The Colour of Magic

by Terry Pratchett

  “Gold?” said Twoflower.

  “No. I mean really want.”

  Twoflower frowned. “I don’t quite understand,” he said. Rincewind picked up the picture box.

  “Hrun,” he said. “Come over here, will you?”

  The days passed peacefully. True, a small band of bridge trolls tried to ambush them on one occasion, and a party of brigands nearly caught them unawares one night (but unwisely tried to investigate the Luggage before slaughtering the sleepers). Hrun demanded, and got, double pay for both occasions.

  “If any harm comes to us,” said Rincewind, “then there will be no one to operate the magic box. No more pictures of Hrun, you understand?”

  Hrun nodded, his eyes fixed on the latest picture. It showed Hrun striking a heroic pose, with one foot on a heap of slain trolls.

  “Me and you and little friend Twoflowers, we all get on hokay,” he said. “Also tomorrow, may we get a better profile, hokay?”

  He carefully wrapped the picture in trollskin and stowed it in his saddlebag, along with the others.

  “It seems to be working,” said Twoflower admiringly, as Hrun rode ahead to scout the road.

  “Sure,” said Rincewind. “What heroes like best is themselves.”

  “You’re getting quite good at using the picture box, you know that?”

  “Yar.”

  “So you might like to have this.” Twoflower held out a picture.

  “What is it?” asked Rincewind.

  “Oh, just the picture you took in the temple.”

  Rincewind looked in horror. There, bordered by a few glimpses of tentacle, was a huge, whorled, callused, potion-stained and unfocused thumb.

  “That’s the story of my life,” he said wearily.

  “You win,” said Fate, pushing the heap of souls across the gaming table. The assembled gods relaxed. “There will be other games,” he added.

  The Lady smiled into two eyes that were like holes in the universe.

  And then there was nothing but the ruin of the forests and a cloud of dust on the horizon, which drifted away on the breeze. And, sitting on a pitted and moss-grown milestone, a black and raggedy figure. His was the air of one who is unjustly put upon, who is dreaded and feared, yet who is the only friend of the poor and the best doctor for the mortally wounded.

  Death, although of course completely eyeless, watched Rincewind disappearing with what would, had His face possessed any mobility at all, have been a frown. Death, although exceptionally busy at all times, decided that He now had a hobby. There was something about the wizard that irked Him beyond measure. He didn’t keep appointments, for one thing.

  I’LL GET YOU YET, CULLY, said Death, in the voice like the slamming of leaden coffin lids, SEE IF I DON’T.

  THE LURE OF THE WYRM

  It was called the Wyrmberg and it rose almost one half of a mile above the green valley; a mountain huge, gray and upside down.

  At its base it was a mere score of yards across. Then it rose through clinging cloud, curving gracefully outward like an upturned trumpet until it was truncated by a plateau fully a quarter of a mile across. There was a tiny forest up there, its greenery cascading over the lip. There were buildings. There was even a small river, tumbling over the edge in a waterfall so wind-whipped that it reached the ground as rain.

  There were also a number of cave mouths, a few yards below the plateau. They had a crudely carved, regular look about them, so that on this crisp autumn morning the Wyrmberg hung over the clouds like a giant’s dovecote.

  This would mean that the “doves” had a wingspan slightly in excess of forty yards.

  “I knew it,” said Rincewind. “We’re in a strong magical field.”

  Twoflower and Hrun looked around the little hollow where they had made their noonday halt. Then they looked at each other.

  The horses were quietly cropping the rich grass by the stream. Yellow butterflies skittered among the bushes. There was a smell of thyme and a buzzing of bees. The wild pigs on the spit sizzled gently.

  Hrun shrugged and went back to oiling his biceps. They gleamed.

  “Looks all right to me,” he said.

  “Try tossing a coin,” said Rincewind.

  “What?”

  “Go on. Toss a coin.”

  “Hokay,” said Hrun. “If it gives you any pleasure.” He reached into his pouch and withdrew a handful of loose change plundered from a dozen realms. With some care he selected a Zchloty leaden quarter-iotum and balanced it on a purple thumbnail.

