Interesting Times

The bushes shivered. And around the sky, the towering clouds curved into unusual patterns.

Another cloud formed. It was about the size of an angry grey balloon. And it started to rain. Not rain generally, but specifically. Specifically on about a square foot of ground which contained Rincewind; specifically, on his hat.

A very small bolt of lightning stung Rincewind on the nose.

'Ah! So we have' - Pink Pig, appearing around the curve of the gully, hesitated a bit before continuing slightly more thoughtfully - 'a head in a hole... with a very small thunderstorm above it.'

And then it dawned on him that, storm or no storm, nothing was preventing him from cutting off significant parts. The only significant part available was a head, but that was fine by him.

At which point, Rincewind's hat having absorbed enough moisture, the ancient wood gave way under the strain and plunged him to an uncertain fate in the darkness.

It was utterly dark.

There had been a painful confusion of tunnels and sliding dirt. Rincewind assumed - or the small part of him that was not sobbing with fear assumed - that the earth had caved in after him. Cave. That was a significant word. He was in a cave. Reaching out carefully, in case he felt something, he felt for something to feef.

There was a straight edge. It led to three more straight edges, going off at right angles. So... this meant slab.

The darkness was still a choking velvet shroud.

Slab meant that there was some other entrance, some proper entrance. Even now guards were probably hurrying towards him.

Perhaps the Luggage was hurrying towards them. It had been acting very funny lately, that was for certain. He was probably better off without it. Probably.

He patted his pockets, saying the mantra that even non-wizards invoke in order to find matches; that is. he said, 'Matches, matches, matches,' madly to himself, under his breath.

He found some, and scratched one desperately with his thumbnail.

'Ow!'

The smoky yellow flame lit nothing except Rince-wind's hand and part of his sleeve.

He ventured a few steps before it burned his fingers, and when it died it left a blue afterglow in the darkness of his vision.

There were no sounds of vengeful feet. There were no sounds at all. In theory there should be the drip of water, but the air felt quite dry.

He tried another match, and this time raised it as high as he could and peered ahead.

A seven-foot warrior smiled at him.

Cohen looked up again.

'It's going to piss down in a minute,' he said. 'Will you look at that sky?'

There were hints of purple and red in the mass, and the occasional momentary glow of lightning somewhere inside the clouds.

'Teach?'

'Yes?'

'You know everything. Why's that cloud looking like that?'

Mr Saveloy looked where Cohen was pointing. There was a yellowish cloud low on the horizon. Right around the horizon - one thin streak, as though the sun was trying to find a way through.

'Could be the lining?' said Boy Willie.

'What lining?'

'Every cloud's supposed to have a silver one.'

'Yeah, but that's more like gold.'

'Well, gold's cheaper here.'

'Is it me,' said Mr Saveloy, 'or is it getting wider?'

Caleb was staring at the enemy lines.

There's been a lot of blokes galloping about on their little horses,' he said. 'I hope they get a move on. We don't want to be here all day.'

'I vote we rushes 'em while they're not expectin' it,' said Hamish.

'Hold on... hold on...' said Truckle. There was the sound of many gongs being beaten, and the crackling of fireworks. 'Looks like the bas— the lovechilds are moving.'

'Thank goodness for that,' said Cohen. He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette.

Mr Saveloy trembled with excitement.

'Do we sing a song for the gods before we go into battle?' he said.

'You can if you like,' said Cohen.

'Well, do we say any heathen chants or prayers?'

'Shouldn't think so,' said Cohen. He glanced up at the horizon-girdling band. It was unsettling him far more than the approaching enemy. It was wider now, but slightly paler. For just a moment he found himself wishing that there was one god or goddess somewhere whose temple he hadn't violated, robbed or burned down.

'Don't we bang our swords on our shields and utter defiance?' said the teacher hopefully.

'Too late for that, really,' said Cohen.

Mr Saveloy looked so crestfallen at the lack of pagan splendour that the ancient barbarian was, to his own surprise, moved to add: 'But feel free, if that's what you want.'

The Horde drew their various swords. In Hamish's case, another axe was produced from under his rug.

'See you in Heaven!' said Mr Saveloy excitedly.

'Yeah, right,' said Caleb, eyeing the line of approaching soldiers.

'Where there's feasting and young ladies and so forth!'

'Yeah, yeah,' said Boy Willie, testing the blade of his sword.

'And carousing and quaffing, I believe!'

'Could be,' said Vincent, trying to ease the tendon-itis in his arm.

'And we'll do that thing, you know, where you throw the axes and cut ladies' plaits off!'

'Yeah, if you like.'

'But—'

'Whut?'