The Carpet People

darkness that was the worst bit. And then the claws that gripped them, as easily as a child grips a toy.
    ‘Well, well,’ said Gormaleesh, from somewhere nearby. ‘What an unexpected treat.’
    ‘Is my brother with you?’ said Brocando.
    After a pause, Gormaleesh said, ‘In a manner of speaking. Now, you will do what I say. The little king will hold on to Purgish’s tail. The old man hold on to the king’s belt. The Dumii soldier hold on to the old man’s belt. Anyone let go, anyone try to run away, that person is a dead person.’
    Brocando, who could count quite quickly for a king, said, ‘But what about – ow!’
    ‘Sorry,’ said Pismire, who could count faster. ‘Did I accidentally kick you? Well, he’s right. He’s got all three of us.’
    ‘But we can’t leave Gl—ow! Oh. Yes. Of course. Yes, I see. You’re right.’ Brocando’s voice suddenly took on the kind of excited conspiratorial tone thatwould have made anyone smell a rat who didn’t already smell like a moul. ‘All three of us. Yes. You’ve definitely got all three of us. How well can you see in the dark, incidentally? Probably not one-hundred-per-cent, eh?’
    Oh, no, Pismire thought. How can they not get suspicious after that?
    ‘Ow!’ said Gormaleesh.
    ‘Moul scum,’ said Bane. ‘When I get out I’ll—’
    There was the sound of a slap in the darkness.
    ‘When you get out,’ said Gormaleesh, ‘you will do exactly as I say. Bring them along.’
    Well done, thought Pismire. Bane can count fast as well.
    They were marched in shuffling single file for quite a short time. They must have been close to a way up to the surface. Pismire felt his hands guided to a ladder. We’re going up and out, he thought. If Glurk wakes up, how will he know?
    He climbed a few steps, and then let himself drop again.
    ‘Ow! My leg! Ow!’ The noise echoed around the caves of Underlay.
    ‘What is the matter with your leg, old man?’ said Gormaleesh.
    ‘Nothing,’ said Pismire, and climbed back up the ladder.
    And if Glurk hasn’t heard that, we’re done for.
    *
    It was already night on the surface.
    They’d climbed out into a clearing, a long way from Jeopard. It seemed to be a gathering place for the surviving mouls from the city. The prisoners were tied up with leather thongs and thrown down by a bush. Nearby, a pack of snargs eyed them hungrily.
    The mouls were talking in their own language, occasionally turning to look at the prisoners.
    ‘Can you understand them?’ said Pismire.
    ‘Very crudely,’ said Bane. ‘They’re taking us somewhere. Called . . . gargatass, if that means anything.’
    ‘That’s their word for the High Gate Land, I think,’ said Pismire. ‘Where the Vortgorns live.’
    ‘Them? They’re our mortal enemies,’ said Brocando.
    ‘I thought the Dumii were your mortal enemies,’ said Pismire.
    ‘We like to have several mortal enemies at one time,’ said Brocando. ‘Just in case we run out.’
    Pismire took no notice. He was lying a little apart from the other two, and could see behind the snarg pack. In the glow of the moul’s campfire he could just make out a guard lounging by the little overgrown entrance to Underlay, with his snarg tethered to a dust bush.
    An arm was slowly growing out of the bush behind the unsuspecting moul. It stopped a few inches above his head, and carefully removed his helmet. The moul turned, and met a fist coming the other way. The arm caught him before he fell and dragged him into the bush . . .
    A moment later the hand appeared by the snarg, and started untethering it. It looked up, and with horror Pismire saw its eyes narrow. Before it could growl, though, the hand bunched up into a knotted fist and smacked it smartly between the eyes. He heard the creature give a little sigh, and saw it fall over slowly. Before it reached the ground the tether tightened and tugged it into the bush.
    Pismire didn’t know why, but he felt sure that everything was going to be all right.
    Or, at least, more all right than it was now.

Chapter 12
    All that night they journeyed south. Most of the pack were mounted on their snargs, though the prisoners and their guards had to run along in the middle of the jostling bodies. Dawn came. The hairs around had changed from deep purple to red again.
    The next days merged for the prisoners into one continuous blur of running feet and moul voices. The hairs changed from crimson to orange, from orange to black. Feet blistered and bled, and minds