“You’re a defeatist.”
“Defeatist? That’s because I’m going to be defeated!”
“You’re your own worst enemy, Rincewind,” said the sword.
Rincewind looked up at grinning men.
“Bet?” he said wearily.
Before Kring could reply Psepha reared in midair and alighted on one of the large rings, which rocked alarmingly.
“Would you like to die now, or surrender first?” asked K!sdra calmly.
Men were converging on the ring from all directions, walking with a swaying motion as their hooked boots engaged the ceiling rings. There were more boots on a rack that hung in a small platform built on the side of the perch-ring. Before Rincewind could stop him the dragonrider had leapt from the creature’s back to land on the platform, where he stood grinning at the wizard’s discomfiture.
There was a small expressive sound made by a number of crossbows being cocked. Rincewind looked up at a number of impassive, upside down faces. The dragonfolk’s taste in clothing didn’t run to anything much more imaginative than a leather harness, studded with bronze ornaments. Knives and sword sheaths were worn inverted. Those who were not wearing helmets let their hair flow freely, so that it moved like seaweed in the ventilation breeze near the roof. There were several women among them. The inversion did strange things to their anatomy. Rincewind stared.
“Surrender,” said K!sdra again.
Rincewind opened his mouth to do so. Kring hummed a warning, and agonising waves of pain shot up his arm. “Never,” he squeaked. The pain stopped.
“Of course he won’t!” boomed an expansive voice behind him. “He’s a hero, isn’t he?”
Rincewind turned and looked into a pair of hairy nostrils. They belonged to a heavily built young man, hanging nonchalantly from the ceiling by his boots.
“What is your name, hero?” said the man. “so that we know who you were.”
Agony shot up Rincewind’s arm. “I-I’m Rincewind of Ankh,” he managed to gasp.
“And I am Lio!rt Dragonlord,” said the hanging man, pronouncing the word with the harsh click in the back of the throat that Rincewind could only think of as a kind of integral punctuation. “You have come to challenge me in mortal combat.”
“Well, no, I didn’t-“
“You are mistaken. K!sdra, help our hero into a pair of hookboots. I am sure he is anxious to get started.”
“No, look, I just came here to find my friends. I’m sure there’s no-” Rincewind began, as the dragonrider guided him firmly onto the platform, pushed him onto a seat, and proceeded to strap hookboots to his feet.
“Hurry up, K!sdra. We mustn’t keep our hero from his destiny,” said Lio!rt.
“Look, I expect my friends are happy enough here, so if you could just, you know, set me down somewhere
a jumped back to avoid another thrust and fell full length on the turf. With a snarl Psepha unfolded his great wings and launched himself from his tree.
A moment later the wizard was standing over him, shouting, “Tell it that if it singes me I’ll let the sword go. I will. I’ll let it go! So tell it!”
The tip of the black sword was hovering over K!sdra’s throat, What was odd was that the wizard was obviously struggling with it, and it appeared to be singing to itself.
“Psepha!” K!sdra shouted.
The dragon roared in defiance, but pulled out of the dive that would have removed Rincewind’s head, and flapped ponderously back to the tree.
“Talk!” screamed Rincewind.
K!sdra squinted at him up the length of the sword.
“What would you like me to say?” he asked.
“What?”