Discworld 05 - Sourcery

by Terry Pratchett

  “…and…and…when you went to the window,” Nijel’s mouth, lacking any further input from his brain, ran down.

  Moving, jostling ice packed the plain, roaring forward under a great cloud of clammy steam. The ground shook as the leaders passed below, and it was obvious to the onlookers that whoever was going to stop this would need more than a couple of pounds of rock salt and a shovel.

  “Go on, then,” said Conina, “explain. I think you’d better shout.

  Nijel looked distractedly at the herd.

  “I think I can see some figures,” said Creosote helpfully. “Look, on top of the leading…things.”

  Nijel peered through the snow. There were indeed beings moving around on the backs of the glaciers. They were human, or humanoid, or at least humanish. They didn’t look very big.

  That turned out to be because the glaciers themselves were very big, and Nijel wasn’t very good at perspective. As the horses flew lower over the leading glacier, a huge bull heavily crevassed and scarred by moraine, it became apparent that one reason why the Ice Giants were known as the Ice Giants was because they were, well, giants.

  The other was that they were made of ice.

  A figure the size of a large house was crouched at the crest of the bull, urging it to greater efforts by means of a spike on a long pole. It was craggy, in fact it was more nearly faceted, and glinted green and blue in the light; there was a thin band of silver in its snowy locks, and its eyes were tiny and black and deep set, like lumps of coal.*

  There was a splintering crash ahead as the leading glaciers smacked into a forest. Birds rattled up in panic. Snow and splinters rained down around Nijel as he galloped on the air alongside the giant.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Erm,” he said, “excuse me?”

  Ahead of the boiling surf of earth, snow and smashed timber a herd of caribou was running in blind panic, their rear hooves a few feet from the tumbling mess.

  Nijel tried again.

  “I say?” he shouted.

  The giant’s head turned toward him.

  “Vot you vant?” it said. “Go avay, hot person.”

  “Sorry, but is this really necessary?”

  The giant looked at him in frozen astonishment. It turned around slowly and regarded the rest of the herd, which seemed to stretch all the way to the Hub. It looked at Nijel again.

  “Yarss,” it said, “I tink so. Othervise, why ve do it?”

  “Only there’s a lot of people out there who would prefer you not to, you see,” said Nijel, desperately. A rock spire loomed briefly ahead of the glacier, rocked for a second and then vanished.

  He added, “Also children and small furry animals.”

  “They vill suffer in the cause of progress. Now is the time ve reclaim the vorld,” rumbled the giant. “Whole vorld of ice. According to inevitability of history and triumph of thermodynamics.”

  “Yes, but you don’t have to,” said Nijel.

  “Ve vant to,” said the giant. “The gods are gone, ve throw off shackles of outmoded superstition.”

  “Freezing the whole world solid doesn’t sound very progressive to me,” said Nijel.

  “Ve like it.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Nijel, in the maniacally glazed tones of one who is trying to see all sides of the issue and is certain that a solution will be found if people of goodwill will only sit around a table and discuss things rationally like sensible human beings. “But is this the right time? Is the world ready for the triumph of ice?”

  “It bloody vell better be,” said the giant, and swung his glacier prod at Nijel. It missed the horse but caught him full in the chest, lifting him clean out of the saddle and flicking him onto the glacier itself. He spun, spreadeagled, down its freezing flanks, was carried some way by the boil of debris, and rolled into the slush of ice and mud between the speeding walls.

  He staggered to his feet, and peered hopelessly into the freezing fog. Another glacier bore down directly on him.

  So did Conina. She leaned over as her horse swept down out of the fog, caught Nijel by his leather barbarian harness, and swung him up in front of her.

  As they rose again he wheezed, “Cold-hearted bastard. I really thought I was getting somewhere for a moment there. You just can’t talk to some people.”

  The herd breasted another hill, scraping off quite a lot of it, and the Sto Plain, studded with cities, lay helpless before it.

