Hrun was one of the Circle Sea’s more durable heroes: a fighter of dragons, a despoiler of temples, a hired sword, the kingpost of every street brawl. He could even—and unlike many heroes of Rincewind’s acquaintance—speak words of more than two syllables, if given time and maybe a hint or two.
There was a sound on the edge of Rincewind’s hearing. It sounded like several skulls bouncing down the steps of some distant dungeon. He looked sideways at his guards to see if they had heard it.
They had all their limited attention focused on Hrun, who was admittedly built on the same lines as themselves. Their hands were resting lightly on the wizard’s shoulders.
Rincewind ducked, jerked backward like a tumbler, and came up running. Behind him he heard Druellae shout, and he redoubled his speed.
Something caught the hood of his robe, which tore off. A he-dryad waiting at the stairs spread his arms wide and grinned woodenly at the figure hurtling toward him. Without breaking his stride Rincewind ducked again, so low that his chin was on a level with his knees, while a fist like a log sizzled through the air by his ear.
Ahead of him a whole spinney of the tree men awaited. He spun around, dodged another blow from the puzzled guard, and sped back toward the circle, passing on the way the dryads who were pursuing him and leaving them as disorganized as a set of skittles.
But there were still more in front, pushing their way through the crowds of females and smacking their fists into the horny palms of their hands with anticipatory concentration.
“Stand still, false wizard,” said Druellae, stepping forward. Behind her the enchanted dancers spun on; the focus of the circle was now drifting along a violet-lit corridor.
Rincewind cracked.
“Will you knock that off!” he snarled. “Let’s just get this straight, right? I am a real wizard!” He stamped a foot pettulantly.
“Indeed?” said the dryad. “Then let us see you pass a spell.”
“Uh—” began Rincewind. The fact was that, since the ancient and mysterious spell had squatted in his mind, he had been unable to remember even the simplest cantrap for, say, killing cockroaches or scratching the small of his back without using his hands. The mages at Unseen University had tried to explain this by suggesting that the involuntary memorizing of the spell had, as it were, tied up all his spellretention cells. In his darker moments Rincewind had come up with his own explanation as to why even minor spells refused to stay in his head for more than a few seconds.
They were scared, he decided.
“Um—” he repeated.
“A small one would do,” said Druellae, watching him curl his lips in a frenzy of anger and embarrassment. She signaled, and a couple of he-dryads closed in.
The Spell chose that moment to vault into the temporarily abandoned saddle of Rincewind’s consciousness. He felt it sitting there, leering defiantly at him.
“I do know a spell,” he said wearily.
“Yes? Pray tell,” said Druellae.
Rincewind wasn’t sure that he dared, although the Spell was trying to take control of his tongue. He fought it.
“You thed you could read by bind,” he said indistinctly. “Read it.”
She stepped forward, looking mockingly into his eyes.
Her smile froze. Her hands raised protectively, she crouched back. From her throat came a sound of pure terror.
Rincewind looked around. The rest of the dryads were also backing away. What had he done? Something terrible, apparently.
But in his experience it was only a matter of time before the normal balance of the universe restored itself and started doing the usual terrible things to him. He backed away, ducked between the still spinning dryads who were creating the magic circle, and watched to see what Druellae would do next.
“Grab him,” she screamed. “Take him a long way from the Tree and kill him!”
Rincewind turned and bolted.
Across the focus of the circle.
There was a brilliant flash.
There was a sudden darkness.
There was a vaguely Rincewind-shaped violet shadow, dwindling to a point and winking out.
There was nothing at all.
Hrun the Barbarian crept soundlessly along the corridors, which were lit with a light so violet that it was almost black. His earlier confusion was gone. This was obviously a magical temple, and that explained everything.
It explained why, earlier in the afternoon, he had espied a chest by the side of the track while riding through this benighted forest. Its top was invitingly open, displaying much gold. But when he had leapt off his horse to approach it the chest had sprouted legs and had gone trotting off into the forest, stopping again a few hundred yards away.