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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 bafflement.

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