Thud! - Terry Pratchett [121]
One admitted to Eric that when he was a boy, during a cool summer when the meltwaters were pretty low, he’d roped down into one of the sinkholes (because, like all such stories, the history of Koom Valley wouldn’t have been complete without rumors of vast treasures swept down into the dark) and had himself heard, above the sound of the water, battle noises and the shouting of dwarfs, no sir, honestly sir, it chilled my blood so it did, sir, why, thank you very much, sir…
Vimes sat up in his seat.
Was that true? If that man had gone a little further, would he have found the little talking cube that Methodia Rascal had been unlucky enough to take home? Eric had dismissed it as an attempt to scrounge another dollar, and probably it was, but—no, the cube would surely have been long gone by then. Even so. It was an intriguing thought.
The driver’s hatch slid back.
“Outside the city, sir, clear road ahead,” Willikins reported.
“Thank you.” Vimes stretched, and looked across at Sybil. “Well, this is where we find out. Hang on to Young Sam.”
“I’m sure Mustrum wouldn’t do anything dangerous, Sam,” said Sybil.
“I don’t know about that,” said Vimes, opening the door. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mean to.”
He swung himself out and hauled himself on the roof of the coach, with a helping hand from Detritus.
The coach was moving well. The sun was shining. On either side of the highway, the cabbage fields lent their gentle perfume to the air.
Vimes settled down beside the butler.
“Okay,” he said. “Everyone holding on to something? Good. Let ’em go!”
Willikins cracked the whip. There was a mild jolt as the horses stretched, and Vimes felt the coach speed up.
And that seemed to be it. He’d expected something a little more impressive. They were gradually going faster, yes, but that in itself didn’t seem very magical.
“I reckon about twelve miles an hour now, sir,” said Willikins. “That’s pretty good. They’re running well without—”
Something was happening to the harnesses. The copper discs were sparking.
“Look at der cabbages, sir!” Detritus shouted.
On either side of the road, cabbages were bursting into flames and rocketing out of the ground. And still the horses went faster.
“It’s about power!” yelled Vimes, above the wind. “We’re running on cabbages! And the—”
He stopped. The rear two horses were rising gently in the air. As he stared, the lead pair rose, too.
He risked turning in his seat. The other coach was keeping up with them; he could clearly see Fred Colon’s pink face, staring ahead in rigid terror.
When Vimes turned back to look ahead, all four horses were off the ground.
And there was a fifth horse, larger than the other five, and transparent. It was visible only because of the dust and the occasional glint of light off an invisible flank; it was, in fact, what you got if you took away a horse but left the movement of a horse, the speed of a horse, the…spirit of a horse, that part of a horse which came alive in the rushing of the wind. The part of a horse that was, in fact, Horse.
There was hardly any sound now. Perhaps sound was unable to keep up.
“Sir?” said Willikins quietly.
“Yes?” said Vimes, his eyes streaming.
“It took us less than a minute to go that last mile. I timed us between milestones, sir.”
“Sixty miles in an hour? Don’t be daft, man! A coach can’t go that fast!”
“Just as you say, sir.”
A milestone flashed past. Out of the corner of his ear, Willikins heard Vimes counting under his breath until, before very long, another stone fell away behind them.
“Wizards, eh?” said Vimes weakly, staring ahead again.
“Indeed, sir,” said