Reaper Man

but—”
    “I think the hinges are going,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
    Ridcully looked around desperately.
    “We’ll regroup in the Great Hall,” he said. “We’ll…strategically withdraw to previously prepared positions.”
    “Who prepared them?” said the Dean.
    “We’ll prepare them when we get there,” said the Archchancellor through gritted teeth. “Bursar! Your boots! Now!”
    They reached the double doors of the Great Hall just as the door behind them half-collapsed, half-dissolved. The Great Hall’s doors were much sturdier. Bolts and bars were dragged into place.
    “Clear the tables and pile them up in front of the door,” snapped Ridcully.
    “But it eats through wood,” said the Dean.
    There was a moan from the small body of Modo, which had been propped against a chair. He opened his eyes.
    “Quick!” said Ridcully. “How can we kill a compost heap?”
    “Um. I don’t think you can, Mr. Ridcully, sir,” said the gardener.
    “How about fire? I could probably manage a small fireball,” said the Dean.
    “It wouldn’t work. Too soggy,” said Ridcully.
    “It’s right outside! It’s eating away at the door! It’s eating away at the door ,” sang the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
    The wizards backed further away down the length of the hall.
    “I hope it doesn’t eat too much wood,” said the dazed Modo, radiating genuine concern. “They’re a devil, excuse my Klatchian, if you get too much carbon in them. It’s far too heating.”
    “You know, this is exactly the right time for a lecture on the dynamics of compost making, Modo,” said the Dean.
    Dwarfs do not know the meaning of the word “irony.”
    “Well, all right. Ahem. The correct balance of materials, correctly layered according to—”
    “There goes the door,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, lumbering toward the rest of them.
    The mound of furniture started to move forward.
    The Archchancellor stared desperately around the hall, at a loss. Then his eyes were drawn to a familiar, heavy bottle on one of the sideboards.
    “Carbon,” he said. “That’s like charcoal, isn’t it?”
    “How should I know? I’m not an alchemist,” sniffed the Dean.
    The compost heap emerged from the debris. Steam poured off it.
    The Archchancellor looked longingly at the bottle of Wow-Wow Sauce. He uncorked it. He took a deep sniff.
    “The cooks here just can’t make it properly, you know,” he said. “It’ll be weeks before I can get anymore from home.”
    He tossed the bottle toward the advancing heap.
    It vanished into the seething mass.
    “Stinging nettles are always useful,” said Modo, behind him. “They add iron. And comfrey, well, you can never get enough comfrey. For the minerals, you know. Myself, I’ve always reckoned that a small quantity of wild yarrow—”
    The wizards peered over the top of an overturned table.
    The heap had stopped moving.
    “Is it just me, or is it getting bigger?” said the Senior Wrangler.
    “And looking happier,” said the Dean.
    “It smells awful ,” said the Bursar.
    “Oh, well. And that was nearly a full bottle of sauce, too,” said the Archchancellor sadly. “I’d hardly opened it.”
    “Nature’s a wonderful thing, when you come to think about it,” said the Senior Wrangler. “You don’t all have to glare at me like that, you know. I was only passing a remark.”
    “There are times when—” Ridcully began, and then the compost heap exploded.
    It wasn’t a bang or a boom. It was the dampest, most corpulent eruption in the history of terminal flatulence. Dark red flame, fringed with black, roared up to the ceiling. Pieces of heap rocketed across the hall and slapped wetly into the walls.
    The wizards peered out from their barricade, which was now thick with tea-leaves.
    A cabbage stalk dropped softly onto the Dean’s head.
    He looked at a small, bubbling patch on the flagstones.
    His face split slowly into a grin.
    “Wow,” he said.
    The other wizards unfolded themselves. Adrenaline backwash worked its seductive spell. They grinned, too, and started playfully punching one another on the shoulder.
    “Eat hot sauce!” roared the Archchancellor.
    “Up against the hedge, fermented rubbish!”
    “Can we kick ass, or can we kick ass?” burbled the Dean happily.
    “You mean can’t the second time, not can. And I’m not sure that a compost heap can be said to have an—” the Senior Wrangler began, but the tide of excitement was flowing against