The Colour of Magic - Terry Pratchett [61]
“He didn’t attempt to rescue you,” Rincewind pointed out as a last resort.
He clung desperately to Twoflower’s waist as the dragon circled slowly, tilting the world at a dangerous angle. The new knowledge that the scaly back he was astride only existed as a sort of three-dimensional daydream did not, he had soon realized, do anything at all for his ankle-wrenching sensations of vertigo. His mind kept straying toward the possible results of Twoflower losing his concentration.
“Not even Hrun could have prevailed against those crossbows,” said Twoflower stoutly.
As the dragon rose higher above the patch of woodland, where the three of them had slept a damp and uneasy sleep, the sun rose over the edge of the Disc. Instantly the gloomy blues and grays of pre-dawn were transformed into a bright bronze river that flowed across the world, flaring into gold where it struck ice or water or a light-dam. (Owing to the density of the magical field surrounding the Disc, light itself moved at subsonic speeds; this interesting property was well utilized by the Sorca people of the Great Nef, for example, who over the centuries had constructed intricate and delicate dams, and valleys walled with polished silica, to catch the slow sunlight and sort of store it. The scintillating reservoirs of the Nef, overflowing after several weeks of uninterrupted sunlight, were a truly magnificent sight from the air and it is therefore unfortunate that Twoflower and Rincewind did not happen to glance in that direction.)
In front of them the billion-ton impossibility that was the magic-wrought Wyrmberg hung against the sky and that was not too bad, until Rincewind turned his head and saw the mountain’s shadow slowly unroll itself across the cloudscape of the world…
“What can you see?” said Twoflower to the dragon.
I see fighting on the top of the mountain came the gentle reply.
“See?” said Twoflower. “Hrun’s probably fighting for his life at this very moment.”
Rincewind was silent. After a moment Twoflower looked around. The wizard was staring intently at nothing at all, his lips moving soundlessly.
“Rincewind?”
The wizard made a small croaking noise.
“I’m sorry,” said Twoflower. “What did you say?”
“…all the way…the great fall…” muttered Rincewind. His eyes focused, looked puzzled for a moment, then widened in terror. He made the mistake of looking down.
“Aargh,” he opined, and began to slide. Twoflower grabbed him.
“What’s the matter?”
Rincewind tried shutting his eyes, but there were no eyelids to his imagination and it was staring widely.
“Don’t you get scared of heights?” he managed to say.
Twoflower looked down at the tiny landscape, mottled with cloud shadows. The thought of fear hadn’t actually occurred to him.
“No,” he said. “Why should I? You’re just as dead if you fall from forty feet as you are from four thousand fathoms, that’s what I say.”
Rincewind tried to consider this dispassionately, but couldn’t see the logic of it. It wasn’t the actual falling, it was the hitting he…
Twoflower grabbed him quickly.
“Steady on,” he said cheerfully. “We’re nearly there.”
“I wish I was back in the city,” moaned Rincewind. “I wish I was back on the ground!”
“I wonder if dragons can fly all the way to the stars?” mused Twoflower. “Now that would be something…”
“You’re mad,” said Rincewind flatly. There was no reply from the tourist, and when the wizard craned around he was horrified to see Twoflower looking up at the paling stars with an odd smile on his face.
“Don’t you even think about it,” added Rincewind, menacingly.
The man you seek is talking to the dragonwoman said the dragon.
“Hmm?” said Twoflower, still looking at the paling stars.
“What?” said Rincewind urgently.
“Oh yes. Hrun.” said Twoflower. “I hope we’re in time. Dive now! Go low!”
Rincewind opened his eyes as the wind increased to a whistling gale. Perhaps they were blown open—the wind certainly made them impossible to shut.
The flat summit of the Wyrmberg rose up at them, lurched alarmingly, then somersaulted into