The Last Hero

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!’