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Something whistled through the air where his neck had been and glanced off Twoflower's bald head. Rincewind spun round to see the archdruid readying his sickle for another swing and, in the absence of any hope of running away, lashed out desperately with a foot.
It caught the druid squarely on the kneecap. As the man screamed and dropped his weapon there was a nasty little fleshy sound and he fell forward. Behind him the little man with the long beard pulled his sword from the body, wiped it with a handful of snow, and said, 'My lumbago is giving me gyp. You can carry the treashure.'
'Treasure?' said Rincewind weakly.
'All the necklashes and shtuff. All the gold collarsh. They've got lotsh of them. Thatsh prieshts for you,' said the old man wetly. 'Nothing but torc, torc, torc. Who'she the girl?'
'She won't let us rescue her,' said Rincewind. The girl looked at the old man defiantly through her smudged eyeshadow.
'Bugger that,' he said, and with one movement picked her up, staggered a little, screamed at his arthritis and fell over.
After a moment he said, from his prone position, 'Don't just shtand there, you daft bitcsh – help me up.' Much to Rincewind's amazement, and almost certainly to hers as well, she did so.
Rincewind, meanwhile, was trying to rouse Twoflower. There was a graze across his temple which didn't look too deep, but the little man was unconscious with a faintly worried smile plastered across his face. His breathing was shallow and – strange.
And he felt light. Not simply underweight, but weightless. The wizard might as well have been holding a shadow. Rincewind remembered that it was said that druids used strange and terrible poisons. Of course, it was often said, usually by the same people, that crooks always had close-set eyes, lightning never struck twice in the same lace and if the gods had wanted men to fly they'd have given them an airline ticket. But something about Twoflower's lightness frightened Rincewind. Frightened him horribly.
He looked up at the girl. She had the old man slung over one shoulder, and gave Rincewind an apologetic half-smile. From somewhere around the small of her back a voice said, 'Got everything? Letsh get out of here before they come back.'
Rincewind tucked Twoflower under one arm and jogged along after them. It seemed the only thing to do.
The old man had a large white horse tethered to a withered tree in a snow-filled gully some way from the circles. It was sleek, glossy and the general effect of a superb battle charger was only very slightly spoiled by the haemorrhoid ring tied to the saddle.
'Okay, put me down. There'sh a bottle of shome linament shtuff in the shaddle bag, if you wouldn't mind . . .' Rincewind propped Twoflower as nicely as possible against the tree, and by moonlight – and, he realised, by the faint red light of the menacing new star – took the first real look at his rescuer.
The man had only one eye; the other was covered by a black patch. His thin body was a network of scars and, currently, twanging white-hot with tendonitis. His teeth had obviously decided to quit long ago.
'Who are you?' he said.
'Bethan,' said the girl, rubbing a handful of nasty-smelling green ointment into the old man's back. She wore the air of one who, if asked to consider what sort of events might occur after being rescued from virgin sacrifice by a hero with a white charger, would probably not have mentioned linament, but who, now linament was apparently what did happen to you after all, was determined to be good at it.
'I meant him,' said Rincewind.
One star-bright eye looked up at him.
'Cohen ish my name, boy.' Bethan's hands stopped moving.
'Cohen?' she said. 'Cohen the Barbarian?'
'The very shame.'
'Hang on, hang on,' said Rincewind. 'Cohen's a great big chap, neck like a bull, got chest muscles like a sack of footballs. I mean, he's the Disc's greatest warrior, a legend in his own lifetime. I remember my grandad telling me he saw him . . . my grandad telling me he . . . my grandad . . .'
yes,' said Rincewind, 'but they're going to sacrifice her, if you must know.'
Twoflower looked at him in astonishment.
'What, kill her?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'Don't ask me. To make the crops grow or the moon rise or something. Or maybe they're just keen on killing people. That's religion for you.'
He became aware of a low humming sound, not so much heard as felt. It seemed to be coming from the stone next to them. Little points of light flickered under its surface, like mica specks.
Twoflower was opening and shutting his mouth.
