The Light Fantastic

looked hard at the ferryman.
    “Two of you—grab him!”
    There was a pause. Then one of the men said, “What, the ferryman?”
    “Yes!”
    “Why?”
    Herrena looked blank. This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen. It was accepted that when someone yelled something like “Get him!” or “Guards!” people jumped to it, they weren’t supposed to sit around discussing things.
    “Because I said so!” was the best she could manage. The two men nearest to the bowed figure looked at each other, shrugged, dismounted, and each took a shoulder. The ferryman was about half their size.
    “Like this?” said one of them. Twoflower was choking for breath.
    “Now I want to see what he’s got under that robe.”
    The two men exchanged glances.
    “I’m not sure that—” said one.
    He got no further because a knobbly elbow jerked into his stomach like a piston. His companion looked down incredulously and got the other elbow in the kidneys.
    Cohen cursed as he struggled to untangle his sword from his robe while hopping crabwise toward Herrena. Rincewind groaned, gritted his teeth, and jerked his head backward hard. There was a scream from Weems and Rincewind rolled sideways, landed heavily in the mud, scrambled up madly and looked around for somewhere to hide.
    With a cry of triumph Cohen managed to free his sword and waved it triumphantly, severely wounding a man who had been creeping up behind him.
    Herrena pushed Twoflower off her horse and fumbled for her own blade. Twoflower tried to stand up and caused the horse of another man to rear, throwing him off and bringing his head down to the right level for Rincewind to kick it as hard as possible. Rincewind would be the first to call himself a rat, but even rats fight in a corner.
    Weems’s hands dropped onto his shoulder and a fist like a medium-sized rock slammed into his head.
    As he went down he heard Herrena say, quite quietly, “Kill them both. I’ll deal with this old fool.”
    “Right!” said Weems, and turned toward Twoflower with his sword drawn.
    Rincewind saw him hesitate. There was a moment of silence, and then even Herrena could hear the splashing as the Luggage surged ashore, water pouring from it.
    Weems stared at it in horror. His sword fell from his hand. He turned and ran into the mists. A moment later the Luggage bounded over Rincewind and followed him.
    Herrena lunged at Cohen, who parried the thrust and grunted as his arm twinged. The blades clanged wetly, and then Herrena was forced to back away as a cunning upward sweep from Cohen nearly disarmed her.
    Rincewind staggered toward Twoflower and tugged at him ineffectually.
    “Time to be going,” he muttered.
    “This is great!” said Twoflower. “Did you see the way he—”
    “Yes, yes, come on.”
    “But I want—I say, well done!”
    Herrena’s sword spun out of her hand and stood quivering in the dirt. With a snort of satisfaction Cohen brought his own sword back, went momentarily cross-eyed, gave a little yelp of pain, and stood absolutely motionless.
    Herrena looked at him, puzzled. She made an experimental move in the direction of her own sword and when nothing happened she grasped it, tested its balance, and stared at Cohen. Only his agonized eyes moved to follow her as she circled him cautiously.
    “His back’s gone again!” whispered Twoflower. “What can we do?”
    “We can see if we can catch the horses?”
    “Well,” said Herrena, “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, and there’s nothing personal about this, you understand.”
    She raised her sword in both hands.
    There was a sudden movement in the mists and the dull thud of a heavy piece of wood hitting a head. Herrena looked bewildered for a moment, and then fell forward.
    Bethan dropped the branch she had been holding and looked at Cohen. Then she grabbed him by the shoulders, stuck her knee in the small of his back, gave a businesslike twist and let him go.
    An expression of bliss passed across his face. He gave an experimental bend.
    “It’s gone!” he said. “The back! Gone!”
    Twoflower turned to Rincewind.
    “My father used to recommend hanging from the top of a door,” he said conversationally.

    Weems crept very cautiously through the scrubby, mistladen trees. The pale damp air muffled all sounds, but he was certain that there had been nothing to hear for the past ten minutes. He turned around very slowly, and then allowed himself the luxury of a long, heartfelt sigh. He