Read Online Discworld 30 - Monstrous Regiment by Terry Pratchett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terry Pratchett
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from various
corners and just a hint of giggle.
‘That was w-wicked!’ hissed Wazzer. ‘Nuggan in heaven saw you d-do that!’
‘It was just a picture, all right?’ muttered Tonker. ‘Anyway, what’s the difference? Front
or back, we’re all here together and I don’t see any steak and bacon!’
Something rumbled overhead. ‘I joined t’ see exciting forrin places and meet erotic
people,’ said Carborundum.
That caused a moment’s thought. ‘I think you mean exotic?’ said Igor.
‘Yeah, that kind of stuff,’ agreed the troll.
‘But they always lie,’ said someone, and then Polly realized it was her. ‘They lie all the
time. About everything.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Tonker. ‘We fight for liars.’
‘Ah, they may be liars,’ snapped Polly, in a passable imitation of Strappi’s yap, ‘but
they’re our liars!’
‘Now, now, children,’ said Maladict. ‘Let’s try to get some sleep, shall we? But here’s a
happy little dream from your Uncle Maladict. Dream that when we go into battle, Corporal
Strappi is leading us. Wouldn’t that be fun?’
After a while, Tonker said: ‘In front of us, you mean?’
‘Oh, yes. I can see you’re with me, Tonk. Right in front of you. On the noisy, frantic,
confusing battlefield, where oh so much can go wrong.’
‘And we’ll have weapons?’ said Shufti wistfully.
‘Of course you’ll have weapons. You’re soldiers. And there’s the enemy, right in front of
you . . .’
‘That’s a good dream, Mal.’
‘Sleep on it, kid.’
Polly turned over, and tried to make herself comfortable. It’s all lies, she thought muzzily.
Some of them are just prettier than others, that’s all. People see what they think is there. Even
I’m a lie. But I’m getting away with it.
A warm autumnal wind was blowing leaves off the rowan trees as the recruits marched
among the foothills. It was the morning of the next day, and the mountains were behind them.
Polly passed the time identifying the birds in the hedgerows. It was a habit. She knew most of
them.
She hadn’t set out to be an ornithologist. But birds brought Paul alive. All the . . . slowness
in the rest of his thinking became a flash of lightning in the presence of birds. Suddenly he
knew their names, habits and habitats, could whistle their songs and, after Polly had saved
up for a box of paints off a traveller at the inn, had painted a picture of a wren so real you
could hear it.
Their mother had been alive then. The row had gone on for days. Pictures of living
creatures were an Abomination in the Eyes of Nuggan. Polly had asked why there were
pictures of the Duchess everywhere, and had been thrashed for it. The picture had been
burned, the paints thrown away.
It was a terrible thing. Her mother had been a kind woman, or as kind as a devout woman
could be who tried to keep up with the whims of Nuggan, and she’d died slowly amidst
pictures of the Duchess and amongst the echoes of unanswered prayers, but that was the
memory that crawled treacherously into Polly’s mind every time: the fury and the scolding,
while the little bird seemed to flutter in the flames.
In the fields women and old men were getting in the spoilt wheat after last night’s rain,
hoping to save what they could. There weren’t any young men visible. Polly saw some of the
other recruits steal a glance at the scavenging parties, and wondered if they were thinking the
same thing.
They saw no one else on the road until midday, when the party was marching through a
landscape of low hills; the sun had boiled away some of the clouds and, for a moment at least,
summer was back - moist and sticky and mildly unpleasant, like a party guest who won’t go
home.
A red blob in the distance became a rather larger blob and resolved itself into a loose knot
of men. Polly knew what to expect as soon as she saw it. By the reaction of some of the
others, they did not. There was a moment of
corners and just a hint of giggle.
‘That was w-wicked!’ hissed Wazzer. ‘Nuggan in heaven saw you d-do that!’
‘It was just a picture, all right?’ muttered Tonker. ‘Anyway, what’s the difference? Front
or back, we’re all here together and I don’t see any steak and bacon!’
Something rumbled overhead. ‘I joined t’ see exciting forrin places and meet erotic
people,’ said Carborundum.
That caused a moment’s thought. ‘I think you mean exotic?’ said Igor.
‘Yeah, that kind of stuff,’ agreed the troll.
‘But they always lie,’ said someone, and then Polly realized it was her. ‘They lie all the
time. About everything.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Tonker. ‘We fight for liars.’
‘Ah, they may be liars,’ snapped Polly, in a passable imitation of Strappi’s yap, ‘but
they’re our liars!’
‘Now, now, children,’ said Maladict. ‘Let’s try to get some sleep, shall we? But here’s a
happy little dream from your Uncle Maladict. Dream that when we go into battle, Corporal
Strappi is leading us. Wouldn’t that be fun?’
After a while, Tonker said: ‘In front of us, you mean?’
‘Oh, yes. I can see you’re with me, Tonk. Right in front of you. On the noisy, frantic,
confusing battlefield, where oh so much can go wrong.’
‘And we’ll have weapons?’ said Shufti wistfully.
‘Of course you’ll have weapons. You’re soldiers. And there’s the enemy, right in front of
you . . .’
‘That’s a good dream, Mal.’
‘Sleep on it, kid.’
Polly turned over, and tried to make herself comfortable. It’s all lies, she thought muzzily.
Some of them are just prettier than others, that’s all. People see what they think is there. Even
I’m a lie. But I’m getting away with it.
A warm autumnal wind was blowing leaves off the rowan trees as the recruits marched
among the foothills. It was the morning of the next day, and the mountains were behind them.
Polly passed the time identifying the birds in the hedgerows. It was a habit. She knew most of
them.
She hadn’t set out to be an ornithologist. But birds brought Paul alive. All the . . . slowness
in the rest of his thinking became a flash of lightning in the presence of birds. Suddenly he
knew their names, habits and habitats, could whistle their songs and, after Polly had saved
up for a box of paints off a traveller at the inn, had painted a picture of a wren so real you
could hear it.
Their mother had been alive then. The row had gone on for days. Pictures of living
creatures were an Abomination in the Eyes of Nuggan. Polly had asked why there were
pictures of the Duchess everywhere, and had been thrashed for it. The picture had been
burned, the paints thrown away.
It was a terrible thing. Her mother had been a kind woman, or as kind as a devout woman
could be who tried to keep up with the whims of Nuggan, and she’d died slowly amidst
pictures of the Duchess and amongst the echoes of unanswered prayers, but that was the
memory that crawled treacherously into Polly’s mind every time: the fury and the scolding,
while the little bird seemed to flutter in the flames.
In the fields women and old men were getting in the spoilt wheat after last night’s rain,
hoping to save what they could. There weren’t any young men visible. Polly saw some of the
other recruits steal a glance at the scavenging parties, and wondered if they were thinking the
same thing.
They saw no one else on the road until midday, when the party was marching through a
landscape of low hills; the sun had boiled away some of the clouds and, for a moment at least,
summer was back - moist and sticky and mildly unpleasant, like a party guest who won’t go
home.
A red blob in the distance became a rather larger blob and resolved itself into a loose knot
of men. Polly knew what to expect as soon as she saw it. By the reaction of some of the
others, they did not. There was a moment of
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