Read Online Light Fantastic by Terry Pratchett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Terry Pratchett
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said. “The legend says we should help this Rincewind squashy.”
Kwartz stood up, thought for a moment, then picked Rincewind up by the scruff of his neck and with a big gritty movement placed him on his shoulders.
“We go,” he said firmly. “If we meet Old Grandad I’ll try to explain…”
Two miles away a string of horses trotted through the night. Three of them carried captives, expertly gagged and bound. A fourth pulled a rough travois on which the Luggage lay trussed and netted and silent.
Herrena softly called the column to a halt and beckoned one of her men to her.
“Are you quite sure?” she said. “I can’t hear anything.”
“I saw troll shapes,” he said flatly.
She looked around. The trees had thinned out here, there was a lot of scree, and ahead of them the track led toward a bald, rocky hill that looked especially unpleasant by red starlight.
She was worried about that track. It was extremely old, but something had made it, and trolls took a lot of killing.
She sighed. Suddenly it looked as though that secretarial career was not such a bad option, at that.
Not for the first time she reflected that there were many drawbacks to being a swordswoman, not least of which was that men didn’t take you seriously until you’d actually killed them, by which time it didn’t really matter anyway. Then there was all the leather, which brought her out in a rash but seemed to be unbreakably traditional. And then there was the ale. It was all right for the likes of Hrun the Barbarian or Cimbar the Assassin to carouse all night in low bars, but Herrena drew the line at it unless they sold proper drinks in small glasses, preferably with a cherry in. As for the toilet facilities…
But she was too big to be a thief, too honest to be an assassin, too intelligent to be a wife, and too proud to enter the only other female profession generally available.
So she’d become a swordswoman and had been agood one, amassing a modest fortune that she was carefully husbanding for a future that she hadn’t quite worked out yet but which would certainly include a bidet if she had anything to say about it.
There was a distant sound of splintering timber. Trolls had never seen the point of walking around trees.
She looked up at the hill again. Two arms of high ground swept away to right and left, and up ahead was a large outcrop with—she squinted—some caves in it?
Troll caves. But maybe a better option than blundering around at night. And come sunup, there’d be no problem.
She leaned across to Gancia, leader of the gang of Morpork mercenaries. She wasn’t very happy about him. It was true that he had the muscles of an ox and the stamina of an ox, the trouble was that he seemed to have the brains of an ox. And the viciousness of a ferret. Like most of the lads in downtown Morpork he’d have cheerfully sold his granny for glue, and probably had.
“We’ll head for the caves and light a big fire in the entrance,” she said. “Trolls don’t like fire.”
He gave her a look which suggested he had his own ideas about who should be giving the orders, but his lips said, “You’re the boss.”
“Right.”
Herrena looked back at the three captives. That was the box all right—Trymon’s description had been absolutely accurate. But neither of the men looked like a wizard. Not even a failed wizard.
“Oh, dear,” said Kwartz.
The trolls halted. The night closed in like velvet.An owl hooted eerily—at least Rincewind assumed it was an owl, he was a little hazy on ornithology. Perhaps a nightingale hooted, unless it was a thrush. A bat flittered overhead. He was quite confident about that.
He was also very tired and quite bruised.
“Why oh dear?” he said.
He peered into the gloom. There was a distant speck in the hills that might have been a fire.
“Oh,” he said. “You don’t like fires, do you?”
Kwartz nodded. “It destroys the superconductivity of our brains,” he said, “but
Kwartz stood up, thought for a moment, then picked Rincewind up by the scruff of his neck and with a big gritty movement placed him on his shoulders.
“We go,” he said firmly. “If we meet Old Grandad I’ll try to explain…”
Two miles away a string of horses trotted through the night. Three of them carried captives, expertly gagged and bound. A fourth pulled a rough travois on which the Luggage lay trussed and netted and silent.
Herrena softly called the column to a halt and beckoned one of her men to her.
“Are you quite sure?” she said. “I can’t hear anything.”
“I saw troll shapes,” he said flatly.
She looked around. The trees had thinned out here, there was a lot of scree, and ahead of them the track led toward a bald, rocky hill that looked especially unpleasant by red starlight.
She was worried about that track. It was extremely old, but something had made it, and trolls took a lot of killing.
She sighed. Suddenly it looked as though that secretarial career was not such a bad option, at that.
Not for the first time she reflected that there were many drawbacks to being a swordswoman, not least of which was that men didn’t take you seriously until you’d actually killed them, by which time it didn’t really matter anyway. Then there was all the leather, which brought her out in a rash but seemed to be unbreakably traditional. And then there was the ale. It was all right for the likes of Hrun the Barbarian or Cimbar the Assassin to carouse all night in low bars, but Herrena drew the line at it unless they sold proper drinks in small glasses, preferably with a cherry in. As for the toilet facilities…
But she was too big to be a thief, too honest to be an assassin, too intelligent to be a wife, and too proud to enter the only other female profession generally available.
So she’d become a swordswoman and had been agood one, amassing a modest fortune that she was carefully husbanding for a future that she hadn’t quite worked out yet but which would certainly include a bidet if she had anything to say about it.
There was a distant sound of splintering timber. Trolls had never seen the point of walking around trees.
She looked up at the hill again. Two arms of high ground swept away to right and left, and up ahead was a large outcrop with—she squinted—some caves in it?
Troll caves. But maybe a better option than blundering around at night. And come sunup, there’d be no problem.
She leaned across to Gancia, leader of the gang of Morpork mercenaries. She wasn’t very happy about him. It was true that he had the muscles of an ox and the stamina of an ox, the trouble was that he seemed to have the brains of an ox. And the viciousness of a ferret. Like most of the lads in downtown Morpork he’d have cheerfully sold his granny for glue, and probably had.
“We’ll head for the caves and light a big fire in the entrance,” she said. “Trolls don’t like fire.”
He gave her a look which suggested he had his own ideas about who should be giving the orders, but his lips said, “You’re the boss.”
“Right.”
Herrena looked back at the three captives. That was the box all right—Trymon’s description had been absolutely accurate. But neither of the men looked like a wizard. Not even a failed wizard.
“Oh, dear,” said Kwartz.
The trolls halted. The night closed in like velvet.An owl hooted eerily—at least Rincewind assumed it was an owl, he was a little hazy on ornithology. Perhaps a nightingale hooted, unless it was a thrush. A bat flittered overhead. He was quite confident about that.
He was also very tired and quite bruised.
“Why oh dear?” he said.
He peered into the gloom. There was a distant speck in the hills that might have been a fire.
“Oh,” he said. “You don’t like fires, do you?”
Kwartz nodded. “It destroys the superconductivity of our brains,” he said, “but
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