Nobbs had probably cried all the tears a body was capable of some time ago. It was Reg. He sat with his back to the makeshift defence, the threadbare flag across his knees, and tears dripping off his chin.
“Reg, you ought to go,” Vimes hissed. “You don't even have a weapon.”
“What's the good of it, eh?” said Reg. “You were bloody right, sarge! Things just go round and round! You got rid of the bloody Unmentionables and here they are again! What's the point, eh? This city could be such a great place but
Carcer had stopped twenty yards from the barricade, and was watching it carefully.
“Way of the world, Reg,” murmured Vimes, counting enemies under his breath.
And a big covered cart came around the corner, rocking under its load. It rolled to a halt a little way from Carcer's crew, partly because the way was blocked but mostly, perhaps, because one of the men had walked up to the driver and aimed a crossbow at his head.
“And now the bloody bastards have won,” moaned Reg.
“Every day of the week, Reg,” said Vimes absently, trying to follow the movements of too many people at once.
The other men were spreading out. After all, they had the firepower.
The man holding up Mr Dibbler, the cart driver, wasn't paying too much attention. Now Vimes wished he'd put himself in the wagon. Oh, well, someone had to start the rumble—
“Yeah? You want to shoot something? Bastards!”
They all stared, Carcer too. Reg had stood up, was waving the flag back and forth, was clambering over the barricade…
He held the flag like a banner of defiance. “You can take our lives but you'll never take our freedom!” he screamed.
Carcer's men looked at one another, puzzled by what sounded like the most badly thought-out war cry in the history of the universe. Vimes could see their lips moving as they tried to work it out.
Carcer raised his crossbow, gestured to his men, and said: “Wrong!”
Reg was hit by five heavy bolts so that he did a little dance before falling to his knees. It happened in seconds.
Vimes opened his mouth to give the order to charge, and shut it when he saw Reg raise his head. In silence, using the flag pole as an aid, Reg got back to his feet.
Three more arrows hit him. He looked down at his skinny chest, bristling with feathers, and took a step forward. And another.
One of the crossbowmen drew his sword and ran at the stricken man, and was knocked into the air by a blow from Reg that must have felt like it had come from a sledgehammer. And in the ranks of the crew there was a fight. Someone in a copper's uniform had drawn his own sword and taken out two bowmen. And the man at the cart was running back to the action…
“Get them!” Vimes yelled, and leapt the barricade.
There was no plan any more. Dickins and his men poured out of the cart. There were still loaded crossbows out there, but a bow is suddenly not the weapon you want to be holding when angry swords are approaching from both directions.
All plans, all futures, all politics…were elsewhere. Vimes scooped up a fallen sword and with a weapon in either hand screamed wordless defiance and launched himself at the nearest enemy. The man went down headless.
He saw Snouty go down in the melee, and sprang over him to catch his attacker in a windmill of blades. And then he spun around to confront Knock, who dropped his sword and fled. And Vimes ran on, not fighting but hacking, ducking strokes without seeing them, blocking attacks without turning his head, letting the ancient senses do their work. Someone was slicing towards young Sam; Vimes brought a sword down on the arm in true self- defence. He moved on, in the centre of a widening circle. He wasn't an enemy, he was a nemesis.
And as suddenly as it had come the beast withdrew, leaving an angry man with two swords.
Carcer had retreated to the side of the street, with his men—far fewer men now.
Colon was on his knees, throwing up. Dickins was down, and Vimes knew he was dead. Nobby was down too, but that was just because someone had kicked him hard and he'd probably decided that staying down was best. There were a lot of Carcer's men down, more than half. Some more had fled a maniac with two swords. Some had even fled Reg Shoe, who was sitting on the barricade, staring at the sheer weight of arrows in him. As he watched, his brain seemingly decided that he must be dead on this evidence, and he fell backwards. But in a few hours, his brain would be in for a surprise.
No one knew why some people became natural zombies, substituting sheer stubborn will power for blind life force. But attitude played a part. For Reg Shoe, life was only just beginning…
Young Sam was upright. He looked as though he'd thrown up, but he'd done well to survive his first real melee. He gave Vimes a weak smile.
“What's happening now, sarge?” he managed, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead.
Vimes sheathed a sword and quietly slipped one of Mrs Goodbody's little friends out of his pocket.
“That depends on what happens over there,” he said, nodding towards the other end of the street. Sam obediently turned to look, and fell asleep.
Vimes pocketed the cosh, and saw Coates looking at him.
“Whose side are you on, Ned?” he said.
“What did you hit the kid for?” said Ned.
“So he's out of it. You got anything to say?”
“Not much, sarge.” Ned grinned. “We're all learning a lot today, ain't we?”
'True enough,' said Vimes.
“There's even bigger bastards than you, for a start.”
This time Vimes grinned. “But I try harder, Ned.”
“You know Carcer?”
“He's a murderer. And just about everything else, too. A stone-cold killer. With brains,” said Vimes.
“This is going to go the distance?”
“Yep. It's got to. We've got to stop this, Ned. This is the only chance. It stops here or not at all. Can you imagine him loose now he's pally with Snapcase?”
“Yes. I can,” said Ned. “Just as well I wasn't planning anything this evening, eh? But you can tell me one thing, sarge. How do you know all this?”
Vimes hesitated. But at a time like this, what difference did it make?
“I'm from this city,” said Vimes. “But, oh, there was a hole in time, something like that. You want to know? I travelled here in time, Ned, and that's the truth.”
Ned Coates looked him up and down. Blood covered Vimes's armour, and his hands, and half his face, and he was holding a bloody sword in his hand.
“From how far back?” he said.
Time stopped. Coates froze and faded in colour, into a world made up of shades of grey.
“Nearly there, your grace,” said Sweeper, behind Vimes.
“Ye gods!” yelled Vimes, flinging his sword to the ground. “You are
The sword hadn't hit the ground. It hung a few inches from his hands, and had faded to greyness.
“There's just a few things we need to tell you,” said Sweeper, as if a sword in mid-air was a minor consideration.
“What's happened to the bloody sword?” said Vimes, to whom it wasn't.
“Time has stopped for everyone but you,” said Sweeper patiently. “Actually that sentence is wrong in every
