Discworld 27 - The Last Hero (6 page)

 
 
   
small way, he'd picked up a few contacts on the other planes. They were
... sort of gods, he supposed. They had names like Olk-Kalath the Soul
Sucker, but, frankly, the overlap between demons and gods was a bit
uncertain at the best of times.
“Oh, Mighty One,” he began, always a safe beginning and the religious
equivalent of “To Whom It May Concern”, “I have to warn you that a bunch
of heroes are climbing the mountain to destroy you with returned fire.
May you strike them down with wrathful lightning and then look favourably
upon thy servant, i.e. Evil Harry Dread. Mail may be left with Mrs
Gibbons, 12 Dolmen View, Pant-y-Girdl, Llamedos. Also if possible I
should like a location with real lava pits, every other evil lord manages
to get a dread lava pit even when they are on one hundred feet of bloody
alluvial soil, excuse my Klatchian, this is further discrimination
against the small trader, no offence meant.”
He waited a moment, just in case there was any reply, sighed, and got
rather shakily to his feet.
“I'm an evil, distrustful Dark Lord.” he said. “What do they expect? I
told 'em. I warned 'em. I mean, if it was up to me ... but where'd I
stand as a Dark Lord if I -”
His eye caught something pink, a little way off. He climbed a snow-
covered rock for a better look.
Two minutes later the rest of the Horde had joined him and were looking
at the scene reflectively, although the minstrel was being sick.
“Well, that's something you don't often see.” said Cohen.
“What, a man throttled with pink knitting wool?” said Caleb.
“No, I was looking at the other two ...”
“Yes, it's amazing what you can do with a knitting needle,” said Cohen.
He glanced back at the makeshift altar and grinned. “Did you do this.
Harry? You said you wanted to be alone.”
“Pink knitting wool?” said Evil Harry nervously. “Me and pink knitting
wool?”
“Sorry for suggestin' it,” said Cohen. “Well, we ain't got time for this.
Let's go and sort out the Caves of Dread. Where's our bard? Right. Stop
throwin' up and get yer notebook out. First man to be cut in half by a
concealed blade is a rotten egg, okay? And, everyone ... try not to wake
up Hamish, all right?”
The sea was full of cool green light.
Captain Carrot sat near the prow. To the astonishment of Rincewind, who'd
got out for a gloomy evening walk, he was sewing.
“It's a badge for the mission,” said Carrot. “See? This is yours.” He
held it up.
“But what is it for?”
“Morale.”
“All, that stuff,” said Rincewind. “Well, you've got lots, Leonard
doesn't need it and I've never had any.”
“I know you are being good-humoured about it, but I think it's vital that
there is something that holds the crew together,” said Carrot, still
calmly sewing.
“Yes, it's called skin. It's important to keep all of you on the inside
of it.”
Rincewind stared at the badge. He'd never had one before. Well, that was
technically a lie ... he'd had one that said “Hello, I Am 5 Today!”,
which was just about the worst possible present to get when you are six.
That birthday had been the rottenest day of his life.
“It needs an uplifting motto,” said Carrot. “Wizards know about this sort
of thing, don't they?”
“How about Morituri Nolumus Mori, that's got the right ring,” said
Rincewind gloomily.

 
 
