The Last Hero

‘Behold!’ said Cohen, striking a pose.

The Silver Horde looked around.

‘What?’ said Evil Harry.

‘Behold, the citadels of the gods!’ said Cohen, striking the pose again.

‘Yes, well, we can see it,’ said Caleb. ‘Is there something wrong with your back?’

‘Write down that I spake “Behold!”,’ said Cohen to the minstrel. ‘You don't have to write down any of this other stuff.’

‘You wouldn't mind saying—’

‘—spaking—’

‘—sorry, spaking, “Behold the temples of the gods”, would you?’ said the minstrel. ‘It's got a better rhythm.’

‘Hah, this takes me back,’ said Truckle. ‘Remember, Hamish? You and me signed on with Duke Leofric the Legitimate when he invaded Nothingfjord?’

‘Aye, I mind it.’

‘Five damn days, that battle took,’ said Truckle, ‘'cos the Duchess was doing a tapestry to commemorate it, right? We had to keep doing the fights over and over again, and there was the devil to pay when she was changing needles. There's no place for the media on the field of battle, I've always said.’

‘Aye, and I mind you makin' a rude sign to the ladies!’ Hamish cackled. ‘I saw that ol' tapestry in the castle of Rosante years later and I could tell it wuz you!’

‘Could we just get on with it?’ said Vena.

‘Y'see, there's the problem,’ said Cohen. ‘It's no good just doin' it. You got to remember your posterity.’

‘Hur, hur, hur,’ said Truckle.

‘Laugh away,’ said Cohen. ‘But what about all those heroes that aren't remembered in songs and sagas, eh? You tell me about them.’

‘Eh? What heroes that aren't remembered in songs and sagas?’

‘Exactly!’

‘What's the plan?’ said Evil Harry, who had been watching the shimmering light over the city of the gods.

‘Plan?’ said Cohen. ‘I thought you knew. We're going to sneak in, smash the igniter, and run like hell.’

‘Yes, but how do you plan to do this?’ said Evil Harry. He sighed when he saw their faces. ‘You haven't got one, have you?’ he said wearily. ‘You were just going to rush in, weren't you? Heroes never have a plan. It's always left up to us Dark Lords to have the plans. This is the home of the gods, lads! You think they won't notice a bunch of humans wandering around?’

‘We are intendin' to have a magnificent death,’ said Cohen.

‘Right, right. Afterwards. Oh, deary me. Look, I'd be thrown out of the secret society of evil madmen if I let you go at it mob-handed.’ Evil Harry shook his head. ‘There's hundreds of gods, right? Everyone knows that. And new gods turning up all the time, right? Well? Doesn't a plan suggest itself? Anyone?’

Truckle raised a hand. ‘We rush in?’ he said.

‘Yes, we're all real heroes here, aren't we?’ said Evil Harry. ‘No. That wasn't exactly what I had in mind. Lads, it's lucky for you that you've got me…’

It was the Chair of Indefinite Studies who saw the light on the moon. He was leaning on the ship's rail at the time, having a quiet afternoon smoke.

He was not an ambitious wizard, and generally just concentrated on keeping out of trouble and not doing anything very much. The nice thing about Indefinite Studies was that no one could describe exactly what they were. This gave him quite a lot of free time.

He watched the moon's pale ghost for a while, and then went and found the Archchancellor, who was fishing.

‘Mustrum, should the moon be doing that?’ he said.

Ridcully looked up. ‘Good grief! Stibbons! Where's the man got to?’

Ponder was located in the bunk where he had flopped asleep fully dressed. He was hustled up the ladder half-asleep, but he awoke quickly when he saw the sky.

‘Should it be doing that?’ Ridcully demanded, pointing at the moon.

‘No, sir! It certainly shouldn't!’

‘It's a definite problem, is it?’ said the Chair, hopefully.

‘It certainly is! Where's the omniscope? Has anyone tried to talk to them?’

‘Ah, well, not my field then,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, backing away. ‘Sorry. Would help if I could. Can see you're busy. Sorry.’

All the dragons must have fired by now. Rincewind felt his eyeballs being pressed into the back of his head.

Leonard was unconscious in the next seat. Carrot was presumably lying in the debris that had been rammed to the other end of the cabin.

By the ominous creaking, and the smell, an orangutan was hanging on to the back of Rincewind's seat.

Oh, and when he managed to turn his head to see out of the window, one of the dragon pods was on fire. It was no wonder – the flame coming from the dragons was almost pure white.

Leonard had mentioned one of these levers… Rincewind stared at them through a red mist. ‘If we have to drop all the dragons,’ Leonard had said, ‘we—’ What? Which lever?

Actually, at a time like this the choice was plain.

Rincewind, his vision blurred, his ears insulted by the sound of a ship in pain, pulled the only one he could reach.

I can't put this in a saga, the minstrel thought. No one will ever believe it. I mean, they just won't ever believeit…

‘Trust me, right?’ said Evil Harry, inspecting the Horde. ‘I mean, yes, obviously I am untrustworthy, point taken, but it's a matter of pride here, you understand? Trust me. This will work. I bet even the gods don't know all the gods, right?’

‘I feel a right twerp with these wings,’ Caleb complained.

‘Mrs McGarry did a very good job on'em, so don't complain,’ snapped Evil Harry. ‘You make a very good God of Love. What kind of love, I wouldn't like to say. And you are…?’

‘God of Fish, Harry,’ said Cohen, who had stuck scales on his skin and made himself a sort of fish-head helmet from one of their late adversaries.

Evil Harry tried to breathe. ‘Good, good, a very old fish god, yes. And you, Truckle, are…?’

‘The God of bloody Swearing,’ said Truckle the Uncivil firmly.

‘Er, that could actually work,’ said the minstrel, as Evil Harry frowned. ‘After all, there are Muses of dance and song, and there's even a Muse of erotic poetry—’

‘Oh, I can do that,’ said Truckle dismissively. ‘“There was a young lady from Quirm, Whose grip was—”’

‘All right, all right. And you, Hamish?’

‘God o' Stuff,’ said Hamish.

‘What stuff?’

Hamish shrugged. He hadn't survived all this time by being unnecessarily imaginative.

‘Just… things, y'ken,’ he said. ‘Lost things, mebbe. Things lyin' aroound?’