  Rincewind sidled toward the nearest Thing, holding Coin with one hand and swinging the loaded sock in the other.

  “No magic, right?” he said.

  “Yes,” said the boy.

  “Whatever happens, you musn’t use magic?”

  “That’s it. Not here. They haven’t got much power here, if you don’t use magic. Once they break through, though…”

  His voice trailed away.

  “Pretty awful,” Rincewind nodded.

  “Terrible,” said Coin.

  Rincewind sighed. He wished he still had his hat. He’d just have to do without it.

  “All right,” he said. “When I shout, you make a run for the light. Do you understand? No looking back or anything. No matter what happens.”

  “No matter what?” said Coin uncertainly.

  “No matter what.” Rincewind gave a brave little smile. “Especially no matter what you hear.”

  He was vaguely cheered to see Coin’s mouth become an “O” of terror.

  “And then,” he continued, “when you get back to the other side—”

  “What shall I do?”

  Rincewind hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “Anything you can. As much magic as you like. Anything. Just stop them. And…um…”

  “Yes?”

  Rincewind gazed up at the Thing, which was still staring into the light.

  “If it…you know…if anyone gets out of this, you know, and everything is all right after all, sort of thing, I’d like you to sort of tell people I sort of stayed here. Perhaps they could sort of write it down somewhere. I mean, I wouldn’t want a statue or anything,” he added virtuously.

  After a while he added, “I think you ought to blow your nose.”

  Coin did so, on the hem of his robe, and then shook Rincewind’s hand solemnly.

  “If ever you…” he began, “that is, you’re the first…it’s been a great…you see, I never really…” His voice trailed off, and then he said, “I just wanted you to know that.”

  “There was something else I was trying to say,” said Rincewind, letting go of the hand. He looked blank for a moment, and then added, “Oh, yes. It’s vital to remember who you really are. It’s very important. It isn’t a good idea to rely on other people or things to do it for you, you see. They always get it wrong.”

  “I’ll try and remember,” said Coin.

  “It’s very important,” Rincewind repeated, almost to himself. “And now I think you’d better run.”

  Rincewind crept closer to the Thing. This particular one had chicken legs, but most of the rest of it was mercifully hidden in what looked like folded wings.

  It was, he thought, time for a few last words. What he said now was likely to be very important. Perhaps they would be words that would be remembered, and handed down, and maybe even carved deeply in slabs of granite.

  Words without too many curly letters in, therefore.

  “I really wish I wasn’t here,” he muttered.

  He hefted the sock, whirled it once or twice, and smashed the Thing on what he hoped was its kneecap.

  It gave a shrill buzz, spun wildly with its wings creaking open, lunged vaguely at Rincewind with its vulture head and got another sockful of sand on the upswing.

  Rincewind looked around desperately as the Thing staggered back, and saw Coin still standing where he had left him. To his horror he saw the boy begin to walk toward him, hands raised instinctively to fire the magic which, here, would doom both of them.

  “Run away, you idiot!” he screamed, as the Thi
ng began to gather itself for a counter-attack. From out of nowhere he found the words, “You know what happens to boys who are bad!”

  Coin went pale, turned and ran toward the light. He moved as though through treacle, fighting against the entropy slope. The distorted image of the world turned inside out hovered a few feet away, then inches, wavering uncertainly…

  A tentacle curled around his leg, tumbling him forward.

  He flung his hands out as he fell, and one of them touched snow. It was immediately grabbed by something else that felt like a warm, soft leather glove, but under the gentle touch was a grip as tough as tempered steel and it tugged him forward, also dragging whatever it was that had caught him.

  Light and grainy dark flicked around him and suddenly he was sliding over cobbles slicked with ice.

  The Librarian let go his hold and stood over Coin with a length of heavy wooden beam in his hand. For a moment the ape reared against the darkness, the shoulder, elbow and wrist of his right arm unfolding in a poem of applied leverage, and in a movement as unstoppable as the dawn of intelligence brought it down very heavily. There was a squashy noise and an offended screech, and the burning pressure on Coin’s leg vanished.

