Wyrd Sisters

mouth.
    “Something comes,” she said.
    “Can you tell by the pricking of your thumbs?” said Magrat earnestly. Magrat had learned a lot about witchcraft from books.
    “The pricking of my ears,” said Granny. She raised her eyebrows at Nanny Ogg. Old Goodie Whemper had been an excellent witch in her way, but far too fanciful . Too many flowers and romantic notions and such.
    The occasional flash of lightning showed the moorland stretching down to the forest, but the rain on the warm summer earth had filled the air with mist wraiths.
    “Hoofbeats?” said Nanny Ogg. “No one would come up here this time of night.”
    Magrat peered around timidly. Here and there on the moor were huge standing stones, their origins lost in time, which were said to lead mobile and private lives of their own. She shivered.
    “What’s to be afraid of?” she managed.
    “Us,” said Granny Weatherwax, smugly.
    The hoofbeats neared, slowed. And then the coach rattled between the furze bushes, its horses hanging in their harnesses. The driver leapt down, ran around to the door, pulled a large bundle from inside and dashed toward the trio.
    He was halfway across the damp peat when he stopped and stared at Granny Weatherwax with a look of horror.
    “It’s all right,” she whispered, and the whisper cut through the grumbling of the storm as clearly as a bell.
    She took a few steps forward and a convenient lightning flash allowed her to look directly into the man’s eyes. They had the peculiarity of focus that told those who had the Know that he was no longer looking at anything in this world.
    With a final jerking movement he thrust the bundle into Granny’s arms and toppled forward, the feathers of a crossbow bolt sticking out of his back.
    Three figures moved into the firelight. Granny looked up into another pair of eyes, which were as chilly as the slopes of Hell.
    Their owner threw his crossbow aside. There was a glimpse of chain mail under his sodden cloak as he drew his sword.
    He didn’t flourish it. The eyes that didn’t leave Granny’s face weren’t the eyes of one who bothers about flourishing things. They were the eyes of one who knows exactly what swords are for. He reached out his hand.
    “You will give it to me,” he said.
    Granny twitched aside the blanket in her arms and looked down at a small face, wrapped in sleep.
    She looked up.
    “No,” she said, on general principles.
    The soldier glanced from her to Magrat and Nanny Ogg, who were as still as the standing stones of the moor.
    “You are witches?” he said.
    Granny nodded. Lightning skewered down from the sky and a bush a hundred yards away blossomed into fire. The two soldiers behind the man muttered something, but he smiled and raised a mailed hand.
    “Does the skin of witches turn aside steel?” he said.
    “Not that I’m aware,” said Granny, levelly. “You could give it a try.”
    One of the soldiers stepped forward and touched the man’s arm gingerly.
    “Sir, with respect, sir, it’s not a good idea—”
    “Be silent.”
    “But it’s terrible bad luck to—”
    “Must I ask you again?”
    “Sir,” said the man. His eyes caught Granny’s for a moment, and reflected hopeless terror.
    The leader grinned at Granny, who hadn’t moved a muscle.
    “Your peasant magic is for fools, mother of the night. I can strike you down where you stand.”
    “Then strike, man,” said Granny, looking over his shoulder. “If your heart tells you, strike as hard as you dare.”
    The man raised his sword. Lightning speared down again and split a stone a few yards away, filling the air with smoke and the stink of burnt silicon.
    “Missed,” he said smugly, and Granny saw his muscles tense as he prepared to bring the sword down.
    A look of extreme puzzlement crossed his face. He tilted his head sideways and opened his mouth, as if trying to come to terms with a new idea. His sword dropped out of his hand and landed point downward in the peat. Then he gave a sigh and folded up, very gently, collapsing in a heap at Granny’s feet.
    She gave him a gentle prod with her toe. “Perhaps you weren’t aware of what I was aiming at,” she whispered. “Mother of the night, indeed!”
    The soldier who had tried to restrain the man stared in horror at the bloody dagger in his hand, and backed away.
    “I-I-I couldn’t let. He shouldn’t of. It’s—it’s not right to,” he stuttered.
    “Are you from around these parts, young man?” said Granny.
    He