Thud! by Terry Pratchett
“It’s all so…so alive,” said Angua. “I was expecting just barren rock.”
“Dat’s what it like up at der battle place,” said Detritus, spray glistening on his skin. “My dad took me up dere when we were comin’ to der city. He showed me dis kind o’ rocky place, hit me on der head, and said, ‘Remember.’ ”
“Remember what?” said Sally.
“He didn’t say. So I just, you know, gen’rally remembered.”
I didn’t expect this, Vimes thought. It’s so…chaotic. Oh, well, let’s get clear of the cliff wall, at least. All these bloody great boulders must have got here from somewhere.
“I can smell smoke,” Angua announced after a while as they made their way unsteadily across the debris-strewn track.
“Campfires from up the valley,” said Cheery. “Early arrivals, I expect.”
“You mean people queue up for a place in the battle?” said Vimes. “Watch this boulder, it’s slippery.”
“Oh, yes. The fighting doesn’t start until Koom Valley Day. That’s tomorrow.”
“Damn, I lost track. Will it affect us down here?”
Bashfullsson coughed politely. “I don’t think so, Commander. This area is too dangerous to fight in.”
“Well, yes, I can see it would be terrible if anyone got hurt,” said Vimes, climbing over a long heap of rotting timber. “That would spoil the day for everyone.”
Historical Re-creation, he thought glumly as they picked their way across, under, over, or through the boulders and insect-buzzing heaps of splintered timber, with streamlets running everywhere. Only we do it with people dressing up and running around with blunt weapons, and people selling hot dogs, and the girls all miserable because they can only dress up as wenches, wenching being the only job available to women in the olden days.
But the dwarfs and the trolls…they fight it again, for real. Like, perhaps, if they fight it enough times, they’ll get it right?
Now there was a hole in the track in front of him, half-blocked with the winter’s debris, but still managing to swallow a whole streamlet. It poured, foaming, into the depths. There was a booming noise, far below. When he knelt down and touched the water, it was so cold it stung.
“Yes, watch out for sinkholes, Commander,” said Bashfullsson. “This is limestone. Water wears it away quite quickly. We’ll probably see some much bigger ones. Often they’re hidden by rotting debris. Watch where you tread.”
“Don’t they get blocked up?”
“Oh, yes, sir. You’ve seen the size of the rocks that roll down here.”
“It must be like a giant game of billiards!”
“Something like that, I expect,” said Bashfullsson carefully.
After ten minutes, Vimes sat down on a log, pulled out his helmet, took out a big red handkerchief, and wiped his forehead.
“It’s getting hotter,” he said. “And everywhere in this bloody place looks the same—ow!”
He slapped at his wrist.
“The midges can be a bit extreme, sir,” Cheery volunteered. “It’s said that when they bite extra-hard, there’s a storm coming.”
They both looked up at the mountains. There was a yellow haze at the far end of the valley, and clouds between the peaks.
“Oh, good,” said Vimes. “Because it feels like that bite went to the bone.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much, Commander,” said Cheery. “The big Koom Valley storm was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.”
“It certainly was a lifetime if you were caught in it,” said Vimes. “This damn place is getting to me, I don’t mind admitting it.”
By now, the rest of the squad had caught up. Sally and Detritus were visibly suffering from the heat. The vampire sat down in the shade of a big rock without saying anything. Brick lay down by the icy stream and stuck his head in it.
“I’m afraid I’m not much help here, sir,” said Angua. “I can smell dwarf, but that’s about it. There’s just too much damn water everywhere!”
“Maybe we won’t need your nose,” said Vimes. He unslung the tube that contained Sybil’s sketch, unrolled the drawing, and pinned the ends together.
“Give me a hand with this, will you, Cheery?” he said. “Everyone else, get some rest. And don’t laugh.”
He lowered the circlet of mountains over his head. There was a cough from Angua, which he pretended to ignore.
