'Of course not. But . . . you don't need an army against seven men. Seven ancient old men. The peasants say . . . they say . . .' Lord Hong's voice was slightly higher. 'Come on, man who talks to peasants. I'm sure you're going to tell us what they say about these foolish and foolhardy old men?'

'Well, that's it, you see. They say, if they're so foolish and foolhardy . . . how did they manage to become so old?'

'Luck!' It was the wrong word. Even Lord Hong realized it. He'd never believed in luck. He'd always taken pains, usually those of other people, to fill life with certainties. But he knew that others believed in luck. It was a foible he'd always been happy to make use of. And now it was turning and stinging him on the hand. 'There is nothing in the Art of War to tell us how five armies attack seven old men,' said Lord Tang. 'Ghosts or no ghosts. And this, Lord Hong, is because no-one ever thought such a thing would be done.'

'If you feel so frightened I'll ride out against them with my mere 250,000 men,' he said.

'I am not frightened,' said Lord Tang. 'I am ashamed.'

'Each man armed with two swords,' Lord Hong went on, ignoring him. 'And I shall see how lucky these . . . sages . . . are. Because, my lords, I will only have to be lucky once. They will have to be lucky a quarter of a million times.' He lowered his visor. 'How lucky do you feel, my lords?' The other four warlords avoided one another's gaze. Lord Hong noticed their resigned silence. 'Very well, then,' he said. 'Let the gongs be sounded and the fire-crackers lit - to ensure good luck, of course.' There were a large number of ranks in the armies of the Empire, and many of them were untranslatable. Three Pink Pig and Five White Fang were, loosely speaking, privates, and not just because they were pale, vulnerable and inclined to curl up and hide when danger threatened. In fact they were so private as to be downright secretive. Even the army's mules ranked higher than them, because good mules were hard to come by whereas men like Pink Pig and White Fang are found in every army, somewhere where a latrine is in need of cleaning. They were so insignificant that they had, privately, decided that it would be a waste of an invisible foreign blood-sucking ghost's valuable time to attack them. They felt it only fair, after it had come all this way, to give it the chance of fiendishly killing someone superior. They had therefore hospitably decamped just before dawn and were now hiding out. Of course, if victory threatened they could always recamp. It was unlikely that they'd be missed in all the excitement, and both men were somewhat expert at turning up on battlefields in time to join in the victory celebrations. They lay in the long grass, watching the armies manoeuvre. From this height, it looked like an impressive war. The army on one side was so small as to be invisible. Of course, if you accepted the very strong denials of last night, it was so invisible as to be invisible. It was also their elevation which meant that they were the first to notice the ring around the sky. It was just above the thunderous wall on the horizon. Where stray shafts of sunlight hit it, it glowed golden. Elsewhere it was merely yellow. But it was continuous, and thin as a thread. 'Funny-looking cloud,' said White Fang.

'Yeah,' said Pink Pig. 'So what?' It was while they were thus engaged, and sharing a small bottle of rice wine liberated by Pink Pig from an unsuspecting comrade the previous evening, that they heard a groan. 'Oooooohhhhhh . . .' Their drinks froze in their throats. 'Did you hear that?' said Pink Pig. 'You mean the—'

'Ooooohhhh . . .'

'That's it!' They turned, very slowly. Something had pulled itself out of a gully behind them. It was humanoid, more or less. Red mud dripped from it. Strange noises issued from its mouth. 'Oooooohhhhshit!' Pink Pig grabbed White Fang's arm. 'It's an invisible blood-sucking ghost!'

'But I can see it!' Pink Pig squinted. 'It's the Red Army! They've come up outa the earth like everybody says!' White Fang, who had several brain cells more than Pink Pig, and more importantly was only on his second cup of wine, took a closer look. 'It could be just one ordinary man with mud all over him,' he suggested. He raised his voice. 'Hey, you!' The figure turned and tried to run. Pink Pig nudged his friend. 'Is he one of ours?'

'Looking like that?'

'Let's get him!'

'Why?'

' 'Cos he's running away!'

'Let him run.'

'Maybe he's got money. Anyway, what's he running away for?' Rincewind slid down into another gully. Of all the luck! Soldiers should be where they were expected to be. What had happened to duty and honour and stuff like that? The gully had dead grass and moss in the bottom. He stood still and listened to the voices of the two men. The air was stifling. It was as if the oncoming storm was pushing all the hot air in front of it, turning the plain into a pressure cooker. And then the ground creaked, and sagged suddenly. The faces of the absentee soldiers appeared over the edge of the gully. There was another creak and the ground sank another inch or two. Rincewind didn't dare breathe in, in case the extra weight of air made him too heavy. And it was very clear that the least activity, such as jumping, was going to make things worse . . . Very carefully, he looked down. The dead moss had given way. He seemed to be standing on a baulk of timber buried in the ground, but dirt pouring around it suggested that there was a hole beneath. It was going to give way any second n— Rincewind threw himself forward. The ground fell away underneath so that, instead of standing on a slowly breaking piece of timber, he was hanging with his arms over what felt like another concealed log and, by the feel of it, one which was as riddled with rot as the first one. This one, possibly out of a desire to conform, began to sag. And then jolted to a stop. The faces of the soldiers vanished backwards as the sides of the gully began to slide. Dry earth and small stones slid past Rincewind. He could feel them rattle on his boots and drop away. He felt, as an expert in these things, that he was over a depth. From his point of view, it was also a height.

