The Colour of Magic by Terry Pratchett Page A

on its crest. Its shape did unpleasant things to the eye. Rincewind knew that if it was a temple to Bel-Shamharoth it would have eight sides. (Eight was also the Number of Bel-Shamharoth, which was why a sensible wizard would never mention the number if he could avoid it. Or you'll be eight alive, apprentices were jocularly warned. Bel-Shamharoth was especially attracted to dabblers in magic who, by being as it were beachcombers on the shores of the unnatural, were already half-enmeshed in his nets. Rincewind's room number in his hall of residence had been 7a. He hadn't been surprised.)
    Rain streamed off the black walls of the temple. The only sign of life was the horse tethered outside, and it wasn't Twoflower's horse. For one thing, it was too big. It was a white charger with hooves the size of meat dishes and leather harness aglitter with ostentatious gold ornamentation. It was currently enjoying a nosebag.
    There was something familiar about it. Rincewind tried to remember where he had seen it before.
    It looked as though it was capable of a fair turn of speed, anyway. A speed which, once it had lumbered up to it, it could maintain for a long time. All Rincewind had to do was shake off his guards, fight his way out of the Tree, find the temple and steal the horse out from under whatever it was that Bel-Shamharoth used for a nose.
    'The Sender of Eight has two for dinner, it seems,' said Druellae, looking hard at Rincewind. 'Who does that steed belong to, false wizard?'
    'I've no idea.'
    'No? Well, it does not matter. We shall see soon enough.'
    She waved a hand. The focus of the image moved inwards, darted through a great octagonal archway and sped along the corridor within.
    There was a figure there, sidling along stealthily with its back against one wall. Rincewind saw the gleam of gold and bronze.
    There was no mistaking that shape. He'd seen it many times. The wide chest, the neck like a tree trunk, the surprisingly small head under its wild thatch of black hair looking like a tomato on a coffin . . . he could put a name to the creeping figure, and that name was Hrun the Barbarian.
    Hrun was one of the Circle Sea's more durable heroes: a fighter of dragons, a despoiler of temples, a hired sword, the kingpost of every street brawl. He could even – and unlike many heroes of Rincewind's acquaintance – speak words of more than two syllables, if given time and maybe a hint or two.
    There was a sound on the edge of Rincewind's hearing. It sounded like several skulls bouncing down the steps of some distant dungeon. He looked sideways at his guards to see if they had heard it.
    They had all their limited attention focused on Hrun, who was admittedly built on the same lines as themselves. Their hands were resting lightly on the wizard's shoulders.
    Rincewind ducked, jerked backwards like a tumbler, and came up running. Behind him he heard Druellae shout, and he redoubled his speed.
    Something caught the hood of his robe, which tore off. A he-dryad waiting at the stairs spread his arms wide and grinned woodenly at the figure hurtling towards him. Without breaking his stride Rincewind ducked again, so low that his chin was on a level with his knees, while a fist like a log sizzled through the air by his ear.
    Ahead of him a whole spinney of the tree men awaited. He spun around, dodged another blow from the puzzled guard, and sped back towards the circle, passing on the way the dryads who were pursuing him and leaving them as disorganized as a set of skittles.
    But there were still more in front, pushing their way through the crowds of females and smacking their fists into the horny palms of their hands with anticipatory concentration.
    'Stand still, false wizard,' said Druellae, stepping forward. Behind her the enchanted dancers spun on; the focus of the circle was now drifting along a violet-lit corridor.
    Rincewind cracked.
    'Will you knock that off!' he snarled. 'Let's just get this straight, right? I am a real