"Don't know. Never tried," said Magrat.

"But if we wait here, someone's bound to come."

"Yes. I'm afraid they will."

"What I mean is, you don't have to do this!"

"Yes I do. I'm getting married tomorrow. One way or the other."

"But-"

"Shut up!"

She's going to get killed, Shawn thought. It's enough to be able to pick up a sword. You have to know which end to poke into the enemy. I'm supposed to be on guard and she's going to get killed—

But—

But—

She shot one of them in the eye, right through the keyhole. I couldn't have done that. I'd have said something like "Hands up!" first. But they were in the way and she just. . . got them out of her way.

She's still going to die. She's just probably going to die bravely.

I wish my mum was here.

Magrat finished rolling up the stained remnant of the wedding dress and stowed it in the sack.

"Have we got any horses?"

"There's . . . elf horses in the courtyard, miss. But I don't think you'll be able to ride one."

It struck Shawn immediately that this wasn't the right thing to say.

It was black, and larger than what Magrat had to think of as a human horse. It rolled red eyes at her, and tried to get into position to kick.

Magrat managed to mount only by practically tethering every leg to the rings in the stable wall, but when she was on, the horse changed. It had the docility of the severely whipped, and seemed to have no mind of its own.

"It's the iron," said Shawn.

"What does it do to them? It can't hurt."

"Don't know, miss. Seems they just freeze up, kind of thing."

"Drop the portcullis after I'm through."

"Miss-"

"Are you going to tell me not to go?"

"But-"

"Shut up, then."

"But-"

"I remember a folksong about a situation just like this," said Magrat. "This girl had her fiance stolen by the Queen of the Elves and she didn't hang around whining, she jolly well got on her horse and went and rescued him. Well, I'm going to do that too."

Shawn tried to grin.

"You're going to sing7" he said.

"I'm going to fight. I've got everything to fight for, haven't I? And I've tried everything else."

Shawn wanted to say: but that's not the same! Going and fighting when you're a real person isn't like folksongs! In real life you die! In folksongs you just have to remember to keep one finger in your ear and how to get to the next chorus! In real life no one goes wack-fol-a-diddle-di-do-sing-too-rah-li-ay!

But he said:

"But, miss, if you don't come back-"

Magrat turned in the saddle.

"I'll be back."

Shawn watched her urge the sluggish horse into a trot and disappear over the drawbridge.

"Good luck!" he shouted.

Then he lowered the portcullis and went back into the keep, where there were three loaded crossbows on the kitchen table.

There was also the book on martial arts that the king had sent for specially.

He pumped up the fire, turned a chair to face the door, and turned to the Advanced Section.

Magrat was halfway down the road to the square when the adrenaline wore off and her past life caught up with her.

She looked down at the armour, and the horse, and thought: I'm out of my mind.

It was that bloody letter. And I was frightened. I thought I'd show everyone what I'm made of. And now they'll probably find out: I'm made of lots of tubes and greeny purple wobbly bits.

I was just lucky with those elves. And I didn't think. As soon as I think, I get things wrong. I don't think I'll be that lucky again . . .

Luck?

She thought wistfully of her bags of charms and talismans at the bottom of the river. They'd never really worked, if her life was anything to go by, but maybe — it was a horrible thought — maybe they'd just stopped it getting worse.

There were hardly any lights in the town, and a lot of the houses had their shutters up.

The horse's hooves clattered loudly on the cobbles.

Magrat peered into the shadows. Once, they'd just been shadows. Now they could be gateways to anything.

Clouds were pressing in from the Hub. Magrat shivered.

This was something she'd never seen before.

It was true night.

Night had fallen in Lancre, and it was an old night. It was not the simple absence of day, patrolled by the moon and stars, but an extension of something that had existed long before there was any light to define it by absence. It was unfolding itself from under tree roots and inside stones, crawling back across the land.

Magrat's sack of what she considered to be essential props might be at the bottom of the river but she had been a witch for more than ten years, and she could feel the terror in the air.

People remember badly. But societies remember well, the swarm remembers, encoding the information to slip it past the censors of the mind, passing it on from grandmother to grandchild in little bits of nonsense they won't bother to forget. Sometimes the truth keeps itself alive in devious ways despite the best efforts of the official keepers of information. Ancient fragments chimed together now in Magrat's head.

Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen . . .

From ghosties and bogles and long-leggity beasties . . .

My mother said I never should . . .

We dare not go a-hunting, for fear . . .

And things that go bump . . .

Play with the fairies in the wood . . .

Magrat sat on the horse she didn't trust and gripped the sword she didn't know how to use while the ciphers crept out of memory and climbed into a shape.

They steal cattle and babies. . .

They steal milk. . .

They love music, and steal away musicians. . .

In fact they steal everything.

We'll never be as free as them, as beautiful as them, as clever as them, as light as them; we are animals.

Chilly wind soughed in the forest beyond the town. It had always been a pleasant forest to walk in at nights but now, she knew, it would not be so again. The trees would have eyes. There would be distant laughter in the wind.

What they take is everything.

Magrat spurred the horse into a walk. Somewhere in the town a door slammed shut.

And what they give you is fear.

There was the sound of hammering from across the street. A man was nailing something on his door. He glanced around in terror, saw Magrat, and darted inside.

What he had been nailing on the door was a horseshoe.

Magrat tied the horse firmly to a tree and slid off its back. There was no reply to her knocking.

Who was it who lived here? Carter the weaver, wasn't it, or Weaver the baker? "Open up, man! It's me, Magrat Garlick!"

There was something white beside the doorstep.

It turned out to be a bowl of cream.

Again, Magrat thought of the cat Greebo. Smelly, unreliable, cruel and vindictive — but who purred nicely, and had a bowl of milk every night.

"Come on! Open up!"

After a while the bolts slid back, and an eye was applied to a very narrow crack.

"Yes?"

"You're Carter the baker, aren't you?"

"I'm Weaver the thatcher."

"And you know who I am?"

"Miss Garlick?"

"Come on, let me in!"

"Are you alone, miss?"

"Yes."

The crack widened to a Magrat width.

There was one candle alight in the room. Weaver backed away from Magrat until he was leaning awkwardly over the table. Magrat peered around him.

The rest of the Weaver family were hiding under the table. Four pairs of frightened eyes peered up at Magrat.

"What's going on?" she said.

"Er . . ." said Weaver. "Didn't recognize you in your flying hat, miss . . ."

"I thought you were doing the Entertainment? What's happened? Where is everyone? Where is my going-to-be-husband?"

"Er . . ."

Yes, it was probably the helmet. That's what Magrat decided afterward. There are certain items, such as swords and wizards' hats and crowns and rings, which pick up something of the nature of their owners. Queen Ynci had probably never sewn a tapestry in her life and undoubtedly had a temper shorter than a wet cowpat[38]. It was better to think that something of her had rubbed off on the helmet and was being transmitted to Magrat like some kind of royal scalp disease. It was better to let Ynci take over.

She grabbed Weaver by his collar.

"If you say 'Er' one more time," she said, "I'll chop your ears off."

"Er . . . aargh . . . I mean, miss . . . it's the Lords and Ladies, miss!"

"It really is the elves?"

"Miss!" said Weaver, his eyes full of pleading. "Don't say it! We heard 'em go down the street. Dozens of 'em. And they've stolen old Thatcher's cow and Skindle's goat and they broke down the door of-"

"Why'd you put a bowl of milk out?" Magrat demanded.

Weaver's mouth opened and shut a few times. Then he managed: "You see, my Eva said her granny always put a bowl of milk out for them, to keep them hap-"

"I see," said Magrat, icily. "And the king?"

"The king, miss?" said Weaver, buying time. "The king," said Magrat. "Short man, runny eyes, ears that stick out a bit, unlike other ears in this vicinity very shortly."

Weaver's fingers wove around one another like tormented snakes.

"Well. . . well. . . well. . ."

He caught the look on Magrat's face, and sagged.

"We done the play," he said. "I told 'em, let's do the Stick and Bucket Dance instead, but they were set on this play. And it all started all right and then, and then, and then. . . suddenly They were there, hundreds of 'em, and everyone was runnin', and someone bashed into me, and I rolled into the stream, and then there was all this noise, and I saw Jason Ogg hitting four elves with the first thing he could get hold of-"

"Another elf?"

"Right, and then I found Eva and the kids, and then lots of people were running like hell for home, and there were these Gentry on horseback, and I could hear 'em laughing, and we got home and Eva said to put a horseshoe on the door and-"

"What about the king?"

