The Colour of Magic - Terry Pratchett [38]
“We’re doomed,” he stated. “We’ve been walking around all night. I tell you, this place is a spiderweb. It doesn’t matter which way we go, we’ll end up in the center.”
“It was kind of you to come looking for me, anyway,” said Twoflower. “How did you manage it exactly? It was very impressive.”
“Oh, well,” began the wizard awkwardly. “I just thought “I can’t leave old Twoflower there’ and—”
“So what we’ve got to do now is find this Bel-Shamharoth person and explain things to him and perhaps he’ll let us out,” said Twoflower.
Rincewind ran a finger around his ear.
“It must be the funny echoes in here,” he said. “I thought I heard you use words like find and explain.”
“That’s right.”
Rincewind glared at him in the hellish purple glow.
“Find Bel-Shamharoth?” he said.
“Yes. We don’t have to get involved.”
“Find the Soul Render and not get involved? Just give him a nod, I suppose, and ask the way to the exit? Explain things to the Sender of Eignnnngh,” Rincewind bit off the end of the word just in time and finished, “You’re insane! Hey! Come back!”
He darted down the passage after Twoflower, and after a few moments came to a halt with a groan.
The violet light was intense here, giving everything new and unpleasant colors. This wasn’t a passage, it was a wide room with walls to a number that Rincewind didn’t dare to contemplate, and ei—and 7a passages radiating from it.
Rincewind saw, a little way off, a low altar with the same number of sides as four times two. It didn’t occupy the center of the room, however. The center was occupied by a huge stone slab with twice as many sides as a square. It looked massive. In the strange light it appeared to be slightly tilted, with one edge standing proud of the slabs around it.
Twoflower was standing on it.
“Hey. Rincewind! Look what’s here!”
The Luggage came ambling down one of the other passages that radiated from the room.
“That’s great,” said Rincewind. “Fine. It can lead us out of here. Now.”
Twoflower was already rummaging in the chest.
“Yes,” he said. “After I’ve taken a few pictures. Just let me fit the attachment—”
“I said now—”
Rincewind stopped. Hrun the Barbarian was standing in the passage mouth directly opposite him, a great black sword held in one ham-sized fist.
“You?” said Hrun uncertainly.
“Ahaha. Yes,” said Rincewind. “Hrun, isn’t it? Long time no see. What brings you here?”
Hrun pointed to the Luggage.
“That,” he said. This much conversation seemed to exhaust Hrun. Then he added, in a tone that combined statement, claim, threat and ultimatum: “Mine.”
“It belongs to Twoflower here,” said Rincewind. “Here’s a tip. Don’t touch it.”
It dawned on him that this was precisely the wrong thing to say, but Hrun had already pushed Twoflower away and was reaching for the Luggage…
…which sprouted legs, backed away, and raised its lid threateningly. In the uncertain light Rincewind thought he could see rows of enormous teeth, white as bleached beech-wood.
“Hrun,” he said quickly, “there’s something I ought to tell you.”
Hrun turned a puzzled face to him.
“What?” he said.
“It’s about numbers. Look, you know if you add seven and one, or three and five, or take two from ten, you get a number. While you’re here don’t say it, and we might all stand a chance of getting out of here alive. Or merely just dead.”
“Who is he?” asked Twoflower. He was holding a cage in his hands, dredged from the bottommost depths of the Luggage. It appeared to be full of sulking pink lizards.
“I am Hrun,” said Hrun proudly. Then he looked at Rincewind.
“What?” he said.
“Just don’t say it, okay?” said Rincewind.
He looked at the sword in Hrun’s hand. It was black, the sort of black that is less a color than a graveyard of colors, and there was a highly ornate runic inscription up the blade. More noticeable still was the faint octarine glow that surrounded it. The sword must have noticed him, too,