“Well, that's about it, then,” said Granny Weatherwax, as the warriors approached. She dropped her voice.
“When the time comes,” she said, “run.”
“What time?”
“You'll know.”
Granny fell to her knees as the elves approached.
“Oh, deary me, oh spare my life, I am but a poor old woman and skinny also,” she said. “Oh spare my life, young sir. Oh lawks.”
She curled up, sobbing. Diamanda looked at her in astonishment, not least at how anyone could expect to get away with something like that.
Elves had been away from humans for a long time. The first elf reached her, hauled her up by her shoulder, and got a doubled-handed, bony-knuckled punch in an area that Nanny Ogg would be surprised that Esme Weatherwax even knew about.
Diamanda was already running. Granny's elbow caught the other elf in the chest as she set off after her.
Behind her, she heard the merry laughter of the elves.
Diamanda had been surprised at Granny's old lady act. She was far more surprised when Granny drew level. But Granny had more to run away from.
“They've got horses!”
Granny nodded. And it's true that horses go faster than people, but it's not instantly obvious to everyone that this is only true over moderate distances. Over short distances a determined human can outrun a horse, because they've only got half as many legs to sort out.
! The bastards . . . and yet . . . and yet . . . somehow, yes, they did things to memory.
Nanny Ogg turned over in bed. Greebo growled in protest.
Take dwarfs and trolls, for e.g. People said: Oh, you can't trust 'em, trolls are OK if you've got 'em in front of you, and some of 'em are decent enough in their way, but they're cowardly and stupid, and as for dwarfs, well, they're greedy and devious devils, all right, fair enough, sometimes you meet one of the clever little sods that's not too bad, but overall they're no better'n trolls, in fact-
-they're just like us.
But they ain't any prettier to look at and they've got no style. And we're stupid, and the memory plays tricks, and we remember the elves for their beauty and the way they move, and forget what they were. We're like mice saying, “Say what you like, cats have got real style.”
People never quaked in their beds for fear of dwarfs. They never hid under the stairs from trolls. They might have chased 'em out of the henhouse, but trolls and dwarfs were never any more than a bloody nuisance. They were never a terror in the night.
We only remembers that the elves sang. We forgets what it was they were singing about.
Nanny Ogg turned over again. There was a slithering noise from the end of the bed, and a muffled yowl as Greebo hit the floor.
And Nanny sat up.
“Get your walking paws on, young fella-me-lad. We're going out.”
As she passed through the midnight kitchen she paused, took one of the big black flatirons from the hob by the fire, and attached it to a length of clothesline.
For all her life she'd walked at night through Lancre with no thought of carrying a weapon of any sort. Of course, for most of that time she'd recognizably been a witch, and any importunate prowler would've ended up taking his essentials away in a paper bag, but even so it was generally true of any woman in Lancre. Man too, come to that.
Now she could sense her own fear.
The elves were coming back all right, casting their shadows before them.
Diamanda reached the crest of the hill.
She paused. She wouldn't put it past that old Weatherwax woman to have followed her. She felt sure there had been something tracking her in the woods.
There was no one else around.