Discworld – Thief of Time (Terry Pratchett)

Tick

 

The war was going badly for the weaker side. Their positioning was wrong, their tactics ragged, their strategy hopeless. The Red army advanced across the whole front, dismembering the scurrying remnant of the collapsing Black battalions.

There was room for only one anthill on this lawn...

Death found War down among the grass blades. He admired attention to detail. War was in full armour, too, but the human heads he normally had tied to his saddle had been replaced by ant heads, feelers and all.

DO THEY NOTICE YOU, DO YOU THINK? he said.

'I doubt it,' said War.

NEVERTHELESS, IF THEY DID, I'M SURE THEY WOULD APPRECIATE IT.

'Ha! Only decent theatre of war around these days,' said War. 'That's what I like about ants. The buggers don't learn, what?'

IT HAS BEEN RATHER PEACEFUL OF LATE, I AGREE, said Death.

'Peaceful?' said War. 'Ha! I may as well change m'name to "Police Action", or "Negotiated Settlement"! Remember the old days? Warriors used to froth at the mouth! Arms and legs bouncing in all directions! Great times, eh?' He leaned across and slapped Death on the back. 'I'll bag' em and you tag' em, what?'

This looked hopeful, Death thought.

TALKING OF THE OLD DAYS, he said carefully, I'M SURE YOU REMEMBER THE TRADITION OF RIDING OUT?

War gave him a puzzled look. 'Mind's a blank on that one, old boy.'

I SENT OUT THE CALL.

'Can't say it rings a bell...'

APOCALYPSE? said Death. END OF THE WORLD?

War continued to stare. 'Definitely knocking, old chap, but no one's home. And talking of home...' War looked around at the twitching remains of the recent slaughter. 'Spot of lunch?'

Around them the forest of grass grew shorter and smaller until it was, indeed, no more than grass, and became the lawn outside a house.

It was an ancient long-house. Where else would War live? But Death saw ivy growing over the roof. He remembered when War would never have allowed anything like that, and a little worm of worry began to gnaw.

War hung up his helmet as he entered, and once he would have kept it on. And the benches around the fire pit would have been crowded with warriors, and the air would have been thick with beer and sweat.

'Brought an old friend back, dear,' he said.

Mrs War was preparing something on the modern black iron kitchen range which, Death saw, had been installed in the fire pit, with shiny pipes extending up to the hole in the roof. She gave Death the kind of nod a wife gives a man whom her husband has, despite previous warnings, unexpectedly brought back from the pub.

'We're having rabbit,' she said, and added in the voice of one who has been put upon and will extract payment later, 'I'm sure I can make it stretch to three.'

War's big red face wrinkled. 'Do I like rabbit?'

'Yes, dear.'

'I thought I liked beef.'

'No, dear. Beef gives you wind.'

'Oh.' War sighed. 'Any chance of onions?'

'You don't like onions, dear.'

'I don't?'

'Because of your stomach, dear.'

'Oh.'

War smiled awkwardly at Death. 'It's rabbit,' he said. 'Erm ... dear, do I ride out for Apocalypses?'

Mrs War took the lid off a saucepan and prodded viciously at something inside.

'No, dear,' she said firmly. 'You always come down with a cold.'

'I thought I rather, er, sort of liked that kind of thing... ?'

'No, dear. You don't.'

Despite himself, Death was fascinated. He had never come across the idea of keeping your memory inside someone else's head.

'Perhaps I would like a beer?' War ventured.

'You don't like beer, dear.'

'I don't?'

'No, it brings on your trouble.'

'Ah. Uh, how do I feel about brandy?'

'You don't like brandy, dear. You like your special oat drink with the vitamins.'

'Oh, yes,' said War mournfully. 'I'd forgotten I liked that.' He looked sheepishly at Death. 'It's quite nice,' he said.

COULD I HAVE A WORD WITH YOU, said Death, IN PRIVATE?

War looked puzzled. 'Do I like wo-'

IN PRIVATE, PLEASE, Death thundered.

Mrs War turned and gave Death a disdainful look.

'I understand, I quite understand,' she said haughtily. 'But don't you dare say anything to bring on his acid, that's all I shall say.'

Mrs War had been a Valkyrie once, Death remembered. It was another reason to be extremely careful on the battlefield.

'You've never been tempted by the prospect of marriage, old man?' said War, when she'd gone.

NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT. IN NO WAY.

'Why not?'

Death was nonplussed. It was like asking a brick wall what it thought of dentistry. As a question, it made no sense.

I HAVE BEEN TO SEE THE OTHER TWO, he said, ignoring it. FAMINE DOESN'T CARE AND PESTILENCE IS FRIGHTENED.

'The two of us, against the Auditors?' said War.

RIGHT IS ON OUR SIDE.

'Speaking as War,' said War, 'I'd hate to tell you what happens to very small armies that have Right on their side.'

I HAVE SEEN YOU FIGHT .

'My old right arm isn't what it was...' War murmured.

YOU ARE IMMORTAL. YOU ARE NOT ILL, said Death, but he could see the worried, slightly hunted look in Wars eyes and knew that there was only one way this was going to go.

To be human was to change, Death realized. The Horsemen... were horsemen. Men had wished upon them a certain shape, a certain form. And, just like the gods, and the Tooth Fairy, and the Hogfather, their shape had changed them. They would never be human, but they had caught aspects of humanity as though they were some kind of disease.

Because the point was that nothing, nothing, had one aspect and one aspect alone. Men would envisage a being called Famine, but once they gave him arms and legs and eyes, that meant he had to have a brain. That meant he'd think. And a brain can't think about plagues of locusts all the time.

Emergent behaviour again. Complications always crept in. Everything changed.

THANK GOODNESS, thought Death, THAT I AM COMPLETELY UNCHANGED AND EXACTLY THE SAME AS I EVER WAS.

And then there was one.