   
Carrot's lips moved as he parsed the sentence. “We who are about to die
.. .” he said, “but I don't recognise the rest.”
“It's very uplifting,” said Rincewind. “It's straight from the heart.”
“Very well. Many thanks. I'll get to work on it right away,” said Carrot.
Rincewind sighed. “You're finding this exciting, aren't you?” he said.
“You actually are.”
“It will certainly be a challenge to go where no one has gone before,”
said Carrot.
“Wrong! We're going where no one has come back from before.” Rincewind
hesitated. “Well, except me. But I didn't go that far, and I... sort of
dropped on to the Disc again.”
“Yes, they told me about it. What did you see?”
“My whole life, passing in front of my eyes.”
“Perhaps we shall see something more interesting.”
Rincewind glared at Carrot, bent once again over his sewing. Evetything
about the man was neat, in a workmanlike sort of way: he looked like
someone who washed thoroughly. He also seemed to Rincewind to be a
complete idiot with gristle between the ears. But complete idiots didn't
make comments like that.
“I'm taking an iconograph and lots of paint for the imp. You know the
wizards want us to make all kinds of observations?” Carrot went on. “They
say it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“You're not making any friends here, you know,” said Rincewind.
“Have you any idea what it is that the Silver Horde wants?”
“Drink, treasure, and women,” said Rincewind. “But I think they may have
eased back on the last one.”
“But didn't they have more or less all of that anyway?”
Rincewind nodded. That was the puzzler. The Horde had it all. They had
everything that money could buy, and since there was a lot of money on
the Counterweight Continent, that was everything.
It occurred to him that when you'd had everything, all that was left was
nothing.
The valley was full of cool green light, reflected off the towering ice
of the central mountain. It shifted and flowed like water. Into it,
grumbling and asking one another to speak up, walked the Silver Horde.
Behind them, walking almost bent double with horror and dread, white-
faced, like a man who has gazed upon direful things, came the minstrel.
His clothes were torn. One leg of his tights had been ripped off. He was
soaking wet, although parts of his clothing were singed. The twanging
remains of the lute in his trembling hand had been half bitten away. Here
was a man who had truly seen life, mostly on the point of departure.
“Not very insane, as monks go,” said Caleb. “More sad than mad. I've
known monks that frothed.”
“And some of those monsters were long past their date with the
knackerman, and that's the truth.” said Truckle. “Honestly, I felt
embarrassed about killing them. They was older than us.”
“The fish were good,” said Cohen. “Real big buggers.”
“Just as well, really, since we've run out of walrus.” said Evil Harry.
“Wonderful display by your henchmen. Harry,” said Cohen. “Stupidity
wasn't the word for it. Never seen so many people hit themselves over the
head with their own swords.”
“They were good lads,” said Harry. “Morons to the end.”
Cohen grinned at Boy Willie, who was sucking a cut finger.
“Teeth,” he said. “Huh ... the answer is always ”teeth“, is it?”
“All right, all right, sometimes it's ”tongue“.” said Boy Willie. He
turned to the minstrel.
“Did you get that bit where I cut up that big taranchula?” be said.
The minstrel raised his head slowly. A lute string broke.

 
 
