The Last Continent (Discworld 22)

'I can assure you, at the speed I intend nothing is going to see me . . .' The monster turned its head this way and that, and began to lumber forward. 'Can't see things that don't move?' said the Archchancellor. 'You mean we just have to wait for it to walk into a tree?'

'Mrs Whitlow's still sitting there!' said the Senior Wrangler. She was in fact spreading some runny cheese on a biscuit in a ladylike fashion. 'I don't think she's seen it!' Ridcully rolled up his sleeve. 'I think a round of fireballs, gentlemen,' he said. 'Hold on,' said Ponder. This may be an endangered species.'

'So is Mrs Whitlow.'

'But do we have the right to wipe out what—'

'Absolutely,' said Ridcully. 'If its creator had meant it to survive he would have given it a fireproof skin. That's your evolution for you, Stibbons.'

'But perhaps we ought to study it . . .?' The thing was beginning to get up speed now. It was amazing how fast it could move, considering how big it was.

'Er . . .' said Ponder nervously. Ridcully raised his arm. The creature stopped, jerked into the air, and then went flat, like a rubber ball that had been stepped on, and indeed when it sprang back into shape it was with a noise akin to the sound made when a bad conjuror is having trouble twisting the back legs on to the balloon animal. Insofar as it had an expression at all, it looked more astonished than hurt. Little flashes of lightning crackled around it. It went flat again, rolled up into a cylinder, twisted into a range of interesting but probably painful shapes, shrank to a ball the size of a grapefruit and then, with a final and rather sad little noise that might well have been spelled prarp, dropped back on to the sand. 'Now that was pretty good,' said Ridcully. 'Which of you fellows did that?' The wizards looked at one another. 'Not us,' said the Dean. 'It was going to be fireballs all the way.' Ridcully nudged Ponder. 'Go on, then,' he said. 'Study it.'

'Er . . .' Ponder looked at the bewildered creature on the sand. 'Er . . . the subject appears to have turned into a large chicken.'

'Good, well done,' said Ridcully, as if to wrap things up. 'Shame to waste this fireball, then.' He hurled it. It was a road. At least, it was a long flat piece of desert with wheel ruts in it. Rincewind stared at it. A road. Roads went somewhere. Sooner or later they went everywhere. And when you got there, you generally found walls, buildings, harbours . . . boats. And incidentally a shortage of talking kangaroos. That was practically one of the hallmarks of civilization. It wasn't that he was against anyone saving the world, or whatever subset of it apparently wanted saving. He just felt that it didn't need saving by him. Which way to go? He picked a direction at random and jogged along for a while, as the sun came up. After a while there was a cloud of dust in the dawn, coming closer. Rincewind stood hopefully by the track. What eventually appeared at the inverted apex of the cloud was a cart, pulled by a string of horses. The horses were black. So was the cart. And it didn't seem to be slowing down.

Rincewind waved his hat in the air, just as the horses came past. After a while the dust settled. He got back on to his feet and walked unsteadily through the bushes until he found the cart where it had come to rest. The horses watched him warily. It wasn't a huge cart to be pulled by eight horses, but both they and the cart were covered with so much wood, leather and metal they probably didn't have much energy to spare. Spikes and studs covered every surface. The reins led not to the usual seat, but into holes in the front of the cart itself. This was roofed over with more wood and ironmongery – bits of old stove, hammered-out body armour, saucepan lids, and tin cans that had been stamped flat and nailed on. Above the slot where the reins went in was something like a piece of bent stovepipe, poking through the cart's roof. It had a watchful look. 'Er . . . hello?' said Rincewind. 'Sorry if I scared your horses . . .' In the absence of any reply he climbed up an armoured wheel and looked at the top of the cart. There was a round lid that had been pushed open. Rincewind didn't even consider looking inside. That'd mean his head would be outlined against the sky, a sure way of getting your body outlined against the dirt. A twig cracked behind him. He sighed, and got down slowly, taking great care not to turn around. 'I surrender totally,' he said, raising his hands. That's right,' said a level voice. 'This is a crossbow, mate. Let's have a look at your ugly mug.' Rincewind turned. There was no one behind him. Then he looked down. The crossbow was almost vertical. If it were fired, the bolt would go right up his nose. 'A dwarf?' he said. 'You've got something against dwarfs?'

'Who, me? No! Some of my best friends would be dwarfs. If I had any friends, I mean. Er. I'm Rincewind.'

'Yeah? Well, I'm short-tempered,' said the dwarf. 'Most people call me Mad.'

'Just “Mad”? That's an . . . unusual name.'

'It ain't a name.'

Rincewind stared. There was no doubt that his captor was a dwarf. He didn't have the traditional beard or iron helmet, but there were other little ways that you could tell. There was the chin that you could break coconuts on, the fixed expression of ferocity, and the certain bullet-headedness that meant its owner could go through walls face first. And, of course, if all else failed, the fact that the top of it was about level with Rincewind's stomach was a clue. Mad wore a leather suit but, like the cart, it had metal riveted on to it wherever possible. Where there weren't rivets there was weaponry. The word 'friend' jumped into the forefront of Rincewind's brain. There are many reasons for being friends with someone. The fact that he's pointing a deadly weapon at you is among the top four. 'Good description,' said Rincewind. 'Easy to remember.' The dwarf cocked his head on one side and listened. 'Blast, they're catching me up.' He looked back up at Rincewind and said, 'Can you fire a crossbow?' in a way that indicated that answering 'no' was a good way to contract immediate sinus trouble. 'Absolutely,' said Rincewind. 'Get on the cart, then. Y'know, I've been travellin' this road for years and this is the first time anyone's ever dared to hitch a lift?'

