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?’
‘The actual feasting . . . Do they do anything vegetarian?’
And the advancing army screamed and charged.
They rushed at the Horde, almost as fast as the clouds boiling in from every direction.
Rincewind’s brain unfroze slowly, in the darkness and silence of the hill.
It’s a statue, he told himself. That’s all it is. No problem there. Not even a particularly good one. Just a big statue of a man in armour. Look, there’s a couple more, you can just see them at the edge of the light . . .
‘Ow!’
He dropped the match and sucked his fingers.
What he needed now was a wall. Walls had exits. True, they could also be entrances, but now there did not seem much danger of any guards hurrying in here. The air had an ancient smell, with a hint of fox and a slight trace of thunderstorms, but above all it tasted unused.
He crept forward, testing each step with his foot.
Then there was light. A small blue spark jumped off Rincewind’s finger.
Cohen grabbed at his beard. It was straining away from his face.
Mr Saveloy’s fringe of hair stood out from his head and sparked at the ends.
‘Static discharges!’ he shouted, above the crackle.
Ahead of them the spears of the enemy glowed at the tips. The charge faltered. There was the occasional shriek as sparks leaped from man to man.
Cohen looked up.
‘Oh, my,’ he said. ‘Will you look at that!’
Tiny sparks flickered around Rincewind as he eased himself over the unseen floor.
The word tomb had presented itself for his consideration, and one thing Rincewind knew about large tombs was that their builders were often jolly inventive in the traps and spikes department. They also put in things like paintings and statues, possibly so that the dead had something to look at if they became bored.
Rincewind’s hand touched stone, and he moved carefully sideways. Now and again his feet touched something yielding and soft. He very much hoped it was mud.
And then, right at hand height, was a lever. It stuck out fully two feet.
Now . . . it could be a trap. But traps were generally, well, traps. The first you knew about them was when your head was rolling along the corridor several yards away. And trap builders tended to be straightforwardly homicidal and seldom required victims to actively participate in their own destruction.
Rincewind pulled it.
The yellow cloud sailed overhead in its millions, moving much faster on the wind they’d created than the slow beating of their wings would suggest. Behind them came the storm.
Mr Saveloy blinked.
‘Butterflies?’
Both sides stopped as the creatures sleeted past. It was even possible to hear the rustle of their wings.
‘All right, Teach,’ said Cohen. ‘Explain this one.’
‘It, it, it could be a natural phenomenon,’ said Mr Saveloy. ‘Er . . . Monarch butterflies, for example, have been known to . . . er . . . to tell you the truth, I don’t know . . .’
The cloud swarmed on towards the hill.
‘Not some kind of sign?’ said Cohen. ‘There must have been some temple I didn’t rob.’
‘The trouble with signs and portents,’ said Boy Willie, ‘is you never know who they’re for. This’n could be a nice one for Hong and his pals.’
‘Then I’m nicking it,’ said Cohen.
‘You can’t steal a message from the gods!’ said Mr Saveloy.
‘Can you see it nailed down anywhere? No? Sure? Right. So it’s mine.’
He raised his sword as the stragglers fluttered past overhead.
‘The gods smile on us!’ he bellowed. ‘Hahaha!’
‘Hahaha?’ whispered Mr Saveloy.
‘Just to worry ’em,’ said Cohen.
He glanced at the other members of the Horde. Each man nodded, very slightly.
‘All right, lads,’ he said quietly. ‘This is it.’
‘Er . . . what do I do?’ said Mr Saveloy.
Think of something to make yourself good and angry. That gets the ole blood boiling. Imagine the enemy is everything you hate.’
‘Head teachers,’ said Mr Saveloy. ‘Good.’
‘Sports masters!’ shouted Mr Saveloy.
‘Yep.’
‘Boys who chew gum!’ screamed Mr Saveloy.
‘Look at him, steam coming out of his ears already,’ said Cohen. ‘First one to the afterlife gets ’em in. Charge!’
The yellow cloud thronged up the slopes of the hill and then, carried on the uprising wind, rose.
Above it the storm rose too, piling up and up and spreading into a shape something like a hammer—
It struck.
Lightning hit the iron pagoda so hard that it exploded into white-hot fragments.
It is confusing for an entire army to be attacked by seven old men. No book of tactics is up to the task of offering advice. There is a tendency towards baffle-nent.
The soldiers backed away in the face of the rush and then, driven by currents in the great mass of men, closed in behind.
A solid circle of shields surrounded the Horde. It buckled and swayed under the press of men, and also under the blows rained on it by Mr Saveloy’s sword.
‘Come on, fight!’ he shouted. ‘Smoke pipes at me, would you? You! That boy there! Answer me back, eh! Take that!’
Cohen looked at Caleb, who shrugged. He’d seen berserk rages in his time, but nothing quite so incandescent as Mr Saveloy.
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.’