Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

But Cruces wouldn't let go. Vimes didn't dare let go; the gonne would be twisted out of his grip. It was pulled backwards and forwards between them in desperate, grunting concentration.

The gonne exploded.

There was a tongue of red fire, a firework stink and a zing-zing noise from three walls. Something struck Vimes' helmet and zinged away towards the ceiling.

Vimes stared at Cruces'contorted features. Then he lowered his head and yanked the gonne hard.

The Assassin screamed and let go, clutching at his nose. Vimes rolled back, gonne in both hands.

It moved. Suddenly the stock was against his shoulder and his finger was on the trigger.

You're mine.

We don't need him any more.

The shock of the voice was so great that he cried out.

He swore afterwards that he didn't pull the trigger. It moved of its own accord, pulling his finger with it. The gonne slammed into his shoulder and a six-inch hole appeared in the wall by the Assassin's head, spraying him with plaster.

Vimes was vaguely aware, through the red mist rising around his vision, of Cruces staggering to a door and lurching through it, slamming it behind him.

All that you hate, all that is wrong – I can put it right.

Vimes reached the door, and tried the handle. It was locked.

He brought the gonne around, not aware of thinking, and let the trigger pull his finger again. A large area of the door and frame became a splinter-bordered hole.

Vimes kicked the rest of it away and followed the gonne.

He was in a passageway. A dozen young men were looking at him in astonishment from half-open doors. They were all wearing black.

He was inside the Assassins' Guild.

A trainee Assassin looked at Vimes with his nostrils.

'Who are you, pray?'

The gonne swung towards him. Vimes managed to haul the barrel upwards just as it fired, and the shot took away a lot Of ceiling.

'The law, you sons of bitchesl' he shouted.

They stared at him.

Shoot them all. Clean up the world.

'Shut up!' Vimes, a red-eyed, dust-coated, slime-dripping thing from out of the earth, glared at the quaking student.

'Where did Cruces go?' The mist rolled around his head. His hand creaked with the effort of not firing.

The young man jerked a finger urgently towards a flight of stairs. He'd been standing very close when the gonne fired. Plaster dust draped him like devil's dandruff.

The gonne sped away again, dragging Vimes past the boys and up the stairs, where black mud still trailed. There was another corridor there. Doors were opening. Doors closed again after the gonne fired again, smashing a chandelier.

The corridor gave out on to a wide landing at the top of a much more impressive flight of stairs and, opposite, a big oaken door.

Vimes shot the lock off, kicked at the door and then fought the gonne long enough to duck. A crossbow bolt whirred over his head and hit someone, far down the corridor.

Shoot him! SHOOT HIM!