The Carpet People
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In the beginning, there was nothing but endless flatness. Then came the Carpet . . .
That’s the old story everyone knows and loves. But now the Carpet is home to many different tribes and peoples, and there’s a new story in the making. The story of Fray, sweeping a trail of destruction across the Carpet. The story of power-hungry mouls—and of two brothers who set out on an adventure to end all adventures when their village is flattened.
It’s a story that will come to a terrible end—if someone doesn't do something about it. If everyone doesn’t do something about it . . .
First published in 1971, this hilarious and wise novel marked the debut of the phenomenal Sir Terry Pratchett. Years later, Sir Terry revised the work, and this special collectable edition includes the updated text, his original color and black-and-white illustrations, and an exclusive story—a forerunner to The Carpet People created by the seventeen-year-old nascent writer who would become one of the world's most beloved storytellers.
amazement. He ran to the warrior by the treasure, and drenched him. Nothing happened for a moment. An eyelid flickered. The hand with the necklace started to move. The little warrior was suddenly very much alive. He dropped the necklace and glowered at Snibril. ‘Kone’s Bones, where did you spring from?’ Then he saw the termagant in its pool of tears. His hand went to his throat, and found the creeper. He looked thoughtfully at Snibril. ‘How long have I been here, stranger?’ ‘I don’t know.
finding nothing was better than finding . . . something. Then they’d discovered the tracks in the distant clearing. Lots of creatures had come up. It seemed to Snibril that there had been someone else following them, someone who had lain low for a while in the bushes . . . but everything was covered with dust shaken down by the storm, and it was hard to be sure. The tracks, such as they were, led south. The Munrungs had helped Brocando’s people rebuild walls and things, even though the rock
head instead of a nail. They were standing around their big varnish-boiler and fighting back – hammering back, and using varnish ladles as clubs, and bits of burning hair as crude spears. But they were outnumbered. And they were all going to die. They knew it. There was someone watching who knew it too. Culaina the thunorg watched from deep in the hairs. It would be impossible to describe how a thunorg sees things. It would be like trying to explain the stars to a fish. How can it be said that
horse trotted through the lines of his rescuers. There was a small figure riding it. ‘How can this be! We were supposed to die!’ he said. ‘All of us!’ ‘Did you want to?’ said Snibril, dismounting. ‘Want? Want? That doesn’t come into it,’ said Athan, throwing down his hammer. From out in the hairs came the screech of a moul. ‘You changed things,’ said Athan. ‘And now terrible things will happen—’ ‘They don’t have to,’ said Snibril, calmly. ‘Nothing has to happen. You can let things happen. But
heavily-armed in the evenings and go out and make their own entertainment – but no one was anxious actually to go back there. ‘Economic imperialism!’ Pismire had once said, picking up a handful of coins. ‘A marvellous idea. So neat and simple. Once you set it going, it works all by itself. You see, it’s the Emperor who guarantees that the money will buy you things. Every time someone hands over or accepts one of these coins, it’s a little soldier defending the Empire. Amazing!’ No one