The Carpet People

CHAPTER 17

A scattering of campfires speckled the darkness. It was the second night of the journey of all four races. No-one had killed anyone yet.

Snibril and the sergeant had made sure that there was at least one Munrung at each campfire, as referees.

"I wish we could get some more wights fighting," said Careus. "I watched one of them using a bow just now, when the lads were practising. I mean, when have they ever used a bow before? He just looked at it for a while, then put an arrow in the centre of the target. Just like that."

"Just as well they don't fight, then," said Snibril. "Maybe it's best to leave it to people who aren't so good at it. What's the plan?"

"Plan?" said Careus. "I don't know. I just fight. Fought all my life. Always been a soldier. All I know is what the messenger said ... all the legions are going back to Ware."

"All fifteen?" said Snibril. He rubbed his head. It was feeling ... sort of squashed ...

The sergeant looked surprised. "Fifteen? We haven't got fifteen. Oh, yes. We're called the Fifteenth. But a lot got disbanded. No need for 'em, see? Hardly anyone left to fight. It's like that, empiring. One day you're fighting everyone, next day everyone's settled down and being lawful and you don't hardly need soldiers."

"So how many are there?" said Snibril.

Three."

"Three legions? How many people is that?"

"About three thousand men."

"Is that all?"

Careus shrugged. "Less than that now, I reckon. All scattered around, too."

"But that's not enough to-" Snibril stopped, and then raised his hands slowly to his head. "Tell everyone to lie down," he muttered. "Put out their fires and lie down!"

One or two horses started to whinny in the picket lines.

"Why?" said the sergeant. "What's the-"

"And they must be ready to fight!" said Snibril. His head felt as though someone was treading on it. He could hardly think. Somewhere in the hairs, an animal screeched.

Careus was looking at him as if he was ill. "What's the-" he began.

"Please! Can't explain! Do it now!"

Careus ran off. He could hear him shouting orders to the corporals. The Deftmenes and Munrungs didn't need telling twice.

A moment later, Fray struck.

It was away to the south ... not far. The pressure built up so that even the Dumii could feel it. The hairs bowed, and then whipped furiously as a wind blew clouds of dust through the Carpet. The soldiers who hadn't been quick enough to follow orders were picked up and bowled over and over in the dust.

And then there was the thump.

Afterwards, there was that long, crowded pause in which everyone decides that although they are very shaken, and possibly upside down, they are, to their surprise, still alive.

Careus crawled around until he found his helmet under a bush and then, still not standing up, shuffled over to Snibril.

"You felt it coming," he said. "Even before the animals!"

"The mouls can, too," said Snibril. "And they're better at it than me! They don't summon Fray! They can sense when it's going to happen! And then they attack afterwards, when everyone's shaken-"

He and Careus looked around at the hairs.

"To arms, everyone!" the sergeant yelled.

A Deftmene raised his hand. "What does that mean?" he said. "We've all got two arms."

"Means you've got to fight!"

"Oh, right."

It was only seconds later that the mouls attacked. But seconds were enough. A hundred of them galloped into what should have been a camp of bewildered, wounded and unprepared victims. They found instead bewildered, wounded and extremely well-prepared and moreover enraged fighters.

They were surprised. But their surprise didn't last long. It was, very accurately, the surprise of their life.

The moul attack changed things. Deftmenes and Dumii had always fought, but never on the same side. It's hard to feel so bad about someone when last night he was stopping other people hitting you with axes and things.

The little army swung down the road to Ware, singing. Admittedly there were three different marching songs, all to different tunes, but the general effect was quite harmonious if you didn't mind not being able to make out any of the words.

"The lads sing one about me sometimes." said the sergeant. "It's got seven verses. Some of them are very rude, and one of them is actually impossible. I have to pretend not to hear it. Have you noticed the wights ran away in the night?"

"Not ran away," said Snibril. "I don't think they've run away. That doesn't sound like them. I think ... they've decided to do something else."

"They went into a huddle after the fight," said the sergeant.

"Perhaps they've got a plan-" Snibril began.

He stopped.

They had been passing through the area that had been right under Fray. Hairs were bent and twisted. And over the road was an arch. Had been an arch.

There were some dead soldiers nearby, and one dead moul.

The legion spread out in silence, watching the hairs. A squad was sent off to bury the dead.

"That could have been us, without you," said Careus. "How much warning do you get?"

"A minute or two, that's all," said Snibril. "Perhaps a bit longer if it's quiet."

"What does it feel like?"

"Like someone's treading on my head! What is this place?"

"One of the gates to the Ware lands. The city's further on."

"I've always wondered what it looked like," said Snibril.

"Me too," said the sergeant.

"You mean you've never seen it?" said Snibril.

"No. Born in a garrison town, see. Done all my soldiering around and about. Never been to Ware. Heard it's very impressive, though. A nice place to visit," said Careus. "We should be there in a few hours."

"Ware!" said Snibril.