The Last Hero (the discworld series)

by Terry Pratchett

  ‘Spakes?’

  ‘Like “Up spake Wulf the Sea-rover”, see? An'… an'… an' people are always the something. Like me, I'm Cohen the Barbarian, right? But it could be “Cohen the Bold-hearted” or “Cohen the Slayer of Many”, or any of that class of a thing.’

  ‘Er… why are you doing this?’ said the minstrel. ‘I ought to put that in. You're going to return fire to the gods?’

  ‘Yeah. With interest.’

  ‘But… why?’

  ‘'Cos we've seen a lot of old friends die,’ said Caleb.

  ‘That's right,’ said Boy Willie. ‘And we never saw no big wimmin on flying horses come and take 'em to the Halls of Heroes.’

  ‘When Old Vincent died, him being one of us,’ said Boy Willie, ‘where was the Bridge of Frost to take him to the Feast of the Gods, eh? No, they got him, they let him get soft with comfy beds and someone to chew his food for him. They nearly got us all.’

  ‘Hah! Milky drinks!’ spat Truckle.

  ‘Whut?’ said Hamish, waking up.

  ‘HE ASKED WHY WE WANT TO RETURN FIRE TO THE GODS, HAMISH!’

  ‘Eh? Someone's got to do it!’ cackled Hamish.

  ‘Because it's a big world and we ain't seen it all,’ said Boy Willie.

  ‘Because the buggers are immortal,’ said Caleb.

  ‘Because of the way my back aches on chilly nights,’ said Truckle.

  The minstrel looked at Cohen, who was staring at the ground.

  ‘Because…’ said Cohen, ‘because… they've let us grow old.’

  At which point, the ambush was sprung. Snowdrifts erupted. Huge figures raced towards the Horde. Swords were in skinny, spotted hands with the speed born of experience. Clubs were swung—

  ‘Hold everything!’ shouted Cohen. It was a voice of command.

  The fighters froze. Blades trembled an inch away from throat and torso.

  Cohen looked up into the cracked and craggy features of an enormous troll, its club raised to smash him.

  ‘Don't I know you?’ he said.

  The wizards were working in relays. Ahead of the fleet, an area of sea was mill-pond calm. From behind, came a steady unwavering breeze. The wizards were good at wind, weather being a matter not of force but of lepidoptery. As Archchancellor Ridcully said, you just had to know where the damn butterflies were.

  And therefore some million-to-one chance must have sent the sodden log under the barge. The shock was slight, but Ponder Stibbons, who had been carefully rolling the omniscope across the deck, ended up on his back surrounded by twinkling shards.

  Archchancellor Ridcully hurried across the deck, his voice full of concern.

  ‘Is it badly damaged? That cost a hundred thousand dollars, Mr Stibbons! Oh, look at it! A dozen pieces!’

  ‘I'm not badly hurt, Archchancellor—’

  ‘Hundreds of hours of time wasted! And now we won't be able to watch the progress of the flight. Are you listening, Mr Stibbons?’

  Ponder wasn't. He was holding two of the shards and staring at them.

  ‘I think I may have stumbled, haha, on an amazing piece of serendipity, Archchancellor.’

  ‘What say?’

  ‘Has anyone ever broken an omniscope before, sir?’

  ‘No, young man. And that is because other people are careful with expensive equipment!’

  ‘Er… would you care to look in this piece, sir?’ said Ponder urgently. ‘I think it's very important you look at this piece, sir.’

  Up on the lower slopes of Cori Celesti, it was time for old times. Ambushers and ambushees had lit a fire.

  ‘So how come you left the Evil Dark Lord business, Harry?’ said Cohen.

  ‘Werl, you know how it is these days,’ said Evil Harry Dread.

  The Horde nodded. They knew how it was these days.

  ‘People these days, when they're attacking your Dark Evil Tower, the first thing they do is block up your escape tunnel,’ said Evil Harry.

  ‘Bastards!’ said Cohen. ‘You've got to let the Dark Lord escape. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘That's right,’ said Caleb. ‘Got to leave yourself some work for tomorrow.’

  ‘And it wasn't as if I didn't play fair.’ said Evil Harry. ‘I mean, I always left a secret back entrance to my Mountain of Dread, I employed really stupid people as cell guards—’

  ‘Dat's me,’ said the enormous troll proudly.

