The Last Hero

‘I quite understand,’ he said. ‘The last thing a trained machinery person wants at a time like this is well- meant advice from ignorant people. I do apologise. And what is it that you intend to do?’

‘Well, I, er, I…’

‘As the Kite and all our hopes plunge towards the ground, I mean,’ Lord Vetinari went on.

‘I, er, I, let's see, we've tried…’

Ponder stared at the omniscope, and at his notes. His mind had become a huge, white, sticky field of hot fluff.

‘I imagine we have at least a minute left,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘No rush.’

‘I, er, perhaps we, er…’

The Patrician leaned down towards the omniscope. ‘Rincewind, pull Prince Haran's Tiller,’ he said.

‘We don't know what it does—’ Ponder began.

‘Do tell me if you have a better idea,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘In the meantime, I suggest that the lever is pulled.’

On the Kite, Rincewind decided to respond to the voice of authority.

‘Er… there's a lot of clicking and whirring…’ he reported. ‘And… some of the levers are moving by themselves… now the wings are unfolding… we're sort of flying in a straight line, at least… quite gently, really…’

‘Good. I suggest you apply yourself to waking up Leonard,’ said the Patrician. He turned and nodded at Ponder. ‘You yourself have not studied the classics, young man? I know Leonard has.’

‘Well… no, sir.’

‘Prince Haran was a legendary Klatchian hero who sailed around the world on a ship with a magical tiller,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘It steered the ship while he slept. If I can be of any further help, don't hesitate to ask.’

Evil Harry stood frozen with terror as Cohen advanced across the snow, hand raised.

‘You tipped off the gods, Harry,’ said Cohen.

‘We all heard yez,’ said Mad Hamish.

‘But it's okay,’ Cohen added. ‘Makes it more interestin'.’ His hand came down and slapped the small man on the back.

‘We thought: That Evil Harry, he may be dumber'n a thick brick, but betrayin' us at a time like this… well, that's what we call nerve,’ said Cohen. ‘I've known a few Evil Dark Lords in my time, Harry, but I'd def'nit'ly give you three great big goblins' heads for style. You might have never made it into the, you know, big Dark Lord league, but you've got… well, Harry, you've definitely got the Wrong Stuff.’

‘We likes a man who sticks to his siege catapults,’ said Boy Willie.

Evil Harry looked down and shuffled his feet, his face a battle between pride and relief.

‘Good of you to say that, lads,’ he mumbled. ‘I mean, you know, if it was up to me I wouldn't do this to yer, but I got a reputation to—’

‘I said we understand,’ said Cohen. ‘It's just like with us. You see a big hairy thing galloping towards you, you don't stop to think: Is this a rare species on the point of extinction? No, you hack its head off. 'Cos that's heroing, am I right? An' you see someone, you betray 'em, quick as wink, 'cos that's villaining.’

There was a murmur of approval from the rest of the Horde. In a strange way, this too was part of the Code.

‘You're letting him go?’ said the minstrel.

‘Of course. You haven't been paying attention, lad. The Dark Lord always gets away. But you'd better put in the song that he betrayed us. That'll look good.’

‘And… er… you wouldn't mind saying I fiendishly tried to cut your throats?’ said Harry.

‘All right,’ said Cohen loftily. ‘Put in that he fought like a black-hearted tiger.’

Harry wiped a tear from his eye. ‘Thanks, lads,’ he said. ‘I don't know what to say. I won't forget this. This could turn things right round for me.’

‘But do us a favour and see the bard gets back all right, though, will you?’ said Cohen.

‘Sure,’ said Evil Harry.

‘Um… I'm not going back,’ said the minstrel.

This surprised everyone. It certain surprised him. But life had suddenly opened two roads in front of him. One of them led back to a life singing songs about love and flowers. The other could lead anywhere. There was something about these old men that made the first choice completely impossible. He couldn't explain it. That was just how it was.

‘You've got to go back—’ said Cohen.

‘No, I've got to see how it ends,’ said the minstrel. ‘I must be mad, but that's what I want to do.’

‘You can make that bit up,’ said Vena.

‘No, ma'am,’ said the minstrel. ‘I don't think I can. I don't think this is going to end in any way that I could make up. Not when I look at Mr Cohen there in his fish hat and Mr Willie as the God of Being Sick Again. No, I want to come along. Mr Dread can wait for me here. And I'll be perfectly safe, sir. No matter what. Because I'm absolutely certain that when the gods find they're under attack by a man with a tomato on his head and another one disguised as the Muse of Swearing they're really, really going to want the whole world to know what happened next.’

Leonard was still out cold. Rincewind tried mopping his brow with a wet sponge.

‘Of course I watched him,’ said Carrot, glancing back at the gently moving levers. ‘But he built it, so it was easy for him. Um… I shouldn't touch that, sir…’

The Librarian had swung himself into the driver's seat and was sniffing the levers. Somewhere underneath them, the automatic tiller clicked and purred.

‘We're going to have to come up with some ideas soon,’ Rincewind said. ‘It won't fly itself for ever.’

‘Perhaps if we gently… I shouldn't do that, sir—’

The Librarian gave the pedals a cursory glance. Then he pushed Carrot away with one hand while the other unhooked Leonard's flying goggles from their hook. His feet curled around the pedals. He pushed the handle that operated Prince Haran's Tiller and, far under his feet, something went thud.

Then, as the ship shook, he cracked his knuckles, reached out, waggled his fingers for a moment, and grabbed the steering column.

Carrot and Rincewind dived for their seats.

The gates of Dunmanifestin swung open, apparently by themselves. The Silver Horde walked inside, keeping together, peering around suspiciously.

‘You better mark our cards for us, lad,’ whispered Cohen, looking around the busy streets. ‘I wasn't expecting this.’

‘Sir?’ said the minstrel.

‘We expected a lot of carousing in a big 'all,’ said Boy Willie. ‘Not… shops. And everyone's different sizes!’

‘Gods can be any size, I reckon,’ said Cohen, as gods hurried towards them.

‘Maybe we could… come back another time?’ said Caleb.

The doors slammed behind them.

‘No,’ said Cohen.

And suddenly there was a crowd around them.

‘You must be the new gods,’ said a voice from the sky. ‘Welcome to Dunmanifestin! You'd better come along with us!’

‘Ah, the God of Fish,’ said a god to Cohen, falling in beside him. ‘And how are the fish, your mightiness?’

‘Er… what?’ said Cohen. ‘Oh… er… wet. Still very wet. Very wet things.’