"No!"
"Oh. Right."
A moment later the air was filled with shouted orders.
Snibril sank to his knees as Ware emptied itself around him.
" ... squad three! Main square! Keep away from buildings! ... "
" ... bandages, bandages, who's got the bandages? ... "
" ... remember, they can come up from underneath! ... "
All Snibril wanted to do was crawl into a hole and pull it in after him. His head felt flat.
" ... OK, line up the pones! ... "
He could get away, anyway. Staggering, ignored by everyone else, he almost fell down the ladder from the battlements and groped his way towards the rail where he had tethered Roland. He pulled himself on to the horse's back and joined the flow of people leaving Ware.
Then the animals started to feel the effects of Fray. The pones, which were already outside the gate, started to trumpet. Horses neighed, and several bolted towards the hairs outside the city walls. Dogs and cats ran between the feet of the people.
They want to get away, Snibril thought dully.
The houses began to tremble, very gently.
Then, with no sound yet, the hairs that arched over the city began to bend.
Then came the creaking-long and drawn out, as thousands of hairs were forced downwards by the tremendous weight.
It's right overhead, Snibril thought.
The people leaving Ware didn't need any more encouragement. The hairs over the city were getting closer, groaning and creaking as the weight pushed them down.
We'll never do it all in time ...
Roland cantered through the arch of the gateway.
The walls collapsed. The ground moved like the skin of an animal, smashing the houses. Ware began to fall in on itself.
Snibril's ears popped. The relief almost made him want to cry.
He looked back at the city. Walls were still toppling as the Carpet itself bent under Fray, but nearly everyone had got out.
A couple of soldiers barrelled through the archway just before it broke.
Right over us, Snibril thought. As if something wants to kill us. But Pismire thinks Fray is just some kind of natural force we can't understand. Would that be any better? Thousands of us, killed by something that doesn't even know we are here?
There were a few people still visible outside the city, and nothing could hide the pones.
He looked at the hairs around Ware.
Which erupted mouls. He had time to turn Roland around and race back towards the city.
Bane's head poked up as Roland leapt over the ditch in the dust.
"There's thousands of them!"
"Wait until they get closer," said Bane.
Mouls and snargs were still pouring into the clearing.
Snibril looked along the ditch. At this point most of the defenders were Dumii bowmen, lying down calmly and watching the black wall moving towards them.
"Aren't they close enough yet?"
"Not yet," said Bane. "Sergeant Careus ... give the signal to be ready."
"Yessir!"
Snibril could make out individual creatures now.
Bane scratched his chin. "Not yet," he said, "not yet. The first shot is the most ... important."
There was a nicker on the mound of dust behind them. Snibril and Bane turned to see a white figure, staring intently at the onrushing horde. Then it vanished.
"Sergeant Careus?" said Bane quietly.
"Sir?"
"The moment is now."
Sergeant Careus threw back his shoulders and grinned.
"Yessir! Squad one ... wait for it, wait for it ... squaaaaad one ... fire! Squad one back! Squad two forward! Squaaaaad two ... fire! Squad one reload! Squad one forward! Squaaaaad one ... fire ... "
Not many people had even seen Dumii archers in action-or rather, they had, but since arrows had been heading towards them they'd never had much of a chance to make detailed notes. Their technique was simply to keep arrows flying towards the enemy. The bowmen didn't have to be good. They just had to be fast. It was like watching a machine at work.
There was a howl from the attackers. That was another Dumii lesson-hit the front line of a rushing attack, and the enemy had to spend too much time trying to avoid tripping over itself. Bowmen started hurrying along the ditch in both directions, leaving only a small squad to carry on the fight there.
Snibril went with them.
There had been archers all around the circle. Only in one place had the mouls been able to get right up to the ditch, and there were two fights going on-Deftmenes were fighting mouls, and other Deftmenes were fighting the first Deftmenes to get a chance to fight mouls too.
