Discworld 05 - Sourcery

by Terry Pratchett

  “You mean they’ll cancel each other out?”

  “Hopefully.”

  The battle was hidden in its own infernal glow. Then the floor began to tremble.

  “They’re drawing on everything magical,” said Hakardly. “We’d better leave the tower.”

  “Why?”

  “I imagine it will vanish soon enough.”

  And, indeed, the white flagstones around the glow looked as though they were unravelling and disappearing into it.

  Rincewind hesitated.

  “Aren’t we going to help him?” he said.

  Hakardly stared at him, and then at the iridescent tableau. His mouth opened and shut once or twice.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Yes, but just a bit of help on his side, you’ve seen what that thing is like—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He helped you.” Rincewind turned on the other wizards, who were scurrying away. “All of you. He gave you what you wanted, didn’t he?”

  “We may never forgive him,” said Hakardly.

  Rincewind groaned.

  “What will be left when it’s all over?” he said. “What will be left?”

  Hakardly looked down.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  The octarine light had grown brighter and was beginning to turn black around the edge. It wasn’t the black that is merely the opposite of light, though; it was the grainy, shifting blackness that glows beyond the glare and has no business in any decent reality. And it buzzed.

  Rincewind did a little dance of uncertainty as his feet, legs, instincts and incredibly well-developed sense of self-preservation overloaded his nervous system to the point where, just as it was on the point of fusing, his conscience finally got its way.

  He leapt into the fire and reached the staff.

  The wizards fled. Several of them levitated down from the tower.

  They were a lot more perspicacious than those that used the stairs because, about thirty seconds later, the tower vanished.

  The snow continued to fall around a column of blackness, which buzzed.

  And the surviving wizards who dared to look back saw, tumbling slowly down the sky, a small object trailing flames behind it. It crashed into the cobbles, where it smouldered for a bit before the thickening snow put it out.

  Pretty soon it became just a small mound.

  A little while later a squat figure swung itself across the courtyard on its knuckles, scrabbled in the snow, and hauled the thing out.

  It was, or rather it had been, a hat. Life had not been kind to it. A large part of the wide brim had been burned off, the point was entirely gone, and the tarnished silver letters were almost unreadable. Some of them had been torn off in any case. Those that were left spelled out: WIZD.

  The Librarian turned around slowly. He was entirely alone, except for the towering column of burning blackness and the steadily falling flakes.

  The ravaged campus was empty. There were a few other pointy hats that had been trampled by terrified feet, and no other sign that people had been there.

  All the wizards were wazards.

  “War?”

  “Wazzat?”

  “Wasn’t there,” Pestilence groped for his glass, “something?”

  “Wazzat?”

  “We ought to be…there’s something we ought to be doing,” said Famine.

  “S’right. Got an appointment.”

  “The—” Pestilence gazed reflectively into his drink. “Thingy.”

  They stared gloomily at the bar counter. The innkeeper had long ago fled. There were several bottles still unopened.

  “Okra,” said Famine, eventually. “That was it.”

  “Nah.”

  “The Apos…the Apostrophe,” said War, vaguely.

  They shook their heads. There was a lengthy pause.

  “What does ‘apocrustic’ mean?” said Pestilence, gazing intently into some inner world.

  “Astringent,” said War, “I think.”

  “It’s not that, then?”

  “Shouldn’t think so,” said Famine, glumly.

  There was another long, embarrassed silence.

  “Better have ’nother drink,” said War, pulling himself together.

  “S’right.”

  About fifty miles away and several thousand feet up, Conina at last managed to control her stolen horse and brought it to a gentle trot on the empty air, displaying some of the most determined nonchalance the Disc had ever seen.

  “Snow?” she said.

  Clouds were roaring soundlessly from the direction of the Hub. They were fat and heavy and shouldn’t be moving so fast. Blizzards trailed beneath them, covering the landscape like a sheet.

  It didn’t look like the kind of snow that whispers down gently in the pit of the night and in the morning turns the landscape into a glittering wonderland of uncommon and ethereal beauty. It looked like the kind of snow that intends to make the world as bloody cold as possible.

  “Bit late in the year,” said Nijel. He glanced downwards, and then immediately closed his eyes.

  Creosote watched in delighted astonishment. “Is that how it happens?” he said. “I’ve only heard about it in stories. I thought it sprouted out of the ground somehow. Bit like mushrooms, I thought.”

  “Those clouds aren’t right,” said Conina.

  “Do you mind if we go down now?” said Nijel weakly. “Somehow it didn’t look so bad when we were moving.”

  Conina ignored this. “Try the lamp,” she commanded. “I want to know about this.”

  Nijel fumbled in his pack and produced the lamp.

  The voice of the genie sounded rather tinny and far off, and said: “If you would care to relax a little…trying to connect you.” There then followed some tinkly little music, the kind that perhaps a Swiss chalet would make if you could play it, before a trapdoor outlined itself in the air and the genie himself appeared. He looked around him, and then at them.

  “Oh, wow,” he said.

  “Something’s happening to the weather,” said Conina. “Why?”

  “You mean you don’t know?” said the genie.

