Wyrd Sisters

dropped to his knees. “Mad Wolf, ma’am,” he said. He stared back at the fallen captain. “They’ll kill me now!” he wailed.
    “But you did what you thought was right,” said Granny.
    “I didn’t become a soldier for this. Not to go around killing people.”
    “Exactly right. If I was you, I’d become a sailor,” said Granny thoughtfully. “Yes, a nautical career. I should start as soon as possible. Now, in fact. Run off, man. Run off to sea where there are no tracks. You will have a long and successful life, I promise.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, and added, “At least, longer than it’s likely to be if you hang around here.”
    He pulled himself upward, gave her a look compounded of gratitude and awe, and ran off into the mist.
    “And now perhaps someone will tell us what this is all about?” said Granny, turning to the third man.
    To where the third man had been.
    There was the distant drumming of hooves on the turf, and then silence.
    Nanny Ogg hobbled forward.
    “I could catch him,” she said. “What do you think?”
    Granny shook her head. She sat down on a rock and looked at the child in her arms. It was a boy, no more than two years old, and quite naked under the blanket. She rocked him vaguely and stared at nothing.
    Nanny Ogg examined the two corpses with the air of one for whom laying-out holds no fears.
    “Perhaps they were bandits,” said Magrat tremulously.
    Nanny shook her head.
    “A strange thing,” she said. “They both wear this same badge. Two bears on a black and gold shield. Anyone know what that means?”
    “It’s the badge of King Verence,” said Magrat.
    “Who’s he?” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “He rules this country,” said Magrat.
    “Oh. That king,” said Granny, as if the matter was hardly worth noting.
    “Soldiers fighting one another. Doesn’t make sense,” said Nanny Ogg. “Magrat, you have a look in the coach.”
    The youngest witch poked around inside the bodywork and came back with a sack. She upended it, and something thudded onto the turf.
    The storm had rumbled off to the other side of the mountain now, and the watery moon shed a thin gruel of light over the damp moorland. It also gleamed off what was, without any doubt, an extremely important crown.
    “It’s a crown,” said Magrat. “It’s got all spiky bits on it.”
    “Oh, dear,” said Granny.
    The child gurgled in its sleep. Granny Weatherwax didn’t hold with looking at the future, but now she could feel the future looking at her.
    She didn’t like its expression at all.

    King Verence was looking at the past, and had formed pretty much the same view.
    “You can see me?” he said.
    “Oh, yes. Quite clearly, in fact,” said the newcomer.
    Verence’s brows knotted. Being a ghost seemed to require considerably more mental effort than being alive; he’d managed quite well for forty years without having to think more than once or twice a day, and now he was doing it all the time.
    “Ah,” he said. “You’re a ghost, too.”
    “Well spotted.”
    “It was the head under your arm,” said Verence, pleased with himself. “That gave me a clue.”
    “Does it bother you? I can put it back on if it bothers you,” said the old ghost helpfully. He extended his free hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Champot, King of Lancre.”
    “Verence. Likewise.” He peered down at the old king’s features and added, “Don’t seem to recall seeing your picture in the Long Gallery…”
    “Oh, all that was after my time,” said Champot dismissively.
    “How long have you been here, then?”
    Champot reached down and rubbed his nose. “About a thousand years,” he said, his voice tinged with pride. “Man and ghost.”
    “A thousand years!”
    “I built this place, in fact. Just got it nicely decorated when my nephew cut my head off while I was asleep. I can’t tell you how much that upset me.”
    “But…a thousand years…” Verence repeated, weakly.
    Champot took his arm. “It’s not that bad,” he confided, as he led the unresisting king across the courtyard. “Better than being alive, in many ways.”
    “They must be bloody strange ways, then!” snapped Verence. “I liked being alive!”
    Champot grinned reassuringly. “You’ll soon get used to it,” he said.
    “I don’t want to get used to it!”
    “You’ve got a strong morphogenic field,” said Champot. “I can tell. I look for these things. Yes. Very strong, I should say.”
    “What’s