Moving Pictures (Discworld 10)

'And in Holy Wood I have to be in the nick of time,' he shouted. He leaned against the wall for a moment and fought for breath.

'Always in the nick of time,' he muttered.

He started to run upwards again.

The slabs passed under his feet like a dream, like squares of movie clicking through the picture box.

And he'd arrive in the nick of time. Thousands of people knew he would.

If heroes didn't arrive in the nick of time, where was the sense in anything? And-

There was no slab in front of his falling foot.

His other foot was already arching to leave the step.

He focused every ounce of energy into one tendontwanging push, felt his toes hit the edge of the next slab up, flung himself forward and then jumped again because it was that or snap a leg.

'This is nuts.'

He ran onward, straining to look for more missing slabs.

'Always in the nick of time,' he muttered.

So maybe he could stop and have a rest? He could

still make it in the nick of time. That's what the nick of time meant . . .

No. You had to play fair.

There was another missing slab ahead.

He stared blankly at the space.

There was going to be a whole tower of this.

He concentrated briefly and jumped on to nothing. The nothing became a slab for the fraction of a second he needed to jump off on to the next one.

He grinned in the dark, and a sparkle of light twinkled on a tooth.

Nothing created by Holy Wood magic was real for long.

But you could make it real for long enough.

Hooray for Holy Wood.

The Thing was flickering more slowly now, spending less time looking like a giant version of Ginger and more looking like the contents of a taxidermist's sink trap. It pulled its dripping bulk over the top of the tower and lay there. Air whistled through its breathing tubes. Under its tentacles the rock crumbled, as the magic drained away and was replaced by the hungry appetite of Time.

It was bewildered. Where were the others? It was alone and besieged in a strange place . . .

. . . and now it was angry. It extended an eye and glared at the ape struggling in what had been a hand. Thunder rocked the tower. Rain cascaded off the stones.

The Thing extended a pseudopod and wrapped it around the Librarian's waist . . .

. . . and became aware of another figure, ridiculously small, erupting from the stairwell.

Victor unslung the pike from his back. What did you do now? When you were dealing with humans you had options. You could say 'Hey, put down that ape and come on out with your feelers up.' You could . . .

A claw-tipped tentacle as thick as his arm slammed down on the stones, cracking them.