  “You call,” he said. “Heads or—” he inspected the obverse with an air of intense concentration, “some sort of a fish with legs.”

  “When it’s in the air,” said Rincewind. Hrun grinned and flicked his thumb.

  The iotum rose, spinning.

  “Edge,” said Rincewind, without looking at it.

  Magic never dies. It merely fades away.

  Nowhere was this more evident on the wide blue expanse of the Discworld than in those areas that had been the scene of the great battles of the Mage Wars, which had happened very shortly after Creation. In those days magic in its raw state had been widely available, and had been eagerly utilized by the First Men in their war against the gods.

  The precise origins of the Mage Wars have been lost in the fogs of Time, but Disc philosophers agree that the First Men, shortly after their creation, understandably lost their temper. And great and pyrotechnic were the battles that followed—the sun wheeled across the sky, the seas boiled, weird storms ravaged the land, small white pigeons mysteriously appeared in people’s clothing, and the very stability of the Disc (carried as it was through space on the backs of four giant turtle-riding elephants) was threatened. This resulted in stern action by the Old High Ones, to whom even the gods themselves are answerable. The gods were banished to high places, men were re-created a good deal smaller, and much of the old wild magic was sucked out of the earth.

  That did not solve the problem of those places on the Disc which, during the wars, had suffered a direct hit by a spell. The magic faded away—slowly, over the millennia, releasing as it decayed myriads of sub-astral particles that severely distorted the reality around it…

  Rincewind, Twoflower and Hrun stared at the coin.

  “Edge it is,” said Hrun. “Well, you’re a wizard. So what?”

  “I don’t do—that sort of spell.”

  “You mean you can’t.”

  Rincewind ignored this, because it was true. “Try it again,” he suggested.

  Hrun pulled out a fistful of coins.

  The first two landed in the usual manner. So did the fourth. The third landed on its edge and balanced there. The fifth turned into a small yellow caterpillar and crawled away. The sixth, upon reaching its zenith, vanished with a sharp “spang!” A moment later there was a small thunder clap.

  “Hey, that one was silver!” exclaimed Hrun, rising to his feet and staring upward. “Bring it back!”

  “I don’t know where it’s gone,” said Rincewind wearily. “It’s probably still accelerating. The ones I tried this morning didn’t come down, anyway.”

  Hrun was still staring into the sky.

  “What?” said Twoflower.

  Rincewind sighed. He had been dreading this.

  “We’ve strayed into a zone with a high magical index,” he said. “Don’t ask me how. Once upon a time a really powerful magic field must have been generated here, and we’re feeling the aftereffects.”

  “Precisely,” said a passing bush.

  Hrun’s head jerked down.

  “You mean this is one of those places?” he asked. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “Right,” agreed Rincewind. “If we retrace our steps we might make it. We can stop every mile or so and toss a coin.”

  He stood up urgently and started stuffing things into his saddlebags.

  “What?” said Twoflower.

  Rincewind stopped. “Look,” he snapped. “Just don’t argue. Come on.”


  “It looks all right,” said Twoflower. “Just a bit underpopulated, that’s all…”

  “Yes,” said Rincewind. “Odd, isn’t it? Come on!”

  There was a noise high above them, like a strip of leather being slapped on a wet rock. Something glassy and indistinct passed over Rincewind’s head, throwing up a cloud of ashes from the fire, and the pig carcass took off from the spit and rocketed into the sky.

  It banked to avoid a clump of trees, righted itself, roared around in a tight circle, and headed hubward leaving a trail of hot pork-fat droplets.

  “What are they doing now?” asked the old man.

  The young woman glanced at the scrying glass.

  “Heading rimward at speed,” she reported. “By the way—they’ve still got that box on legs.”

  The old man chuckled, an oddly disturbing sound in the dark and dusty crypt. “Sapient pearwood,” he said. “Remarkable. Yes, I think we will have that. Please see to it, my dear—before they go beyond your power, perhaps?”

