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"Whut? Feelin' whut?"
"I don't think I've become old." said Boy Willie. "Not your actual old. Just more aware of where the next lavatory is."
"The worst bit." said Truckle, "is when young people come and sing happy songs at you."
"Why're they so happy?" said Caleb. "Cos they're not you, I suppose." Fine, sharp snow crystals, blown off the mountain tops, hissed across their vision. In deference to their profession, the Horde mostly wore tiny leather loincloths and bits and pieces of fur and chainmail. In deference to their advancing years, and entirely without comment among themselves, these has been underpinned now with long woolly combinations and various strange elasticated things. They were dealing with Time as they had dealt with nearly everything else in their lives, as something you charged at and tried to kill. At the front of the party, Cohen was giving the minstrel some tips. "First off, you got to describe how you feel about the saga," he said. "How singing it makes your blood race and you can hardly contain yourself that... you got to tell 'em what a great saga it's gonna be ... understand?"
"Yes, yes ... I think so ... and then I say who you are ..." said the minstrel., scribbling furiously. "Nah, then you say what the weather was like."
"You mean like, "It was a bright day"?"
"Nah, nah, nah. You got to talk saga. So, first off, you gotta put the sentences the wrong way round."
"You mean like, "Bright was the day" ?"
"Right! Good! I knew you was clever."
"Clever you was, you mean!" said the minstrel, before he could stop himself.
There was a moment of heart-stopping uncertainty, and then Cohen grinned and slapped him on the hack. It was like being hit with a shovel. "That's the style! What else, now ...? Ah. yes ... no one ever talks, in sagas. They always spakes."
"Spakes?"
"Like "Up spake Wulf the Sea-rover", see? An'... an'... an' people are always the something. Like me. I'm Cohen the Barbarian, right? But it could be "Cohen the Bold-hearted" or "Cohen the Slayer of Many", or any of that class of a thing."
"Er ... why are you doing this?" said the minstrel. "I ought to put that in. You're going to return fire to the gods?"
"Yeah. With interest"
"But... why?"
"Cos we've seen a lot of old friends die," said Caleb. "That's right," said Boy Willie. "And we never saw no big wim-min on flying horses come and take 'em to the Halls of Heroes."
"When Old Vincent died, him being one of us." said Boy Willie. "where was the Bridge of Frost to take him to the Feast of the Gods, eh? No, they got him, they let him get soft with comfy beds and someone to chew his food for him. They nearly got us all."
"Hah! Milky drinks!" spat Truckle. "Whut?" said Hamish, waking up. "HE ASKED WHY WE WANT TO RETURN FIRE TO THE GODS, HAMISH!"
"Eh? Someone's got to do it!" cackled Hamish. "Because it's a big world and we ain't seen it all," said Boy Willie. "Because the buggers are immortal." said Caleb. "Because of the way my back aches on chilly nights." said Truckle. The minstrel looked at Cohen, who was staring at the ground. "Because ..." said Cohen, "because ... they've let us grow old." At which point, the ambush was sprung. Snowdrifts erupted. Huge figures raced towards the Horde. Swords were in skinny, spotted hands with the speed born of experience. Clubs were swung- "Hold everything!" shouted Cohen. It was a voice of command. The fighters froze. Blades trembled an inch away from throat and torso. Cohen looked up into the cracked and craggy features of an enormous troll, its club raised to smash him. "Don't I know you?" he said. The wizards were working in relays. Ahead of the fleet, an area of sea was mill-pond calm. From behind, came a steady, unwavering breeze. The wizards were good at wind, weather being a matter not offeree but of lepidoptery. As Archchancellor Ridcully said, you just had to know where the damn butterflies were. And therefore some million-to-one chance must have sent the sodden log under the barge. The shock was slight, but Ponder Stibbons, who had been carefully rolling the omniscope across the deck, ended up on his back surrounded by twinkling shards. Archchancellor Ridcully hurried across the deck, his voice full of concern. "Is it badly damaged? That cost a hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Stibbons! Oh, look at it! A dozen pieces!"
"I'm not badly hurt. Archchancellor-"
"Hundreds of hours of time wasted! And now we won't be able to watch the progress of the flight. Are you listening. Mr. Stibbons?" Ponder wasn't. He was holding two of the shards and staring at them. "I think I may have stumbled, haha, on an amazing piece of serendipity, Archchancellor."
"What say?"
"Has anyone ever broken an omniscope before, sir?"
"No, young man. And that is because other people are careful with expensive equipment!"
"Er ... would you care to look in this piece, sir?" said Ponder urgently. "I think it's very important you look at this piece, sir." Up on the lower slopes of Con Celesti, it was time tor old times. Ambushers and ambushees had lit a fire. "So how come you left the Evil Dark Lord business, Harry?" said Cohen. "Well, you know how it is these days." said Evil Harry Dread. The Horde nodded. They knew how it was these days. "People these days, when they're attacking your Dark Evil Tower, the first thing they do is block up your escape tunnel," said Evil Harry. "Bastards!" said Cohen. "You've got to let the Dark Lord escape. Everyone knows that."
"That's right,"" said Caleb. "Got to leave yourself some work for tomorrow."
"And it wasn't as if I didn't play fair." said Evil Harry. "I mean, I always left a secret back entrance to my Mountain of Dread, I employed really stupid people as cell guards-"
"Dat's me," said the enormous troll proudly. "-that was you, right, and I always made sure all my henchmen had the kind of helmets that covered the whole face, so an enterprising hero could disguise himself in one, and those come damn expensive, let me tell you."
"Me and Evil Harry go way back," said Cohen, rolling a cigarette. "I knew him when he was starting up with just two lads and his Shed of Doom."