  ‘—that was you, right, and I always made sure all my henchmen had the kind of helmets that covered the whole face, so an enterprising hero could disguise himself in one, and those come damn expensive, let me tell you.’

  ‘Me and Evil Harry go way back,’ said Cohen, rolling a cigarette. ‘I knew him when he was starting up with just two lads and his Shed of Doom.’

  ‘And Slasher, the Steed of Terror,’ Evil Harry pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but he was a donkey, Harry,’ Cohen pointed out.

  ‘He had a very nasty bite on him, though. He'd take your finger off as soon as look at you.’

  ‘Didn't I fight you when you were the Doomed Spider God?’ said Caleb.

  ‘Probably. Everyone else did. They were great days,’ said Harry. ‘Giant spiders is always reliable, better'n octopussies, even.’ He sighed. ‘And then, of course, it all changed.’

  They nodded. It had all changed.

  ‘They said I was an evil stain covering the face of the world,’ said Harry. ‘Not a word about bringing jobs to areas of traditionally high unemployment. And then of course the big boys moved in, and you can't compete with an out-of-town site. Anyone heard of Ning the Uncompassionate?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Boy Willie. ‘I killed him.’

  ‘You couldn't have done! What was it he always said? “I shall revert to this vicinity!”’

  ‘Sort of hard to do that,’ said Boy Willie, pulling out a pipe and beginning to fill it with tobacco, ‘when your head's nailed to a tree.’

  ‘How about Pamdar the Witch Queen?’ said Evil Harry. ‘Now there was—’

  ‘Retired,’ said Cohen.

  ‘She'd never retire!’

  ‘Got married,’ Cohen insisted. ‘To Mad Hamish.’

  ‘Whut?’

  ‘I SAID YOU MARRIED PAMDAR, HAMISH,’ Cohen shouted.

  ‘Hehehehe, I did that! Whut?’

  ‘That was some time ago, mark you,’ said Boy Willie. ‘I don't think it lasted.’

  ‘But she was a devil woman!’

  ‘We all get older, Harry. She runs a shop now. Pam's Pantry. Makes marmalade,’ said Cohen.

  ‘What? She used to queen it on a throne on top of a pile of skulls!’

  ‘I didn't say it was very good marmalade.’

  ‘How about you, Cohen?’ said Evil Harry. ‘I heard you were an Emperor.’

  ‘Sounds good, doesn't it?’ said Cohen mournfully. ‘But you know what? It's dull. Everyone creepin' around bein' respectful, no one to fight, and those soft beds give you backache. All that money, and nothin' to spend it on 'cept toys. It sucks all the life right out of you, civilisation.’

  ‘It killed Old Vincent the Ripper,’ said Boy Willie. ‘He choked to death on a concubine.’

  There was no sound but the hiss of snow in the fire and a number of people thinking fast.

  ‘I think you mean cucumber,’ said the bard.

  ‘That's right, cucumber,’ said Boy Willie. ‘I've never been good at them long words.’

  ‘Very important difference in a salad situation.’ said Cohen. He turned back to Evil Harry. ‘That's no way for a hero to die, all soft and fat and eating big dinners. A hero should die in battle.’

  ‘Yeah, but you lads've never got the hang of dying,’ Evil Harry pointed out.

  ‘That's because we haven't picked the right enemies,’ said Cohen. ‘This time we're going to see the gods.’ He tapped the barrel he was sitting on, and the other members of the Horde winced when he did so. ‘Got something here that belongs to them.’ Cohen added.

  He glanced around the group and not
ed some almost imperceptible nods.

  ‘Why don't you come with us, Evil Harry?’ he said. ‘You can bring your evil henchmen.’

  Evil Harry drew himself up. ‘Hey, I'm a Dark Lord! How'd it look if I was to go around with a bunch of heroes?’

  ‘It wouldn't look anything,’ said Cohen sharply. ‘And I'll tell you for why, shall I? We're the last, see. Us 'n' you. No one else cares. There's no more heroes, Evil Harry. No more villains, neither.’

  ‘Oh, there's always villains!’ said Evil Harry.

  ‘No, there's vicious evil underhand bastards, true enough. But they use laws now. They'd never call themselves Evil Harry.’

  ‘Men who don't know the Code,’ said Boy Willie. Everyone nodded. You mightn't live by the law but you had to live by the Code.

  ‘Men with bits of paper,’ said Caleb.

