The Wee Free Men (Discworld 30)

“Fairyland? No, it’s not! I’ve seen pictures! Fairyland is…is all trees and flowers and sunshine and, and tinklyness! Dumpy little babies in romper suits with horns! People with wings! Er…and weird people! I’ve seen pictures!”

“It isna always like this,” said Rob Anybody shortly. “An’ ye canna come wi’ us because ye ha’ nae weapon, mistress.”

“What happened to my frying pan?” said Tiffany.

Something bumped against her heels. She looked around and saw Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock hold up the pan triumphantly.

“Okay, ye have the pan,” said Rob Anybody, “but what ye need here is a sword of thunderbolt iron. That’s like the, you know, official weapon for invadin’ Fairyland….”

“I know how to use the pan,” said Tiffany. “And I’m—”

“Incomin’!” yelled Daft Wullie.

Tiffany saw a line of black dots in the distance and felt someone climb up her back and stand on her head.

“It’s the black dogs,” Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock announced. “Dozens o’ ’em, Big Man.”

“We’ll never outrun the dogs!” Tiffany cried, grabbing her pan.

“Dinna need to,” said Rob Anybody. “We got the gonnagle wi’ us this time. Ye might like to stick yer fingers in yer ears, though.”

William, with his eyes fixed on the approaching pack, was unscrewing some of the pipes from the mousepipes and putting them in a bag he carried hanging from his shoulder.

The dogs were much closer now. Tiffany could see the razor teeth and the burning eyes.

Slowly William took out some much shorter, smaller pipes that had a silvery look to them and screwed them into place. He had the look of someone who wasn’t going to rush.

Tiffany gripped the handle of her pan. The dogs weren’t barking. It would have been slightly less scary if they were.

William swung the mousepipes under his arm and blew into one until the bag bulged.

“I shall play,” he announced, as the dogs got close enough for Tiffany to see the drool, “that firrrrm favorite, ‘The King Underrrr Waterrrr.’”

As one pictsie, the Nac Mac Feegle dropped their swords and put their hands over their ears.

William put the mouthpiece to his lips, tapped his foot once or twice, and, as a dog gathered itself to leap at Tiffany, began to play.

A lot of things happened at more or less the same time. All Tiffany’s teeth started to buzz. The pan vibrated in her hands and dropped onto the snow. The dog in front of her went cross-eyed and, instead of leaping, tumbled forward.

The grimhounds paid no attention to the pictsies. They howled. They spun around. They tried to bite their own tails. They stumbled and ran into one another. The line of panting death broke into dozens of desperate animals, twisting and writhing and trying to escape from their own skins.

The snow was melting in a circle around William, whose cheeks were red with effort. Steam was rising.

He took the pipe from his mouth. The grimhounds, struggling in the slush, raised their heads. And then, as one dog, they put their tails between their legs and ran like greyhounds back across the snow.

“Weel, they ken we’re here noo,” said Rob Anybody, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Ot aggened?” said Tiffany, touching her teeth to check that they were all still there.

“He played the notes o’ pain,” Rob Anybody explained. “Ye canna hear ’em ’cause they’re pitched so high, but the doggies can. Hurts ’em in their heids. Now we’d better get movin’ before she sends somethin’ else.”

“The Queen sent them? But they’re like something out of nightmares!” said Tiffany.

“Oh aye,” said Rob Anybody. “That’s where she got them.”

Tiffany looked at William the gonnagle. He was calmly replacing the pipes. He saw her staring at him, looked up, and winked.

“The Nac Mac Feegle tak’ music verrrrrra seriously,” he said. And then he nodded at the snow near Tiffany’s foot.