“Okay,” said Vimes, turning the stiff paper to get the mountains lined up just above their penciled outlines. “That’s Copperhead over there, and Cori Celesti over there…and they line up pretty well against the drawing. We’re practically on top of it already!”
“Not really, Commander,” said Bashfullsson behind him. “They’re both almost four hundred miles away. They’d look pretty much the same from anywhere in this part of the valley. You need to look at the nearer peaks.”
Vimes turned.
“Okay. What’s that one that looks really steep on the left-hand side?”
“That is The King, sir,” said Cheery. “He’s about ten miles away.”
“Really? He looks closer…”
Vimes found the mountain on the drawing. “And that small one over there?” he said. “The one with two peaks?”
“I don’t know the name, sir, but I can see the one you mean.”
“They’re too small and too close together…” Vimes muttered.
“Then walk toward them, sir. Mind where you’re putting your feet. Only tread on bare rock. Keep off piles of debris. The grag is right. It could be over an old sinkhole and you might drop right through.”
“O-kay. About halfway between them is that funny-shaped little outcrop. I’ll head directly for it. You watch where I’m putting my feet, too, will you?”
Trying to keep the paper level, stumbling on rocks, splashing through ice rivulets, Vimes walked the lonesome valley…
“Damn and blast!”
“Sir?”
Vimes peered over the top of his ring of paper. “I’ve lost The King. That damn great ridge of boulders is in the way. Hold on…I can see that mountain with the chunk taken out of it…”
It looked so simple. It would have been simple if Koom Valley had been flat and not littered with rubbish like the ten-pin bowling alley of the gods. In some places, they had to backtrack, because a wall of tangled, stinking, gnat-infested timber blocked the way. Or the barrier was a wall of rocks the length of a street. Or a wide, mist-filled, thundering cauldron of white water that elsewhere would have a name like The Devil’s Cauldron but here was nameless, because this was Koom Valley and for Koom Valley there just weren’t enough devils and they didn’t have enough cauldrons.
And the flies stung, and the sun shone, and the rotting wood and damp air and lack of wind created a sticky, swamp-like miasma that seemed to weaken the muscles.
No wonder they fought at the other end of the valley, Vimes thought. There was air and wind up there. At least you’d be comfortable.
Sometimes they’d come out into a clear stretch that looked quite like the scene that Methodia Rascal had painted, but the nearby mountains didn’t quite match up, and it was off again into the maze. You had to detour, and then detour around the detour.
At last, Vimes sat down on a bleached, crumbling log and put the paper aside.
“We must’ve missed it,” he said, panting. “Or Rascal didn’t get the mountains quite right. Or maybe even a slice of mountain fell off in the last hundred years. It could have happened. We could be twenty feet away from whatever it is we’re looking for and still miss it.” He slapped a gnat off his wrist.
“Cheer up, sir, I think we’re fairly close,” said Cheery.
“Why? What makes you think that?” said Vimes, wiping his brow.
“Because I think you may be sitting on the painting, sir. It’s very dirty, but that looks like rolled-up canvas to me.”
Vimes stood up quickly, and inspected the log. One corner of what he’d taken to be yellow-gray bark peeled back to reveal p
“And those timbers over there—” Cheery began but stopped, because Vimes had raised a finger to his lips.
There were, indeed, some long, thin pine saplings lying nearby, stripped of all branches. They would have gone unnoticed if it wasn’t for the presence of the rolled-up painting.
They did just what we did, Vimes thought. It was probably easier, if they had enough dwarfs to hold up the painting; the mountains would be properly colored, not just pencil lines, and it would be more accurate on the bigger canvas. They could take their time, too. They thought they were well ahead of me. All they were worried about was some bloody mystic symbol.
He drew his sword and beckoned Cheery to follow him.
There’s not just dark dwarfs here, then, he thought, creeping around the nearby rocks. They wouldn’t have stood out here in daylight. So let’s see how many stayed on guard…
None, as it turned out. It was something of an anticlimax. Beyond the rocks was the spot that X would have marked, if there had been an X.
