The Wee Free Men - Terry Pratchett [62]
“So? We’ll find a wa’ to steal him! She’s the Quin! Ye canna beat the Quin face-to-face!”
The hoofbeats were louder, and now it sounded as though there was more than one animal.
A stag appeared through the trees, steam pouring off it. It stared at Tiffany with wild red eyes and then, bunching up, leaped over her. She smelled the stink of it as she ducked, she felt its sweat on her neck.
It was a real animal. You couldn’t imagine a reek like that.
And here came the dogs.
The first one she caught with the edge of the pan, bowling it over. The other turned to snap at her, then looked down in amazement as pictsies erupted from the snow under each paw. It was hard to bite anyone when all four of your feet were moving away in different directions, and then other pictsies landed on its head and biting anything ever again soon became…impossible. The Nac Mac Feegle hated grimhounds.
Tiffany looked up at a white horse. That was real, too, as far as she could tell. And there was a boy on it.
“Who are you?” he said. He made it sound like “What sort of thing are you?”
“Who are you?” said Tiffany, pushing her hair out of her eyes. It was the best she could do right now.
“This is my forest,” said the boy. “I command you to do what I say!”
Tiffany peered at him. The dull, secondhand light of Fairyland was not very good, but the more she looked, the more certain she was. “Your name is Roland, isn’t it?” she said.
“You will not speak to me like that!”
“Yes, it is. You’re the Baron’s son!”
“I demand that you stop talking!” The boy’s expression was strange now, creased up and pink, as if he was trying not to cry. He raised his hand with a riding whip in it—
There was a very faint thwap. Tiffany glanced down. The Nac Mac Feegle had formed a pile under the horse’s belly, and one of them, climbing up on their shoulders, had just cut through the saddle girth.
She held up a hand quickly. “Stand still!” she shouted, trying to sound commanding. “If you move, you’ll fall off your horse!”
“Is that a spell? Are you a witch?” The boy dropped the whip and pulled a long dagger from his belt. “Death to witches!”
He urged the horse forward with a jerk, and then there was one of those long moments, a moment when the whole universe said, “Uh-oh” and, still holding the dagger, the boy swiveled around the horse and landed in the snow.
Tiffany knew what would happen next. Rob Anybody’s voice echoed among the trees:
“You’re in trouble noo, pal! Get him!”
“No!” Tiffany yelled. “Get away from him!”
The boy scrambled backward, staring at Tiffany in horror.
“I do know you,” she said. “Your name is Roland. You’re the Baron’s son. They said you’d died in the forest—”
“You mustn’t talk about that!”
“Why not?”
“Bad things happen!”
“They’re already happening,” said Tiffany. “Look, I’m here to rescue my—”
But the boy had got to his feet and was running back through the forest. He turned and shouted, “Stay away from me!”
Tiffany ran after him, jumping over snow-covered logs, and saw him ahead, dodging from tree to tree. Then he paused and looked back.
She ran up to him, saying, “I know how to get you out—”
—and danced.
She was holding the hand of a parrot or, at least someone with the head of a parrot.
Her feet moved under her, perfectly. They twirled her around, and this time her hand was caught by a peacock, or at least someone with the head of a peacock. She glanced over his shoulder and saw that she was now in a room, no, a ballroom full of masked people, dancing.
Ah, she thought. Another dream. I should have looked where I was going.
The music was strange. There was a kind of rhythm to it, but it sounded muffled and odd, as if it was being played backward, underwater, by musicians who’d never seen their instruments before.
And she hoped the dancers were wearing masks. She realized she was looking out through the eyeholes of one and wondered what she was. She was also wearing a long dress, which glittered.
O-kay, she thought carefully. There was a drome there, and I didn’t stop to look. And now