The Carpet People

legions of soldiers there . . .
    Bane was probably sensing his thoughts, but hewas, unusually for him, chatting aimlessly about nothing in particular.
    Neither saw the moul until they were almost on top if it. It sat astride its snarg in the middle of the track, hand halfway to sword hilt, staring straight at them with a look of terror.
    Bane gave a grunt and drew his sword, then almost fell over when Snibril’s arm shot out and grabbed his shoulder.
    ‘What are you doing, you idiot?’
    ‘Look at it,’ said Snibril. Observe, Pismire always said, before acting . . .
    The moul had not moved. Snibril crept forward. Then, reaching up, he tapped the creature on its snout. Without saying a word he pointed to the snarg’s legs. Thick drifts of dust lay undisturbed around them.
    There was even a film of dust on the moul. It sat there, a statue, staring blankly at nothing.
    ‘How could it—?’ Snibril began.
    ‘Don’t know. Pismire might,’ said Bane, rather roughly, because he felt a bit of a fool. ‘Come on. You take its head and I’ll take its legs.’
    They gingerly unseated it from its snarg and carried it, still in a sitting position, back to the carts.
    Snibril stuck his knife in his belt where he could reach it easily, just in case. But the moul seemed to be made out of grit.
    They found Pismire already fully occupied. Glurk had been out hunting and had come back with a wild pig. Or at least the statue of one.
    ‘There was a whole herd of these,’ Glurk was saying.
    He tapped the pig with his spear. It went boinnng.
    ‘Should go “oink”,’ he told them. ‘Not boinnng .’
    Pismire took Snibril’s knife and rapped the moul on the chest. It went ping.
    ‘Should go “Aaaggh!”’ said Glurk.
    ‘Are they dead?’ asked Snibril
    ‘Not sure,’ said Pismire, and one or two of the more nervous watchers strolled hurriedly away. ‘Look.’
    Snibril looked into the moul’s eyes. They were wide open, and a dull black. But deep in them there was something . . . just a flicker, a tiny imprisoned spark in the pool of darkness.
    Snibril shuddered and turned away, meeting Pismire’s steady gaze. ‘Amazing. Premature fossilization. And I didn’t know there were any termagants in these parts. Tonight’s guards had better be picked for their hearing.’
    ‘Why?’ said Glurk.
    ‘Because they’d better wear blindfolds.’
    ‘Why?’
    There was a shout, and Yrno Berius came running up with one of his hounds in his arms.
    ‘Heard him bark,’ he gasped. ‘Went to find him, found him like this.’
    Pismire examined it.
    ‘Lucky,’ he said, vaguely.
    ‘I don’t think so!’ said Yrno.
    ‘Not him,’ said Pismire. ‘You.’
    The dog was still in a crouched position, ready to spring, with its teeth bared and its tail between its legs.
    ‘What’s a termagant?’ asked Snibril, finally looking away.
    ‘There have been quite a lot of descriptions of their back view,’ said Pismire. ‘Unfortunately, no one who’s looked at one from the front has been able to tell us much. They get turned to stone. No one knows why. Amazing. Haven’t heard of any for years. Thought they’d all died out.’
    And that evening Pismire himself nearly died out. He always held that goat’s milk was essential for a philosopher, so not long after they had left the Woodwall he had bought a nanny goat from Glurk’s small flock.
    Her name was Chrystobella, and she hated Pismire with deep animal hatred. When she didn’t feel like being milked, which was twice a day, it was part of camp life to watch her skitter between carts with a hot and breathless Pismire cursing in pursuit. Mothers would waken their children tocome and watch. It was a sight they’d remember for the rest of their lives, they said.
    This time she hurtled out between the carts and into the hairs with a taunting bleat. Pismire scrambled after her, leapt down into the darkness, and tripped over her . . .
    Something backed hastily into the shadows, with a faint jingling.
    Pismire came back holding the statue of a goat. He put it down silently, and tapped its muzzle.
    It went ping.
    ‘Should go “blaaarrrt”,’ said Pismire. ‘No one go out of the camp tonight.’
    That night ten men stood around the ring, their eyes tightly shut. Snibril was among them and he stood by Roland, who wore blinkers.
    And they did it the next night, too. And the one after that, after a cow belonging to the widow Mulluck started to go ping when it should have gone