They must have been really confident, Vimes realized. By the look if it, they’d moved tons of rock and stricken timber, and there were the crowbars to prove it.
Right now would be a really good time for Angua and the others to catch us up, he decided.
In front of them was a hole about six feet wide. A steel bar had been laid across it, bedded into two freshly chiseled grooves, and from the bar a stout rope disappeared into the depths. From far below came the thunder of dark waters.
“Mr. Rascal must’ve been a brave man to stand here,” said Vimes.
“I expect it was a plugged hole a hundred years ago,” said Cheery.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Vimes, kicking a pebble into the dark. “Pretend I’m a city man who doesn’t know a bloody thing about caves, why don’t you?”
“It’s what you get when a hole gets blocked, sir,” said Cheery patiently. “Mr. Rascal probably just had to climb down onto a plug of debis.”
This is the place.
So…this is where he found the talking cube, Vimes thought. Ignoring Cheery’s protests, because he was the commander around here, he swung down onto the rope and lowered himself a few feet.
There, tucked under the lip of the hole, a stubby piece of iron was rusted into the rock. A few links of equally rusted chain hung from it.
It sang in its chains…
“There was a note about the thing being in chains,” he said. “Well, there’s some chain here, and what could be the stub of a knife!”
“Dwarf steel, sir!” said Cheery reproachfully. “It does last.”
“It could last all that time?”
“Oh yes. I expect the sink became a fountain for a while since Rascal’s day, and forced the blockage out. That sort of thing happens all the time in Koom Va—er, what are you doing, sir?”
Vimes was staring down into the darkness. Below, unseen, dark waters churned. So…the messenger climbed up this hole, he thought. Where to hide the cube safely?
There could be trolls up above. But a fighting dwarf would have a dagger, certainly, and they love chains. Yes…here would be a good place. And he’d be back soon, anyway…
“Old men climbed down this?” he said, staring down the rope into the dark.
“Old dwarfs, sir. Yes. We’re strong for our size. You’re not going down, are you, sir?”
There’s a side tunnel down there…
“There must be a side tunnel down there,” said Vimes. Thunder rumbled, far up in the mountains.
“But the others will be here soon, sir! Aren’t you rushing things?”
Don’t wait for them…
“No. Tell them to follow me. Look, we’ve lost time. I can’t hang around all day.”
Cheery hesitated, and then pulled something out of a pouch on her belt.
“Then at least take these, sir,” she said. He grabbed the little package as it fell. It was surprisingly heavy.
“Waxed matches, sir, they don’t get wet. And the wrapping will burn like a torch for at least four minutes. There’s a small loaf of dwarf bread, too.”
“Well…thank you,” said Vimes to the worried round shadow against the yellow sky. “Look, I’ll see if there’s any light down there, and if there isn’t, I’ll come straight back. I’m not that daft.”
He let himself slide on down the rope. There was a knot every couple of feet. The air was winter-cold after the heat of the valley. Fine spray came up from below.
There was a tunnel, well above the cauldron. He could make himself believe there was light in the distance, too. Well, he wasn’t stupid. He needed to—
Let go…
His hands loosened their grip. He didn’t even have time to swear before the water closed over him.
Vimes opened his eyes. After a while, moving his arm slowly, because of the pain, he found his face and checked that his eyelids were, indeed, open.
What bits of his body weren’t aching? He checked. No, there seemed to be none. His ribs were carrying the melody of pain, but knees, elbows, and head were all adding trills and arpeggios. Every time he shifted to ease the agony, it moved somewhere else. His head ached as if someone was hammering on his eyeballs.
He groaned, and coughed up water.
Gritty sand was under him. He could hear the rush of water somewhere nearby, but the sand under him was merely damp. And that didn’t seem right.
He risked turning over, a process that extracted a considerable amount of groan.