"Dunno, miss. Last I remember, he was laughin' at Thatcher in his straw wig."

"And Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax? What happened to them?"

"Dunno, miss. Don't remember seein' 'em, but there was people runnin' everywhere-"

"And where was all this?"

"Miss?"

"Where did it happen?" said Magrat, trying to speak slowly and distinctly.

"Up at the Dancers, miss. You know. Them old stones." Magrat let him go.

"Oh, yes," she said. "Don't tell Magrat, Magrat's not to know about this sort of thing. The Dancers? Right."

"It wasn't us, miss! It was only make-believe!"

"Hah!"

She unbolted the door again.

"Where're you going, miss?" said Weaver, who was not a competitor in the All-Lancre Uptake Stakes.

"Where d'you think?"

"But, miss, you can't take iron-"

Magrat slammed the door. Then she kicked the bowl of milk so hard that it sprayed across the street.

Jason Ogg crawled cautiously through the dripping bracken. There was a figure a few feet away. He hefted the stone in his hand—

"Jason?"

"Is that you, Weaver?"

"No, it's me — Tailor."

"Where's everyone else?"

"Tinker'n Baker found Carpenter just now. Have you seen Weaver?"

"No, but I saw Carter and Thatcher."

Mist curled up as the rain drummed into the warm earth. The seven surviving Morris Men crawled under a

dripping bush.

"There's going to be hell to pay in the morning!"

moaned Carter. "When she finds us we're done for!"

"We'll be all right if we can find some iron," said Jason. "Iron don't have no effect on her! She'll tan our hides for us!"

Carter clutched his knees to his chest in terror.

"Who?"

"Mistress Weatherwax!"

Thatcher jabbed him in the ribs. Water cascaded off the leaves above them and tunnelled down every neck.

"Don't be so daft! You saw them things! What're you worrying about that old baggage for?"

"She'll tan our hides for us, right enough! 'Twas all our fault, she'll say!"

"I just hopes she gets a chance," muttered Tinker.

"We are," said Thatcher, "between a rock and a hard place."

"No we ain't," sobbed Carter. "I been there. That's that gorge just above Bad Ass. We ain't there! I wish we was there! We're under this bush! And they'll be looking for us! And so shall she!"

"What happened when we was doing the Ent-" Carpenter began.

"I ain't asking that question right now," said Jason. "The question I'm asking right now is, how do we get home tonight?"

"She'll be waiting for us!" Carter wailed.

There was a tinkle in the darkness.

"What've you got there?" said Jason.

"It's the props sack," said Carter. "You said as how it was my job to look after the props sack!"

"You dragged that all the way down here?"

"I ain't about to get into more trouble 'cos of losing the props sack!"

Carter started to shiver.

"If we gets back home," said Jason, "I'm going to talk to our mam about getting you some of these new dried frog pills."

He pulled the sack toward him and undid the top.

"There's our bells in here," he said, "and the sticks. And who told you to pack the accordion?"

"I thought we might want to do the Stick and-"

"No one's ever to do the Stick and-"

There was a laugh, away on the rain-soaked hill, and a crackling in the bracken. Jason suddenly felt the focus of attention.

"They're out there!" said Carter.

"And we ain't got any weapons," said Tinker.

A set of heavy brass bells hit him in the chest.

"Shut up," said Jason, "and put your bells on. Carter?"

"They're waiting for us!"

"I'll say this just once," said Jason. "After tonight no one's ever to talk about the Stick and Bucket dance ever again. All right?"

The Lancre Morris Men faced one another, rain plastering their clothes to their bodies.

Carter, tears of terror mingling with make-up and the rain, squeezed the accordion. There was the long-drawn-out chord that by law must precede all folk music to give bystanders time to get away

Jason held up his hand and counted his fingers.

"One, two . . ." His forehead wrinkled. "One, two, three . . ."

". . . four . . ." hissed Tinker.

". . . four," said Jason. "Dance, lads!"

Six heavy ash sticks clashed in mid-air.

". . . one, two, forward, one, back, spin . . ."

Slowly, as the leaky strains of Mrs. Widgery's Lodger wound around the mist, the dancers leapt and squelched their way slowly through the night. . .

". . . two, back, jump . . ."

