The Carpet People

that’s a clever plan?’ said Bane.
    ‘Sounds sensible to me,’ said Glurk.
    ‘But there’s hundreds in the city, aren’t there?’ said Bane.
    ‘My people will rise up and overthrow them,’ hissed Brocando.
    ‘Have they got any weapons, then?’ said Bane.
    ‘No, but the mouls have. So they’ll start by getting their weapons off them,’ said Brocando placidly.
    Bane groaned. ‘We’re all going to die,’ he said. ‘This isn’t tactics. This is just making-it-up-as-you-go-along.’
    ‘Let’s start now, then,’ said Brocando. He put his foot against the door and pushed. It moved a fraction, and then stopped.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ said Snibril.
    ‘There’s something on the other side,’ hissed Brocando. ‘There shouldn’t be. Everyone give me a hand here.’
    They put their shoulders to it. It resisted for a moment, and then flew open. There was a shriek. For a second the hall was motionless.
    Snibril saw a throne lying on the floor. It had blocked the door. Now it lay halfway down the steps and a thin Deftmene was struggling underneath it, making pathetic little noises. Beyond it two mouls were standing, staring at the open doorway. One was big, wide-shouldered, with a paleface almost hidden in his leather helmet. He held a coiled whip in one great paw. Voice Three, Snibril thought. He even looks as though he should be called Gorash. Beside him stood a thin moul wearing a long black cloak and a grin like a wolf that’s just had dinner. Voice Two, said Snibril to himself. He looks like he ought to have a name with a lot of esses in it – something you can hiss.
    Both groups stared at one another for a second.
    Then Brocando whirred forward like an enraged chicken, waving his sword. The thin moul leapt backwards and drew its own sword with disheartening swiftness. Gorash uncurled his whip, but found that Bane was suddenly between him and the king.
    The Munrungs watched. There seemed to be two ways of swordfighting. Brocando went at it like a windmill, pushing the enemy back by sheer effort. Bane fought quietly, like some kind of machine – stamp, thrust, parry ... tic toc tic.
    ‘Shouldn’t we help?’ said Snibril.
    ‘No. Ten to two isn’t fair,’ said Glurk.
    The doors at the end of the throne room burst open and a dozen moul guards ran towards them.
    ‘Oh. This is better, then, is it?’ said Snibril.
    Glurk threw his spear. One of the guards screamed.
    ‘Yes,’ he said.
    Snibril found that spears fought well against swords, if you didn’t throw them. They could prod, and they could parry. And as more guards poured into the room, he realized that it also helped if you were outnumbered. It made it easier to hit an enemy, for one thing. And since there were so many of them, each one wasn’t too keen to get involved, taking the view that there was no point in running risks when there were all these other people to do it for them.
    This must be how the Deftmenes think, he told himself as he broke a spear over the head of a moul. Always pick a bigger enemy, because he’s easier to hit . . .
    He found himself pressed up against the back of Bane, who was still fighting in his tictoc way, like someone who can do it all day.
    ‘I’ve broken my spear!’
    ‘Use a sword!’ said Bane, parrying a thrust from a desperate guard. ‘There’s plenty of them on the floor!’
    ‘But I don’t know how to use one!’
    ‘It’s easy! The blunt end goes in your hand and the sharp end goes in the enemy!’
    ‘There must be more to it than that!’
    ‘Yes! Remember which end is which!’
    And then it was over. The few remaining guards fell over one another to get out of the door. Gorashwas dead. The skinny moul dodged a last wild slash from Brocando’s sword and dived through the open doorway to the secret passage. They heard it running down the steps.
    Snibril looked down at his sword. There was blood on it, and he hoped it wasn’t his.
    ‘Well, that wasn’t too hard,’ said Glurk.
    ‘There’s hundreds more out there,’ said Bane, gloomily.
    Brocando went to the balcony. Early morning light was flooding across the hairs. He cupped his hands around his mouth.
    ‘I’mmm baaaack! Brocandoooo!’
    He picked up a dead moul, dragged it to the balcony, and pushed it over.
    There were already some Deftmenes in the square below the palace. A shout went up.
    The king rubbed his hands together.
    ‘Help me with the throne,’ he said.
    It took three of them to lift it up. Underneath it