Deftmenes had a technique for fighting enemies three times as high as they were-they'd run up them until they got to shoulder height, and hang on with one hand and fight with the other. It meant that half the mouls were stabbing at their own heads.
There were two more charges before it dawned on the mouls that things had gone wrong.
They grouped around the hairs, and there were still too many of them.
"We could keep this up all day," said Brocando.
"No we can't," said Bane.
"We haven't lost anyone yet!"
"Yes, but do you want to go and ask the mouls if we can have our arrows back?" said Bane.
"Oh."
"We've got enough for one more charge, and that's it. And if it comes to hand-to-hand fighting-they've got more hands than we have."
"I thought we were four-armed."
"Figure of speech. We're outnumbered and outweaponed."
"Good," said Brocando. "We like a challenge."
"Here they come again," said Snibril. "Hang on-just a few of them. Look."
Half a dozen snargs were trotting out of the lines. They stopped halfway between the moul army and the remains of the city.
"They want to talk," said Bane.
"Can we trust them?" said Glurk.
"No."
"Good. I'd hate to trust something like them."
"But you should talk," said Pismire. "It's always worth talking."
In the end they rode out to the mouls. Snibril recognized the leader, who now had a crown of salt crystals and watched them imperiously. But Bane was more interested in Gormaleesh, who was among the party.
"Well?" said Bane. "What do you have to say?"
"My name is Jornarileesh," said the moul with the crown. "I offer you peace. You cannot win. Time is on our side."
"We have plenty of weapons, and plenty of men to use them," said Bane.
"And plenty of food?" said Jornarileesh.
Bane ignored this. "What kind of peace do you offer?"
"Throw away your weapons," said Jornarileesh. "Then we will talk further."
"Throw away my sword first?" said Bane, as if he was considering the question.
"Yes. You have no choice." Jornarileesh's gaze swept from face to face. "Not one of you. Accept my conditions, or you will die. You six will die here, and the rest of your people will die soon."
"You can't listen to him!" said Snibril. "What about Jeopard and the High Gate Land?"
"Throw away my sword," said Bane, slowly. "It's an attractive idea, though."
He drew the sword and held it up.
"Gormaleesh?" he said.
Bane's arm moved in the blur of speed. The sword slid through the air like a knife, hitting the moul in the throat. Gormaleesh dropped silently, staring in horror.
"There," said Bane. "That's how we throw our swords away in Ware. I did warn him. He just wouldn't listen."
He turned his horse and galloped back to the city, with the others trying to keep up. Jornarileesh hadn't moved a muscle.
"That was very un-Dumii of you," said Pismire. "I'm surprised."
"No. Gormaleesh was surprised. You were just amazed," said Bane. "He was drawing his sword. Didn't you see?"
"They're getting ready for another charge," said Glurk.
"I'm surp-amazed they haven't tried digging up from Underlay," said Pismire.
"Some did," said Glurk, with satisfaction. "They came up under Mealy's squad. They won't try that again."
Bane looked back at the worried faces of the defenders. "Their next charge, then," he said. "We'll make them remember it. Get the pones ready. We'll use everything we've got."
"Everything?" said Brocando. "Right." He trotted his pony back along the ditch.
They waited.
"How much food have we got?" said Snibril, after a while.
"Four or five meals' worth, for everyone," said Bane, absently.
"That's not much."
"It may be more than enough," said Bane.
They waited some more.
"Waiting is the worst part," said Pismire.
"No it isn't," said Owlglass, who wasn't even being trusted to hold a sword. "I expect that having long sharp swords stuck in you is the worst part. Waiting's just boring. When I say boring, I mean-"
"Here they come," said Glurk, picking up his spear.
"They've moved around," said Bane. Tutting everything they've got on one place. Right. Has anyone got a spare sword?"