  “We’re asking you, aren’t we?”

  “Well, I’m no judge, but it rather looks like the Apocralypse, yuh?”

  “What?”

  The genie shrugged. “The gods have vanished, okay?” he said. “And according to, you know, legend, that means—”

  “The Ice Giants,” said Nijel, in a horrified whisper.

  “Speak up,” said Creosote.

  “The Ice Giants,” Nijel repeated loudly, with a trace of irritation. “The gods keep them imprisoned, see. At the Hub. But at the end of the world they’ll break free at last, and ride out on their dreadful glaciers and regain their ancient domination, crushing out the flames of civilization until the world lies naked and frozen under the terrible cold stars until Time itself freezes over. Or something like that, apparently.”

  “But it isn’t time for the Apocralypse,” said Conina desperately. “I mean, a dreadful ruler has to arise, there must be a terrible war, the four dreadful horsemen have to ride, and then the Dungeon Dimensions will break into the world—” She stopped, her face nearly as white as the snow.

  “Being buried under a thousand-foot ice sheet sounds awfully like it, anyway,” said the genie. He reached forward and snatched his lamp out of Nijel’s hands.

  “Mucho apologies,” he said, “but it’s time to liquidize my assets in this reality. See you around. Or something.” He vanished up to the waist, and then with a faint last cry of “Shame about lunch,” disappeared entirely.

  The three riders peered through the veils of driving snow toward the Hub.

  “It may be my imagination,” said Creosote, “but can either of you hear a sort of creaking and groaning?”

  “Shut up,” said Conina distractedly.

  Creosote leaned over and patted her hand.

  “Cheer up,” he said, “it’s not
the end of the world.” He thought about this statement for a bit, and then added, “Sorry. Just a figure of speech.”

  “What are we going to do?” she wailed.

  Nijel drew himself up.

  “I think,” he said, “that we should go and explain.”

  They turned toward him with the kind of expression normally reserved for messiahs or extreme idiots.

  “Yes,” he said, with a shade more confidence. “We should explain.”

  “Explain to the Ice Giants?” said Conina.

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry,” said Conina, “have I got this right? You think we should go and find the terrifying Ice Giants and sort of tell them that there are a lot of warm people out here who would rather they didn’t sweep across the world crushing everyone under mountains of ice, and could they sort of reconsider things? Is that what you think we should do?”

  “Yes. That’s right. You’ve got it exactly.”

  Conina and Creosote exchanged glances. Nijel remained sitting proudly in the saddle, a faint smile on his face.

  “Is your geese giving you trouble?” said the Seriph.

  “Geas,” said Nijel calmly. “It’s not giving me trouble, it’s just that I must do something brave before I die.”

  “That’s it though,” said Creosote. “That’s the whole rather sad point. You’ll do something brave, and then you’ll die.”

  “What alternative have we got?” said Nijel.

  They considered this.

  “I don’t think I’m much good at explaining,” said Conina, in a small voice.

  “I am,” said Nijel, firmly. “I’m always having to explain.”

  The scattered particles of what had been Rincewind’s mind pulled themselves together and drifted up through the layers of dark unconsciousness like a three-day corpse rising to the surface.

  It probed its most recent memories, in much the same way that one might scratch a fresh scab.

  He could recall something about a staff, and a pain so intense that it appeared to insert a chisel between every cell in his body and hammer on it repeatedly.

  He remembered the staff fleeing, dragging him after it. And then there had been that dreadful bit where Death had appeared and reached past him, and the staff had twisted and become suddenly alive and Death had said, IPSLORE THE RED, I HAVE YOU NOW.

  And now there was this.

  By the feel of it Rincewind was lying on sand. It was very cold.

  He took the risk of seeing something horrible and opened his eyes.

  The first thing he saw was his left arm and, surprisingly, his hand. It was its normal grubby self. He had expected to see a stump.

  It seemed to be nighttime. The beach, or whatever it was, stretched on toward a line of distant low mountains, under night sky frosted with a million stars.

  A little closer to him there was a rough line in the silvery sand. He lifted his head slightly and saw the scatter of molten droplets. They were octiron, a metal so intrinsically magical that no forge on the Disc could even warm it up.

  “Oh,” he said. “We won, then.”

  He flopped down again.

  After a while his right hand came up automatically and patted the top of his head. Then it patted the sides of his head. Then it began to grope, with increasing urgency, in the sand around him.

  Eventually it must have communicated its concern to the rest of Rincewind, because he pulled himself upright and said, “Oh, bugger.”

  There seemed to be no hat anywhere. But he could see a small white shape lying very still in the sand a little way away and, further off—

  A column of daylight.

  It hummed and swayed in the air, a three-dimensional hole into somewhere else. Occasional flurries of snow blew out of it. He could see skewed images in the light, that might be buildings or landscapes warped by the weird curvature. But he couldn’t see them very clearly, because of the tall, brooding shadows that surrounded it.

  The human mind is an astonishing thing. It can operate on several levels at once. And, in fact, while Rincewind had been wasting his intellect in groaning and looking for his hat, an inner part of his brain had been observing, assessing, analyzing and comparing.

