The Last Continent - Terry Pratchett [37]
A twig cracked behind him.
He sighed, and got down slowly, taking great care not to turn around.
“I surrender totally,” he said, raising his hands.
“That’s right,” said a level voice. “This is a crossbow, mate. Let’s have a look at your ugly mug.”
Rincewind turned. There was no one behind him.
Then he looked down.
The crossbow was almost vertical. If it were fired, the bolt would go right up his nose.
“A dwarf?” he said.
“You’ve got something against dwarfs?”
“Who, me? No! Some of my best friends would be dwarfs. If I had any friends, I mean. Er. I’m Rincewind.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m short-tempered,” said the dwarf. “Most people call me Mad.”
“Just ‘Mad’? That’s an…unusual name.”
“It ain’t a name.”
Rincewind stared. There was no doubt that his captor was a dwarf. He didn’t have the traditional beard or iron helmet, but there were other little ways that you could tell. There was the chin that you could break coconuts on, the fixed expression of ferocity, and the certain bullet-headedness that meant its owner could go through walls face first. And, of course, if all else failed, the fact that the top of it was about level with Rincewind’s stomach was a clue. Mad wore a leather suit but, like the cart, it had metal riveted on to it wherever possible. Where there weren’t rivets there was weaponry.
The word “friend” jumped into the forefront of Rincewind’s brain. There are many reasons for being friends with someone. The fact that he’s pointing a deadly weapon at you is among the top four.
“Good description,” said Rincewind. “Easy to remember.”
The dwarf cocked his head on one side and listened.
“Blast, they’re catching me up.” He looked back up at Rincewind and said, “Can you fire a crossbow?” in a way that indicated that answering “no” was a good way to contract immediate sinus trouble.
“Absolutely,” said Rincewind.
“Get on the cart, then. Y’know, I’ve been travelin’ this road for years and this is the first time anyone’s ever dared to hitch a lift?”
“Amazing,” said Rincewind.
There was not much room under the hatch, and most of it was taken up by more weapons. Mad pushed Rincewind aside, grasped the reins, peered into the periscope stovepipe and urged the horses into motion.
Bushes scraped against the wheels and the horses dragged back on to the track and began to get up speed.
“Beaut, aren’t they?” said Mad. “They can outrun anything, even with the armor.”
“This is certainly a very…original cart,” said Rincewind.
“Got a few modifications of my own,” said Mad. He grinned evilly. “You a wizard, mister?”
“Broadly speaking, yes.”
“Any good?” Mad was loading another crossbow.
Rincewind hesitated. “No,” he said.
“Lucky for you,” said Mad. “I’d have killed you if you were. Can’t stand wizards. Bunch of wowsers, right?”
He grasped the handles of the bent stovepipe and swiveled it around.
“Here they come,” he muttered.
Rincewind peered over the top of Mad’s head. There was a piece of mirror in the bend of the pipe. It showed the road behind, and half a dozen dots under another cloud of red dust.
“Road gang,” said Mad. “After my cargo. Steal anything, they will. All bastards are bastards, but some bastards is bastards.” He pulled a handful of nosebags from under the seat. “Right, you get up on top with a couple of crossbows, and I’ll fix the supercharger.”
“What? You want me to start shooting at people?”
“You want me to start shooting at people?” said Mad, pushing him up the ladder.
Rincewind crawled out on to the top of the cart. It was swaying and bouncing. Red dust choked him and the wind tried to blow his robe over his head.
He hated weapons, and not just because they’d so often been aimed at him. You got into more trouble if you had a weapon. People shot you instantly if they thought you were going to shoot them. But if you were unarmed, they often stopped to talk. Admittedly, they tended to say things like, “You’ll never guess what we’re going to do to you, pal,” but that took time. And Rincewind could