Discworld 27 - The Last Hero (4 page)

 
 
   
“What?”
“How much to write me a saga?”
“You stink!”
“Yeah, it's the walrus.” said Cohen evenly. “”It's a bit like garlic in
that respect. Anyway ... a saga, that's what I want. And what you want is
a big bag of rubies, not unadjacent in size to the rubies what I have
here.“
He upended a leather bag into the palm of his hand. The stones were so
big the snow glowed red. The musician stared at them.
”You got - what's that word, Truckle?“ aid Cohen.
”Art,“ said Truckle.
”You got art, and we got rubies. We give you rubies, you give us art,“
said Cohen. ”End of problem, right?“
”Problem?“ The rubies were hypnotic.
”Well, mainly the problem you'll have if you tell me you can't write me a
saga.“ said Cohen, still in a pleasant tone of voice.
”But... look. I'm sorry, but... sagas are just primitive poems, aren't
they?“ The wind, never ceasing here near the Hub, had several seconds in
which to produce its more forlorn yet threatening whistle.
”It'll be a long walk to civilisation, all by yourself.“ said Truckle, at
length. ”Without yer feet“ said Boy Willie.
”Please!“
”Nah, nah, lads, we don't want to do that to the boy,“ said Cohen. ”He's
a bright lad, got a great future ahead of him ...“ He took a pull of his
home-rolled cigarette and added, ”up until now. Nah, I can see he's
thinking about it. A heroic saga. lad. It'll be the most famousest one
ever.“
”What about?“
”Us.“
”You? But you're all ol-“ The minstrel stopped. Even after a life that
had hitherto held no danger greater than a hurled meat bone at a banquet,
he could recognise sudden death when he saw it. And he saw it now. Age
hadn't weakened here - well, except in one or two places. Mostly, it had
hardened.
”I wouldn't know how to compose a saga,“ he said feebly.
We'll help,” said Truckle.
“We know lots” said Boy Willie.
“Been in most of 'em,” said Cohen.
The minstrel's thoughts ran like this: These men are rubies insane. They
are rubies sure to kill me. Rubies. They've dragged me rubies all the
rubies rubies.
They want to give me a big bag of rubies rubies ...
“I suppose I could extend my repertoire,” he mumbled. A look at their
faces made him readjust his vocabulary. “All right. I'll do it,” he said.
A tiny bit of honesty, though, survived even the glow of the jewels. “I'm
not the world's greatest minstrel, you know.”
“You will be after you write this saga,” said Cohen, untying his ropes.
“Well... I hope you like it...”
Cohen grinned again. “ S' not up to us to like it. We won't hear it,” he
said.
“What? But you just said you wanted me to write you a saga-”
“Yeah, yeah. But it's gonna be the saga of how we died.”
It was a small flotilla that set sail from Ankh-Morpork next day. Things
had happened quickly. It wasn't that the prospect of the end of the world
was concentrating minds unduly, because that is a general and universal
danger that people find hard to imagine. But the Patrician was being
rather sharp with people, and that is a specific and highly personal
danger and people had no problem relating to it at all.

Discworld 27 - The Last Hero

Discworld 27 - The Last Hero

 
 
   
The barge, under whose huge tarpaulin something was already taking shape,
wallowed between the boats. Lord Vetinari went aboard only once, and
looked gloomily at the vast piles of material that littered the deck.
“This is costing us a considerable amount of money,” he told Leonard, who
had set up an easel. “I just hope there will be something to show for
it.”
“The continuation of the species, perhaps,” said Leonard, completing a
complex drawing and handing it to an apprentice.
“Obviously that, yes.”
“We shall learn many new things,” said Leonard, “that I am sure will be
of immense benefit to posterity. For example, the survivor of the Maria
Pesto reported that things floated around in the air as if they had
become extremely light, so I have devised this.”
He reached down and picked up what looked, to Lord Vetinari, like a
perfectly normal kitchen utensil.
“It's a frying pan that sticks to anything,” he said, proudly. “I got the
idea from observing a type of teazel, which-”
“And this will be useful?” said Lord Vetinari.
“Oh, indeed. We will need to eat meals and cannot have hot fat floating
around. The small details matter, my lord. I have also devised a pen
which writes upside down.”
“Oh. Could you not simply turn the paper up the other way?”
The line of sledges moved across the snow.
“It's damn cold.” said Caleb.
“Feeling your age. are you?” said Boy Willie. “You're as old as you feel,
I always say.”
“Whut?”
“HE SAYS YOU'RE AS OLD AS YOU FEEL, HAMISH!”
“Whut? Feelin' whut?”
“I don't think I've become old.” said Boy Willie. “Not your actual old.
Just more aware of where the next lavatory is.”
“The worst bit.” said Truckle, “is when young people come and sing happy
songs at you.”
“Why're they so happy?” said Caleb.
“Cos they're not you, I suppose.”
Fine, sharp snow crystals, blown off the mountain tops, hissed across
their vision. In deference to their profession, the Horde mostly wore
tiny leather loincloths and bits and pieces of fur and chainmail. In
deference to their advancing years, and entirely without comment among
themselves, these has been underpinned now with long woolly combinations
and various strange elasticated things. They were dealing with Time as
they had dealt with nearly everything else in their lives, as something
you charged at and tried to kill. At the front of the party, Cohen was
giving the minstrel some tips. “First off, you got to describe how you
feel about the saga,” he said. “How singing it makes your blood race and
you can hardly contain yourself that... you got to tell 'em what a great
saga it's gonna be ... understand?”
“Yes, yes ... I think so ... and then I say who you are ...” said the
minstrel., scribbling furiously.
“Nah, then you say what the weather was like.”
“You mean like, ”It was a bright day“?”
“Nah, nah, nah. You got to talk saga. So, first off, you gotta put the
sentences the wrong way round.”
“You mean like, ”Bright was the day“ ?”
“Right! Good! I knew you was clever.”
“Clever you was, you mean!” said the minstrel, before he could stop
himself.

 
 
   
There was a moment of heart-stopping uncertainty, and then Cohen grinned
and slapped him on the hack. It was like being hit with a shovel.
“That's the style! What else, now ...? Ah. yes ... no one ever talks, in
sagas. They always spakes.”
“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 wim-min 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 offeree 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 Con Celesti, it was time tor old times.
Ambushers and ambushees had lit a fire.
“So how come you left the Evil Dark Lord business, Harry?” said Cohen.
“Well, 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 hem' 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 noted 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 and 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