Raising Steam (Discworld 40)

‘What did you say to make them think that?’

‘These goblins need hope, Mister Lipwig. You ain’t genuine good guy, but you can pretend like no bees’ nest. I have already explained to them that you are great citizen of Ankh-Morpork and dreadful fighter.’

‘Well,’ said Moist, ‘at least you got one bit right. But the bandits have surely been scared off now. The goblins can stay here, can’t they? There’ll be jobs on the railway when it comes through here. They’d like that, wouldn’t they?’

‘Bandit men come back in time. Always is bandits. These goblins can’t fly, Mister Soggy. Long way back to Ankh-Morpork line! Looks for you to get them out of here. Me? I ain’t just fallen off Hogswatch tree. You don’t carry knife, and now it night-time and you are still in maquis. Worse here than just bandits! Bad worse! Everything bad end up in the maquis and you still with no weapon. What are your orders, Mister Big Man?!’

Moist hesitated. He had a feel for this sort of thing, he was sure, and it hardly ever let him down.

‘Okay. We’ll take them with us. But first you must get us out of here.’

‘No, Marvellous von Lipwig is going to take the people out. Plucky goblin sidekick just bring up the rear.’

‘Really? Okay, then. Just point me in the right direction.’

There was a track of sorts, and myriad little pathways in every direction. Moist and his unhappy but hopeful band were shepherded surreptitiously from behind by Of the Twilight the Darkness, who was becoming a great lieutenant, despite the fact that he brazenly considered Moist to be a bit of a tit. But a useful tit all the same.

As they struggled back to what, in a fair wind, might have been called a proper track, Moist told himself that while it was true that Commander Vimes was the man who had been most prominent in the manumission of the goblins, he, Moist, could at least give them a job; you couldn’t have a profession as goblin, now could you? It just made no sense. And yet if there were such a thing as a professional goblin, then it was definitely Of the Twilight the Darkness, who was so goblin that you could imagine that other goblins would tap one another on the shoulder and say, ‘Blimey! Look at that goblin! Doesn’t he look like a goblin to you?’

But jobs got things going, got people going, and raised their self-esteem. After all, goblins, quite apart from now being ubiquitous in the clacks industry, were also doing very well and picking up serious folding money in the ceramics business. Goblin pots were beautiful, extremely fine and as iridescent as a butterfly’s wing.fn44

Moist’s reverie was broken by Of the Twilight the Darkness. ‘These poor herberts behind us think you need to know that dwarfs been asking after you, like sneaky one up tree I saw off. My, can’t the greedy buggers shift when need. Don’t like good flint edge! But still are some around. Reckon they waiting until we get to railway. Right place for ambush.’

Moist had devoted considerable energies to being a non-combatant, words being his weapon of choice, but when words weren’t enough, in extremis he could deliver telling blows with his fists and feet. Right now he was wondering whether to surreptitiously drag said feet a little so that he would be surrounded by the band of goblins if there was an attack. After all, they all had stone weapons, didn’t they? And he didn’t, did he? Goblins acquired a fighting spirit with their mothers’ milk, if indeed their mothers had milk.fn45

They continued cautiously into the ever-deepening dusk, now moving as silently as they could manage. Even the goblin toddlers were quiet as they walked towards the promised land.

They skirted the grounds of the chateau and moved on through the woods in the direction of the railhead. A while later there came a crushed-gravel whisper at Moist’s elbow from Of the Twilight the Darkness.

‘I sending out some of swifter lads to scout ahead. Something not right at railhead. Couldn’t get close enough to see but says at least dozen dwarfs in the woods up there, maybe more. Could hear the buggers clanging. They trying to be surreptitious, but dwarfs has not first idea of surreptition. It’s all been hammer and tongues to dwarfs. Could try go round ’em – but the buggers might try go round us same time. Best, I say, to deal with bogeys today, right? No worry, some these lobster lads know how to fight and they proud you leading them … ain’t you!’

