The Light Fantastic

‘Rushed into a temple, killed the prieshts, shtolen the gold and reshcued the girl.’

‘No, not in so many words.’

‘You do it like thish.’

Two inches from Rincewind’s left ear a voice broke into a sound like a baboon with its foot trapped in an echo canyon, and a small but wiry shape rushed past him.

By the light of the torches he saw that it was a very old man, the skinny variety that generally gets called ‘spry’, with a totally bald head, a beard almost down to his knees, and a pair of matchstick legs on which varicose veins had traced the street map of quite a large city. Despite the snow he wore nothing more than a studded leather holdall and a pair of boots that could have easily accommodated a second pair of feet.

The two druids closest to him exchanged glances and hefted their sickles. There was a brief blur and they collapsed into tight balls of agony, making rattling noises. In the excitement that followed Rincewind sidled along towards the altar stone, holding his knife gingerly so as not to attract any unwelcome comment. In fact no-one was paying a great deal of attention to him; the druids that hadn’t fled the circle, generally the younger and more muscular ones, had congregated around the old man n order to discuss the whole subject of sacrilege as it pertained to stone circles, but judging by the cackling and sounds of gristle he was carrying the debate.

Twoflower was watching the fight with interest. Rincewind grabbed him by the shoulder.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

‘Shouldn’t we help?’

‘I’m sure we’d only get in the way,’ said Rincewind hurriedly. ‘You know what it’s like to have people looking over your shoulder when you’re busy.’

‘At least we must rescue the young lady,’ said Twoflower firmly.

‘All right, but get a move on!’

Twoflower took the knife and hurried up to the altar stone. After several inept slashes he managed to cut the ropes that bound the girl, who sat up and burst into tears.

‘It’s all right—’ he began.

‘It bloody well isn’t!’ she snapped, glaring at him through two red-rimmed eyes. Why do people always go and spoil things?’ She blew her nose resentfully on the edge of her robe.

Twoflower looked up at Rincewind in embarrassment.

‘Um,’ I don’t think you quite understand,’ he said. ‘I mean, we just saved you from absolutely certain death.’

‘It’s not easy around here,’ she said. ‘I mean, keeping yourself—’ she blushed, and twisted the hem of her robe wretchedly. ‘I mean, staying... not letting yourself be... not losing your qualifications...’

‘Qualifications? said Twoflower, earning the Rincewind Cup for the slowest person on the uptake in the entire multiverse. The girl’s eyes narrowed.

‘I could have been up there with the Moon Goddess by now, drinking mead out of a silver bowl,’ she said petulantly. ‘Eight years of staying home on Saturday nights right down the drain!’

She looked up at Rincewind and scowled.

Then he sensed something. Perhaps it was a barely heard footstep behind him, perhaps it was movement reflected n her eyes—but he ducked.

Something whistled through the air where his neck had been and glanced off Twoflower’s bald head. Rincewind spun round to see the archdruid readying his sickle for another swing and, in the absence of any hope of running away, lashed out desperately with a foot.

It caught the druid squarely on the kneecap. As the man screamed and dropped his weapon there was a nasty little fleshy sound and he fell forward. Behind him the little man with the long beard pulled his sword from the body, wiped it with a handful of snow, and said, ‘My lumbago is giving me gyp. You can carry the treashure.’

‘Treasure?’ said Rincewind weakly.

‘All the necklashes and shtuff. All the gold collarsh. They’ve got lotsh of them. Thatsh prieshts for you,’ said the old man wetly. ‘Nothing but torc, torc, torc. Who’she the girl?’

‘She won’t let us rescue her,’ said Rincewind. The girl looked at the old man defiantly through her smudged eyeshadow.

‘Bugger that,’ he said, and with one movement picked her up, staggered a little, screamed at his arthritis and fell over.

After a moment he said, from his prone position, ‘Don’t just shtand there, you daft bitcsh—help me up.’ Much to Rincewind’s amazement, and almost certainly to hers as well, she did so.

Rincewind, meanwhile, was trying to rouse Twoflower. There was a graze across his temple which didn’t look too deep, but the little man was unconscious with a faintly worried smile plastered across his face. His breathing was shallow and—strange.

And he felt light. Not simply underweight, but weightless. The wizard might as well have been holding a shadow. Rincewind remembered that it was said that druids used strange and terrible poisons. Of course, it was often said, usually by the same people, that crooks always had close-set eyes, lightning never struck twice in the same lace and if the gods had wanted men to fly they’d have given them an airline ticket. But something about Twoflower’s lightness frightened Rincewind. Frightened him horribly.