Lords And Ladies

Magrat felt the bone scrape.

'The old witch is finished,' said the Queen, forcing Magrat down. 'I won't say she wasn't good. But she wasn't good enough. And you certainly aren't.'

Slowly and inexorably, Magrat was forced downward. 'Why don't you try some magic?' said the Queen. Magrat kicked. Her foot caught the Queen on the knee, and she heard a crack. As she staggered back Magrat launched herself forward and caught her around the waist, bearing her to the ground.

She was amazed at the lightness. Magrat was skinny enough, but the Queen seemed to have no weight at all. 'Why,' she said, pulling herself up until the Queen's face was level with hers, 'you're nothing. It's all in the mind, isn't it? Without the glamour, you're-'

—an almost triangular face, a tiny mouth, the nose hardly existing at all, but eyes larger than human eyes and now focused on Magrat in pinpoint terror.

'Iron,' whispered the Queen. Her hands gripped Magrat's arms. There was no strength there. An elfs strength lay in persuading others they were weak.

Magrat could feel her desperately trying to enter her mind, but it wasn't working. The helmet—

—was lying several feet away, in the mud.

She just had time to wish she hadn't noticed that before the Queen attacked again, exploding into her uncertainty like a nova.

She was nothing. She was insignificant. She was so worthless and unimportant that even something completely worthless and exhaustively unimportant would consider her beneath contempt. In laying hands upon the Queen she truly deserved an eternity of pain. She had no control of her body. She did not deserve any. She did not deserve a thing.

The disdain sleeted over her, tearing the planetary body of Magrat Garlick to pieces.

She'd never be any good. She'd never be beautiful, or intelligent, or strong. She'd never be anything at all.

Self-confidence? Confidence in what? The eyes of the Queen were all she could see. All she wanted to do was lose herself in them . . .

And the ablation of Magrat Garlick roared on, tearing at the strata of her soul. . . . . . exposing the core.

She bunched up a fist and hit the Queen between the eyes. There was a moment of terminal perplexity before the Queen screamed, and Magrat hit her again. Only one queen in a hive! Slash! Stab! They rolled over, landing in the mud. Magrat felt something sting her leg, but she ignored it. She took no notice of the noise around her, but she did find the battleaxe under her hand as the two of them landed in a peat puddle. The elf scrabbled at her but this time without strength, and Magrat managed to push herself to her knees and raise the axe —

—and then noticed the silence.

It flowed over the Queen's elves and Shawn Ogg's makeshift army as the glamour faded.

There was a figure silhouetted against the setting moon.

Its scent carried on the dawn breeze.

It smelled of lions' cages and leaf mold.

'He's back,' said Nanny Ogg. She glanced sideways and saw Ridcully, his face glowing, raising his crossbow.

'Put it down,' she said.

'Will you look at the horns on that thing-'

'Put it down.'

'But-'

'It'd go right through him. Look, you can see that tree through him. He's not really here. He can't get past the doorway. But he can send his thoughts.'

'But I can smell—'

'If he was really here, we wouldn't still be standing up.' The elves parted as the King walked through. His hind legs hadn't been designed for bipedal walking; the knees were the wrong way round and the hooves were overlarge.

It ignored them all and strutted slowly to the fallen Queen. Magrat pulled herself to her feet and hefted the axe uncertainly.

The Queen uncoiled, leaping up and raising her hands, her mouth framing the first words of some curse—

The King held out a hand, and said nothing.

Only Magrat heard it.

Something about meeting by moonlight, she said later.

And they awoke.

The sun was well over the Rim. People pulled themselves to their feet, staring at one another.

There was not an elf in sight.

Nanny Ogg was the first to speak. Witches can generally come to terms with what actually ('s, instead of insisting on what ought to be.

She looked up at the moors. 'The first thing we do,' she said, 'the first thing, is put back the stones.'

'The second thing,' corrected Magrat.

They both looked down at the still body of Granny Weatherwax. A few stray bees were flying disconsolate circles in the grass near her head.

Nanny Ogg winked at Magrat.

'You did well there, girl. Didn't think you had it in you to survive an attack like that. It fairly had me widdling myself.'

'I've had practice,' said Magrat darkly.

Nanny Ogg raised her eyebrows, but made no further comment. Instead she nudged Granny with her boot.

'Wake up, Esme,' she said. 'Well done. We won.'

'Esme?'

Ridcully knelt down stiffly and picked up one of Granny's arms.

'It must have taken it out of her, all that effort,' burbled Nanny. 'Freeing Magrat and everything-'

Ridcully looked up.

'She's dead,' he said.

He thrust both arms underneath the body and got unsteadily to his feet.

'Oh, she wouldn't do a thing like that,' said Nanny, but in the voice of someone whose mouth is running on automatic because their brain has shut down.

'She's not breathing and there's no pulse,' said the wizard.

'She's probably just resting.'

'Yes.'

Bees circled, high in the blue sky.

* * *

Ponder and the Librarian helped drag the stones back into position, occasionally using the Bursar as a lever. He was going through the rigid phase again.

They were unusual stones. Ponder noticed — quite hard, and with a look about them that suggested that once, long ago, they had been melted and cooled.

Jason Ogg found him standing deep in thought by one of them. He was holding a nail on a piece of string. But, instead of hanging from the string, the nail was almost at right angles, and straining as if desperate to reach the stone. The string thrummed. Ponder watched it as though mesmerized.