  Now it crept up to his cerebellum, tapped it on the shoulder, thrust a message into its hand and ran for it.

  The message ran something like this: I hope I find me well. The last trial of magic has been too much for the tortured fabric of reality. It has opened a hole. I am in the Dungeon Dimensions. And the things in front of me are…the Things. It has been nice knowing me.

  The particular thing nearest Rincewind was at least twenty feet high. It looked like a dead horse that had been dug up after three months and then introduced to a range of new experiences, at least one of which had included an octopus.

  It hadn’t noticed Rincewind. It was too busy concentrating on the light.

  Rincewind crawled back to the still body of Coin and nudged it gently.

  “Are you alive?” he said. “If you’re not, I’d prefer it if you didn’t answer.”

  Coin rolled over and stared up at him with puzzled eyes. After a while he said, “I remember—”

  “Best not to,” said Rincewind.

  The boy’s hand groped vaguely in the sand beside him.

  “It isn’t here anymore,” said Rincewind, quietly. The hand stopped its searching.

  Rincewind helped Coin to sit up. He looked blankly at the cold silver sand, then at the sky, then at the distant Things, and then at Rincewind.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he said.

  “No harm in that. I’ve never known what to do,” said Rincewind with hollow cheerfulness. “Been completely at a loss my whole life.” He hesitated. “I think it’s called being human, or something.”

  “But I’ve always known what to do!”

  Rincewind opened his mouth to say that he’d seen some of it, but changed his mind. Instead he said, “Chin up. Look on the bright side. It could be worse.”

  Coin took another look around.

  “In what respect, exactly?” he said, his voice a shade more normal.

  “Um.”

  “What is this place?”

  “It’s a sort of other dimension. The magic broke through and we went with it, I think.”

  “And those things?”

  They regarded the Things.

  “I think they’re Things. They’re trying to get back through the hole,” said Rincewind. “It isn’t easy. Energy levels, or something. I remember we had a lecture on them once. Er.”

  Coin nodded, and reached out a thin pale hand toward Rincewind’s forehead.

  “Do you mind—?” he began.

  Rincewind shuddered at the touch. “Mind what?” he said.

  —if I have a look in your head?

  “Aargh.”

  It’s rather a mess in here. No wonder you can’t find things.

  “Ergh.”

  You ought to have a clear out.

  “Oogh.”

  “Ah.”

  Rincewind felt the presence retreat. Coin frowned.

  “We can’t let them get through,” he announced. “They have horrible powers. They’re trying to will the hole bigger, and they can do it. They’ve been waiting to break into our world for—” he frowned—“ians?”

  “Aeons,” said Rincewind.

  Coin opened his other hand, which had been tightly clenched, and showed Rincewind the small gray pearl.

  “Do you know what this is?” he said.

  “No. What is it?”

  “I—can’t remember. But we should put it back.”

  “Okay. Just use sourcery. Blow them to bits and let’s go home.”

  “No. They live on magic. It’d only make them worse. I can’t use magic.”

  “Are you sure?” said Rincewind.

  “I’m afraid your memory was very clear on the subject.”

  “Then what shall we do?”

  “I don’t know!”


  Rincewind thought about this and then, with an air of finality, started to take off his last sock.

  “No half-bricks,” he said, to no one in particular. “Have to use sand.”

  “You’re going to attack them with a sockful of sand?”

  “No. I’m going to run away from them. The sockful of sand is for when they follow.”

  People were returning to Al Khali, where the ruined tower was a smoking heap of stones. A few brave souls turned their attention to the wreckage, on the basis that there might be survivors who could be rescued or looted or both.

  And, among the rubble, the following conversation might have been heard:

  “There’s something moving under here!”

  “Under that? By the two beards of Imtal, you are mishearing. It must weigh a ton.”

  “Over here, brothers!”

  And then sounds of much heaving would have been heard, and then:

  “It’s a box!”

  “It could be treasure, do you think?”

  “It’s growing legs, by the Seven Moons of Nasreem!”

  “Five moons—”

  “Where’d it go? Where’d it go?”

  “Never mind about that, it’s not important. Let’s get this straight, according to the legend it was five moons—”

  In Klatch they take their mythology seriously. It’s only real life they don’t believe.

  The three horsepersons sensed the change as they descended through the heavy snowclouds at the Hub end of the Sto Plain. There was a sharp scent in the air.

  “Can’t you smell it?” said Nijel, “I remember it when I was a boy, when you lay in bed on that first morning in winter, and you could sort of taste it in the air and—”

  The clouds parted below them and there, filling the high plains country from end to end, were the herds of the Ice Giants.

  They stretched for miles in every direction, and the thunder of their stampede filled the air.

  The bull glaciers were in the lead, bellowing their vast creaky calls and throwing up great sheets of earth as they plowed relentlessly forward. Behind them pressed the great mass of cows and their calves, skimming over land already ground down to the bedrock by the leaders.

  They bore as much resemblance to the familiar glaciers the world thought it knew as a lion dozing in the shade bears to three hundred pounds of wickedly coordinated muscle bounding toward you with its mouth open.