   
“Mwwa,” he bleated.
The rest of the Horde gathered round quickly. There was no sense in
letting just one of them get the best verses.
“Remember to sing about that bit where that fish swallowed me and I cut
my way out front inside, okay?”“
”Mwwa ...“
”And did you get that bit when I killed that big six-armed dancin'
statue?“
”Mwwa ...“
”What're you talkin' about? It was me what killed that statue?“
”Yeah? Well, I clove him clean in twain, mate. No one could have survived
that?
“Why didn't you just cut 'is 'ead off?”
“Couldn't. Someone'd already done that.”
“Ere, 'e's not writin' this down! Why isn't 'e writin this down? Cohen,
you tell 'im 'e's got to write this down!”
“Let him be for a while,” said Cohen. “I reckon the fish disagreed with
him.”
“Don't see why,” said Truckle. “I pulled him out before it'd hardly
chewed him. And he must've dried out nicely in that corridor. You know,
the one where the flames shot up out of the floor unexpectedly.”
“I reckon our bard wasn't expecting flames to shoot out of the floor
unexpectedly.” said Cohen.
Truckle shrugged theatrically. “Well, if you're not going to expect
unexpected flames, what's the point of going anywhere?”
“And we'd have been in some strife with those gate demons from the
netherworlds if Mad Hamish hadn't woken up,” Cohen went on.
Hamish stirred in his wheelchair, under a pile of large fish fillets
inexpertly wrapped in saffron robes.
“Whut?”
“I SAID YOU WERE GROUCHY WHAT WITH MISSING YER NAP!” Cohen shouted.
“Ach, right!”
Boy Willie rubbed his thigh. “I got to admit it, one of those monsters
nearly got me,” he said. “I'm going to have to give this up.”
Cohen turned around quickly. “And die like old Old Vincent?” he said.
“Well, not-”
“Where would he have been if we weren't there to give him a proper
funeral, eh? A great big bonfire, that's the funeral of a hero. And
everyone else said it was a waste of a good boat! So stop talking like
that and follow me!”
“Mw ... mw ,.. mw.” the minstrel sang, and finally the words came out.
“Mad! Mad! Mad! You're all stark staring mad!”
Caleb patted him gently on the shoulder as they turned to follow their
leader.
“We prefer the word berserk, lad,” he said.
Some things needed testing ...
“I have watched the swamp dragons at night,” Leonard said
conversationally as Ponder Stibbons adjusted the static-firing mechanism.
“And it is clear to me that the flame is quite useful to them as a means
of propulsion. In a sense, a swamp dragon is a living rocket. A strange
creature to have come into being on a world like ours, I have always
thought, I suspect they come from elsewhere,”
“They tend to explode a lot,” said Ponder, standing back. The dragon in
the steel cage watched him carefully.
“Bad diet.” said Leonard firmly. “Possibly not what they were used to.
But I am sure the mixture I have devised is both nourishing and safe and
will have ... usable effect...”
“But we will go and get behind the sandbags now, sir.” said Ponder.

 
 
   
“Oh, do you really think-?”
“Yes, sir.”
With his back firmly against the sandbags. Ponder shut his eyes and
pulled the string.
In front of the dragon's cage, a mirror swung down, just for a moment.
And the first reaction of a male swamp dragon on seeing another male is
to flame ...
There was a roar. The two men peered over the barrier and saw a yellow-
green lance of fire thundering out across the evening sea.
Thirty-three seconds!“ said Ponder, when it finally winked out. He leapt
up.
The small dragon belched.
The flame was more or less gone, so it was the dampest explosion Ponder
had ever experienced.
”Ah,“ said Leonard, arising from behind the sandbags and peeling a piece
of scaly skin off his head. ”Nearly there, I think. Just a pinch more
charcoal and seaweed extract to prevent blowback.“
Ponder removed his hat. What he needed right now, he felt, was a bath.
And then another bath.
”I'm not exactly a rocket wizard, am I?“ he said, wiping bits of dragon
off his face.
But an hour later another flame lanced over the waves, thin and white
with a blue core ... and this time, this time, the dragon merely smiled.
I'd rather die than sign my name.” said Boy Willie.
“I'd rather face a dragon,” said Caleb. “One of the proper old ones, too,
not the little fireworky ones you get today.”
“Once they get you signin' your name, they've got you where they want
you,” said Cohen.
“Too many letters,” said Truckle. “All different shapes, too. I always
put an X.”
The Horde had stopped for a breather and a smoke on an outcrop at the end
of the green valley. Snow was thick on the ground, but the air was almost
mild. Already there was the prickly sensation of a high magical field.
“Readin', now,” said Cohen, “that's another matter. I don't mind a man
who does a bit of readin'. Now, you come across a map, as it might be,
and it's got a big cross on it, well, a readin' man can tell something
from that.”
“What? That it's Truckle's map?” said Boy Willie.
“Exactly. Could very well be.”
“I can read and write,” said Evil Harry. “Sorry. Part of the job.
Etiquette, too. You've got to be polite to people when you march them out
on the plank over the shark tank ... it makes it more evil?
”No one's blaming you, Harry,“ said Cohen.
”Huh, not that I could get sharks.“ said Harry. ”I should've known better
when Johnny No Hands told me they were sharks that hadn't grown all their
fins yet, but all they did was swim around squeaking happily and start
beggin' for fish. When I throw people into a torture tank it's to be torn
to bits, not to get in touch with their inner self and be one with the
cosmos.“
”Shark'd be better than this fish.“ said Caleb, making a face.
”Nah, shark tastes like piss,“ said Cohen. He sniffed. ”Now that...“
”Now that? said Truckle, “is what I call cookery?
They followed the smell through a maze of rocks to a cave. To the
minstrel's amazement, each man drew his sword as they approached.
”You can't trust cookery.“ said Cohen, apparently as an attempt at an
explanation.
”But you've just been fighting monstrous mad devil fish!" said the
minstrel.

