There had been a painful confusion of tunnels and sliding dirt. Rincewind assumed - or the small part of him that was not sobbing with fear assumed - that the earth had caved in after him. Cave. That was a significant word. He was in a cave. Reaching out carefully, in case he felt something, he felt for something to feef. There was a straight edge. It led to three more straight edges, going off at right angles. So . . . this meant slab. The darkness was still a choking velvet shroud. Slab meant that there was some other entrance, some proper entrance. Even now guards were probably hurrying towards him. Perhaps the Luggage was hurrying towards them. It had been acting very funny lately, that was for certain. He was probably better off without it. Probably. He patted his pockets, saying the mantra that even non-wizards invoke in order to find matches; that is. he said, 'Matches, matches, matches,' madly to himself, under his breath. He found some, and scratched one desperately with his thumbnail. 'Ow!' The smoky yellow flame lit nothing except Rince-wind's hand and part of his sleeve. He ventured a few steps before it burned his fingers, and when it died it left a blue afterglow in the darkness of his vision. There were no sounds of vengeful feet. There were no sounds at all. In theory there should be the drip of water, but the air felt quite dry. He tried another match, and this time raised it as high as he could and peered ahead. A seven-foot warrior smiled at him. Cohen looked up again. 'It's going to piss down in a minute,' he said. 'Will you look at that sky?' There were hints of purple and red in the mass, and the occasional momentary glow of lightning somewhere inside the clouds. 'Teach?'
'Yes?'
'You know everything. Why's that cloud looking like that?'
Mr Saveloy looked where Cohen was pointing. There was a yellowish cloud low on the horizon. Right around the horizon - one thin streak, as though the sun was trying to find a way through. 'Could be the lining?' said Boy Willie. 'What lining?'
'Every cloud's supposed to have a silver one.'
'Yeah, but that's more like gold.'
'Well, gold's cheaper here.'
'Is it me,' said Mr Saveloy, 'or is it getting wider?' Caleb was staring at the enemy lines. There's been a lot of blokes galloping about on their little horses,' he said. 'I hope they get a move on. We don't want to be here all day.'
'I vote we rushes 'em while they're not expectin' it,' said Hamish. 'Hold on . . . hold on . . .' said Truckle. There was the sound of many gongs being beaten, and the crackling of fireworks. 'Looks like the bas— the lovechilds are moving.'
'Thank goodness for that,' said Cohen. He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette. Mr Saveloy trembled with excitement. 'Do we sing a song for the gods before we go into battle?' he said. 'You can if you like,' said Cohen. 'Well, do we say any heathen chants or prayers?'
'Shouldn't think so,' said Cohen. He glanced up at the horizon-girdling band. It was unsettling him far more than the approaching enemy. It was wider now, but slightly paler. For just a moment he found himself wishing that there was one god or goddess somewhere whose temple he hadn't violated, robbed or burned down. 'Don't we bang our swords on our shields and utter defiance?' said the teacher hopefully. 'Too late for that, really,' said Cohen. Mr Saveloy looked so crestfallen at the lack of pagan splendour that the ancient barbarian was, to his own surprise, moved to add: 'But feel free, if that's what you want.' The Horde drew their various swords. In Hamish's case, another axe was produced from under his rug.
'See you in Heaven!' said Mr Saveloy excitedly. 'Yeah, right,' said Caleb, eyeing the line of approaching soldiers. 'Where there's feasting and young ladies and so forth!'
'Yeah, yeah,' said Boy Willie, testing the blade of his sword. 'And carousing and quaffing, I believe!'
'Could be,' said Vincent, trying to ease the tendon-itis in his arm. 'And we'll do that thing, you know, where you throw the axes and cut ladies' plaits off!'
'Yeah, if you like.'
'But—'
'Whut?'
'The actual feasting . . . Do they do anything vegetarian?' And the advancing army screamed and charged. They rushed at the Horde, almost as fast as the clouds boiling in from every direction. Rincewind's brain unfroze slowly, in the darkness and silence of the hill. It's a statue, he told himself. That's all it is. No problem there. Not even a particularly good one. Just a big statue of a man in armour. Look, there's a couple more, you can just see them at the edge of the light . . . 'Ow!' He dropped the match and sucked his fingers. What he needed now was a wall. Walls had exits. True, they could also be entrances, but now there did not seem much danger of any guards hurrying in here. The air had an ancient smell, with a hint of fox and a slight trace of thunderstorms, but above all it tasted unused. He crept forward, testing each step with his foot. Then there was light. A small blue spark jumped off Rincewind's finger. Cohen grabbed at his beard. It was straining away from his face.
