They had therefore hospitably decamped just before dawn and were now hiding out. Of course, if victory threatened they could always recamp. It was unlikely that they'd be missed in all the excitement, and both men were somewhat expert at turning up on battlefields in time to join in the victory celebrations. They lay in the long grass, watching the armies manoeuvre.
From this height, it looked like an impressive war. The army on one side was so small as to be invisible. Of course, if you accepted the very strong denials of last night, it was so
It was also their elevation which meant that they were the first to notice the ring around the sky.
It was just above the thunderous wall on the horizon. Where stray shafts of sunlight hit it, it glowed golden. Elsewhere it was merely yellow. But it was continuous, and thin as a thread.
'Funny-looking cloud,' said White Fang.
'Yeah,' said Pink Pig. 'So what?'
It was while they were thus engaged, and sharing a small bottle of rice wine liberated by Pink Pig from an unsuspecting comrade the previous evening, that they heard a groan.
'Oooooohhhhhh…'
Their drinks froze in their throats.
'Did you hear that?' said Pink Pig.
'You mean the—'
'Ooooohhhh…'
'That's it!'
They turned, very slowly.
Something had pulled itself out of a gully behind them. It was humanoid, more or less. Red mud dripped from it. Strange noises issued from its mouth.
'Oooooohhhhshit!'
Pink Pig grabbed White Fang's arm.
'It's an invisible blood-sucking ghost!'
'But I can see it!'
Pink Pig squinted.
'It's the Red Army! They've come up outa the earth like everybody says!'
White Fang, who had several brain cells more than Pink Pig, and more importantly was only on his second cup of wine, took a closer look.
'It could be just one ordinary man with mud all over him,' he suggested. He raised his voice. 'Hey, you!'
The figure turned and tried to run.
Pink Pig nudged his friend.
'Is he one of ours?'
'Looking like that?'
'Let's get him!'
'Why?'
''Cos he's running away!'
'Let him run.'
'Maybe he's got money. Anyway, what's he running away for?'
Rincewind slid down into another gully. Of all the luck! Soldiers should be where they were expected to be. What had happened to duty and honour and stuff like that?
The gully had dead grass and moss in the bottom.
He stood still and listened to the voices of the two men.
The air was stifling. It was as if the oncoming storm was pushing all the hot air in front of it, turning the plain into a pressure cooker.
And then the ground creaked, and sagged suddenly.
The faces of the absentee soldiers appeared over the edge of the gully.
There was another creak and the ground sank another inch or two. Rincewind didn't dare breathe in, in case the extra weight of air made him too heavy. And it was very clear that the least activity, such as jumping, was going to make things worse…
Very carefully, he looked down.
The dead moss had given way. He seemed to be standing on a baulk of timber buried in the ground, but dirt pouring around it suggested that there was a hole beneath.
It was going to give way any second n—
Rincewind threw himself forward. The ground fell away underneath so that, instead of standing on a slowly breaking piece of timber, he was hanging with his arms over what felt like another concealed log and, by the feel of it, one which was as riddled with rot as the first one.
This one, possibly out of a desire to conform, began to sag.
And then jolted to a stop.
The faces of the soldiers vanished backwards as the sides of the gully began to slide. Dry earth and small stones slid past Rincewind. He could feel them rattle on his boots and drop away.
He felt, as an expert in these things, that he was over a depth. From his point of view, it was also a height.
The log began to shift again.
This left Rincewind with, as he saw it, two options. He could let go and plunge to an uncertain fate in the darkness, or he could hang on until the timber gave way, and then plunge to an uncertain fate in the darkness.
And then, to his delight, there was a third option. The toe of his boot touched something, a root, a protruding rock. It didn't matter. It took some of his weight. It took at least enough to put him in precarious equilibrium — not exactly safe, not exactly falling. Of course, it was only a temporary measure, but Rincewind had always considered that life was no more than a series of temporary measures strung together.
A pale yellow butterfly with interesting patterns on its wings fluttered along the gully and settled on the only bit of colour available, which turned out to be Rincewind's hat.
The wood sagged slightly.
'Push off!' said Rincewind, trying not to use heavy language. 'Go away.''
The butterfly flattened its wings and sunned itself. Rincewind pursed his lips and tried to blow up his own nostrils.
Startled, the creature skittered into the air…
'Hah!' said Rincewind.
… and, in response to its instincts in the face of a threat, moved its wings like
The bushes shivered. And around the sky, the towering clouds curved into unusual patterns.
Another cloud formed. It was about the size of an angry grey balloon. And it started to rain. Not rain generally, but specifically. Specifically on about a square foot of ground which contained Rincewind; specifically, on his hat.
A very small bolt of lightning stung Rincewind on the nose.
'Ah! So we have' — Pink Pig, appearing around the curve of the gully, hesitated a bit before continuing slightly more thoughtfully — 'a head in a hole… with a very small thunderstorm above it.'
And then it dawned on him that, storm or no storm, nothing was preventing him from cutting off significant parts. The only significant part available was a head, but that was fine by him.
At which point, Rincewind's hat having absorbed enough moisture, the ancient wood gave way under the strain and plunged him to an uncertain fate in the darkness.
It was utterly dark.
There had been a painful confusion of tunnels and sliding dirt. Rincewind assumed — or the small part of him