It wasn’t a question, it was a demand. Moist was horribly aware of the whole refugee group clustered around him, their un prepossessing faces full of expectation and miscellaneous fragments of food. There were little ones, some no more than babes in arms. Moist could feel the pressure of their hope which, alas, he knew was unfounded and probably misplaced. He was no leader. Not like Commander Vimes. But what would Of the Twilight the Darkness do if he just ran away? He could outrun any dwarf, make it back to the chateau … but could he outrun a goblin …?

He shivered and shoved that thought to the very back of his mind just as a small goblin woman came up to him.

‘Go into battle with nice cuppa tea!’ she said. ‘Special goblin tea! Very good for you! Boiled in sheep bladder! Excellent when always having to run! Got herbs! You drink! You drink now! Ain’t nothing like a nice cuppa tea. Medicinal it is!’

Of the Twilight the Darkness handed Moist a large goblin club.

‘Many, many ways to die today,’ he said, with devastating humour. ‘Trust elderly goblin, this one very much the best, hang! We hang together.’

Moist understood that last rather unfortunate suggestion. It was the traditional goblin-to-goblin greeting, as in, hang together or hang separately. He swigged the cold tea, which had a harmless accent of hazelnuts with a soupçon of wool, expecting at any moment either to be poisoned or to throw up. In fact, it was … pleasant and it also felt quite nourishing. If there were snails in it, like the wine, then, well, viva escargot! Although the secret ingredient, he was quite sure, was likely to be avec.

The potion appeared to work because a few moments later he felt ready for anything, full of beans, or possibly full of avec. Why, in the face of all the gods, had he been so apprehensive when there was absolutely nothing to be frightened of, oh dear no!

This cheerful state of mind continued right up until the moment they spotted the red lights of the railhead shining out like a beacon through the surrounding woodlands. Leaving the most elderly goblins with the twigsfn46 hiding in the undergrowth as only goblins could hide, Moist and the rest crept forward.

The young men in the travelling work gang had crafted themselves cosy little shacks covered with oilskin. These were extremely portable and always a place where a friendly face could be certain of a hot drink, stirred with a spanner, of course. And if no gamekeepers were known to be about, a wild avec and rabbit stew might also be available for an al fresco meal.

Indeed, the pot of stew still bubbling over the embers of the camp fire smelled as good as any Moist remembered. He had expected to see the young lads he had met only that morning, cheerfully tucking in after a hard day’s work. He had not expected to see corpses … but corpses were what he found. By the glow of the fire and the pale light of the lanterns, he could see that the workers had many things that could usefully have been employed as a weapon, but they had evidently been taken unawares. It had been a terrible encounter and most certainly they had lost. A quick assay of body parts indicated that there had been nine of them, cut down while having their meal outside their makeshift bothy.

Of the Twilight the Darkness was instantly on the case, sniffing the corpses and the ground.

‘The damn dwarfs have been here, oh yes, can smell the naaaasty buggers! But some of them still here,’ he added quickly, pointing to a small piece of woodland in the distance and dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Hiding in the wood’ – sniff – ‘over there’ – sniff – ‘several, one injured.’ His beady goblin eye was glittering and Moist … Moist had a sudden sensation of being on fire.

‘Please,’ he managed to say, ‘please, tell me, what is the goblin for “Charge!”?’

Much, much later, Moist remembered that he had heard the goblin say at least the beginning of the word and then the whole world was a crimson haze full of shouting and the dark fog of war. He felt his arms and legs going about their terrible business, especially his arms, and he was aware of noises, unpleasant noises, cracking noises, splatting noises, but they came as a kind of incoherent memory, as did the screams … Little parcels of recollection bobbing up and down like the bubbles in a bottle of home-made ginger beer, coming and going and never staying long enough to mean anything. But the bubbles were gradually drifting away now and, when he came to what was left of his senses, he was lying with his back up against a tree.