In the end, it's people fighting. Charges and counter-charges. Arrows and spears everywhere. Swords cutting bits off people. Afterwards, historians draw maps and put little coloured oblongs on them and big wide arrows to indicate that this is where the Deftmenes caught a whole crowd of mouls unawares, and here is where the pones trampled some snargs, and here is where Mealy's Irregulars were trapped and were only rescued by a determined rush by a group of Munrungs. And sometimes there are crosses-this is where Bane brought down a moul chief, there is where Owlglass laid out a snarg by accident.
The maps can't show the fear, and the noise, and the excitement. Afterwards it's better. Because if there's an afterwards, it's because you're still alive. Half the time no-one knows what happened until it's over. Sometimes you don't know even who's won until you've counted ...
Snibril ducked and stabbed his way through the melee. There seemed to be mouls everywhere. One caught him a cut on his shoulder, and he didn't even notice until afterwards.
And then he was in a clearer area, mouls all around him, swords upraised-
"Wait."
There was Jornarileesh, the moul leader, with a paw held up.
"Not yet. See we are not disturbed." He looked down at Snibril. "You were out there, with the others. And tried to save the fat little Emperor. I am curious. Why are you still fighting? Your city is destroyed. You cannot win."
"Ware's not destroyed until we stop fighting," said Snibril.
"Really? How can this be?"
"Because ... because if Ware is anywhere, it's inside people," said Snibril.
"Then we shall have to see if we can find it," said Jornarileesh meaningfully.
There was trumpeting behind him, and the group scattered as a pone stampeded through the fight. Snibril dived for safety. When he looked back, the moul was back in the fray.
And the defenders were losing. You could feel it in the air. For every moul that was beaten, there were two more to take their place.
He rolled down a slope and found Bane there, holding off a couple of the enemy. As Snibril landed, one of the mouls sunk to the ground. A backhand swipe took care of the other.
"We're losing," said Snibril. "We need a miracle."
"Miracles don't win battles," said Bane. Half a dozen more mouls appeared around the rubble of a half-destroyed building. "Superior numbers and better tactics-"
There was a bugle call behind them. The mouls turned.
There was another army advancing. It wasn't very big, but it was determined. Brocando was in the lead. They could hear his shout over the noise.
"Madam! Hold it by the other end! Now, now, ladies, don't all push! Careful of that spear, you could do someone a mischief-"
"Isn't that the point, young man?" said an old lady who shouldn't have been anywhere near a battlefield.
"No, madam, that is the butt. The point is the sharp bit at the other end."
"Then out of the way, young man, so's I can use it."
The mouls were staring in astonishment. Snibril hit two of them over the head before the others had time to react, and by then it was too late.
The women weren't the most efficient fighters Bane had ever seen, but Brocando had spent a couple of days giving them some secret training. Mealy had helped, too. And they were keen. Besides, not having been trained as proper soldiers was even a help. Dumii soldiers learned their tic-toe sword drill, and weren't up to novel ways invented as you went along, like hitting an enemy across the back of the knees with the end of a spear and stabbing him as he fell over. The women fought nastier.
And it still wasn't enough.
The ring of defenders was pushed back, and back, until it was fighting in the ruins of the city itself.
And ... was beaten. Valiantly beaten. They lost. Ware was never rebuilt. There was never a new Republic. The survivors fled to what remained of their homes, and that was the end of the history of civilization. For ever.
Deep in the hairs, Culaina the thunorg moved without walking. She passed through future after future, and there they were, nearly all alike.
Defeat. The end of the Empire. The end of the unimaginative men who thought there was a better way of doing things than fighting. The death of Bane. The death of Snibril. Everyone dead. For nothing.
Now she moved without running, faster and faster through all the future of Maybe. They streamed past her. These were all the futures that never got written down-the futures where people lost, worlds crumbled, where the last wild chances were not quite enough. All of them had to happen, somewhere.
But not here, she said.
And then there was one, and only one. She was amazed. Normally futures came in bundles of thousands, differing in tiny little ways. But this one was all by itself. It barely existed. It had no right to exist. It was the million-to-one chance that the defenders would win.