  The dark column wavered. There were squeals and thumps coming from it, distorted by distance.

  Coin struggled to his feet and started to run back into the dark, but this time the Librarian’s arm blocked his path.

  “We can’t just leave him in there!”

  The ape shrugged.

  There was another crackle from the dark, and then a moment of almost complete silence.

  But only almost complete. Both of them thought they heard, a long way off but very distinct, the sound of running feet fading into the distance.

  They found an echo in the outside world. The ape glanced around, and then pushed Coin hurriedly to one side as something squat and battered and with hundreds of little legs barrelled across the stricken courtyard and, without so much as pausing in its stride, leapt into the disappearing darkness, which flickered for one last time and vanished.

  There was a sudden flurry of snow across the air where it had been.

  Coin wrenched free of the Librarian’s grip and ran into the circle, which was already turning white. His feet scuffed up a sprinkle of fine sand.

  “He didn’t come out!” he said.

  “Oook,” said the Librarian, in a philosophic manner.

  “I thought he’d come out. You know, just at the last minute.”

  “Oook?”

  Coin looked closely at the cobbles, as if by mere concentration he could change what he saw. “Is he dead?”

  “Oook,” observed the Librarian, contriving to imply that Rincewind was in a region where even things like time and space were a bit iffy, and that it was probably not very useful to speculate as to his exact state at this point in time, if indeed he was at any point in time at all, and that, all in all, he might even turn up tomorrow or, for that matter, yesterday, and finally that if there was any chance at all of surviving then Rincewind almost certainly would.

  “Oh,” said Coin.

  He watched the Librarian shuffle around and head back for the Tower of Art, and a desperate loneliness overcame him.

  “I say!” he yelled.

  “Oook?”

  “What should I do now?”

  “Oook?”

  Coin waved vaguely at the desolation.

  “You know, perhaps I could do something about all this?” he said in a voice tilting on the edge of terror. “Do you think that would be a good idea? I mean, I could help people. I’m sure you’d like to be human again, wouldn’t you?”

  The Librarian’s everlasting smile hoisted itself a little further up his face, just enough to reveal his teeth.

  “Okay, perhaps not,” said Coin hurriedly, “but there’s other things I could do, isn’t there?”

  The Librarian gazed at him for some time, then dropped his eyes to the boy’s hand. Coin gave a guilty start, and opened his fingers.

  The ape caught the little silver ball neatly before it hit the ground and held it up to one eye. He sniffed it, shook it gently, and listened to it for a while.

  Then he wound up his arm and flung it away as hard as possible.

  “What—” Coin began, and landed full length in the snow when the Librarian pushed him over and dived on top of him.

  The ball curved over at the top of its arc and tumbled down, its perfect path interrupted suddenly by the ground. There was a sound like a harp string breaking, a brief babble of incomprehensible voices, a rush of hot wind, and the gods of the Disc were free.

  The were very angry.

  “There is nothing we can do, is there?” said Creosote.

  “No,” said Conina.

  “The ice is going to win, isn’t it?” said Creosote.

  “Yes,” said Conina.

  “No,” said Nijel.

  He was trembling with rage, or possibly with cold, and was nearly as pale as the glaciers that rumbled past below them.

  Conina sighed. “Well, just how do you think—” she began.

  “Take me down somewhere a few minutes ahead of them,” said Nijel.

  “I really don’t see how that would help.”

  “I wasn’t asking your opinion,” said Nijel, quietly. “Just do it. Put me down a little way ahead of them so I’ve got a while to get sorted out.”

  “Get what sorted out?”

  Nijel didn’t answer.

  “I said,” said Conina, “get what—”

  “Shut up!”

