And then he was in a clearer area, mouls all around him, swords upraised-

"Wait."

There was Jornarileesh, the moul leader, with a paw held up.

"Not yet. See we are not disturbed." He looked down at Snibril. "You were out there, with the others. And tried to save the fat little Emperor. I am curious. Why are you still fighting? Your city is destroyed. You cannot win."

"Ware's not destroyed until we stop fighting," said Snibril.

"Really? How can this be?"

"Because ... because if Ware is anywhere, it's inside people," said Snibril.

"Then we shall have to see if we can find it," said Jornarileesh meaningfully.

There was trumpeting behind him, and the group scattered as a pone stampeded through the fight. Snibril dived for safety. When he looked back, the moul was back in the fray.

And the defenders were losing. You could feel it in the air. For every moul that was beaten, there were two more to take their place.

He rolled down a slope and found Bane there, holding off a couple of the enemy. As Snibril landed, one of the mouls sunk to the ground. A backhand swipe took care of the other.

"We're losing," said Snibril. "We need a miracle."

"Miracles don't win battles," said Bane. Half a dozen more mouls appeared around the rubble of a half-destroyed building. "Superior numbers and better tactics-"

There was a bugle call behind them. The mouls turned.

There was another army advancing. It wasn't very big, but it was determined. Brocando was in the lead. They could hear his shout over the noise.

"Madam! Hold it by the other end! Now, now, ladies, don't all push! Careful of that spear, you could do someone a mischief-"

"Isn't that the point, young man?" said an old lady who shouldn't have been anywhere near a battlefield.

"No, madam, that is the butt. The point is the sharp bit at the other end."

"Then out of the way, young man, so's I can use it."

The mouls were staring in astonishment. Snibril hit two of them over the head before the others had time to react, and by then it was too late.

The women weren't the most efficient fighters Bane had ever seen, but Brocando had spent a couple of days giving them some secret training. Mealy had helped, too. And they were keen. Besides, not having been trained as proper soldiers was even a help. Dumii soldiers learned their tic-toe sword drill, and weren't up to novel ways invented as you went along, like hitting an enemy across the back of the knees with the end of a spear and stabbing him as he fell over. The women fought nastier.

And it still wasn't enough.

The ring of defenders was pushed back, and back, until it was fighting in the ruins of the city itself.

And ... was beaten. Valiantly beaten. They lost. Ware was never rebuilt. There was never a new Republic. The survivors fled to what remained of their homes, and that was the end of the history of civilization. For ever.

Deep in the hairs, Culaina the thunorg moved without walking. She passed through future after future, and there they were, nearly all alike.

Defeat. The end of the Empire. The end of the unimaginative men who thought there was a better way of doing things than fighting. The death of Bane. The death of Snibril. Everyone dead. For nothing.

Now she moved without running, faster and faster through all the future of Maybe. They streamed past her. These were all the futures that never got written down-the futures where people lost, worlds crumbled, where the last wild chances were not quite enough. All of them had to happen, somewhere.

But not here, she said.

And then there was one, and only one. She was amazed. Normally futures came in bundles of thousands, differing in tiny little ways. But this one was all by itself. It barely existed. It had no right to exist. It was the million-to-one chance that the defenders would win.

She was fascinated. They were strange people, the Dumii. They thought they were as level-headed as a table, as practical as a shovel-and yet, in a great big world full of chaos and darkness and things they couldn't hope to understand, they acted as though they really believed in their little inventions, like "law" and "justice". And they didn't have enough imagination to give in.

Amazing that they should have even one chance of a future.

Culaina smiled.

And went to see what it was ...

What you look at, you change.

The mouls pulled back again, but only to regroup. After all, there was nowhere for the Dumii to go. And Snibril thought that Jornarileesh was the sort who'd enjoy imagining them waiting for him, wondering about how it was all going to end.

He found Glurk and Bane leaning exhausted against a crumbled wall. Three Dumii women were with them; one of them was bandaging a wound on Glurk's arm with strips of what had once been a good dress.

"Well," he said. "At least they'll say we went down fighting-ouch ... "

"Hold still, will you?" said the woman.

Bane said: "I don't expect the mouls have much interest in history. After this, no more books. No more history. No more history books."

"Somehow, that's the worst part," said Snibril.

"Excuse me," said one of the women. "Er. I am Lady Cerilin Vortex. Widow of the late Major Vortex?"

"I remember him. A very honourable soldier," said Bane.

"I'd just like to say that no more history books is not the worst part, young man. Dying's probably the worst part," said Lady Vortex. "History will look after itself."

"I'm sure we're very ... um ... grateful that you have assisted," said Bane, awkwardly.

"We haven't assisted, we've taken part," said Lady Vortex sharply.

All around the ruins of Ware people were sitting in small groups, or tending the wounded. Two pones had been killed. They at least were easy to count. Snibril hadn't seen Brocando or Pismire for a long time.

There was movement among the enemy.

Snibril sighed. "Here they come again," he said, standing up.

"History, eh?" said Glurk, picking up his spear. "One final glorious stand."

Lady Vortex picked up a sword. She was bristling with anger. "We shall see about final," she said, in a way that made Snibril think that it would be a very unlucky moul that ever attacked her. She turned to Bane. "And when we get out of this, young man," she snapped, "there's going to be some serious talking. If we're going to fight, we're going to have a bit of the future too-"

The mouls began to charge-.

But it seemed half-hearted. The ones in the front kept on coming, but gradually the ones behind slowed down. They were shouting at one another, and looking back at the hairs. Within a few seconds, they were milling around in bewilderment.

The defenders stared.

"Why're they stopping?" said Glurk.

Snibril squinted at the shadows between the hairs.

"There's ... something else there ... " he said.

"More mouls?"

"Can't quite see ... there's fighting ... hang on ... " He blinked. "It's wights. Thousands and thousands of wights! They're attacking the mouls!"

Bane looked around at the defenders. "Then we've got one choice," he said. "Charge!"

Caught between two armies, the mouls didn't even have a million to one chance. And the wights fought like mad things ... worse, they fought like sane things, with the very best weapons they'd been able to make, cutting and cutting. Like surgeons, Pismire said later. Or people who had found out that the best kind of future is one you make yourself.

Afterwards, they found that Athan the wight had died in the fighting. But at least he hadn't known he was going to. And wights talk to each other in strange ways, across the whole of the Carpet, and his new ideas had flashed like fire from wight to wight: you don't have to accept it, you can change what's going to happen.