Terry Pratchett - Reaper Man

He turned the page.

"It seems to say..."

I still haven't understood it properly, he told himself. One-Man-Bucket thinks we're talking about the breeding of cities. But that doesn't feel right.

A city is alive. Supposing you were a great slow giant, like a Counting Pine, and looked down at a city?

You'd see buildings grow; you'd see attackers driven off; you'd see fires put out. You'd see the city was alive but you wouldn't see people, because they'd move too fast. The life of a city, the thing that drives it, isn't some sort of mysterious force. The life of a city is people.

He turned the pages absently, not really looking...

So we have the cities - big, sedentary creatures, growing from one spot and hardly moving at all for thousands of years. They breed by sending out people to colonise new land. They themselves just lie there. They're alive, but only in the same way that a jelly fish is alive. Or a fairly bright vegetable. After all, we call Ankh-Morpork the Big Wahooni...

And where you get big slow living things, you get small fast things that eat them...

Windle Poons felt the brain cells firing. Connections were made. Thought gushed along new channels. Had he ever really thought properly when he was alive? He doubted it. He'd just been a lot of complicated reactions attached to a lot of nerve endings, with everything from idle rumination about the next meal to random, distracting memories getting between him and real thought.

It'd grow inside the city, where it's warm and protected. And then it'd break out, outside the city, and build... something, not a real city, a false city... that pulls the people, the life, out of the host...

The word we're looking for here is predator.

The Dean stared at his staff in disbelief. He gave it a shake, and aimed it again.

This time the sound would be spelled pfwt.

He looked up. A curling wave of trolleys, rooftop high, was poised to fall on him.

"Oh... shucks," he said, and folded his arms over his head.

Someone grabbed the back of his robe and pulled him away as the trolleys crashed down.

"Come on," said Ridcully. ‘If we run we can keep ahead of ‘em."

"I'm out of magic! I'm out of magic!" moaned the Dean.

"You'll be out of a lot more if you don't hurry, " said the Archchancellor.

Trying to keep together, bumping into one another, the wizards staggered ahead of the trolleys. Streams of them were surging out of the city and across the fields.

"Know what this reminds me of?" said Ridcully, as they fought their way through.

"Do tell, " muttered the Senior Wrangler.

"Salmon run, " said the Archchancellor.

"What?"

"Not in the Ankh, of course," said Ridcully. "I don't reckon a salmon could get upstream in our river - "

"Unless it walked," said the Senior Wrangler.

"- but I've seen ‘em thick as milk in some rivers," said Ridcully. "Fightin‘ to get ahead. The whole river just a mass of silver."

"Fine, fine," said the Senior Wrangler. ‘What'd they do that for?"

"Well... it's all to do with breeding."

"Disgusting. And to think we have to drink water," said the Senior Wrangler.

"Right, we're in the open now, this is where we out-flank ‘em," said Ridcully. "We'll just aim for a clear space and - "

"I don't think so," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

Every direction was filled with an advancing, grinding, fighting wall of trolleys.

"They're coming to get us! They're coming to get us!" wailed the Bursar. The Dean snatched his staff.

"Hey, that's mine!"

The Dean pushed him away and blew off the wheels of a leading trolley.

"That's my staff!"

The wizards stood back to back in a narrowing ring of metal.

"They're not right for this city, " said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

"I know what you mean, " said Ridcully. "Alien."

"I suppose no-one's got a flying spell on them today?" the Senior Wrangler enquired.

The Dean took aim again and melted a basket.

"That's my staff you're using, you know."

"Shut up, Bursar," said the Archchancellor. ‘And, Dean, you're getting nowhere picking them off one by one like that. OK, lads? We want to do them all as much damage as possible. Remember - wild, uncontrolled bursts..."

The trolleys advanced.

Ow. Ow.

Miss Flitworth staggered through the wet, rattling gloom. Hailstones crunched underfoot. Thunder cannonaded around the sky.

"They sting, don't they," she said.

THEY ECHO.

Bill Door fielded a stook as it was blown past, and stacked it with the others. Miss Flitworth scuttled past him, bent double under a load of corn. The two of them worked steadily, crisscrossing the field in the teeth of the storm to snatch up the harvest before the wind and hail stole it away. Lightning flickered around the sky. It wasn't a normal storm. It was war.

"It's going to pour with rain in a minute. " screamed Miss Flitworth, above the noise. ‘We'll never get it down to the barn! Go and fetch a tarpaulin or something! That'll do for tonight!"

Bill Door nodded, and ran through the squelching darkness towards the farm buildings. Lightning was striking so many times around the fields that the air itself was sizzling, and a corona danced along the top of the hedge.

And there was Death.

He saw it looming ahead of him, a crouched skeletal shape poised to spring, its robe flapping and rattling behind it in the wind.

Tightness gripped him, trying to force him to run while at the same time rooting him to the spot. It invaded his mind and froze there, blocking all thought save for the innermost, tiny voice which said, quite calmly: SO THlS IS TERROR.

Then Death vanished as the lightning glow faded, reappeared as a tree was struck on the next hill.

Then the quiet, internal voice added: BUT WHY DOESN'T IT MOVE?

Bill Door let himself inch forward slightly. There was no response from the hunched thing.

Then it dawned on him that the thing on the other side of the hedge was only a robed assemblage of ribs and femurs and vertebrae if viewed from one point of view but, if looked at slightly differently, was equally just a complexity of sparging arms and reciprocating levers that had been covered by a tarpaulin which was now blowing off.

The Combination Harvester was in front of him.

Bill Door grinned horribly. Un-Bill Door thoughts rose up in his mind. He stepped forward.

The wall of trolleys surrounded the wizards.

The last flare from a staff melted a hole, which was instantly filled up by more trolleys.

Ridcully turned to his fellow wizards. They were red in the face, their robes were torn, and several over-enthusiastic shots had resulted in singed beards and burnt hats.

"Hasn't anyone got any more spells on them?" he said.

They thought feverishly.

"I think I can remember one," said the Bursar hesitantly.

"Go on, man. Anything's worth trying at a time like this."

The Bursar stretched out a hand. He shut his eyes. He muttered a few syllables under his breath.

There was a brief flicker of octarine light and -

"Oh, " said the Archchancellor. ‘And that's all of it?"

" "Eringyas' Surprising Bouquet"," said the Bursar, bright eyed and twitching. "I don't know why, but it's one I've always been able to do. Just a knack, I suppose."

Ridcully eyed the huge bunch of flowers now gripped in the Bursar's fist.

"But not, I venture to point out, entirely useful at this time," he added.

The Bursar looked at the approaching walls and his smile faded.

"I suppose not," he said.

"Anyone else got any ideas?" said Ridcully.

There was no reply.

"Nice roses, though," said the Dean.

"That was quick," said Miss Flitworth, when Bill Door arrived at the pile of stooks dragging a tarpaulin behind him.