The sticks clashed again.

"They're watching us!" panted Tailor, as he bounced past Jason, "I can see 'em!"

". . . one . . . two . . . they won't do nothing 'til the music stops! . . . back, two, spin . . . they loves music! . . . forward, hop, turn . . . one and six, beetle crushers! . . . hop, back, spin . . ."

"They're coming out of the bracken!" shouted Carpenter, as the sticks met again.

"I see 'em . . . two, three, forward, turn . . . Carter . . . back, spin . . . you do a double . . . two, back . . . wandering angus down the middle . . ."

"I'm losing it, Jason!"

"Play! . . . two, three, spin . . ."

"They're all round us!"

"Dance!"

"They're watching us! They're closing in!"

". . . spin, back . . . jump . . . we're nearly at the road . . ."

"Jason!"

"Remember when . . . three, turn . . . we won the cup against Ohulan Casuals? . . . spin . . ."

The sticks met, with a thump of wood against wood. Clods of earth were kicked into the night.

"Jason, you don't mean-"

". . . back, two . . . do it. . . "

"Carter's getting . . . one, two . . . out of wind . . ."

". . . two, spin. . ."

"The accordion's melting, Jason," sobbed Carter.

". . . one, two, forward . . . bean setting!"

The accordion wheezed. The elves pressed in. Out of the corner of his eye Jason saw a dozen grinning, fascinated faces.

"Jason!"

". . . one, two . . . Carter into the middle . . . one, two, spin. . ."

Seven pairs of boots thudded down . . .

"Jason!"

". . . one, two . . . spin . . . ready . . . one, two . . . back . . . back . . . one, two . . . turn . . . KILL . . . and back, one, two. . ."

The inn was a wreck. The elves had stripped it of everything edible and rolled out every barrel, although a couple of rogue cheeses in the cellar had put up quite a fight.

The table had collapsed. Lobster claws and candlesticks lay among the ruined meal.

Nothing moved.

Then someone sneezed, and some soot fell into the empty grate, followed by Nanny Ogg and, eventually, by the small, black, and irate figure of Casanunda.

"Yuk," said Nanny, looking around at the debris. "This really is the pips."

"You should have let me fight them!"

"There were too many of them, my lad."

Casanunda threw his sword on the floor in disgust.

"We were just getting to know one another properly and fifty elves burst into the place! Damn! This kind of thing happens to me all the time!"

"That's the best thing about black, it doesn't show the soot," said Nanny Ogg vaguely, dusting herself off. "They managed it, then. Esme was right. Wonder where she is? Oh, well. Come on."

"Where're we going?" said the dwarf.

"Down to my cottage."

"Ah!"

"To get my broomstick," said Nanny Ogg firmly. "I ain't having the Queen of the Fairies ruling my children. So we'd better get some help. This has gone too far."

"We could go up into the mountains," said Casanunda, as they crept down the stairs. "There's thousands of dwarfs up there."

"No," said Nanny Ogg. "Esme won't thank me for this, but I'm the one who has to wave the bag o' sweets when she overreaches herself . . . and I'm thinking about someone who really hates the Queen."

"You won't find anyone who hates her worse than dwarfs do," said Casanunda.

"Oh, you will," said Nanny Ogg, "if you knows where to look."

The elves had been into Nanny Ogg's cottage, too. There weren't two pieces of furniture left whole.

"What they don't take they smash," said Nanny Ogg.

She stirred the debris with her foot. Glass tinkled.

"That vase was a present from Esme," she said, to the unfeeling world in general. "Never liked it much."

"Why'd they do it?" said Casanunda, looking around.

"Oh, they'd smash the world if they thought it'd make a pretty noise," said Nanny She stepped outside again and felt around under the eaves of the low thatched roof, and pulled out her broomstick with a small grunt of triumph.

"I always shove it up there," she said, "otherwise the kids nick it and go joy-riding. You ride behind me, and I say this against my better judgement."

Casanunda shuddered. Dwarfs are generally scared of heights, since they don't often have the opportunity to get used to them.

Nanny scratched her chin, making a sandpapery sound.

"And we'll need a crowbar," she said. "There'll be one in Jason's forge. Hop on, my lad."

"I really wasn't expecting this," said Casanunda, feeling his way on to the broomstick with his eyes shut. "I was looking forward to a convivial evening, just me and you."

