'And what, pray, do you think it portends?'
'It's just generally portentous,'
'I know what's behind this,' Lord Hong snarled. 'You're too frightened to fight seven old men, is that it?'
'The men say they're the legendary Seven Indestructible Sages,' said Lord Fang. He tried to smile. 'You know how superstitious they are . . .'
'What Seven Sages?' said Lord Hong. 'I am extremely familiar with the history of the world and there are no legendary Seven Indestructible Sages.'
'Er . . . not yet,' said Lord Fang. 'Uh. But . . . a day like this . . . Perhaps legends have to start somewhere . . .'
'They're barbarians! Oh, gods! Seven men! Can I believe we're afraid of seven men?'
'It feels wrong,' said Lord McSweeney. He added, quickly, 'That's what the men say.'
'You have made the proclamation about our celestial army of ghosts? All of you?' The warlords tried to avoid his gaze. 'Er . . . yes,' said Lord Fang. 'That must have improved morale.'
'Uh. Not . . . entirely . . .'
'What do you mean, man?'
'Uh. Many men have deserted. Uh. They've been saying that foreign ghosts were bad enough, but . . .'
'But what?'
'They are soldiers, Lord Hong,' said Lord Tang sharply. 'They all have people they do not want to meet. Don't you?' Just for a second, there was the suggestion of a twitch on Lord Hong's cheek. It was only for a second, but those who saw it took note. Lord Hong's renowned glaze had shown a crack. 'What would you do, Lord Tang? Let these insolent barbarians go?'
'Of course not. But . . . you don't need an army against seven men. Seven ancient old men. The peasants say . . . they say . . .' Lord Hong's voice was slightly higher. 'Come on, man who talks to peasants. I'm sure you're going to tell us what they say about these foolish and foolhardy old men?'
'Well, that's it, you see. They say, if they're so foolish and foolhardy . . . how did they manage to become so old?'
'Luck!' It was the wrong word. Even Lord Hong realized it. He'd never believed in luck. He'd always taken pains, usually those of other people, to fill life with certainties. But he knew that others believed in luck. It was a foible he'd always been happy to make use of. And now it was turning and stinging him on the hand. 'There is nothing in the Art of War to tell us how five armies attack seven old men,' said Lord Tang. 'Ghosts or no ghosts. And this, Lord Hong, is because no-one ever thought such a thing would be done.'
'If you feel so frightened I'll ride out against them with my mere 250,000 men,' he said.
'I am not frightened,' said Lord Tang. 'I am ashamed.'
'Each man armed with two swords,' Lord Hong went on, ignoring him. 'And I shall see how lucky these . . . sages . . . are. Because, my lords, I will only have to be lucky once. They will have to be lucky a quarter of a million times.' He lowered his visor. 'How lucky do you feel, my lords?' The other four warlords avoided one another's gaze. Lord Hong noticed their resigned silence. 'Very well, then,' he said. 'Let the gongs be sounded and the fire-crackers lit - to ensure good luck, of course.' There were a large number of ranks in the armies of the Empire, and many of them were untranslatable. Three Pink Pig and Five White Fang were, loosely speaking, privates, and not just because they were pale, vulnerable and inclined to curl up and hide when danger threatened. In fact they were so private as to be downright secretive. Even the army's mules ranked higher than them, because good mules were hard to come by whereas men like Pink Pig and White Fang are found in every army, somewhere where a latrine is in need of cleaning. They were so insignificant that they had, privately, decided that it would be a waste of an invisible foreign blood-sucking ghost's valuable time to attack them. They felt it only fair, after it had come all this way, to give it the chance of fiendishly killing someone superior. They had therefore hospitably decamped just before dawn and were now hiding out. Of course, if victory threatened they could always recamp. It was unlikely that they'd be missed in all the excitement, and both men were somewhat expert at turning up on battlefields in time to join in the victory celebrations. They lay in the long grass, watching the armies manoeuvre. From this height, it looked like an impressive war. The army on one side was so small as to be invisible. Of course, if you accepted the very strong denials of last night, it was so invisible as to be invisible. It was also their elevation which meant that they were the first to notice the ring around the sky. It was just above the thunderous wall on the horizon. Where stray shafts of sunlight hit it, it glowed golden. Elsewhere it was merely yellow. But it was continuous, and thin as a thread. 'Funny-looking cloud,' said White Fang.
'Yeah,' said Pink Pig. 'So what?' It was while they were thus engaged, and sharing a small bottle of rice wine liberated by Pink Pig from an unsuspecting comrade the previous evening, that they heard a groan. 'Oooooohhhhhh . . .' Their drinks froze in their throats. 'Did you hear that?' said Pink Pig. 'You mean the—'
'Ooooohhhh . . .'
'That's it!' They turned, very slowly. Something had pulled itself out of a gully behind them. It was humanoid, more or less. Red mud dripped from it. Strange noises issued from its mouth. 'Oooooohhhhshit!' Pink Pig grabbed White Fang's arm. 'It's an invisible blood-sucking ghost!'
'But I can see it!' Pink Pig squinted. 'It's the Red Army! They've come up outa the earth like everybody says!' White Fang, who had several brain cells more than Pink Pig, and more importantly was only on his second cup of wine, took a closer look. 'It could be just one ordinary man with mud all over him,' he suggested. He raised his voice. 'Hey, you!' The figure turned and tried to run. Pink Pig nudged his friend. 'Is he one of ours?'
'Looking like that?'
'Let's get him!'
'Why?'
' 'Cos he's running away!'
'Let him run.'
'Maybe he's got money. Anyway, what's he running away for?' Rincewind slid down into another gully. Of all the luck! Soldiers should be where they were expected to be. What had happened to duty and honour and stuff like that? The gully had dead grass and moss in the bottom. He stood still and listened to the voices of the two men. The air was stifling. It was as if the oncoming storm was pushing all the hot air in front of it, turning the plain into a pressure cooker. And then the ground creaked, and sagged suddenly. The faces of the absentee soldiers appeared over the edge of the gully. There was another creak and the ground sank another inch or two. Rincewind didn't dare breathe in, in case the extra weight of air made him too heavy. And it was very clear that the least activity, such as jumping, was going to make things worse . . . Very carefully, he looked down. The dead moss had given way. He seemed to be standing on a baulk of timber buried in the ground, but dirt pouring around it suggested that there was a hole beneath. It was going to give way any second n— Rincewind threw himself forward. The ground fell away underneath so that, instead of standing on a slowly breaking piece of timber, he was hanging with his arms over what felt like another concealed log and, by the feel of it, one which was as riddled with rot as the first one. This one, possibly out of a desire to conform, began to sag. And then jolted to a stop. The faces of the soldiers vanished backwards as the sides of the gully began to slide. Dry earth and small stones slid past Rincewind. He could feel them rattle on his boots and drop away. He felt, as an expert in these things, that he was over a depth. From his point of view, it was also a height.