  “I don’t see why—”

  “Look,” said Nijel, with the patience that lies just short of axe-murdering. “The ice is going to cover the whole world, right? Everyone’s going to die, okay? Except for us for a little while, I suppose, until these horses want their, their, their oats or the lavatory or whatever, which isn’t much use to us except maybe Creosote will just about have time to write a sonnet or something about how cold it is all of a sudden, and the whole of human history is about to be scraped up and in these circumstances I would like very much to make it completely clear that I am not about to be argued with, is that absolutely understood?”

  He paused for breath, trembling like a harpstring.

  Conina hesitated. Her mouth opened and shut a few times, as though she was considering arguing, and then she thought better of it.

  They found a small clearing in a pine forest a mile or two ahead of the herd, although the sound of it was clearly audible and there was a line of steam above the trees and the ground was dancing like a drumtop.

  Nijel strolled to the middle of the clearing and made a few practice swings with his sword. The others watched him thoughtfully.

  “If you don’t mind,” whispered Creosote to Conina, “I’ll be off. It’s at times like this that sobriety loses its attractions and I’m sure the end of the world will look a lot better through the bottom of a glass, if it’s all the same to you. Do you believe in Paradise, o peach-cheeked blossom?”

  “Not as such, no.”

  “Oh,” said Creosote. “Well, in that case we probably won’t be seeing each other again.” He sighed. “What a waste. All this was just because of a geas. Um. Of course, if by some unthinkable chance—”

  “Goodbye,” said Conina.

  Creosote nodded miserably, wheeled the horse and disappeared over the treetops.

  Snow was shaking down from the branches around the clearing. The thunder of the approaching glaciers filled the air.

  Nijel started when she tapped him on the shoulder, and dropped his sword.

  “What are you doing here?” he snapped, fumbling desperately in the snow.

  “Look, I’m not prying or anything,” said Conina meekly, “but what exactly do you have in mind?”

  She could see a rolling heap of bulldozed snow and soil bearing down on them through the forest, the mind-numbing sound of the leading glaciers now overlaid with the rhythmic snapping of tree trunks. And, adva
ncing implacably above the treeline, so high that the eye mistook them at first for sky, the blue-green prows.

  “Nothing,” said Nijel, “nothing at all. We’ve just got to resist them, that’s all there is to it. That’s what we’re here for.”

  “But it won’t make any difference,” she said.

  “It will to me. If we’re going to die anyway, I’d rather die like this. Heroically.”

  “Is it heroic to die like this?” said Conina.

  “I think it is,” he said, “and when it comes to dying, there’s only one opinion that matters.”

  “Oh.”

  A couple of deer blundered into the clearing, ignored the humans in their blind panic, and rocketed away.

  “You don’t have to stay,” said Nijel. “I’ve got this geas, you see.”

  Conina looked at the backs of her hands.

  “I think I should,” she said, and added, “You know, I thought maybe, you know, if we could just get to know one another better—”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Harebut, was that what you had in mind?” he said bluntly.

  Her eyes widened. “Well—” she began.

  “Which one did you intend to be?” he said.

  The leading glacier smashed into the clearing just behind its bow wave, its top lost in a cloud of its own creation.

  At exactly the same time the trees opposite it bent low as a hot wind blew from the Rim. It was loaded with voices—petulant, bickering voices—and tore into the clouds like a hot iron into water.

  Conina and Nijel threw themselves down into snow which turned to warm slush under them. Something like a thunderstorm crashed overhead, filled with shouting and what they at first thought were screams although, thinking about them later, they seemed more like angry arguments. It went on for a long time, and then began to fade in the direction of the Hub.

  Warm water flooded down the front of Nijel’s vest. He lifted himself cautiously, and then nudged Conina.

  Together they scrambled through the slush and mud to the top of the slope, climbed through a logjam of smashed timber and boulders, and stared at the scene.

  The glaciers were retreating, under a cloud stuffed with lightning. Behind them the landscape was a network of lakes and pools.