"The rupert should stick to sums. He thinks he's a soldier. Never walked on a battlefield in his life. All that rubbish he gave your man was death-or-glory stuff. And I'll tell you, Perks, I've seen Death more often than I care to remember, but I've never clapped eyes on Glory. I'm all for sending the fools to look for us where we ain't, though."

"He's not my man, sarge," said Polly.

"Yeah, well, you're at home with the writin' and readin'," grumbled Jackrum. "You can't trust the people who do that stuff. They mess around with the world, and it turns out everything you know is wrong."

They reached the gully again. The squad had come back from their various hiding places, and most were clustered around one of the newspapers. For the first time, Polly saw The Picture.

It was actually quite good, especially of Shufti and Wazzer. She was mostly hidden by the bulk of Jackrum. But you could see the sullen cavalrymen behind them, and their expressions were a picture in themselves.

"It's a good one of Tonker," said Igorina, who didn't lisp so much when there were no officers to hear.

"Do you think having a picture like this is an Abomination in the Eyes of Nuggan?" said Shufti nervously.

"Probably," said Polly absent-mindedly. "Most things are." She ran her eye down the text next to the picture. It was full of phrases like "plucky farm boys" and "humiliation of some of Zlobenia's best troops" and "sting in the tail". She could see why it had caused trouble.

She rustled through the other pages. They were crammed with strange stories about places she'd never heard of, and pictures of people she didn't recognize. But one page was a mass of grey text, under a line of much bigger printing which read:

Why This Mad State Must Be Stopped

Bewildered, her eye picked up phrases from the sea of letters: "disgraceful invasions of neighbouring states", "deluded worshippers of a mad god", "a strutting bully", "outrage after outrage", "flying in the face of international opinion"... ;A patrol found the fresh graves," said de Worde.

High above an ice heron, a winter migrant from the Hub, gave an ugly honk as it searched for lakes.

"I take it you didn't, then," said de Worde.

"We buried them," said Maladict coldly. "We don't know who killed them."

"We did take some vegetables," said Polly. She remembered laughing about it. Admittedly it was only because it was that or start crying, but even so...

"You've been living off the land?" He'd tugged a notebook out of his pocket and was scribbling in it with a pencil.

"We don't have to talk to you," said Maladict.

"No, no, you must! There's so much you need to know! You're in the... Ups-and-Downs, right?"

"Ins-and-Outs," said Polly.

"And you - " the man began.

"I've had enough of this," said Maladict, and marched away from the tree and into the clearing. The two cavalry men looked up from their fire, and there was a moment of immobility before one reached for his sword.

Maladict swung the bow quickly from one to the other, its point hypnotizing them like a swinging watch. "I've got only one shot but there's two of you," he said. "Who shall I shoot? You choose. Now, listen very carefully: where's your coffee? You've got coffee, haven't you? C'mon, everyone's got coffee! Spill the beans!"

They stared at the crossbow and slowly shook their heads.

"What about you, writer man?" snarled Maladict. "Where're you hiding the coffee?"

"We only have cocoa," said the writer, raising his hands quickly as Maladict turned on him. "You're welcome to - "

Maladict dropped his crossbow, which fired straight up into the air7. and sat down with his head in his hands. "We're all gonna die," he said. The troopers shifted as though to stand up, and Jade raised her sapling.

"Don't even fink about it," she said.

Polly turned to the writer man. "You want us to talk to you, sir? Then you talk to us. Is this about... Prince Heinrich's... socks?"

Maladict stood up in one mad movement. "I say we grease the lot of them and go home!" he said, to no one in particular. "One, Two, Three! What We Are Fighting For!"

"Socks?" said the writer, looking nervously at the vampire. "What've socks got to do with it?"

Tags: Terry Pratchett Discworld Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net