He could remember the icy water. There had been no question of swimming. All he’d been able to do was roll himself into a ball as the water threw and scraped and banged him through the bagatelle board of Koom Valley. He’d gone over an underground waterfall once, he was sure, and had managed to suck in a breath before being whisked onward. And then there was depth, and pressure, and his life started to unroll before his eyes, and his last thought had been please, please, can we skip the bit with Mavis Trouncer…
And now he was here on an invisible beach, totally out of the water? But this place surely didn’t have tides!
So someone was somewhere in the blackness, watching him. That was it. They’d pulled him out and now they were watching him…
He opened his eyes again. Some of the pain was gone, leaving stiffness as payment. He had a feeling that time had passed. The darkness pressed in on all sides, thick as velvet.
He rolled back with more groans, and this time managed to push himself onto his hands and knees.
“Who’s there?” he mumbled, and, very carefully, got to his feet.
Being upright seemed to shake his brain into gear again.
“Anyone there?” The darkness swallowed the sound. Anyway, what would he have done if something had said “Yes!”
He drew his sword and held it out in front of him as he shuffled forward. After a dozen steps, it clinked against rock.
“Matches,” he mumbled. “Got matches!”
He found the wax bundle and, working his clammy fingers slowly, drew out one match. Scraping the wax off the head with his thumb, he struck it against the stone.
The glare hurt his eyes. Look, quick! Flowing water, smooth sand, hand-and footprints coming out of the water, one set only? Yes. Walls looked dry, small cave, darkness over there, way out…
Vimes limped toward the oval entrance as quick as he could while the match spat and fizzed in his hand.
There was a bigger cave here, so big that the blackness in it seemed to suck all the light from the match, which scorched his fingers and died.
The heavy darkness closed in again, like curtains, and now he knew what the dwarfs meant. This wasn’t the darkness of a hood, or a cellar, or even of their shallow little mine. He was a long way below the ground here, and the weight of all that darkness bore down on him.
Now and again, a drop of water went plink into some unseen pool.
Vimes staggered onwards. He knew he was bleeding. He didn’t know why he was walking, b
Maybe he’d find daylight. Maybe he’d find a log that had been washed in here, and float his way out. He wasn’t going to die, not down here in the dark, a long way from home.
A lot of water was dripping in this cavern. A lot of it was going down his neck right now, but there were plinks on every side. Hah, water trickling down your neck and odd noises in the shadows…well, that’s when we find out if we’ve got a real copper, right? But there were no shadows here. It wasn’t light enough.
Perhaps that poor sod of a dwarf had wandered through here. But he found a way out. Maybe he knew the way, maybe he had a rope, maybe he was young and limber…and so he’d got out, dying on his feet, and tucked away the treasure, out of the way, and then went down the valley, walking through his grave. That’s how it could take people. He remembered Mrs. Oldsburton, who went mad after her baby died, cleaning everything in the house, every cup, wall, ceiling, and spoon, not seeing anybody or hearing anything, just working all day and all night. Something in the head went click, and you found something to do, anything, to stop yourself thinking.
Best to stop thinking that the way out the dwarf had found had been the one Vimes had dropped in by, and he had no idea where that was now.
Maybe he could simply jump back in the water, knowing what he was doing this time, and maybe he’d make it all the way down to the river before the turbulent currents battered him to death. Maybe he—
Why the hell had he let go of that rope? It had been like that little voice that whispers “Jump” when you’re at a cliff edge, or “Touch the fire.” You didn’t listen, of course. At least most people didn’t, most of the time. Well, a voice had said “Let go,” and he had…
He shuffled on, aching and bleeding, while the dark curled its tail around him.
“He’ll be back soon, you know,” said Sybil. “Even if it’s at the very last minute.”
Out in the hall, a big grandfather clock had just stopped chiming half past five.
“I’m sure he will,” said Bunty. They were bathing Young Sam.
“He’s never late,” Sybil went on. “He says if you’re late for a good reason you’ll be late for a bad one. And it’s only half past five, anyway.”