Interesting Times

The circle broke as a couple of men tried to dart backwards and cannoned into the rank behind and then rebounded on to the swords of the Horde. One of Hamish's wheels caught a soldier a vicious blow on the knee and, as he bent over, one of Hamish's axes met him coming the other way.

It wasn't speed. The Horde couldn't move very fast. But it was economy. Mr Saveloy had remarked on it. They were simply always where they wanted to be, which was never where someone's sword was. They let everyone else do the running around. A soldier would risk a slash in the direction of Truckle and find Cohen rising in front of him, grinning and swinging, or Boy Willie giving him a nod of acknowledgement and a stab. Occasionally one of the Horde took time to parry a blow aimed at Mr Saveloy, who was far too excited to defend himself.

'Pull back, you bloody fools!'

Lord Hong appeared behind the throng, his horse rearing, his helmet visor flung back.

The soldiers tried to obey. Finally, the press eased a little, and then opened. The Horde were left in a widening ring of shields. There was something like silence, broken only by the endless thunder and the crackle of lightning on the hill.

And then, pushing their way angrily through the soldiers, came an altogether different breed of warrior. They were taller, and heavier armoured, with splendid helmets and moustaches that looked like a declaration of war in themselves.

One of them glared at Cohen.

'Orrrrr! Itiyorshu! Yutimishu!'

'Wassat?' said Cohen.

'He's a samurai,' said Mr Saveloy, wiping his forehead. 'The warrior caste. I think that's their formal challenge. Er. Would you like me to fight him?'

One samurai glared at Cohen. He pulled a scrap of silk out of his armour and tossed it into the air. His other hand grabbed the hilt of his long, thin sword...

There was hardly even a hiss, but three shreds of silk tumbled gently to the ground.

'Get back, Teach,' said Cohen slowly. 'I reckon this one's mine. Got another hanky? Thanks.'

The samurai looked at Cohen's sword. It was long, heavy and had so many notches it could have been used as a saw.

'You'll never do it,' he said. 'With that sword? Never.'

Cohen blew his nose noisily.

'You say?' he said. 'Watch this.'

The handkerchief soared into the air. Cohen gripped his sword...

He'd beheaded three upward-staring samurai before the handkerchief started to tumble. Other members of the Horde, who tended to think in much the same way as their leader, had accounted for half a dozen more.

'Got the idea from Caleb,' said Cohen. 'And the message is: either fight or muck about, it's up to you.'

'Have you no honour?' screamed Lord Hong. 'Are you just a ruffian?'

'I'm a barbarian,' shouted Cohen. 'And the honour I got, see, is mine. I didn't steal it off'f someone else.'

'I had wanted to take you alive,' said Lord Hong. 'However, I see no reason to stick to this policy.'

He drew his sword.

'Back, you scum!' he screamed. 'Right back! Let the bombardiers come forward!' He looked back at Cohen. His face was flushed. His spectacles were askew.

Lord Hong had lost his temper. And, as is always the case when a dam bursts, it engulfs whole countries.

The soldiers pulled back.

The Horde were, once again, in a widening circle.

'What's a bombardier?' said Boy Willie.

'Er, I believe it must mean people who fire some sort of projectile,' said Mr Saveloy. 'The word derives from—'

'Oh, archers,' said Boy Willie, and spat.

'Whut?'

'He said THEY'RE GOING TO USE ARCHERS, Hamish!'

'Heheh, we never let archers stop us at the Battle of Koom Valley!' cackled the antique barbarian.

Boy Willie sighed.

'That was between dwarfs and trolls, Hamish,' he said. 'And you ain't either. So whose side were you on?'

'Whut?'

'I said WHOSE SIDE WERE YOU ON?'

'I were on the side of being paid money to fight,' said Hamish.

'Best side there is.'

Rincewind lay on the floor with his hands over his ears.

The sound of thunder filled the underground chamber. Blue and purple light shone so brightly that he could see it through his eyelids.

Finally the cacophony subsided. There were still the sounds of the storm outside, but the light had faded to a blue-white glow, and the sound into a steady humming.

Rincewind risked rolling over and opening his eyes.

Hanging from rusted chains in the roof were big glass globes. Each one was the size of a man, and lightning crackled and sizzled inside, stabbing at the glass, seeking a way out.

At one time there must have been many more. But dozens of the big globes had fallen down over the years, and lay in pieces on the floor. There were still scores up there, swaying gently on their chains as the imprisoned thunderstorms fought for their freedom.

The air felt greasy. Sparks crawled over the floor and crackled on each angle.

Rincewind stood up. His beard streamed out as a mass of individual hairs.