Interesting Times - Terry Pratchett [107]
“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 splendor 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 tendonitis 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 armor. 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