The log began to shift again. This left Rincewind with, as he saw it, two options. He could let go and plunge to an uncertain fate in the darkness, or he could hang on until the timber gave way, and then plunge to an uncertain fate in the darkness. And then, to his delight, there was a third option. The toe of his boot touched something, a root, a protruding rock. It didn't matter. It took some of his weight. It took at least enough to put him in precarious equilibrium - not exactly safe, not exactly falling. Of course, it was only a temporary measure, but Rincewind had always considered that life was no more than a series of temporary measures strung together. A pale yellow butterfly with interesting patterns on its wings fluttered along the gully and settled on the only bit of colour available, which turned out to be Rincewind's hat. The wood sagged slightly. 'Push off!' said Rincewind, trying not to use heavy language. 'Go away.'' The butterfly flattened its wings and sunned itself. Rincewind pursed his lips and tried to blow up his own nostrils. Startled, the creature skittered into the air . . . 'Hah!' said Rincewind. . . . and, in response to its instincts in the face of a threat, moved its wings like this and this. The bushes shivered. And around the sky, the towering clouds curved into unusual patterns. Another cloud formed. It was about the size of an angry grey balloon. And it started to rain. Not rain generally, but specifically. Specifically on about a square foot of ground which contained Rincewind; specifically, on his hat. A very small bolt of lightning stung Rincewind on the nose. 'Ah! So we have' - Pink Pig, appearing around the curve of the gully, hesitated a bit before continuing slightly more thoughtfully - 'a head in a hole . . . with a very small thunderstorm above it.' And then it dawned on him that, storm or no storm, nothing was preventing him from cutting off significant parts. The only significant part available was a head, but that was fine by him. At which point, Rincewind's hat having absorbed enough moisture, the ancient wood gave way under the strain and plunged him to an uncertain fate in the darkness. It was utterly dark.

There had been a painful confusion of tunnels and sliding dirt. Rincewind assumed - or the small part of him that was not sobbing with fear assumed - that the earth had caved in after him. Cave. That was a significant word. He was in a cave. Reaching out carefully, in case he felt something, he felt for something to feef. There was a straight edge. It led to three more straight edges, going off at right angles. So . . . this meant slab. The darkness was still a choking velvet shroud. Slab meant that there was some other entrance, some proper entrance. Even now guards were probably hurrying towards him. Perhaps the Luggage was hurrying towards them. It had been acting very funny lately, that was for certain. He was probably better off without it. Probably. He patted his pockets, saying the mantra that even non-wizards invoke in order to find matches; that is. he said, 'Matches, matches, matches,' madly to himself, under his breath. He found some, and scratched one desperately with his thumbnail. 'Ow!' The smoky yellow flame lit nothing except Rince-wind's hand and part of his sleeve. He ventured a few steps before it burned his fingers, and when it died it left a blue afterglow in the darkness of his vision. There were no sounds of vengeful feet. There were no sounds at all. In theory there should be the drip of water, but the air felt quite dry. He tried another match, and this time raised it as high as he could and peered ahead. A seven-foot warrior smiled at him. Cohen looked up again. 'It's going to piss down in a minute,' he said. 'Will you look at that sky?' There were hints of purple and red in the mass, and the occasional momentary glow of lightning somewhere inside the clouds. 'Teach?'

'Yes?'

'You know everything. Why's that cloud looking like that?'

Mr Saveloy looked where Cohen was pointing. There was a yellowish cloud low on the horizon. Right around the horizon - one thin streak, as though the sun was trying to find a way through. 'Could be the lining?' said Boy Willie. 'What lining?'

'Every cloud's supposed to have a silver one.'

'Yeah, but that's more like gold.'

'Well, gold's cheaper here.'

'Is it me,' said Mr Saveloy, 'or is it getting wider?' Caleb was staring at the enemy lines. There's been a lot of blokes galloping about on their little horses,' he said. 'I hope they get a move on. We don't want to be here all day.'

'I vote we rushes 'em while they're not expectin' it,' said Hamish. 'Hold on . . . hold on . . .' said Truckle. There was the sound of many gongs being beaten, and the crackling of fireworks. 'Looks like the bas— the lovechilds are moving.'

'Thank goodness for that,' said Cohen. He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette. Mr Saveloy trembled with excitement. 'Do we sing a song for the gods before we go into battle?' he said. 'You can if you like,' said Cohen. 'Well, do we say any heathen chants or prayers?'

'Shouldn't think so,' said Cohen. He glanced up at the horizon-girdling band. It was unsettling him far more than the approaching enemy. It was wider now, but slightly paler. For just a moment he found himself wishing that there was one god or goddess somewhere whose temple he hadn't violated, robbed or burned down. 'Don't we bang our swords on our shields and utter defiance?' said the teacher hopefully. 'Too late for that, really,' said Cohen. Mr Saveloy looked so crestfallen at the lack of pagan splendour that the ancient barbarian was, to his own surprise, moved to add: 'But feel free, if that's what you want.' The Horde drew their various swords. In Hamish's case, another axe was produced from under his rug.

'See you in Heaven!' said Mr Saveloy excitedly. 'Yeah, right,' said Caleb, eyeing the line of approaching soldiers. 'Where there's feasting and young ladies and so forth!'