"It is just me and you."

"Yes, but I hadn't assumed there'd be a broomstick involved."

The stick left the ground slowly Casanunda clung miserably to the bristles.

"Where're we going?" he said weakly

"Place I know, up in the hills," said Nanny "Ages since I've been there. Esme won't go near it, and Magrat's too young to be tole. I used to go there a lot, though. When I was a girl. Girls used to go up there if they wanted to get-oh, bugger. . ."

"What?"

"Thought I saw something fly across the moon, and I'm damn sure it wasn't Esme."

Casanunda tried to look around while keeping his eyes shut.

"Elves can't fly," he muttered.

"That's all you know," said Nanny. "They ride yarrow stalks."

"Yarrow stalks?"

"Yep. Tried it meself, once. You can get some lift out of 'em, but it plays merry hell with the gussets. Give me a nice bundle of bristles every time. Anyway," she nudged Casanunda, "you should be right at home on one of these. Magrat says a broomstick is one of them sexual metaphor things.[39]"

Casanunda had opened one eye just long enough to see a rooftop drift silently below him. He felt sick.

"The difference being," said Nanny Ogg, "that a broomstick stays up longer. And you can use it to keep the house clean, which is more than you can say for — are you all right?"

"I really don't like this at all, Mrs. Ogg."

"Just trying to cheer you up, Mr. Casanunda."

"'Cheer' I like, Mrs. Ogg," said the dwarf, "but can we avoid the 'up'?"

"Soon be down."

"That I like."

Nanny Ogg's boots scraped along the hard-packed mud of the smithy's yard.

"I'll leave the magic running, won't be a mo," she said. Ignoring the dwarfs bleat for help, she hopped off the stick and disappeared through the back door.

The elves hadn't been there, at least. Too much iron. She pulled a crowbar from the toolbench and hurried out again.

"You can hold this," she said to Casanunda. She hesitated. "Can't have too much luck, can we?" she said, and scurried back into the forge. This time she was out again much faster, slipping something into her pocket.

"Ready?" she said. ' "No."

"Then let's go. And keep a look out. With your eyes open."

"I'm looking for elves?" said Casanunda, as the stick rose into the moonlight.

"Could be. It wasn't Esme, and the only other one ever flying around here is Mr. Ixolite the banshee, and he's very good about slipping us a note under the door when he's going to be about. For air traffic control, see?"

Most of the town was dark. The moonlight made a black and silver checkerboard across the country. After a while, Casanunda began to feel better about things. The motion of the broomstick was actually quite soothing.

"Carried lots of passengers, have you?" he said.

"On and off, yes," said Nanny.

Casanunda appeared to be thinking about things. And then he said, in a voice dripping with scientific inquiry, "Tell me, has anyone ever tried to mak-"

"No," said Nanny Ogg firmly. "You'd fall off."

"You don't know what I was going to ask."

"Bet you half a dollar?"

They flew in silence for a couple of minutes, and then Casanunda tapped Nanny Ogg on the shoulder.

"Elves at three o'clock!"

"That's all right, then. That's hours away."

"I mean they're over there!"

Nanny squinted at the stars. Something ragged moved across the night.

"Oh, blast."

"Can't you outfly them?"

"Nope. They can put a girdle round the world in forty minutes."

"Why? It's not that fat," said Casanunda, who was feeling in the mood for a handful of dried frog pills.

"I mean they're fast. We can't outrun 'em, even if we lost some weight."

"I think I'm losing a tiny bit," said Casanunda, as the broomstick dived toward the trees.

Leaves scraped on Nanny Ogg's boots. Moonlight glinted briefly off ash-blond hair, away to her left. "Bugger, bugger, bugger."

Three elves were keeping station with the broomstick. That was the thing about elves. They chased you till you dropped, until your blood was curdling with dread; if a dwarf wanted you dead, on the other hand, they'd simply cut you in half with an axe first chance they got. But that was because dwarfs were a lot nicer than elves.

"They're gaming on us!" said Casanunda.

"Got the crowbar?"

"Yes!"

"Right. . ."

The broomstick zigzagged over the silent forest. One of the elves drew its sword and swung down. Knock them down into the trees, leave them alive as long as possible . . .

