The Last Hero

he was suddenly in a little private time and space of his own.

‘So we are going to crash?’ he said.

POSSIBLY. I'M AFRAID THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE IS MAKING MY JOB VERY DIFFICULT. HOW ABOUT A MAGAZINE?

The Kite curved around and began to glide gently towards the clouds around Cori Celesti. The Librarian glared at the levers, bit one or two of them, tugged the handle of Prince Haran's Tiller and then swung himself back along the cabin and hid under a blanket.

‘We're going to land in that snowfield,’ said Carrot, slipping into the pilot's seat. ‘Leonard designed the ship to land in snow, didn't he? After all—’

The Kite did not so much land as kiss the snow. It bounced up into the air, glided a little further, and touched down again. There were a few more skips, and then the keel was running crisply and smoothly over the snowfield.

‘Outstanding!’ said Carrot. ‘It's just a walk in the park!’

‘You mean people are going to mug us and steal all our money and kick us viciously in the ribs?’ said Rincewind. ‘Could be. We're heading directly towards the city. Have you noticed?’

They stared ahead. The gates of Dunmanifestin were getting closer very quickly. The Kite breasted a snowdrift and sailed on.

‘This is not the time to panic,’ said Rincewind.

The Kite hit the snow, rebounded into the air and flew through the gateway of the gods.

Halfway through the gateway of the gods.

‘So… seven and I win,’ said Cohen. ‘It comes down showin' seven and I win, right?’

‘Yes. Of course,’ said Fate.

‘Sounds like a million-to-one chance to me,’ said Cohen.

He tossed the die high in the air, and it slowed as it rose, tumbling glacially with a noise like the swish of windmill blades.

It reached the top of its arc and began to fall.

Cohen was staring fixedly at it, absolutely still. Then his sword was out of its scabbard and it whirled around in a complex curve. There was a snick and a green flash in the middle of the air and…

…two halves of an ivory cube bounced across the table.

One landed showing the six. The other landed showing the one.

One or two of the gods, to the minstrel's amazement, began to applaud.

‘I think we had a deal?’ said Cohen, still holding his sword.

‘Really? And have you heard the saying “You cannot cheat Fate”?’ said Fate.

Mad Hamish rose in his wheelchair. ‘Ha' ye heard the sayin' “Can yer mither stitch, pal”?’ he yelled.

As one man, or god, the Silver Horde closed up and drew its weaponry.

‘No fighting!’ shouted Blind Io. ‘That is the rule here! We've got the world to fight in!’

‘That wasn't cheating!’ Cohen growled. ‘Leavin' scrolls around to lure heroes to their death, that's cheatin'!’

‘But where would heroes be without magic maps?’ said Blind Io.

‘Many of 'em 'd still be alive!’ snapped Cohen. ‘Not pieces in some damn game!’

‘You cut the thing in half,’ said Fate.

‘Show me where it says that in the rules! Yeah, why not show me the rules, eh?’ said Cohen, dancing with rage. ‘Show me all the rules! What's up, Mr Fate? You want another go, is it? Double or quits? Double stakes?’

‘You mutht admit it wath a good thtroke,’ said Offler. Several of the lesser gods nodded.

‘What? Are you prepared to let them stand here and defy us?’ said Fate.

‘Defy you, my lord,’ said a new voice. ‘I suggest they have won. He did cheat Fate. If you do cheat Fate, I do not believe it says anywhere that Fate's subsequent opinion matters.’

The Lady stepped daintily through the crowd. The gods parted to let her pass. They recognised a legend in the making when they saw it.

‘And who are you?’ snapped Cohen, still red with rage.

‘I?’ The Lady unfolded her hands. A die lay on each palm, the solitary single dot facing up. But at a flick of her wrist the two flew together, lengthened, entwined, became a hissing snake writhing in the air – and vanished.

‘I… am the million-to-one-chance,’ she said.

‘Yeah?’ said Cohen, less impressed than the minstrel thought he ought to be. ‘And who are all the other chances?’

‘I am those, also.’

Cohen sniffed. ‘Then you ain't no lady.’

‘Er, that's not really—’ the minstrel began.

‘Oh, that wasn't what I was supposed to say, was it?’ said Cohen. ‘I was supposed to say. “Ooh, ta, missus, much obliged”? Well, I ain't. They say fortune favours the brave, but I say I've seen too many brave men walkin' into battles they never walked out of. The hell with all of it – What's up with you?’

The minstrel was staring at a god on the edge of the crowd.

‘It's you, isn't it?’ he growled. ‘You're Nuggan, aren't you?’

The little god took a step backward, but made the mistake of trying dignity. ‘Be silent, mortal!’

‘You utter, utter… fifteen years! Fifteen damn years before I ever tasted garlic! And the priests used to get up early in the countryside round us to jump on all the mushrooms! And do you know how much a small slab of chocolate cost in our town, and what they did to people who were caught with one?’ The minstrel shouldered the Horde aside and advanced on the retreating god, his lyre raised like a club.

‘I shall smite you with lightning!’ squeaked Nuggan, raising his hands to protect himself.

‘You can't! Not here! You can only do that stuff back in the world! All you can do here is bluff and illusion! And bullying. That's what prayers are… it's frightened people trying to make friends with the bully! All those temples were built and… and you're nothing but a little—’

Cohen laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Well said, lad. Well said. But it's time you were goin'.’

‘Broccoli,’ murmured Offler to Sweevo, God of Cut Timber. ‘You can't go wrong with broccoli.’

‘I prohibit the practice of panupunitoplasty,’ said Sweevo.

‘What'th that?’

‘Search me, but it's got them worried.’

‘Just let me give him one wallop—’ shouted the minstrel.

‘Listen, son, listen,’ said Cohen, struggling to hold him. ‘You got better things to do with that lyre than smash it over someone's head, right? A few little verses – it's 'mazin' how they stick in the mind. Listen to me, listen, do you hear what I'm tellin' you?… I've got a sword and it's a good one, but all the bleedin' thing can do is keep someone alive, listen. A song can keep someone immortal. Good or bad!’

The minstrel relaxed a little, but only a little. Nuggan had taken refuge behind a group of other gods.

‘He'll wait until I'm out of the gates—’ groaned the minstrel.

‘He'll be busy! Truckle, press that plunger!’

‘Ah, your famous firework,’ said Blind Io. ‘But, my dear mortal, fire cannot harm the gods…’

‘Well now,’ said Cohen, ‘that depends, right? 'Cos in a minute or so, the top of this mountain is gonna look like a volcano. Everyone in the world will see it. I wonder if they'll believe in the gods any more?’