  There was another group nod. The Horde were not great readers. Paper was the enemy, and so were the men who wielded it. Paper crept around you and took over the world.

  ‘We always liked you, Harry,’ said Cohen. ‘You played it by the rules. How about it… are you coming with us?’

  Evil Harry looked embarrassed. ‘Well, I'd like to,’ he said. ‘But… well, I'm Evil Harry, right? You can't trust me an inch. First chance I get, I'll betray you all, stab you in the back or something… I'd have to, see? Of course, if it was up to me, it'd be different… but I've got a reputation to think about, right? I'm Evil Harry. Don't ask me to come.’

  ‘Well spake,’ said Cohen. ‘I like a man I can't trust. You know where you stand with an untrustworthy man. It's the ones you ain't never sure about who give you grief. You come with us, Harry. You're one of us. And your lads, too. New ones, I see…’ Cohen raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Well, yeah, you know how it is with the really stupid henchmen,’ said Evil. ‘This is Slime—’

  ‘…nork nork,’ said Slime.

  ‘Ah, one of the old Stupid Lizard Men,’ said Cohen. ‘Good to see there's one left. Hey, two left. And this one is—?’

  ‘…nork nork.’

  ‘He's Slime, too.’ said Evil Harry, patting the second lizard man gingerly to avoid the spikes. ‘Never good at remembering more than one name, your basic lizard man. Over here we have…’ He nodded at something vaguely like a dwarf, who gave him an imploring look.

  ‘You're Armpit,’ prompted Evil Harry.

  ‘Your Armpit,’ said Armpit gratefully.

  ‘…nork nork,’ said one of the Slimes, in case this remark had been addressed to him.

  ‘Well done, Harry,’ said Cohen. ‘It's damn hard to find a really stupid dwarf.’

  ‘Wasn't easy, I can tell you.’ Harry admitted proudly as he moved on. ‘And this is Butcher.’

  ‘Good name, good name,’ said Cohen, looking up at the enormous fat man. ‘Your jailer, right?’

  ‘Took a lot of finding,’ said Evil Harry, while Butcher grinned happily at nothing. ‘Believes anything anyone tells him, can't see through the most ridiculous disguise, would let a transvestite washerwomen go free even if she had a beard you could camp in, falls asleep real easily on a chair near the bars and—’

  ‘—carries his keys on a big hook on his belt so's they can be easily lifted off!’ said Cohen. ‘Classic. A master touch, that. And you've got a troll, I see.’

  ‘Dat's me,’ said the troll.

  ‘…nork, nork.’

  ‘Dat's me.’

  ‘Well, you've got to have a troll, haven't you?’ said Evil Harry. ‘Bit brighter than I'd like, but he's got no sense of direction and can't remember his name.’

  ‘And what do we have here?’ said Cohen. ‘A real old zombie? Where did you dig him up? I like a man who's not afraid to let all his flesh fall off.’

  ‘Gak,’ said the zombie.

  ‘No tongue, eh?’ said Cohen. ‘Don't worry, lad, a blood-curdling screech is all you need. And a few bits of wire, by the look of it. It's all a matter of style.’

  ‘Dat's me.’

  ‘…nork nork.’

  ‘Gak.’

  ‘Dat's me.’

  ‘Your Armpit.’

  ‘They must make you proud. I don't know when I've ever seen a more stupid bunch of henchmen,’ said Cohen, admiring. ‘Harry, you're like a refreshin' fart in a roomful of roses. You bring 'em all along. I wouldn't hear of you staying behind.’

  ‘Nice to be appreciated,’ said Evil Harry, looking down and blushing.

  ‘And what else've you got to look forward to, anyway?’ said Cohen. ‘Who really appreciates a good Dark Lord these days? The world's too complicated now. It don't belong to the likes of us any more… it chokes us to death with cucumbers.’

  ‘What are you actually going to do, Cohen?’ said Evil Harry.

  ‘…nork, nork.’

  ‘Well. I reckon it's time to go out like we started,’ said Cohen. ‘One last roll of the dice.’ He tapped the keg again. ‘It's time,’ he said, ‘to give something back.’

  ‘…nork, nork.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  At night rays of light shone through holes and gaps in the tarpaulin. Lord Vetinari wondered if Leonard was getting any sleep. It was quite possible that the man had designed some sort of contrivance to do it for him.

  At the moment, there were other things to concern him.

