Read Online Once More With Footnotes by Terry Pratchett - Free Book Online Page A

opened the door again.
     
                  Erdan was st anding patiently next to his milk. The milk was white, and in bottles. Erdan was seven feet tall and in a tiny chain mail loincloth; his torso looked like a sack full of footballs. In one hand he held what Dogger knew for a certainty was Skung, the Sword o f the Ice Gods.
     
                  Dogger was certain about this because he had described it thousands of times. But he wasn't going to describe it again.
     
                  Erdan broke the silence.
     
                  "I have come," he said, "to meet my Maker."
     
                  "Pardon?"
     
                  "I have come," said the barbari an hero, "to receive my Final Reward." He peered down Dogger's hall expectantly and rippled his torso.
     
                  "You're a fan, right?" said Dogger. "Pretty good costume ..."
     
                  "What," said Erdan, "is fan?"
     
                  "I want to drink your blood," said Skung, conversation ally.
     
                  Over the giant's shoulder — metaphorically speaking, although under his massive armpit in real life — Dogger saw the postman coming up the path. The man walked around Erdan, humming, pushed a couple of bills into Dogger's unresisting hand, opined again st all the evidence that it looked like being a nice day, and strolled back down the path.
     
                  "I want to drink his blood, too," said Skung.
     
                  Erdan stood impassively, making it quite clear that he was going to stay there until the Snow Mammoths of Hy-Kooli came home.
     
                  History records a great many foolish comments, such as, "It looks perfectly safe", or "Indians? What Indians?" and Dogger added to the list with an old favourite which has caused more encyclopedias and life insurance policies to be sold than y ou would have thought possible.
     
                  "I suppose," he said, "that you'd better come in."
     
                  No one could look that much like Erdan. His leather jerkin looked as though it had been stored in a compost heap. His fingernails were purple, his hands calloused, his c hest a trelliswork of scars. Something with a mouth the size of an armchair appeared to have got a grip on his arm at some time, but couldn't have liked the taste.
     
                  What it is, Dogger thought, is I'm externalising my fantasies. Or I'm probably still aslee p. The important thing is to act natural.
     
                  "Well, well," he said.
     
                  Erdan ducked into what Dogger liked to call his study, which was just like any other living room but had his wordprocessor on the table, and sat down in the armchair. The springs gave a t hreatening creak.
     
                  Then he gave Dogger an expectant look.
     
                  Of course, Dogger told himself, he may just be your everyday homicidal maniac.
     
                  "Your final reward?" he said weakly. Erdan nodded.
     
                  "Er. What form does this take, exactly?"
     
                  Erdan shrugged. Se veral muscles had to move out of the way to allow the huge shoulders to rise and fall.
     
                  "It is said," he said, "that those who die in combat will feast and carouse in your hall forever."
     
                  "Oh." Dogger hovered uncertainly in the doorway. "My hall?"
     
                  Erda n nodded again. Dogger looked around him. What with the telephone and the coatrack it was already pretty crowded. Opportunities for carouse looked limited.
     
                  "And, er," he said, "how long is forever, exactly?"
     
                  "Until the stars die and the Great Ice cover s the world," said Erdan. "Ah. I