“Behold the Wyrmberg!”
Rincewind turned his head slowly, taking care to keep Kring resting lightly on the dragon’s back. His streaming eyes saw the impossibly inverted mountain rearing out of the deep forested valley like a trumpet in a tub of nose. Even at this distance he could make out the faint octarine glow in the air that must be indicating a stable magic aura of at least—he gasped—several milliPrime? At least!
“Oh no,” he said.
Even looking at the ground was better than that. He averted his eyes quickly, and realized that he could now no longer see the ground through the dragon. As they glided around in a wide circle towards the Wyrmberg it was definitely taking on a more solid form, as if the creature’s body was filling with a gold mist. By the time the Wyrmberg was in front of them, swinging wildly across the sky, the dragon was as real as a rock.
Rincewind thought he could see a faint streak in the air, as if something from the mountain had reached out and touched the beast. He got the strange feeling that the dragon was being made more genuine.
Ahead of it the Wyrmberg turned from a distant toy to several billion tons of rock poised between heaven and earth. He could see small fields, woods and a lake up there, and from the lake a river spilled out and over the edge…
He made the mistake of following the thread of foaming water with his eyes, and jerked himself back just in time.
The flared plateau of the upturned mountain drifted towards them. The dragon didn’t even slow. As the mountain loomed over Rincewind like the biggest fly-swatter in the universe he saw a cave mouth. Psepha skimmed towards it, shoulder muscles pumping.
The wizard screamed as the dark spread and enfolded him. There was a brief vision of rock flashing past, blurred by speed. Then the dragon was in the open again.
It was inside a cave, but bigger than any cave had a right to be. The dragon, gliding across its vast emptiness, was a mere gilded fly in a banqueting hall.
There were other dragons—gold, silver, black, white—flapping across the sun-shafted air on errands of their own or perched on outcrops of rock. High in the domed roof of the cavern scores of others hung from huge rings, their wings wrapped bat-like around their bodies. There were men up there, too. Rincewind swallowed hard when he saw them, because they were walking on that broad expanse of ceiling like flies.
Then he made out the thousands of tiny rings that studded the ceiling. A number of inverted men were watching Psepha’s flight with interest. Rincewind swallowed again. For the life of him he couldn’t think of what to do next.
“Well?” he asked, in a whisper. “Any suggestions?
“Obviously you attack,” said Kring scornfully.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” said Rincewind
“Could it be because they all have crossbows?”
“You’re a defeatist.”
“Defeatist? That’s because I’m going to be defeated!”
“You’re your own worst enemy, Rincewind,” said the sword.
Rincewind looked up at grinning men.
“Bet?” he said wearily.
Before Kring could reply Psepha reared in midair and alighted on one of the large rings, which rocked alarmingly.
“Would you like to die now, or surrender first?” asked K!sdra calmly.
Men were converging on the ring from all directions, walking with a swaying motion as their hooked boots engaged the ceiling rings. There were more boots on a rack that hung in a small platform built on the side of the perch-ring. Before Rincewind could stop him the dragonrider had leapt from the creature’s back to land on the platform, where he stood grinning at the wizard’s discomfiture.
There was a small expressive sound made by a number of crossbows being cocked. Rincewind looked up at a number of impassive, upside down faces. The dragonfolk’s taste in clothing didn’t run to anything much more imaginative than a leather harness, studded with bronze ornaments. Knives and sword sheaths were worn inverted. Those who were not wearing helmets let their hair flow freely, so that it moved like seaweed in the ventilation breeze near the roof. There were several women among them. The inversion did strange things to their anatomy. Rincewind stared.
“Surrender,” said K!sdra again.
Rincewind opened his mouth to do so. Kring hummed a warning, and agonising waves of pain shot up his arm. “Never,” he squeaked. The pain stopped.
“Of course he won’t!” boomed an expansive voice behind him. “He’s a hero, isn’t he?”
Rincewind turned and looked into a pair of hairy nostrils. They belonged to a heavily built young man, hanging nonchalantly from the ceiling by his boots.
“What is your name, hero?” said the man. “so that we know who you were.”
Agony shot up Rincewind’s arm. “I-I’m Rincewind of Ankh,” he managed to gasp.
“And I am Lio!rt Dragonlord,” said the hanging man, pronouncing the word with the harsh click in the back of the throat that Rincewind could only think of as a kind of integral punctuation. “You have come to challenge me in mortal combat.”
“Well, no, I didn’t—”
“You are mistaken. K!sdra, help our hero into a pair of hookboots. I am sure he is anxious to get started.”
“No, look, I just came here to find my friends. I’m sure there’s no—” Rincewind began, as the dragonrider guided him firmly onto the platform, pushed him onto a seat, and proceeded to strap hookboots to his feet.
“Hurry up, K!sdra. We mustn’t keep our hero from his destiny,” said Lio!rt.
“Look, I expect my friends are happy enough here, so if you could just, you know, set me down somewhere
“You will see your friends soon enough,” said the dragonlord airily. “If you are religious, I mean. None who enter the Wyrmberg ever leave again. Except metaphorically, of course. Show him how to reach the rings, K! sdra.”
“Look what you’ve got me into!” Rincewind hissed.
Kring vibrated in his hand. “Remember that I am a magic sword,” it hummed.
“How can I forget?”
“Climb the ladder and grab a ring,” said the dragonrider, “then bring your feet up until the hooks catch.” He helped the protesting wizard climb until he was hanging upside down, robe tucked into his britches, Kring dangling from one hand. At this angle the dragonfolk looked reasonably bearable but the dragons themselves, hanging from their perches, loomed over the scene like immense gargoyles. Their eyes glowed with interest.
“Attention, please,” said Lio!rt. A dragonrider handed him a long shape, wrapped in red silk.
“We fight to the death,” he said. “Yours.”
“And I suppose I earn my freedom if I win?” said Rincewind, without much hope.
Lio!rt indicated the assembled dragonriders with a tilt of his head.
“Don’t be naive, he said.
Rincewind took a deep breath “I suppose I should warn you,” he said, his voice hardly quavering at all, “that this is a magic sword.”
Lio!rt let the red silk wrapping drop away into the gloom and flourished a jet-black blade. Runes glowed on its surface.
“What a coincidence,” he said, and lunged.
Rincewind went rigid with fright, but his arm swung out as Kring shot forward. The swords met in an explosion of octarine light.
Lio!rt swung himself backwards, his eyes narrowing. Kring leapt past his guard and, although the dragonlord’s sword jerked up to deflect most of the force, the result was a thin red line across its master’s torso.
With a growl he launched himself at the wizard boots clattering as he slid from ring to ring. The swords met again in another violent discharge of magic and, at the same time, Lio!rt brought his other hand down against
