The Last Hero

‘You can call me Evil, lad.’

‘Evil, they spent the last minute falling down a mountain!’

‘Ah, but maybe they kind of glided through the air, see? And there's all those lakes down there. Or maybe they spotted where the snow was really deep.’

The minstrel stared. ‘You really think they could have survived?’ he said.

There was a slight touch of desperation in Harry's raddled face.

‘Sure. O' course. All that talk from Cohen… that was just talk. He's not the sort to go around dyin' all the time. No old Cohen! I mean… not him. 'E's one of a kind.’

The minstrel surveyed the Hublands ahead of him. There were lakes and there was deep snow. But the Horde was not in favour of cunning. If they needed cunning, they hired it. Otherwise, they simply attacked. And you couldn't attack the ground.

It's all mixed up, he thought. Just like that captain said. Gods and heroes and wild adventure… but when the last hero goes, it all goes.

He'd never been keen on heroes. But he realised that he needed them to be there, like forests and mountains… he might never see them, but they filled some sort of hole in his mind. Some sort of hole in everyone's mind.

‘Bound to be fine,’ said Evil Harry, behind him. ‘They'll probably be waitin' for us when we get down there.’

‘What's that, hanging on that rock?’ said the minstrel.

It turned out, when they'd scrambled up to it over slippery rocks, to be part of a shattered wheel from Mad Hamish's wheelchair.

‘Doesn't mean nothing,’ said Evil Harry, tossing it aside. ‘Come on, let's get a move on. This is not a mountain you want to be on at night.’

‘No. You're right. It doesn't,’ said the minstrel. He unslung his lyre and began to tune it. ‘It doesn't mean anything.’

Before he turned to leave, he reached into a ragged pocket and pulled out a small leather bag. It was full of rubies.

He tipped them out on to the snow, where they glowed. And then he walked on.

There was a field of deep snow. Here and there a hollow suggested that the snow had been thrust aside with great force by a falling body, but the edges had been softened by the wind drift.

The seven horsewomen landed gently, and the thing about the snow was this: there were hoofprints in it, but they did not appear exactly where the horses trod or exactly when they did. They seemed superimposed on the world, as if they had been drawn first and the artist did not have much time to paint the reality behind them.

They waited for a while.

‘Well, this is jolly unsatisfactory,’ said Hilda (soprano). ‘They ought to be here. They do know they're dead, don't they?’

‘We haven't come to the wrong place, have we?’ said Gertrude (mezzo-soprano).

‘Ladies? If you would be so kind as to dismount?’

They turned. The seventh Valkyrie had drawn her sword and was smiling at them.

‘What cheek. Here, you're not Grimhilda!’

‘No, but I think I could probably beat all six of you,’ said Vena, tossing aside the helmet. ‘I shoved her in the privy with one hand. It would be… better if you simply dismounted.’

‘Better? Better than what?’ said Hilda.

Mrs McGarry sighed. ‘This,’ she said.

The snow erupted old men.

‘Evening, miss!’ said Cohen, grabbing Hilda's bridle. ‘Now, are you goin' to do like she says, or shall I get my friend Truckle here to ask you? Only he's a bit… uncivil.’

‘Hur, hur, hur!’

‘How dare you—’

‘I'll dare anything, miss. Now get off or I'll push yer off!’

‘Well, really!’

‘Excuse me? I say? Excuse me?’ said Gertrude. ‘Are you dead?’

‘Are we dead, Willie?’ said Cohen.

‘We ought to be dead. But I don'tfeel dead.’

‘I ain't dead!’ roared Mad Hamish. ‘I'll knock any man doon as tells me a'm dead!’

‘There's an offer you can't refuse,’ said Cohen, swinging himself on to Hilda's horse. ‘Saddle up, boys.’

‘But… excuse me?’ said Gertrude, who was one of those people afflicted with terminal politeness. ‘We were supposed to take you to the great Halls of the Slain. There's mead and roast pork and fighting in between courses! Just for you! That's what you wanted! They laid it onjustforyou!’

‘Yeah? Thanks all the same, but we ain't goin',’ said Cohen.

‘But that's where dead heroes have got to go!’

‘I don't remember signin' anythin',’ said Cohen. He looked up at the sky. The sun had set, and the first stars were coming out. Every one was a world, eh? ‘You still not joining us, Mrs McGarry?’ he said.

‘Not yet, boys.’ Vena smiled. ‘Not quite ready, I think. There'll come a time.’

‘Fair enough. Fair enough. We'll be going, then. Got a lot to do…’

‘But—’ Mrs McGarry looked across the snowfield. The wind had blown the snow over… shapes. Here a sword hilt projected from a drift, there a sandal was just visible. ‘Are you dead or not?’ she said.

Cohen scanned the snow. ‘Well, the way I see it, we don't think we are; so why should we care what anyone else thinks? We never have. Ready, Hamish? Then follow me, boys!’

Vena watched as the Valkyries, squabbling among themselves, made their way back to the mountain. Then she waited. She had a feeling that there would be something to wait for.

After a while, she heard another horse whinny.

‘Are you collecting?’ she said, and turned to look at the mounted figure.

THAT IS SOMETHING ABOUT WHICH I DO NOT PROPOSE TO ENLIGHTEN YOU, said Death.

‘But you are here,’ said Vena, although now she felt a lot more like Mrs McGarry again. Vena would probably have killed a few of the horsewomen just to make sure the others paid attention, but they'd all looked so young.

I AM, OF COURSE, EVERYWHERE.

Mrs McGarry looked up at the stars.

‘In the olden days,’ she said, ‘when a hero had been really heroic, the gods would put them up in the stars.’

THE HEAVENS CHANGE, said Death. WHAT TODAY LOOKS LIKE A MIGHTY HUNTER MAY LOOK LIKE A TEACUP IN A HUNDRED YEARS' TIME.

‘That doesn't seem fair.’

NO ONE EVER SAID IT HAD TO BE. BUT THERE ARE OTHER STARS.

At the base of the mountain, at Vena's camp, Harry got the fire going again while the minstrel sat and picked out notes.

‘I want you listen to this,’ he said, after a while, and played something.

It went on, it seemed to Evil Harry, for a lifetime.

He wiped away a tear as the last notes died away.

‘I've got to do some more work on it,’ said the minstrel, in a faraway voice. ‘But will it do?’

‘You asking me willitdo?’ said Evil Harry. ‘You're telling me you think you could make it even better?’

‘Yes.’