Sourcery by Terry Pratchett

invaders.
    “Hah?” he insisted, making a mere single syllable do the work of a whole string of blood-congealing threats.
    “Yes, well, I’m just—I’m just girding my loins,” said Rincewind. “That’s what I’m doing. Girding them. Green fire, you want?”
    “Also to make hot lead run in their bones,” said the captain. “Also their skins to blister and living scorpions without mercy to eat their brains from inside, and—”
    The leading canoe came alongside and a couple of grapnels thudded into the rail. As the first of the slavers appeared the captain hurried away, drawing his sword. He stopped for a moment and turned to Rincewind.
    “You gird quickly,” he said. “Or no loins. Hah?”
    Rincewind turned to Conina, who was leaning on the rail examining her fingernails.
    “You’d better get on with it,” she said. “That’s fifty green fires and hot leads to go, with a side order for blisters and scorpions. Hold the mercy.”
    “This sort of thing is always happening to me,” he moaned.
    He peered over the rail to what he thought of as the main floor of the boat. The invaders were winning by sheer weight of numbers, using nets and ropes to tangle the struggling crew. They worked in absolute silence, clubbing and dodging, avoiding the use of swords wherever possible.
    “Musn’t damage the merchandise,” said Conina. Rincewind watched in horror as the captain went down under a press of dark shapes, screaming, “Green fire! Green fire!”
    Rincewind backed away. He wasn’t any good at magic, but he’d had a hundred percent success at staying alive up to now and didn’t want to spoil the record. All he needed to do was to learn how to swim in the time it took to dive into the sea. It was worth a try.
    “What are you waiting for? Let’s go while they’re occupied,” he said to Conina.
    “I need a sword,” she said.
    “You’ll be spoiled for choice in a minute.”
    “One will be enough.”
    Rincewind kicked the Luggage.
    “Come on,” he snarled. “You’ve got a lot of floating to do.”
    The Luggage extended its little legs with exaggerated nonchalance, turned slowly, and settled down beside the girl.
    “Traitor,” said Rincewind to its hinges.
    The battle already seemed to be over. Five of the raiders stalked up the ladder to the afterdeck, leaving most of their colleagues to round up the defeated crew below. The leader pulled down his mask and leered briefly and swarthily at Conina; and then he turned and leered for a slightly longer period at Rincewind.
    “This is a robe,” said Rincewind quickly. “And you’d better watch out, because I’m a wizard.” He took a deep breath. “Lay a finger on me, and you’ll make me wish you hadn’t. I warn you.”
    “A wizard? Wizards don’t make good strong slaves,” mused the leader.
    “Absolutely right,” said Rincewind. “So if you’ll just see your way clear to letting me go—”
    The leader turned back to Conina and signaled to one of his companions. He jerked a tattooed thumb toward Rincewind.
    “Do not kill him too quickly. In fact—” He paused, and treated Rincewind to a smile full of teeth. “Maybe…yes. And why not? Can you sing, wizard?”
    “I might be able to,” said Rincewind, cautiously. “Why?”
    “You could be just the man the Seriph needs for a job in the harem.” A couple of slavers sniggered.
    “It could be a unique opportunity,” the leader went on, encouraged by this audience appreciation. There was more broadminded approval from behind him.
    Rincewind backed away. “I don’t think so,” he said, “thanks all the same. I’m not cut out for that kind of thing.”
    “Oh, but you could be,” said the leader, his eyes bright. “You could be.”
    “Oh, for goodness sake,” muttered Conina. She glanced at the men on either side of her, and then her hands moved. The one stabbed with the scissors was possibly better off than the one she raked with the comb, given the kind of mess a steel comb