Thud! - Terry Pratchett [142]
“‘And yet we say this. Here, in this cave at the end of the world, peace is made between dwarf and troll, and we will march beyond the hand of Death together. For the enemy is not Troll, nor it is Dwarf, but it is the baleful, the malign, the cowardly, the vessels of hatred, those who do a bad thing and call it good. Those we fought today, but the willful fool is eternal and will say—’”
“This is just a trick!” Ardent shouted.
“‘—say this is a trick,’” Bashfullsson continued, “‘and so we implore: come to the caves under this valley, where you will find us sharing the peace that cannot be braken.’”
The rumbling voice from the box stopped speaking. There was, once again, a rustle of half-heard voices, and then silence.
The litle squares moved about for a moment like a sliding puzzle, and the sound came back. Now what issued from it was shouts and screams, and the clash of steel…
Vimes was watching the king’s face. Some of this you knew, right? Not all of it, but you didn’t look surprised that it was Bloodaxe speaking. Rumors? Old stories? Something in the records? You’ll never tell me.
“Had’ra,” said Bashfullsson, and the cube fell silent. “That means ‘stop,’ Mister Vimes,” the grag added.
“And so we are under Koom Valley,” sneered Ardent. “And what do we find?”
“We find you,” said Bashfullsson. “We always find you.”
“Dead trolls. Dead dwarfs. And nothing more than a voice,” said Ardent. “Ankh-Morpork is here. They are devious. These words could have been spoken yesterday!”
The king was watching Ardent and Bashfullsson. So was every other dwarf. You don’t have to stand and argue! Vimes wanted to shout. Just chain the bastards up and we can sort it out later!
But being a dwarf was all about words and laws…
“These are venerable grags,” said Ardent, indicating the robed figures behind him. “They have studied the Histories! They have studied the Devices! Thousands of years of knowledge stand before you. And you? What do you know?”
“That you came to destroy the truth,” said Bashfullsson. “You dared not trust it. A voice is just a voice, but these bodies are proof. You came here to destroy them.”
Ardent snatched the axe from a miner and was flourishing it before any of the bodyguards could react. When realization caught up with them, there was a massed move forward.
“No!” said Bashfullsson, holding up his hands. “Sire, please! This is an argument between grags!”
“Why do you carry no axe?” Ardent snarled.
“I need no axe to be a dwarf,” said Bashfullsson. “Nor do I need to hate trolls. What kind of creature defines itself by hatred?”
“You strike at the very root of us!” said Ardent. “At the root!”
“Then strike back,” said Bashfullsson, holding out his empty hands. “And put your sword away, Commander Vimes,” he added, without turning his head. “This is dwarf business. Ardent? I’m still standing. What do you believe in? Ha’ak! Ga strak ja’ada!”
Ardent jerked forward, axe raised. Bashfullsson moved quickly, there was the thud of something hitting flesh, and then a tableau as motionless as the brooding figures around the cavern. There was Ardent, axe raised overhead. There was Bashfullsson, down on one knee, with his head resting almost companionably against the dwarf’s chest and the edge of one hand pressed hard against Ardent’s throat.
Ardent’s mouth opened, but all that came out was a croak and a trickle of blood.
He took a few steps back, and fell over backwards. The axe struck the white, wet, stony waterfall, and smashed through the drip of millennia. Time fell in shards around.
Bashfullsson rose, looking shocked and massaging his hand.
“It is like using an axe,” he said, to no one in particular, “but without the axe…”
The uproar began again, but a dwarf, dripping with water, pushed through the mob.
“Sire, there’s a band of trolls coming up the valley! They asked for you! They say they want to parley!”
Rhys stepped over the gurgling body of Ardent,