his head.

" It'd vanished from the page, " he said. " No-one will know until I say it. Or until I die, of course. Then it will sort of say itself. For all I know it stops the universe, or ends Time, or anything. "

Twoflower patted him on the shoulder.

" No sense in brooding, " he said cheerfully. " Let's have another look for a way out. "

Rincewind shook his head. All the terror had been spent now. He had broken through the terror barrier, perhaps, and was in the dead calm state of mind that lies on the other side. Anyway, he had ceased to gibber.

" We're doomed, " he stated. " We’ve been walking around all night. I tell you, this place is a spiderweb. It doesn't matter which way we go, we're heading twoards the centre. "

" It was very kind of you to come looking for me, said Twoflower. " How did you manage it it was very impressive. "

" Well, " began the wizard awkwardly. " I just 'I can't leave old Twoflower there' and-"

" So what we’ve got to do now is find this Bel-Shamharoth person and explain things to him and perhaps he'll let us out, " said Twoflower.

Rincewind ran a finger around his ear.

" It must be the funny echoes in here, " he said. " I thought I heard you use words like find and explain.

" That's right. "

Rincewind glared at him in the hellish purple glow. " Find Bel-Shamharoth? " he said.

" Yes. We don't have to get involved. "

" Find the Soul Render and not get involved? Just give him a nod, I suppose, and ask the way to the exit? Explain things to the Sender of Eignnnngh, " Rincewind bit off the end of the word just in time and finished, " You're insane. Hey! Come back! "

He darted down the passage after Twoflower, and after a few moments came to a halt with a groan.

The violet light was intense here, giving everything new and unpleasant colours. This wasn't a passage, it was a wide room with walls to a number that Rincewind didn't dare to contemplate, and 7 passages radiating from it.

Rincewind saw, a little way off, a low altar with the Same number of sides as four times two. It didn't occupy the centre of the room, however. The centre was occupied by a huge stone slab with twice as many sides as a square. It looked massive. In the strange light it appeared to be slightly tilted with one edge standing proud of the slabs around it.

Twoflower was standing on it.

" Hey. Rincewind! Look what's here!

The Luggage came ambling down one of the other passages that radiated from the room.

" That's great, " said Rincewind. " Fine. It can lead us out of here. Now. "

Twoflower was already rummaging in the chest

" Yes, " he said. " After I’ve taken a few pictures Just let me fit the attachment-"

" I said now-"

Rincewind stopped. Hrun the Barbarian was standing in the passage mouth directly opposite him, a great black sword held in one ham-sized fist.

" You? " said Hrun uncertainly.

" Ahaha. Yes, " said Rincewind. " Hrun, isn't it? Long time no see. What brings you here? "

Hrun pointed to the luggage.

" That, " he said. This much conversation seemed to exhaust Hrun. Then he added, in a tone that combined statement, claim, threat and ultimatum: " Mine. "

" It belongs to Twoflower here, " said Rincewind.

" Here's a tip. Don't touch it. "

It dawned on him that this was precisely the wrong thing to say, but Hrun had already pushed Twoflower away and was reaching for the Luggage... which sprouted legs, backed away, and raised its lid threateningly. In the uncertain light Rincewind thought he could see rows of enormous teeth, white as bleached beechwood.

" Hrun, " he said quickly, " there's something I ought to tell you. "

Hrun turned a puzzled face to him.

" What? " he said.

" It's about numbers. Look, you know if you add seven and one, or three and five, or take two from ten. You get a number. While you're here don't say it and we might all stand a chance of getting out of here alive. Or merely just dead. "

" Who is he? " asked Twoflower. He was holding a cage in his hands, dredged from the bottom-most depths of the Luggage. It appeared to be full of sulking pink lizards.

" I am Hrun, " said Hrun proudly. Then he looked at Rincewind.

" What? " he said.

" Just don't say it, okay? " said Rincewind.

He looked at the sword in Hrun's hand. It was black, the sort of black that is less a colour than a graveyard of colours, and there was a highly ornate runic inscription up the blade. More noticeable still was the faint octarine glow that surrounded it. The sword must have noticed him, too, because it suddenly spoke in a voice like a claw being scraped across glass.

" Strange, " it said. " Why can't he say eight? "

EIGHT, hate, ate said the echoes. There was the faintest of grinding noises, deep under the earth.

