The Colour of Magic - Terry Pratchett [34]
As the pace began to quicken and the complicated threads of the chant began to rise Rincewind found himself watching, fascinated. He had heard about the Old Magic at University, although it was forbidden to wizards. He knew that when the circle was spinning fast enough against the standing magical field of the Discworld itself in its slow turning, the resulting astral friction would build up a vast potential difference which would earth itself by a vast discharge of the Elemental Magical Force.
The circle was a blur now, and the walls of the Tree rang with the echoes of the chant—
Rincewind felt the familiar sticky prickling in the scalp that indicated the build up of a heavy charge of raw enchantment in the vicinity, and so he was not utterly amazed when, a few seconds later, a shaft of vivid octarine light speared down from the invisible ceiling and focused, crackling, in the center of the circle.
There it formed an image of a storm-swept, tree-girt hill with a temple on its crest. Its shape did unpleasant things to the eye. Rincewind knew that if it was a temple to Bel-Shamharoth it would have eight sides. (Eight was also the Number of Bel-Shamharoth, which was why a sensible wizard would never mention the number if he could avoid it. Or you’ll be eight alive, apprentices were jocularly warned. Bel-Shamharoth was especially attracted to dabblers in magic who, by being as it were beachcombers on the shores of the unnatural, were already half-enmeshed in his nets. Rincewind’s room number in his hall of residence had been 7a. He hadn’t been surprised.)
Rain streamed off the black walls of the temple. The only sign of life was the horse tethered outside, and it wasn’t Twoflower’s horse. For one thing, it was too big. It was a white charger with hooves the size of meat dishes and leather harness aglitter with ostentatious gold ornamentation. It was currently enjoying a nosebag.
There was something familiar about it. Rincewind tried to remember where he had seen it before.
It looked as though it was capable of a fair turn of speed, anyway. A speed which, once it had lumbered up to it, it could maintain for a long time. All Rincewind had to do was shake off his guards, fight his way out of the Tree, find the temple and steal the horse out from under whatever it was that Bel-Shamharoth used for a nose.
“The Sender of Eight has two for dinner, it seems,” said Druellae, looking hard at Rincewind. “Who does that steed belong to, false wizard?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“No? Well, it does not matter. We shall see soon enough.”
She waved a hand. The focus of the image moved inward, darted through a great octagonal archway and sped along the corridor within.
There was a figure there, sidling along stealthily with its back against one wall. Rincewind saw the gleam of gold and bronze.
There was no mistaking that shape. He’d seen it many times. The wide chest, the neck like a tree trunk, the surprisingly small head under its wild thatch of black hair looking like a tomato on a coffin…he could put a name to the creeping figure, and that name was Hrun the Barbarian.
Hrun was one of the Circle Sea’s more durable heroes: a fighter of dragons, a despoiler of temples, a hired sword, the kingpost of every street brawl. He could even—and unlike many heroes of Rincewind’s acquaintance—speak words of more than two syllables, if given time and maybe a hint or two.
There was a sound on the edge of Rincewind’s hearing. It sounded like several skulls bouncing down the steps of some distant dungeon. He looked sideways at his guards to see if they had heard it.
They had all their limited attention focused on Hrun, who was admittedly built on the same lines as themselves. Their hands were resting lightly on the wizard’s shoulders.
Rincewind ducked, jerked backward like a tumbler, and came up running. Behind him he heard Druellae shout, and he redoubled his speed.