The broomstick went into reverse. Nanny Ogg's head and legs went forward, so that partly she was sitting on her hands but mainly she was sitting on nothing. The elf swooped toward her, laughing—

Casanunda stuck out the crowbar.

There was a sound very like doioinng.

The broomstick jerked ahead again, dumping Nanny Ogg in Casanunda's lap.

"Sorry."

"Don't mention it. In fact, do it again if you like."

"Get him, did you?"

"Took his breath away."

"Good. Where're the others?"

"Can't see them." Casanunda grinned madly. "We showed them, eh?"

Something went zip and stuck into Nanny Ogg's hat. "They know we've got iron," she said. "They won't come close again. They don't need to," she added bitterly.

The broomstick swerved around a tree and ploughed through some bracken. Then it swung out on to an overgrown path.

"They aren't following us anymore," said Casanunda, after a while. "We've frightened them off, yes?"

"Not us. They're nervy of going close to the Long Man. It's not their turf. Huh, look at the state of this path. There's trees growing in it now. When I was a girl, you wouldn't find a blade of grass growing on the path." She smiled at a distant memory. "Very popular place on a summer night, the Long Man was."

There was a change in the texture of the forest now. It was old even by the standards of Lancre forestry. Beards of moss hung from gnarled low branches. Ancient leaves crackled underfoot as the witch and the dwarf flew between the trees. Something heard them and crashed away through the thick undergrowth. By the sound of it, it was something with horns.

Nanny let the broomstick glide to a halt.

"There," she said, pushing aside a bracken frond, 'the Long Man.'"

Casanunda peered under her elbow.

"Is that all? It's just an old burial mound."

"Three old burial mounds," said Nanny

Casanunda took in the overgrown landscape.

"Yes, I see them," he said. "Two round ones and a long one. Well?"

"The first time I saw 'em from the air," said Nanny, "I nearly fell off the bloody broomstick for laughin'."

There was one of those pauses known as the delayed drop while the dwarf worked out the topography of the situation.

Then:

"Blimey," said Casanunda. "I thought the people who built burial mounds and earthworks and things were serious druids and people like that, not. . . not people who drew on privy walls with 200,000 tons of earth, in a manner of speaking."

"Doesn't sound like you to be shocked by that sort of thing."

She could have sworn the dwarf was blushing under his wig.

"Well, there's such a thing as style," said Casanunda. "There's such a thing as subtlety. You don't just shout: I've got a great big tonker."

"It's a bit more complicated than that," said Nanny, pushing through the bushes. "Here it's the landscape saying:

I've got a great big tonker. That's a dwarf word, is it?"

"Yes."

"It's a good word."

Casanunda tried to untangle himself from a briar.

"Esme doesn't ever come up here," said Nanny, from somewhere up ahead. "She says it's bad enough about folksongs and maypoles and suchlike, without the whole scenery getting suggestive. 'Course," she went on, "this was never intended as a women's place. My great-gran said in the real old days the men used to come up for strange rites what no women ever saw."

"Except your great-grandmother, who hid in the bushes," said Casanunda.

Nanny stopped dead.

"How did you know that?"

"Let's just say I'm developing a bit of an insight into Ogg womanhood as well, Mrs. Ogg," said the dwarf. A thorn bush had ripped his coat.

"She said they just used to build sweat lodges and smell like a blacksmith's armpit and drink scumble and dance around the fire with horns on and piss in the trees any old how," said Nanny. "She said it was a bit sissy, to be honest. But I always reckon a man's got to be a man, even if it is sissy. What happened to your wig?"

"I think it's on that tree back there."

"Still got the crowbar?"

"Yes, Mrs. Ogg."

"Here we are, then."

They had arrived at the foot of the long mound. There were three large irregular stones there, forming a low cave. Nanny Ogg ducked under the lintel into the fusty and somewhat ammonia-scented darkness.

"About here'd do," she said. "Got a match?"

The sulphurous glow revealed a flat rock with a crude drawing scratched on it. Ochre had been rubbed into the lines. They showed a figure of an owl-eyed man wearing an animal skin and horns.

In the flickering light he seemed to dance.

There was a runic inscription underneath.

"Anyone ever worked out what that says?" said Casanunda.

Nanny Ogg nodded.

"It's a variant of Oggham," she said. "Basically, it means 'I've Got a Great Big Tonker.'"