Pismire took Snibril's knife and rapped the moul on the chest. It went ping.

"Should go "Aaaggh!"' said Glurk.

"Are they dead?" asked Snibril.

"Not sure," said Pismire, and one or two of the more nervous watchers strolled hurriedly away. "Look."

Snibril looked into the moul's eyes. They were wide open, and a dull black. But deep in them there was something ... just a nicker, a tiny imprisoned spark in the pool of darkness.

Snibril shuddered and turned away, meeting Pismire's steady gaze. "Amazing. Premature fossilization. And I didn't know there were any termagants in these parts. Tonight's guards had better be picked for their hearing."

"Why?" said Glurk.

"Because they'd better wear blindfolds."

"Why?"

There was a shout, and Yrno Berius came running up with one of his hounds in his arms.

"Heard him bark," he gasped. "Went to find him, found him like this."

Pismire examined it.

"Lucky," he said, vaguely.

"I don't think so!" said Yrno.

"Not him," said Pismire. "You."

The dog was still in a crouched position, ready to spring, with its teeth bared and its tail between its legs.

"What's a termagant?" asked Snibril, finally looking away.

"There have been quite a lot of descriptions of their back view," said Pismire. "Unfortunately, no-one who's looked at one from the front has been able to tell us much. They get turned to stone. No-one knows why. Amazing. Haven't heard of any for years. Thought they'd all died out."

And that evening Pismire himself nearly died out. He always held that goat's milk was essential for a philosopher, so not long after they had left the Woodwall he had bought a nanny goat from Glurk's small flock.

Her name was Chrystobella, and she hated Pismire with deep animal hatred. When she didn't feel like being milked, which was twice a day, it was part of camp life to watch her skitter between carts with a hot and breathless Pismire cursing in pursuit. Mothers would waken their children to come and watch. It was a sight they'd remember for the rest of their lives, they said.

This time she hurled out between the carts and into the hairs with a taunting bleat. Pismire scrambled after her, leapt down into the darkness, and tripped over her ...

Something backed hastily into the shadows, with a faint jingling.

Pismire came back holding the statue of a goat. He put it down silently, and tapped its muzzle.

It went ping.

"Should go "blaaarrrrt"," said Pismire. "No-one go out of the camp tonight."

That night ten men stood around the ring, their eyes tightly shut. Snibril was among them and he stood by Roland, who wore blinkers.

And they did it the next night, too. And the one after that, after a cow belonging to the widow Mulluck started to go ping when it should have gone 'mmmmmyaooooo'.

No-one wanted to move on. They didn't break camp but, without anyone actually giving any orders, brought the wagons into a tighter circle.

Once or twice they thought they heard jingling noises.

And then, on the third night, Snibril was on guard by one of the carts, almost asleep, when he heard a shuffling noise behind him. Something big was in the bushes. He could hear it breathing.

He was about to spin around when he heard the jingle of metal.

It's here, he thought. It's right behind me. If I turn around, I'll be turned to stone. But if I don't turn around, will I be turned to supper?

He stood quite still for a hundred years or so ...

After a while the shuffling grew fainter, and he risked the briefest look. In the dim light he could see something bulky, at least twice as tall as he was, disappearing among the hairs.

I ought to call everyone, he thought. But they'll run around and shout and give one another orders and trip over things, and then it will have long gone. But I've got to do something. Otherwise we'll soon have a statue that goes ping when it should go "Hello".

He found Roland, and quickly put his bridle on. There was no time for the saddle. And then he led the horse, very quietly in the direction of the jingling.

The termagant was so old that he could not remember a time when he'd been young. He could dimly remember when there had been other termagants, but he was strong then, and had driven them out.

Later on there had been a people who had worshipped him and built a temple for him to live in, thinking that he was some kind of a god. They had worshipped him because he was so destructive, which is what often happens, but that sort of religion never works out in the long term; after he had turned many of them to statues the ones that were left had fled and left him in his temple.

He had no company now. Even the wild creatures kept away from the temple. In vain did he wander abroad and call out to his people in the south. There was no answer. He probably was the last termagant in the Carpet.

Sometimes he went to find some company. Anything would do. Just some other living things. He wouldn't even eat them. But it never worked. He only had to get near and they'd get stiff and cold and unfriendly for some reason.

So he tramped back to his ruined temple, his tail dragging behind him. He was almost at the door before he smelt the smell, the forgotten smell of company.

Snibril had reached the ruined temple just before. He felt Roland's hooves trot over hard wooden paving. Around him, lit by a faint glow, he could see fallen walls, littered with statues. Some were holding out boxes and bowing low, some were crouched back, hands to their eyes. There were small wild animals there, too ... unmoving.

In the centre of the temple there was a ruined altar, and that was the source of the glow. On it and around it were piled treasures. There were stones of salt and black jet, boxes of clear varnish and red wood, carved bone rings, crowns of bronze, all heaped anyhow.

By the treasure was another statue. It was a small warrior, hardly half Snibru's height. Magnificent moustaches hung down almost to its waist. In one hand it held a sword and round shield, in the other a necklace of glittering salt crystals. Its face was turned up in an expression of surprise. A fluff creeper had crept across the floor to him, giving him a necklace of living red flowers.

Snibril tethered Roland to a pillar, and shuddered.

Someone else had tethered their mount there before him. It still stood there. It looked like a pony, but it was no larger than a Munrung dog, and had six legs.

Snibril could have picked it up in both hands. There it stood, wearing a thin coat of dust. Roland lowered his head and sniffed at the still muzzle, puzzled. Snibril padded over to the mound of treasure and stared in awe. There were even coins there, not Tarnerii, but large wooden discs bearing strange signs. There were heavy swords, and chests of carved grit, set with salt gems. He stood and stared, and saw the warrior out of the corner of his eye.

Hand reaching out ...

That was why he had come. And the termagant had found him.

There was a jingling noise. Snibril saw a reflection in the statue's polished shield. It showed something scaly and very nearly shapeless.

It's in the doorway, Snibril thought. Right behind me ...

But if I turn around ...

He unhooked the shield, holding it up so that he could see over his shoulder.

The termagant jingled. Around its leathery neck were chains of varnish and red wood. Every claw was aglitter with rings. Bracelets were threaded on the scaly tail. Every time it moved its big beaked head it sent a little tinkling noise echoing round the temple.

It peered at the altar and sniffed. Even in the shield the eyes frightened Snibril. They were large and misty blue, not frightening at all. Eyes you could get lost in, he thought, and turn to stone.

Roland gave a whinny, but it ended in mid-air. Then there was another statue in the cold hall.