 
 
   
“No, the priests were mad, the fish were ... hard to tell with fish.
Anyway, you know where you stand with a mad priest, but someone cooking
as well as that right up here - well, that's a mystery?
”Well?“
”Mysteries get you killed.“
”You're not dead, though.“
Cohen's sword swished through the air. The minstrel thought he heard it
sizzle.
”I solve mysteries,“ he said.
”Oh. With your sword ... like Carelinus untied the Tsortean Knot?“
”Don't know anything about any knots, lad.“
In a clear space among the rocks, a stew was cooking over a fire and an
elderly lady was working at her embroidery. It was not a scene the
minstrel would have expected out here, even though the lady was somewhat
... youngly dressed for a grandmother, and the message on the sampler she
was sewing, surrounded by little flowers, was EAT COLD STEEL PIGDOG.
”Well, well.“ said Cohen, sheathing his sword. ”I thought I recognised
the handiwork back there. How're you doing. Vena?“
”You're looking well, Cohen,“ said the woman, as calmly as though she had
been expecting them. ”You boys want some stew?“
”Yeah.“ said Truckle, grinning. ”Let the bard try it first, though.“
”Shame on you, Truckle,“ said the woman, putting aside her embroidery.
”Well, you did drug me and steal a load of jewels off me last time we
met...“
”That was forty years ago, man! Anyway, you left me alone to fight that
band of goblins.“
”I knew you'd beat the goblins, though.“
”I knew you didn't need the jewels. Morning, Evil Harry. Hello, boys.
Pull up a rock. Who's the thin streak of misery?“
This is the bard,” said Cohen. “Bard, this is Vena the Raven-Haired.”
“What?” said the bard. “No, she's not! Even I've heard of Vena the Raven-
Haired, and she's a tall young woman with- oh ...”
Vena sighed. “Yes, the old stories do hang around so, don't they?” she
said, patting her grey hair. “And it's Mrs McGarry now, boys.”
“Yes, I heard you'd settled down.” said Cohen, dipping the ladle into the
stew and tasting it. “Married an innkeeper, didn't you? Hung up your
sword, had kids ...”
“Grandchildren,” said Mrs McGarry. proudly. But then the proud smile
faded. “One of them's taken over the inn, but the other's a paper-maker.”
“Running an inn's a good trade,” said Cohen. “But there's not much
heroing in wholesale stationery. A paper cut's just not the same.” He
smacked his lips. “This is good stuff, girl.”
“It's funny,” said Vena. “I never knew I had the talent, but people will
come miles for my dumplings.”
“No change there, then, said Truckle the Uncivil. ”Hur, hur. hur.“
”Truckle,“ said Cohen, ”remember when you told me to tell you when you
were bein' too uncivil?“
”Yeah?“
”That was one of those times.“
”Anyway,“ said Mrs McGarry, smiling sweetly at the blushing Truckle. ”I
was sitting around after Charlie died, and I thought, well, is this it?
I've just got to wait for the Grim Reaper? And then ... there was this
scroll...“
”What scroll?“ said Cohen and Evil Harry together. Then they stared at
one another.
”Y'see,“ said Cohen, reaching into his pack. ”I found this old scroll,
showing a map of how to get to the Mountains and all the little tricks
for getting past-"