'Amazing,' said Rincewind. There was not much room under the hatch, and most of it was taken up by more weapons. Mad pushed Rincewind aside, grasped the reins, peered into the periscope stovepipe and urged the horses into motion. Bushes scraped against the wheels and the horses dragged back on to the track and began to get up speed. 'Beaut, aren't they?' said Mad. 'They can outrun anything, even with the armour.'

'This is certainly a very . . . original cart,' said Rincewind. 'Got a few modifications of my own,' said Mad. He grinned evilly. 'You a wizard, mister?'

'Broadly speaking, yes.'

'Any good?' Mad was loading another crossbow. Rincewind hesitated. 'No,' he said. 'Lucky for you,' said Mad. 'I'd have killed you if you were. Can't stand wizards. Bunch of wowsers, right?' He grasped the handles of the bent stovepipe and swivelled it around.

'Here they come,' he muttered. Rincewind peered over the top of Mad's head. There was a piece of mirror in the bend of the pipe. It showed the road behind, and half a dozen dots under another cloud of red dust. 'Road gang,' said Mad. 'After my cargo. Steal anything, they will. All bastards are bastards, but some bastards is bastards.' He pulled a handful of nosebags from under the seat. 'Right, you get up on top with a couple of crossbows, and I'll fix the supercharger.'

'What? You want me to start shooting at people?'

'You want me to start shooting at people?' said Mad, pushing him up the ladder. Rincewind crawled out on to the top of the cart. It was swaying and bouncing. Red dust choked him and the wind tried to blow his robe over his head. He hated weapons, and not just because they'd so often been aimed at him. You got into more trouble if you had a weapon. People shot you instantly if they thought you were going to shoot them. But if you were unarmed, they often stopped to talk. Admittedly, they tended to say things like, 'You'll never guess what we're going to do to you, pal,' but that took time. And Rincewind could do a lot with a few seconds. He could use them to live longer in. The dots in the distance were other carts, designed for speed rather than cargo. Some had four wheels, some had two. One had . . . just one, a huge one between narrow shafts, with a tiny saddle on top. The rider looked as though he'd bought his clothes in the scrapmetal yards of three continents and, where they wouldn't fit, had strapped on a chicken. But not one as big as the chicken pulling his wheel. It was bigger than Rincewind and most of what wasn't leg was neck. It was covering the ground as fast as a horse. 'What the hell's that?' he yelled. 'Emu!' shouted Mad, who was now hanging among the harnesses. 'Try and pick it off, they're a good feed!' The cart jolted. Rincewind's hat whirled away into the dust. 'Now I've lost my hat!'

'Good! Bloody awful hat!' An arrow twanged off a metal plate by Rincewind's foot. 'And they're shooting at me!' A cart rattled out of the dust. The man beside the driver whirled something around his head. A grapnel bit into the woodwork by Rincewind's other foot and ripped off a metal plate. 'And they're—' he began.

'You've got a bow, right?' yelled Mad, who was balancing on the back of one of the horses. 'And find something to hold onta, they're gonna go at any minute—' The cart had been moving at the gallop, but now it suddenly shot forward and almost jolted Rincewind right off. Smoke poured out of the axles. The landscape blurred. 'What the hell is that?'

'Supercharger!' shouted Mad, pulling himself on to the cart inches from the frantically pounding hooves. 'Secret recipe! Now hold 'em off, right, 'cos someone's gotta steer!' The emu emerged from the dust cloud with a few of the faster carts rattling behind it. An arrow buried itself in the cart right between Rincewind's legs. He flung himself flat on the swaying roof, held out the crossbow, shut his eyes and fired. In accordance with ancient narrative practice, the shot ricocheted off someone's helmet and brought down an innocent bird some distance away, whose only role was to expire with a suitably humorous squawk. The man driving the emu drew alongside. From under a familiar hat with 'Wizzard' dimly visible in the grime he gave Rincewind a grin. Every tooth had been sharpened to a point, and the front six had 'Mother' engraved on them. 'G'day!' he shouted cheerfully. 'Hand over your cargo and I promise you that you won't be killed all in one go.' That's my hat! Give me back my hat!'

'You're a wizard, are you?' The man stood up on the saddle, balancing easily as the wheel bounced over the sand. He waved his hands over his head. 'Look at me, mates! I'm a bloody wizard! Magic, magic, magic!' A very heavy arrow, trailing a rope, smashed into the back of the cart and stuck fast. There was a cheer from the riders. 'You give me back my hat or there'll be trouble!'

'Oh, there's gonna be trouble anyway,' said the rider, aiming his crossbow. Tell you what, why not turn me into somethin' bad? Oh, I'm all afrai—' His face went green. He pitched backwards. The crossbow bolt hit the driver of the cart beside him, which veered wildly into the path of another, which swerved and crashed into a camel. That meant the carts behind were suddenly faced with a pile-up which, together with the absence of brakes on any vehicle, immediately got bigger. Part of it was kicking people as well. Rincewind, hands over his head, watched until the last wheel had rolled away, and then walked unsteadily along the swaying cart to where Mad was leaning on the reins.

'Er, I think you can slow down now, Mr Mad,' he ventured. 'Yeah? Killed 'em all, didja?'

'Er . . . not all of them. Some of them just ran away.'

'You kiddin' me?' The dwarf looked round. 'Stone me, you ain't! Here, pull that lever as hard as you can!' He waved at a long metal rod beside Rincewind, who tugged it obediently. Metal screamed as the brakes locked against the wheels. 'Why're they going so fast?'