  “Silence! Or—”

  “Or what, Liessa?” said the old man (in this dim light there was something odd about the way he was slumped in the stone chair). “You killed me once already, remember?”

  She snorted and stood up, tossing back her hair scornfully. It was red, flecked with gold. Erect, Liessa Wyrmbidder was entirely a magnificent sight. She was also almost naked, except for a couple of mere scraps of the lightest chain mail and riding boots of iridescent dragonhide. In one boot was thrust a riding crop, unusual in that it was as long as a spear and tipped with tiny steel barbs.

  “My power will be quite sufficient,” she said coldly.

  The indistinct figure appeared to nod, or at least to wobble. “As you keep assuring me,” he said. Liessa snorted, and strode out of the hall.

  Her father did not bother to watch her go. One reason for this was, of course, that since he had been dead for three months his eyes were in any case not in the best of condition. The other was that as a wizard—even a dead wizard of the fifteenth grade, his optic nerves had long since become attuned to seeing into levels and dimensions far removed from common reality, and were therefore somewhat inefficient at observing the merely mundane. (During his life they had appeared to others to be eight-faceted and eerily insectile). Besides, since he was now suspended in the narrow space between the living world and the dark shadow-world of Death he could survey the whole of Causality itself. That was why, apart from a mild hope that this time his wretched daughter would get herself killed, he did not devote his considerable powers to learning more about the three travelers galloping desperately out of his realm.

  Several hundred yards away, Liessa was in a strange humor as she strode down the worn steps that led into the hollow heart of the Wyrmberg, followed by half a dozen Riders. Would this be the opportunity? Perhaps here was the key to break the deadlock, the key to the throne of the Wyrmberg. It was rightfully hers, of course; but tradition said that only a man could rule the Wyrmberg. That irked Liessa, and when she was angry the Power flowed stronger and the dragons were especially big and ugly.

  If she had a man, things would be different. Someone who, for preference, was a big strapping lad but short on brains. Someone who would do what he was told…

  The biggest of the three now fleeing the dragonlands might do. And if it turned out that he wouldn’t, then dragons were always hungry and needed to be fed regularly. She could see to it that they got ugly.

  Uglier than usual, anyway.

  The stairway passed through a stone arch and ended in a narrow ledge near the roof of the great cavern where the Wyrms roosted.

  Sunbeams from the myriad entrances around the walls crisscrossed the dusty gloom like amber rods in which a million golden insects had been preserved. Below, they revealed nothing but a thin haze. Above…

  The walking rings started so close to Liessa’s head that she could reach up and touch one. They stretched away in their thousands across the upturned acres of the cavern roof. It had taken a score of masons a score of years to hammer the pitons for all those, hanging from their work as they progressed. Yet they were as nothing compared to the eighty-eight major rings that clustered near the apex of the dome. A further fifty had been lost in the old days, as they were swung into place by teams of sweating slaves (and there had been slaves aplenty, in the first days of the Power) and the great rings had gone crashing into the depths, dragging their unfortunate manipulators with them.

  But eighty-eight had been installed, huge as rainbows, rusty as blood. From them…

  The dragons sense Liessa’s presence. Air swishes around the cavern as eighty-eight pairs of wings unfold like a complicated puzzle. Great heads with green, multifaceted eyes peer down at her.

  The beasts are still faintly transparent. While the men around her take their hookboots from the rack, Liessa bends her mind to the task of full visualization; above her in the musty air the dragons become fully visible, bronze scales dully reflecting the sunbeam shafts. Her mind throbs, but now that the Power is flowing fully she can, with barely a waver of concentration, think of other things.

  Now she too buckles on the hookboots and turns a graceful cartwheel to bring their hooks, with a faint clang, against a couple of the walking rings in the ceiling.

  Only now it is the floor. The world has changed. Now she is standing on the edge of a deep bowl or crater, floored with the little rings across which the dragonriders are already strolling with a pendulum gait. In the center of the bowl their huge mounts wait among the herd. Far above are the distant rocks of the cavern floor, discolored by centuries of dragon droppings.