And the echoes, although they became softer, refused to die away. They bounced from wall to wall, crossing and recrossing, and the violet light flickered in time with the sound.

" You did it! " screamed Rincewind. " I said you shouldn't say eight! "

He stopped, appalled at himself. But the word was out now, and joined its colleagues in the general susurration.

Rincewind turned to run, but the air suddenly seemed to be thicker than treacle. A charge of magic bigger than he had ever seen was building up; when he moved, in painful slow motion, his limbs left trails of golden sparks that traced their shape in the air.

Behind him there was a rumble as the great octagonal slab rose into the air, hung for a moment on one edge, and crashed down on the floor.

Something thin and black snaked out of the pit and wrapped itself around his ankle. He screamed as he landed heavily on the vibrating flagstones. The tentacle started to pull him across the floor.

Then Twoflower was in front of him, reaching out for his hands. He grasped the little man's arms desperately and they lay looking into each other's faces. Rincewind slid on, even so.

" What's holding you? " he gasped.

" N-nothing! " said Twoflower. " What's happening? "

" I'm being dragged into this pit, what do you think? "

" Oh Rincewind, I'm sorry-"

" You're sorry-"

There was a noise like a singing saw and the pressure on Rincewind's legs abruptly ceased. He turned his head and saw Hrun crouched by the pit, his sword a blur as it hacked at the tentacles racing out towards him.

Twoflower helped the wizard to his feet and they crouched by the altar stone, watching the manic figure as it battled the questing arms.

" It won't work, " said Rincewind. " The Sender can materialise tentacles. What are you doing? "

Twoflower was feverishly attaching the cage of subdued lizards to the picture box, which he had mounted on a tripod.

" I've just got to get a picture of this, " he muttered.

" It's stupendous! Can you hear me, imp? "

The picture imp opened his tiny hatch, glanced momentarily at the scene around the pit, and vanished into the box. Rincewind jumped as something touched his leg, and brought his heel down on a questing tentacle.

" Come on, " he said. " Time to go zoom. " He grabbed Twoflower's arm, but the tourist resisted.

" Run away and leave Hrun with that thing? " he said.

Rincewind looked blank. " Why not? " he said. " it's his job. "

" But it'll kill him, "

" It could be worse, " said Rincewind.

" What? "

" It could be us, " Rincewind pointed out logically.

" Come on! "

Twoflower pointed. " Hey" he said. " It's got my Luggage! "

Before Rincewind could restrain him Twoflower ran around the edge of the pit to the box, which was being dragged across the floor while its lid snapped ineffectually at the tentacle that held it. The little man began to kick at the tentacle in fury. Another one snapped out of the melee around Hrun and caught him around the waist. Hrun himself was already an indistinct shape amid the tightening coils. Even as Rincewind stared in horor the Hero's sword was wrenched from his grasp and hurled against a wall.

" Your spell! " shouted Twoflower.

Rincewind did not move. He was looking at the Thing rising out of the pit. It was an enormous eye, and it was staring directly at him. He whimpered as a tentacle fastened itself around his waist. The words of the spell rose unbidden in his throat. He opened his mouth as in a dream, shaping it around the first barbaric syllable. Another tentacle shot out like a whip and coiled around his throat, choking him. Staggering and gasping, Rincewind was dragged across the floor.

One flailing arm caught Twoflower's picture box as it skittered past on its tripod. He snatched it up instinctively, as his ancestors might have snatched up a stone when faced with a marauding tiger. If only he could get enough room to swing it against the Eye...

... the Eye filled the whole universe in front of him. Rincewind felt his will draining away like water from a sieve.

In front of him the torpid lizards stirred in their cage on the picture box. Irrationally, as a man about to be beheaded notices every scratch and stain on the executioner's block, Rincewind saw that they had overlarge tails that were bluish-white and, he realized, throbbing alarmingly. As he was drawn towards the Eye the terrors-truck Rincewind raised the box protectively, and at the same time heard the picture imp say

" They're about ripe now, can't hold them any longer. Everyone smile, please. "

There was a flash of light so white and so bright it didn't seem like light at all.

Bel-Shamharoth screamed, a sound that started in the far ultrasonic and finished somewhere in Rincewind's bowels. The tentacles went momentarily as stiff as rods, hurling their various cargoes around the room, before bunching up protectively in front of the abused Eye. The whole mass dropped into the pit and a moment later the big slab was snatched up by several dozen tentacles and slammed into place, leaving a number of thrashing limbs trapped around the edge.

