Терри Пратчетт - The Colour of Magic

Then he made out the thousands of tiny rings that studded the ceiling. A number of inverted men were watching Psepha’s flight with interest. Rincewind swallowed again. For the life of him he couldn’t think of what to do next.

“Well?” he asked, in a whisper. “Any suggestions?

“Obviously you attack,” said Kring scornfully.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” said Rincewind

“Could it be because they all have crossbows?”

“You’re a defeatist.”

“Defeatist? That’s because I’m going to be defeated!”

“You’re your own worst enemy, Rincewind,” said the sword.

Rincewind looked up at grinning men.

“Bet?” he said wearily.

Before Kring could reply Psepha reared in midair and alighted on one of the large rings, which rocked alarmingly.

“Would you like to die now, or surrender first?” asked K!sdra calmly.

Men were converging on the ring from all directions, walking with a swaying motion as their hooked boots engaged the ceiling rings. There were more boots on a rack that hung in a small platform built on the side of the perch-ring. Before Rincewind could stop him the dragonrider had leapt from the creature’s back to land on the platform, where he stood grinning at the wizard’s discomfiture.

There was a small expressive sound made by a number of crossbows being cocked. Rincewind looked up at a number of impassive, upside down faces. The dragonfolk’s taste in clothing didn’t run to anything much more imaginative than a leather harness, studded with bronze ornaments. Knives and sword sheaths were worn inverted. Those who were not wearing helmets let their hair flow freely, so that it moved like seaweed in the ventilation breeze near the roof. There were several women among them. The inversion did strange things to their anatomy. Rincewind stared.

“Surrender,” said K!sdra again.

Rincewind opened his mouth to do so. Kring hummed a warning, and agonising waves of pain shot up his arm. “Never,” he squeaked. The pain stopped.

“Of course he won’t!” boomed an expansive voice behind him. “He’s a hero, isn’t he?”

Rincewind turned and looked into a pair of hairy nostrils. They belonged to a heavily built young man, hanging nonchalantly from the ceiling by his boots.

“What is your name, hero?” said the man. “so that we know who you were.”

Agony shot up Rincewind’s arm. “I-I’m Rincewind of Ankh,” he managed to gasp.

“And I am Lio!rt Dragonlord,” said the hanging man, pronouncing the word with the harsh click in the back of the throat that Rincewind could only think of as a kind of integral punctuation. “You have come to challenge me in mortal combat.”

“Well, no, I didn’t—”

“You are mistaken. K!sdra, help our hero into a pair of hookboots. I am sure he is anxious to get started.”

“No, look, I just came here to find my friends. I’m sure there’s no—” Rincewind began, as the dragonrider guided him firmly onto the platform, pushed him onto a seat, and proceeded to strap hookboots to his feet.

“Hurry up, K!sdra. We mustn’t keep our hero from his destiny,” said Lio!rt.

“Look, I expect my friends are happy enough here, so if you could just, you know, set me down somewhere

“You will see your friends soon enough,” said the dragonlord airily. “If you are religious, I mean. None who enter the Wyrmberg ever leave again. Except metaphorically, of course. Show him how to reach the rings, K!sdra.”

“Look what you’ve got me into!” Rincewind hissed.

Kring vibrated in his hand. “Remember that I am a magic sword,” it hummed.

“How can I forget?”

“Climb the ladder and grab a ring,” said the dragonrider, “then bring your feet up until the hooks catch.” He helped the protesting wizard climb until he was hanging upside down, robe tucked into his britches, Kring dangling from one hand. At this angle the dragonfolk looked reasonably bearable but the dragons themselves, hanging from their perches, loomed over the scene like immense gargoyles. Their eyes glowed with interest.

“Attention, please,” said Lio!rt. A dragonrider handed him a long shape, wrapped in red silk.

“We fight to the death,” he said. “Yours.”

“And I suppose I earn my freedom if I win?” said Rincewind, without much hope.

Lio!rt indicated the assembled dragonriders with a tilt of his head.

“Don’t be naive, he said.

Rincewind took a deep breath “I suppose I should warn you,” he said, his voice hardly quavering at all, “that this is a magic sword.”

Lio!rt let the red silk wrapping drop away into the gloom and flourished a jet-black blade. Runes glowed on its surface.

“What a coincidence,” he said, and lunged.

Rincewind went rigid with fright, but his arm swung out as Kring shot forward. The swords met in an explosion of octarine light.

Lio!rt swung himself backwards, his eyes narrowing. Kring leapt past his guard and, although the dragonlord’s sword jerked up to deflect most of the force, the result was a thin red line across its master’s torso.

With a growl he launched himself at the wizard boots clattering as he slid from ring to ring. The swords met again in another violent discharge of magic and, at the same time, Lio!rt brought his other hand down against Rincewind’s head, jarring him so hard that one foot jerked out of its ring and flailed desperately.

Rincewind knew himself to be almost certainly the worst wizard on the Discworld since he knew but one spell; yet for all that he was still a wizard, and thus by the inexorable laws of magic this meant that upon his demise it would be Death himself who appeared to claim him (instead of sending one of his numerous servants, as is usually the case). Thus it was that, as a grinning Lio!rt swung back and brought his sword around in a lazy arc, time ran into treacle.

To Rincewind’s eyes the world was suddenly lit by a flickering octarine light, tinged with violet as photons impacted on the sudden magical aura. Inside it the dragonlord was a ghastly-hued statue, his sword moving at a snail’s pace in the glow.

Beside Lio!rt was another figure, visible only to those who can see into the extra four dimensions of magic. It was tall and dark and thin and, against a sudden night of frosty stars, it swung a two-handed scythe of proverbial sharpness…

Rincewind ducked. The blade hissed coldly through the air beside his head and entered the rock of the cavern roof without slowing. Death screamed a curse in his cold crypt voice. The scene vanished. What passed for reality on the Discworld reasserted itself with a rush of sound. Lio!rt gasped at the sudden turn of speed with which the wizard had dodged his killing stroke and, with that desperation only available to the really terrified, Rincewind uncoiled like a snake and launched himself across the space between them. He locked both hands around the dragonlord’s sword arm, and wrenched.

It was at that moment that Rincewind’s one remaining ring, already overburdened, slid out of the rock with a nasty little metal sound.

He plunged down, swung wildly, and ended up dangling over a bone-splintering death with his hands gripping the dragonlord’s arm so tightly that the man screamed.

Lio!rt looked up at his feet. Small flakes of rock were dropping out of the roof around the ring pitons.

“Let go, damn you.” he screamed. “Or we’ll both die!”

Rincewind said nothing. He was concentrating on maintaining his grip and keeping his mind closed to the pressing images of his fate on the rocks below.

“Shoot him!” bellowed Lio!rt.

Out of the corner of his eye Rincewind saw several crossbows levelled at him. Lio!rt chose that moment to flail down with his free hand, and a fistful of rings stabbed into the wizard’s fingers.