  The dragons were travelling in a ship of their own. It was far too dangerous to have them on board anything else. Ships were made of wood, and even when in a good mood dragons puffed little balls of fire. When they were over-excited, they exploded.

  ‘They will be all right, won't they?’ he said, keeping well back from the cages. ‘If any of them are harmed I shall be in serious trouble with the Sunshine Sanctuary in Ankh-Morpork. This is not a prospect I relish, I assure you.’

  ‘Mr da Quirm says there is no reason why they should not all get back safely, sir.’

  ‘And would you, Mister Stibbons, trust yourself in a contrivance pushed along by dragons?’

  Ponder swallowed. ‘I'm not the stuff of heroes, sir.’

  ‘And what causes this lack in you, may I ask?’

  ‘I think it's because I've got an active imagination.’

  This seemed a good explanation, Lord Vetinari mused as he walked away. The difference was that while other people imagined in terms of thoughts and pictures, Leonard imagined in terms of shape and space. His daydreams came with a cutting list and assembly instructions.

  Lord Vetinari found himself hoping more and more for the success of his other plan. When all else fails, pray…

  ‘All right now, lads, settle down. Settle down.’ Hughnon Ridcully, Chief Priest of Blind Io, looked down at the multitude of priests and priestesses that filled the huge Temple of Small Gods.

  He shared many of the characteristics of his brother Mustrum. He also saw his job as being, essentially, one of organiser. There were plenty of people who were good at the actual believing, and he left them to it. It took a lot more than prayer to make sure the laundry got done and the building was kept in repair.

  There were so many gods now… at least two thousand. Many were, of course, still very small. But you had to watch them. Gods were very much a fashion thing. Look at Om, now. One minute he was a bloodthirsty little deity in some mad hot country, and then suddenly he was one of the top gods. It had all been done by not answering prayers, but doing so in a sort of dynamic way that left open the possibility that one day he might and then there'd be fireworks. Hughnon, who had survived through decades of intense theological dispute by being a mean man at swinging a heavy thurible, was impressed by this novel technique.

  And then, of course, you had your real newcomers like Amger, Goddess of Squashed Animals. Who would have thought that better roads and faster carts would have led to that? But gods grew bigger when called upon at need, and enough minds had cried out, ‘Oh god, what was that I hit?’

  ‘Brethren!’ he shouted, getting tired of waiting. ‘And sistren!’

  The hubbub died away. A few flakes
of dry and crumbling paint drifted down from the ceiling.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ridcully. ‘Now, can you please listen? My colleagues and I—’ and here he indicated the senior clergy behind him – ‘have, I assure you, been working for some time on this idea, and there is no doubt that it is theologically sound. Can we please get on?’

  He could still sense the annoyance among the priesthood. Born leaders didn't like being led.

  ‘If we don't try this,’ he tried, ‘the godless wizards may succeed with their plans. And a fine lot of mugginses we will look.’

  ‘This is all very well, but the form of things is important!’ snapped a priest. ‘We can't all pray at once! You know the gods don't like ecumenicalism! And what form of words will we use, pray?’

  ‘I would have felt that a short non-controversial—’ Hughnon Ridcully paused. In front of him were priests forbidden by holy edict from eating broccoli, priests who required unmarried girls to cover their ears lest they inflame the passions of other men, and priests who worshipped a small shortbread-and-raisin biscuit. Nothing was non-controversial.

  ‘You see, it does appear that the world is going to end,’ he said weakly.

  ‘Well? Some of us have been expecting that for some considerable time! It will be a judgement on mankind for its wickedness!’

  ‘And broccoli!’

  ‘And the short haircuts girls are wearing today!’

  ‘Only the biscuits will be saved!’

  Ridcully waved his crozier frantically for silence.

  ‘But this isn't the wrath of the gods,’ he said. ‘I did tell you! It's the work of a man!’

  ‘Ah, but he may be the hand of a god!’

  ‘It's Cohen the Barbarian,’ said Ridcully.

  ‘Even so, he might—’

  The speaker in the crowd was nudged by the priest next to him.

  ‘Hang on…’

  There was a roar of excited conversation. There were few temples that hadn't been robbed or despoiled in a long life of adventuring, and the priests soon agreed that no god ever had anything in his hand that looked like Cohen the Barbarian. Hughnon turned his eyes up to the ceiling, with its beautiful but decrepit panorama of gods and heroes. Life must be a lot easier for gods, he decided.