Hrun landed rolling, bounced off a wall and came up on his feet. He found his sword and started to chop methodically at the doomed arms.

Rincewind lay on the floor, concentrating on not going mad. A hollow wooden noise made him turn his head.

The Luggage had landed on its curved lid. Now it was rocking angrily and kicking its little legs in the air.

Warily, Rincewind looked around for Twoflower The little man was in a crumpled heap against the wall, but at least he was groaning.

The wizard pulled himself across the floor painfully, and whispered, " What the hell was that?

" Why were they so bright? " muttered Twoflower

" God, my head... "

" Too bright? " said Rincewind. He looked across the floor to the cage on the picture box. The lizards inside, now noticeably thinner, were watching him with interest.

" The salamanders, " moaned Twoflower. " The picture'll be over-exposed, I know it... "

" They're salamanders? " asked Rincewind incredulously.

" Of course. Standard attachment. "

Rincewind staggered across to the box and picked it up. He'd seen salamanders before, of course, but they had been small specimens. They had also been floating in a jar of pickle in the curiobiological museum down in the cellars of Unseen University, since live salamanders were extinct around the Circle Sea.

He tried to remember the little he knew about them. They were magical creatures. They also had no mouths, since they subsisted entirely on the nourishing quality of the octarine wavelength in the Discworld’s sunlight, which they absorbed through their skins. Of course, they also absorbed the rest of the sunlight as well, storing it in a special sac until it was excreted in the normal way. A desert inhabited by discworld salamanders was a veritable lighthouse at night.

Rincewind put them down and nodded grimly. With all the octarine light in this magical place the creatures had been gorging themselves, and then nature had taken its course.

The picture box sidled away on its tripod. Rincewind aimed a kick at it, and missed. He was beginning to dislike sapient pearwood. Something small stung his cheek. He brushed it away irritably.

He looked around at a sudden grinding noise, and a voice like a carving knife cutting through silk said, " This is very undignified. "

" Shuddup, " Said Hrun. He was using Kring to lever the top off the altar. He looked up at Rincewind and grinned. Rincewind hoped that rictus-strung grimace was a grin.

" Mighty magic, " commented the barbarian, pushing down heavily on the complaining blade with a hand the size of a ham. " Now we share the treasure eh? "

Rincewind grunted as something small and hard struck his ear. There was a gust of wind, hardly felt.

" How do you know there's treasure in there? " he said.

Hrun heaved, and managed to hook his fingers under the stone. " You find chokeapples under a chokeapple tree, " he said. " You find treasure under altars. Logic. "

He gritted his teeth. The stone swung up and landed heavily on the floor.

This time something struck Rincewind's hand heavily. He clawed at the air and looked at the thing he had caught. It was a piece of stone with five-plus-three sides. He looked up at the ceiling Should it be sagging like that? Hrun hummed a little tune as he began to pull crumbling leather from the desecrated altar.

The air crackled, fluoresced, hummed. Intangible winds gripped the wizard's robe, flapping it out in eddies of blue and green sparks. Around Rincewind's head mad, half-formed spirits howled and gibbered as they were sucked past.

He tried raising a hand. It was immediately surrounded by a glowing octarine corona as the rising magical wind roared past. The gale raced through the room without stirring one iota of dust, yet it was blowing Rincewind's eyelids inside out. It screamed along the tunnels, its banshee-wail bouncing madly from stone to stone.

Twoflower staggered up, bent double in the teeth of the astral gale.

" What the hell is this? " he shouted.

Rincewind half-turned. Immediately the howling wind caught him, nearly pitching him over. Poltergeist eddies, spinning in the rushing air, snatched at his feet.

Hrun's arm shot out and caught him. A moment later he and Twoflower had been dragged into the lee of the ravaged altar, and lay panting on the floor. Beside them the talking sword Kring sparkled, its magical field boosted a hundredfold by the storm.

" Hold on! " screamed Rincewind.

" The wind! " shouted Twoflower. " Where's it coming from? Where's it blowing to? " He looked into Rincewind's mask of sheer terror, which made him redouble his own grip on the stones.

