The Carpet People by Terry Pratchett

trade it with the wights for food. Nothing grew on the High Gate Land.
    ‘On Epen Ny ,’ said Pismire, under his breath, while the party stopped for a brief rest under the very walls of the Land. Brocando had immediately fallen asleep. He had shorter legs than everyone else.
    ‘What?’ said Brocando, waking up.
    ‘That’s the battle cry of the Vortgorns,’ said Pismire. ‘Lots of people remembered it, but not for very long. It was often the last thing they heard. On Epen Ny. It’s written on the Land. Huge metal letters. I’ve seen pictures. It’d take you all day just to walk around one letter.’
    ‘Who wrote them?’ said Brocando, eyeing the guards.
    ‘The Vortgorns think it was done by Fray,’ said Pismire. ‘Superstition, of course. There’s probably some natural explanation. The Vortgorns used to say there’s letters under the Land, too. They dug tunnels and found them. Some of them say . . .’ he concentrated ‘. . I ZABETH II. The Vortgorns seem to think that’s very important.’
    ‘Giant letters can’t just grow by themselves,’ said Brocando.
    ‘They might. Who knows?’
    They looked up at the Land. Around the base of it ran a road. It was wider than a Dumii road, yet in the shadow of that looming wall it looked thinner than a thread.
    ‘Anyone know much about the Vortgorns?’ said Pismire. ‘I’ve read about them, but I don’t remember ever seeing one.’
    ‘Like the Dumii, but without their well-known flair and excitement,’ said Brocando.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Bane gravely.
    ‘Well, living on metal all the time must give you a very sombre and mystical view of life,’ said Pismire.
    ‘Whose side are they on?’ said Brocando.
    ‘Sides? Their own, I suppose, just like everyone else.’
    The mouls milled around aimlessly, waiting for something.
    ‘I suppose we’re waiting to get up there,’ said Brocando, ‘but how?’
    ‘Dumii patrols have been all round the Land and found no way in,’ said Bane.
    Pismire, who was squinting upwards, said: ‘Ah. But I think this remarkable mechanism is the secret.’
    High above them was a speck on the wall. Slowly it grew bigger, became a wide platform sliding down the bronze. They could see heads peering over the side of it.
    When it landed beside the pack Pismire saw that it was a simple square made of hair planks with a railing around them. Four bronze chains, one from each corner, rose up into the mists. A man stood at each corner. Each one was as tall as Bane. They wore helmets and body armour of beaten bronze, and carried by their sides long bronze swords. Their shields were bronze, round like the High Gate Land itself; and their hair was the colour of the metal. They had short square beards, and grey eyes that stared calmly ahead of them. Too much metal, Pismire thought. It enters the soul.
    ‘Er,’ Brocando whispered, as they were pushed forward on to the platform, ‘you haven’t, er, seen or heard anyone, as it were, following us? Someone, such as it might be, your chief? The big fellow?’
    ‘Not a sign since we left Underlay,’ said Pismire. ‘I’ve been watching and listening very carefully.’
    ‘Oh, dear.’
    ‘Oh, no. That’s good news. It means he’s out there somewhere. If I had seen or heard anything, I’d know it wasn’t Glurk. He’s a hunter, you see.’
    ‘Good point. Ow!’ A whip stung Brocando’s legs as the mouls led their nervous mounts on to the planks.
    When the last one was aboard one of the bronze guards took a trumpet from his belt and blew one note. The chains around them shook and rattled as they took up the slack and then, with a creaking, the platform swung off the ground and up towards the Land.
    Pismire had been forced up against one of the railings by the press of animals, and so it was that he saw a shadow detach itself from the dust bush by the base of the wall and dash for the rising platform, trying to find a handhold on the underside.
    He saw it leap; but at that moment the