Mr Saveloy's fringe of hair stood out from his head and sparked at the ends. 'Static discharges!' he shouted, above the crackle. Ahead of them the spears of the enemy glowed at the tips. The charge faltered. There was the occasional shriek as sparks leaped from man to man. Cohen looked up. 'Oh, my,' he said. 'Will you look at that!' Tiny sparks flickered around Rincewind as he eased himself over the unseen floor. The word tomb had presented itself for his consideration, and one thing Rincewind knew about large tombs was that their builders were often jolly inventive in the traps and spikes department. They also put in things like paintings and statues, possibly so that the dead had something to look at if they became bored. Rincewind's hand touched stone, and he moved carefully sideways. Now and again his feet touched something yielding and soft. He very much hoped it was mud. And then, right at hand height, was a lever. It stuck out fully two feet. Now . . . it could be a trap. But traps were generally, well, traps. The first you knew about them was when your head was rolling along the corridor several yards away. And trap builders tended to be straightforwardly homicidal and seldom required victims to actively participate in their own destruction. Rincewind pulled it. The yellow cloud sailed overhead in its millions, moving much faster on the wind they'd created than the slow beating of their wings would suggest. Behind them came the storm. Mr Saveloy blinked. 'Butterflies?' Both sides stopped as the creatures sleeted past. It was even possible to hear the rustle of their wings. 'All right, Teach,' said Cohen. 'Explain this one.'
'It, it, it could be a natural phenomenon,' said Mr Saveloy. 'Er . . . Monarch butterflies, for example, have been known to . . . er . . . to tell you the truth, I don't know . . .' The cloud swarmed on towards the hill.
'Not some kind of sign?' said Cohen. 'There must have been some temple I didn't rob.'
'The trouble with signs and portents,' said Boy Willie, 'is you never know who they're for. This'n could be a nice one for Hong and his pals.'
'Then I'm nicking it,' said Cohen. 'You can't steal a message from the gods!' said Mr Saveloy. 'Can you see it nailed down anywhere? No? Sure? Right. So it's mine.' He raised his sword as the stragglers fluttered past overhead. 'The gods smile on us!' he bellowed. 'Hahaha!'
'Hahaha?' whispered Mr Saveloy. 'Just to worry 'em,' said Cohen. He glanced at the other members of the Horde. Each man nodded, very slightly. 'All right, lads,' he said quietly. 'This is it.'
'Er . . . what do I do?' said Mr Saveloy. Think of something to make yourself good and angry. That gets the ole blood boiling. Imagine the enemy is everything you hate.'
'Head teachers,' said Mr Saveloy. 'Good.'
'Sports masters!' shouted Mr Saveloy. 'Yep.'
'Boys who chew gum!' screamed Mr Saveloy. 'Look at him, steam coming out of his ears already,' said Cohen. 'First one to the afterlife gets 'em in. Charge!' The yellow cloud thronged up the slopes of the hill and then, carried on the uprising wind, rose. Above it the storm rose too, piling up and up and spreading into a shape something like a hammer— It struck. Lightning hit the iron pagoda so hard that it exploded into white-hot fragments.
It is confusing for an entire army to be attacked by seven old men. No book of tactics is up to the task of offering advice. There is a tendency towards baffle-nent. The soldiers backed away in the face of the rush and then, driven by currents in the great mass of men, closed in behind. A solid circle of shields surrounded the Horde. It buckled and swayed under the press of men, and also under the blows rained on it by Mr Saveloy's sword. 'Come on, fight!' he shouted. 'Smoke pipes at me, would you? You! That boy there! Answer me back, eh! Take that!' Cohen looked at Caleb, who shrugged. He'd seen berserk rages in his time, but nothing quite so incandescent as Mr Saveloy. The circle broke as a couple of men tried to dart backwards and cannoned into the rank behind and then rebounded on to the swords of the Horde. One of Hamish's wheels caught a soldier a vicious blow on the knee and, as he bent over, one of Hamish's axes met him coming the other way. It wasn't speed. The Horde couldn't move very fast. But it was economy. Mr Saveloy had remarked on it. They were simply always where they wanted to be, which was never where someone's sword was. They let everyone else do the running around. A soldier would risk a slash in the direction of Truckle and find Cohen rising in front of him, grinning and swinging, or Boy Willie giving him a nod of acknowledgement and a stab. Occasionally one of the Horde took time to parry a blow aimed at Mr Saveloy, who was far too excited to defend himself. 'Pull back, you bloody fools!' Lord Hong appeared behind the throng, his horse rearing, his helmet visor flung back. The soldiers tried to obey. Finally, the press eased a little, and then opened. The Horde were left in a widening ring of shields. There was something like silence, broken only by the endless thunder and the crackle of lightning on the hill. And then, pushing their way angrily through the soldiers, came an altogether different breed of warrior. They were taller, and heavier armoured, with splendid helmets and moustaches that looked like a declaration of war in themselves. One of them glared at Cohen. 'Orrrrr! Itiyorshu! Yutimishu!'
'Wassat?' said Cohen. 'He's a samurai,' said Mr Saveloy, wiping his forehead. 'The warrior caste. I think that's their formal challenge. Er. Would you like me to fight him?'