" We're doomed, " murmured Rincewind, while overhead the roof cracked and shifted. " Where do Shadows come from? That's where the wind is blowing. "

What was in fact happening, as the wizard knew, was that as the abused spirit of Bel-Shamharoth sank through the deeper chthonic planes his brooding spirit was being sucked out of the very stones into the region which, according to the Discworld’s most reliable priests, was both under the ground and Somewhere Else. In consequence his temple was being abandoned to the ravages of Time, who for thousands of shamefaced years had been reluctant to go near the place. Now the suddenly released, accumulated weight of all those pent-up seconds was bearing down heavily on the unbraced stones.

Hrun glanced up at the widening cracks and sighed. Then he put two fingers into his mouth and whistled.

Strangely the real sound rang out loudly over the pseudosound of the widening astral whirlpool that was forming in the middle of the great octagonal slab. It was followed by a hollow echo which sounded, he fancied, strangely like the bouncing of strange bones. Then came a noise with no hint of strangeness. it was hollow hoofbeats.

Hrun's warhorse cantered through a creaking archway and reared up by its master, its mane streaming in the gale. The barbarian pulled himself to his feet and slung his treasure bags into a sack that hung from the saddle, then hauled himself onto the beast's back. He reached down and grabbed Twoflower by the scruff of his neck dragging him across the saddle tree. As the horse turned around Rincewind took a desperate leap and landed behind Hrun, who raised no objection. The horse pounded surefooted along the tunnels leaping sudden slides of rubble and adroitly side stepping huge stones as they thundered down from the straining roof. Rincewind, clinging on grimly looked behind them.

No wonder the horse was moving so swiftly close behind, speeding through the flickering violet light, were a large ominous-looking chest and a picture box that skittered along dangerously on its three legs. So great was the ability of sapient pearwood to follow its master anywhere, the grave goods of dead emperors had traditionally been made of it...

They reached the outer air a moment before the octagonal arch finally broke and smashed into the flags.

The sun was rising. Behind them a column of dust rose as the temple collapsed in on itself, but they did not look back. That was a shame, because Twoflower might have been able to obtain pictures unusual even by discworld standards.

There was movement in the smoking ruins. They seemed to be growing a green carpet. Then an oak tree spiralled up, branching out like an exploding green rocket, and was in the middle of a venerable copse even before the tips of its aged branches had stopped quivering. A beech burst out like a fungus, matured, rotted, and fell in a cloud of tinder dust amid its struggling offspring. Already the temple was a half-buried heap of mossy stones.

But Time, having initially gone for the throat, was now setting out to complete the job. The boiling interface between decaying magic and ascendant entropy roared down the hill and overtook the galloping horse, whose riders, being themselves creatures of Time, completely failed to notice it. But it lashed into the enchanted forest with the whip of centuries.

" Impressive, isn't it? " observed a voice by Rincewind's knee as the horse cantered through the haze of decaying timber and falling leaves.

The voice had an eerie metallic ring to it.

Rincewind looked down at Kring the sword. It had a couple of rubies set in the pommel. He got the impression they were watching him.

From the moorland rimwards of the wood they watched the battle between the trees and Time, which could only have one ending. It was a sort of cabaret to the main business of the halt, which Was the consumption of quite a lot of a bear which had incautiously come within bowshot of Hrun.

Rincewind watched Hrun over the top of his slab of greasy meat. Hrun going about the business of being a hero, he realised, was quite different to the wine-bibbing, carousing Hrun who occasionally came to Ankh-Morpork. He was cat-cautious, lithe as a panther, and thoroughly at home.

And I've survived Bel-Shamharoth, Rincewind reminded himself. Fantastic.

Twoflower was helping the hero sort through the treasure stolen from the temple. It was mostly silver set with unpleasant purple stones. Representations of spiders, octopi and the tree-dwelling octarsier of the hubland wastes figured largely in the heap.

Rincewind tried to shut his ears to the grating voice beside him. It was no use.

