Free Eric by Terry Pratchett

by Rincewind, Eric and the Luggage. The Ephebians did notice, however, how enthusiastically the Tsortean soldiery ran toward them…not so much keen to get into battle as very anxious to get away from something else.
    The historians also failed to note another interesting fact about ancient Klatchian warfare, which was that it was still at that stage quite primitive and just between soldiers and hadn’t yet been thrown open to the general public. Basically, everyone knew that one side or the other would win, afew unlucky generals would get their heads chopped off, large sums of money would be paid in tribute to the winners, everyone would go home for the harvest and that bloody woman would have to make up her mind whose side she was on, the hussy.
    So Tsortean street life went on more or less as normal, with the citizens stepping around the occasional knots of fighting men or trying to sell them kebabs. Several of the more enterprising ones began dismantling the wooden horse for souvenirs.
    Rincewind didn’t attempt to understand it. He sat down at a street café and watched a spirited battle take place between market stalls, so that amid the cries of “Ripe olives!” there were the screams of the wounded and shouts of “Mind your backs please , mêlée coming through.”
    The hard part was watching the soldiers apologize when they bumped into customers. The even harder part was getting the café owner to accept a coin bearing the head of someone whose great-great-great-grandfather wasn’t born yet. Fortunately, Rincewind was able to persuade the man that the future was another country.
    “And a lemonade for the boy,” he added.
    “My parents let me drink wine,” said Eric. “I’m allowed one glass.”
    “I bet you are,” said Rincewind.
    The owner industriously swabbed the tabletop, spreading its coating of dregs and spilt retsina into a thin varnish.
    “Up for the fight, are you?” he said.
    “In a manner of speaking,” said Rincewind guardedly.
    “I shouldn’t wander around too much,” said the owner. “They do say a civilian let the Ephebians in— not that I’ve got anything against Ephebians, a fine body of men ,” he added hurriedly, as a knot of soldiery jogged past. “A stranger, they say. That’s cheating, using civilians. There’s people out looking for him so’s they can explain.” He made a chopping motion with his hand.
    Rincewind stared at the hand as though hypnotized.
    Eric opened his mouth. Eric screeched and clutched at his shins.
    “Have they got a description?” Rincewind said.
    “Don’t think so.”
    “Well, best of luck to them,” said Rincewind, rather more cheerfully.
    “What’s up with the lad?”
    “Cramp.”
    When the man had gone back behind his counter Eric hissed, “You didn’t have to go and kick me!”
    “You’re quite right. It was an entirely voluntary act on my part.”
    A heavy hand dropped onto Rincewind’s shoulder. He looked around and up into the face of an Ephebian centurion. A soldier beside him said: “That’s the one, sarge. I’d bet a year’s salt.”
    “Who’d of thought it?” said the sergeant. He gave Rincewind an evil grin. “Up we come, chummy. The chief would like a word with you.”
     
    Some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules, of Hector and Lysander and such great names as these. In fact, throughout the history of the multiverse people have said nice things about every cauliflower-eared sword-swinger, at least in their vicinity, on the basis that it is a lot safer that way. It’s funny how the people have always respected the kind of commander who comes up with strategies like “I want fifty thousand of you chappies torush at the enemy,” whereas the more thoughtful commanders who say things like “Why don’t we build a damn great wooden horse and then nip in at the back gate while they’re all around the thing waiting for us to come out” are considered only one step above common oiks and not the kind of person