  Moving with the easy gliding movement that is second nature Liessa sets off toward her own dragon, Laolith, who turns his great horsey head toward her. His jowls are greasy with pork fat.

  It was very enjoyable, he says in her mind.

  “I thought I said there were to be no unaccompanied flights?” she snaps.

  I was hungry, Liessa.

  “Curb your hunger. Soon there will be horses to eat.”

  The reins stick in our teeth. Are there any warriors? We like warriors.

  Liessa swings down the mounting ladder and lands with her legs locked around Laolith’s leathery neck.

  “The warrior is mine. There are a couple of others you can have. One appears to be a wizard of sorts,” she adds by way of encouragement.

  Oh, you know how it is with wizards. Half an hour afterward you could do with another one, the dragon grumbles.

  He spreads his wings and drops.

  “They’re gaining!” screamed Rincewind. He bent even lower over his horse’s neck and groaned. Twoflower was trying to keep up while at the same time craning round to look at the flying beasts.

  “You don’t understand!” screamed the tourist, above the terrible noise of the wingbeats. “All my life I’ve wanted to see dragons!”

  “From the inside?” shouted Rincewind. “Shut up and ride!” He whipped at his horse with the reins and stared at the wood ahead, trying to drag it closer by sheer willpower. Under those trees they’d be safe. Under those trees no dragons could fly…

  He heard the clap of wings before shadows folded around him. Instinctively he rolled in the saddle and felt the white-hot stab of pain as something sharp scored a line across his shoulders.

  Behind him Hrun screamed, but it sounded more like a bellow of rage than a cry of pain. The barbarian had vaulted down into the heather and had drawn the black sword, Kring. He flourished it as one of the dragons curved in for another low pass.

  “No bloody lizard does that to me!” he roared.

  Rincewind leaned over and grabbed Twoflower’s reins.

  “Come on!” he hissed.

  “But, the dragons—” said Twoflower, entranced.

  “Blast the—” began the wizard, and froze. Another dragon had peeled off from the circling dots overhead and was gliding toward them. Rincewind let go of Twoflower’s horse, swore bitterly, and spurred hi
s own mount toward the trees, alone. He didn’t look back at the sudden commotion behind him and, when a shadow passed over him, merely gibbered weakly and tried to burrow into the horse’s mane.

  Then, instead of the searing, piercing pain he had expected, there was a series of stinging blows as the terrified animal passed under the eaves of the wood. The wizard tried to hang on but another low branch, stouter than the others, knocked him out of the saddle. The last thing he heard before the flashing blue lights of unconsciousness closed in was a high reptilian scream of frustration, and the thrashing of talons in the treetops.

  When he awoke a dragon was watching him; at least, it was staring in his general direction. Rincewind groaned and tried to dig his way into the moss with his shoulderblades, then gasped as the pain hit him.

  Through the mists of agony and fear he looked back at the dragon.

  The creature was hanging from a branch of a large dead oak tree, several hundred feet away. Its bronze-gold wings were tightly wrapped around its body but the long equine head turned this way and that at the end of a remarkably prehensile neck. It was scanning the forest.

  It was also semitransparent. Although the sun glinted off its scales, Rincewind could clearly make out the outlines of the branches behind it.

  On one of them a man was sitting, dwarfed by the hanging reptile. He appeared to be naked except for a pair of high boots, a tiny leather hold-all in the region of his groin, and a high-crested helmet. He was swinging a short sword back and forth idly, and stared out across the treetops with the air of one carrying out a tedious and unglamorous assignment.

  A beetle began to crawl laboriously up Rincewind’s leg.

  The wizard wondered how much damage a half-solid dragon could do. Would it only half-kill him? He decided not to stay and find out.

  Moving on heels, fingertips and shoulder muscles, Rincewind wriggled sideways until foliage masked the oak and its occupants. Then he scrambled to his feet and hared off between the trees.