" -and then I belonged to the Pasha of Re'durat and played a prominent part in the battle of the Great Nef, which is where I received the slight nick you may have noticed some two-thirds of the way up my blade, " Kring was saying from its temporary home in a tussock. " Some infidel was wearing an octiron collar, most unsporting, and of course I was a lot sharper in those days and my master used to use me to cut silk handkerchiefs in mid-air and - am I boring you? "

" Huh? Oh, no, no, not at all. It's all very interesting, " said Rincewind, with his eyes still on Hrun. How trustworthy would he be? Here they were, out in the wilds, there were trolls about... " I could see you were a cultured person, " Kring went on. " seldom do I get to meet really interesting people, for any length of time, anyway. What I'd really like is a nice mantelpiece to hang over, somewhere nice and quiet. I spent a couple of hundred years on the bottom of a lake once. "

" That must have been fun, " said Rincewind absently.

" Not really, " said Kring.

" No, I suppose not. "

" What I'd really like is to be a ploughshare. I don't know what that is, but it sounds like an existence with some point to it.

Twoflower hurried over to the wizard

" I had a great idea, " he burbled.

" Yah, " said Rincewind, wearily. " Why don't we get Hrun to accompany us to Quirm? "

Twoflower looked amazed. " How did you know? " he said. " I just thought you'd think it, " said Rincewind.

Hrun ceased stuffing silverware into his saddlebags and grinned encouragingly at them. Then his eyes strayed back to the Luggage.

" If we had him with us, who'd attack us? " said Twoflower.

Rincewind scratched his chin. " Hrun? " he suggested.

" But we saved his life in the Temple! "

" Well, if by attack you mean kill, " said Rincewind, " I don't think he'd do that. He's not that sort. He'd just rob us and tie us up and leave us for the wolves, I expect. "

" Oh, come on. "

" Look, this is real life, " snapped Rincewind. " I mean, here you are, carrying around a box full of gold, don't you think anyone in their right minds would jump at the chance of pinching it? " I would, he added mentally -if I hadn't seen what the Luggage does to prying fingers.

Then the answer hit him. He looked from Hrun to the picture box. The picture imp was doing its laundry in a tiny tub, while the salamanders dozed in their cage.

" I’ve got an idea, " he said. " I mean, what is it heroes really want? "

" Gold? " said Twoflower.

" No. I mean really want. "

Twoflower frowned. " I don't quite understand, " he said.

Rincewind picked up the picture box. " Hrun, " he said. " Come over here, will you? "

The days passed peacefully. True, a small band of bridge trolls tried to ambush them on one occasion, and a party of brigands nearly caught them unawares one night (but unwisely tried to investigate the Luggage before slaughtering the sleepers). Hrun demanded, and got, double pay for both occasions.

" If any harm comes to us, " said Rincewind, " then there will be no-one to operate the magic box. No more pictures of Hrun, you understand? "

Hrun nodded, his eyes fixed on the latest picture. It showed Hrun striking a heroic pose, with one foot on a heap of slain trolls.

" Me and you and little friend Twoflowers, we all get on hokay, " he said. " Also tomorrow, may we get a better profile, hokay? "

He carefully wrapped the picture in trollskin and stowed it in his saddlebag, along with the others.

" It seems to be working, " said Twoflower admiringly, as Hrun rode ahead to scout the road.

" Sure, " said Rincewind. " What heroes like best is themselves. "

" You're getting quite good at using the picture box, you know that? "

" Yar. "

" So you might like to have this. " Twoflower held out a picture.

" What is it? " asked Rincewind.

" Oh, just the picture you took in the temple. "

Rincewind looked in horror. There, bordered by a few glimpses of tentacle, was a huge, whorled, calloused, potion-stained and unfocused thumb.

" That's the story of my life, " he said wearily.

" You win, " said Fate, pushing the heap of souls across the gaming table. The assembled gods relaxed. " There will be other games, " he added.

The Lady smiled into two eyes that were like holes in the universe.

And then there was nothing but the ruin of the forests and a cloud of dust on the horizon, which drifted away on the breeze. And, sitting on a pitted and moss-grown milestone, a black and raggedy figure. His was the air of one who is unjustly put upon, who is dreaded and feared, yet who is the only friend of the poor and the best doctor for the mortally wounded.

Death, although of course completely eyeless, watched Rincewind disappearing with what would, had His face possessed any mobility at all, have been a frown. Death, although exceptionally busy at all times, decided that He now had a hobby. There was something about the wizard that irked Him beyond measure. He didn't keep appointments for one thing.

I'LL GET YOU YET, CULLY, said Death, in the voice like the slamming of leaden coffin lids.

⇐ Предыдущая 3 4 5 6 789 10 11 12 Следующая ⇒