Feet of Clay - Terry Pratchett [113]
“Got to get the words out!” Carrot shouted, as the arms flailed at him. “It’s the only…way!”
The king staggered forward and hit a stack of boxes, which burst and rained candles over the floor. Carrot grabbed its ears and tried to twist.
Angua heard him saying: “You…have…the right…to…a lawyer…”
“Carrot! Don’t bother with its damn’ rights!”
“You…have…the right to—”
“Just give it the last ones!”
There was a commotion in the gaping doorway and Vimes ran in, sword drawn. “Oh, gods…Sergeant Detritus!”
Detritus appeared behind him. “Sah!”
“Crossbow bolt through the head, if you please!”
“If you say so, sir…”
“Its head, Sergeant! Mine is fine! Carrot, get down off the thing!”
“Can’t get its head off, sir!”
“We’ll try six feet of cold steel in the ear just as soon as you let the damn’ thing go!”
Carrot steadied himself on the king’s shoulders, tried to judge his moment as the thing staggered around, and leapt.
He landed awkwardly on a sliding heap of candles. His leg buckled under him and he tumbled over until he was stopped by the inert shell that had been Dorfl.
“Hey, look dis way, mister,” said Detritus.
The king turned.
Vimes didn’t catch everything that happened next, because it all happened so quickly. He was merely aware of the rush of air and the gloink of the rebounding bolt mingling with the wooden juddering noise as it buried itself in the doorframe behind him.
And the golem was crouching down by Carrot, who was trying to squirm out of the way.
It raised a fist, and brought it down…
Vimes didn’t even see Dorfl’s arm move but there it was, there, suddenly gripping the king’s wrist.
Tiny stars of light went nova in Dorfl’s eyes.
“Tssssss!”
As the king jerked back in surprise, Dorfl held on and levered himself up on what remained of his legs. As he came up so did his fist.
Time slowed. Nothing moved in the whole universe but Dorfl’s fist.
It swung like a planet, without any apparent speed but with a drifting unstoppability.
And then the king’s expression changed. Just before the fist landed, it smiled.
The golem’s head exploded. Vimes recalled it in slow motion, one long second of floating pottery. And words. Scraps of paper flew out, dozens, scores of them, tumbling gently to the floor.
Slowly, peacefully, the king hit the floor. The red light died, the cracks opened, and then there were just…pieces.
Dorfl collapsed on top of them.
Angua and Vimes reached Carrot together.
“He came alive!” said Carrot, struggling up. “That thing was going to kill me and Dorfl came alive! But that thing had smashed the words out of his head! A golem has to have the words!”
“They gave their own golem too many, I can see that,” said Vimes.
He picked up some of the coils of paper.
…CREATE PEACE AND JUSTICE FOR ALL…
…RULE US WISELY…
…TEACH US FREEDOM…
…LEAD US TO…
Poor devil, he thought.
“Let’s get you home. That hand needs treating—” said Angua.
“Listen, will you?” said Carrot. “He’s alive!”
Vimes knelt down by Dorfl. The broken clay skull looked as empty as yesterday’s breakfast egg. But there was still a pinpoint of light in each eye socket.
“Usssss,” hissed Dorfl, so faintly that Vimes wasn’t sure he’d heard it.
A finger scratched on the floor.
“Is it trying to write something?” said Angua.
Vimes pulled out his notebook, eased it under Dorfl’s hand, and gently pushed a pencil into the golem’s fingers. They watched the hand as it wrote—a little jerkily but still with the mechanical precision of a golem—eight words.
Then it stopped. The pencil rolled away. The lights in Dorfl’s eyes dwindled and went out.
“Good grief,” breathed Angua. “They don’t need words in their heads…”
“We can rebuild him,” said Carrot hoarsely. “We have the pottery.”
Vimes stared at the words, and then at what remained of Dorfl.
“Mister Vimes?” said Carrot.
“Do it,” said Vimes.
Carrot blinked.
“Right now,” Vimes said. He looked back at the scrawl in his book.