The Last Hero

‘Well, it's not like… a real saga,’ said Evil Harry hoarsely. ‘It's got a tune. You could whistle it, even. Well, hum it. I mean, it even sounds like them. Like they'd sound if they was music…’

‘Good.’

‘It's… wonderful…’

‘Thank you. It will get better as more people hear it. It's music for people to listen to.’

‘And… it's not like we found any bodies, is it?’ said the very small Dark Lord. ‘So they could be alive somewhere.’

The minstrel picked a few notes on the lyre. The strings shimmered. ‘Somewhere,’ he agreed.

‘Y'know, kid,’ said Harry, ‘I don't even know your name.’

The minstrel's brow wrinkled. He wasn't certain himself, any more. And he didn't know where he was going to go, or what he was going to do, but he suspected that life might be a lot more interesting from now on.

‘I'm just the singer,’ he said.

‘Play it again,’ said Evil Harry.

Rincewind blinked, stared, and then looked away from the window.

‘We've just been overtaken by some men on horseback.’ he said.

‘Ook,’ said the Librarian, which probably meant. ‘Some of us have got some flying to do.’

‘I just thought I'd mention it.’

Spiralling through the air like a drunken clown, the Kite climbed the column of hot air from the distant crater. It was the only instruction Leonard had given before going and sitting so quietly at the back of the cabin that Carrot was getting seriously worried.

‘He just sits there whispering things like “ten years!” and “the whole world!”,’ he reported. ‘It's come as a terrible shock. What a penance!’

‘But he looks cheerful,’ said Rincewind. ‘And he keeps drawing sketches. And he's leafing through all those pictures you took on the moon.’

‘Poor chap. It's affecting his mind.’ Carrot leaned forward. ‘We ought to get him home as soon as possible. What's the usual direction? “Second star to the left and straight on 'til morning”?’

‘I think that may very probably be the stupidest piece of astronavigation ever suggested,’ said Rincewind. ‘We're just going to head for the lights. Oh, and we'd better be careful not to look down on the gods.’

Carrot nodded. ‘That's quite hard.’

‘Practically impossible,’ said Rincewind.

And in a place on no map the immortal Mazda, bringer of fire, lay on his eternal rock.

Memory can play tricks after the first ten thousand years, and he wasn't quite sure what had happened. There had been some old men on horseback, who'd swooped out of the sky. They'd cut his chains, and given him a drink, and had taken it in turns to shake his withered hand.

Then they'd ridden away, into the stars, as quickly as they'd come.

Mazda lay back into the shape his body had worn into the stone over the centuries. He wasn't quite sure about the men, or why they'd come, or why they'd been so happy. He was only sure, in fact, about two things.

He was sure it was nearly dawn.

He was sure that he held, in his right hand, the very sharp sword the old men had given him.

And he could hear, coming closer with the dawn, the beat of an eagle's wings.

He was going to enjoy this.

It is in the nature of things that those who save the world from certain destruction often don't get hugely rewarded because, since the certain destruction does not take place, people are uncertain how certain it may have been and are, therefore, somewhat tight when it comes to handing out anything more substantial than praise.

The Kite was landed rather roughly on the corrugated surface of the river Ankh and, as happens to public things lying around which don't appear to belong to anyone, quickly became the private property of many, many people.

And Leonard began the penance for his hubris. This was much approved of by the Ankh-Morpork priesthood. It was definitely the sort of thing to encourage piety.

Lord Vetinari was therefore surprised when he received an urgent message three weeks after the events recounted, and forced his way through the mob to the Temple of Small Gods.

‘What's going on?’ he demanded of the priests peering around the door.

‘This is… blasphemy!’ said Hughnon Ridcully.

‘Why? What has he painted?’

‘It's not what he's painted, my lord. What he's painted is… is amazing. And he's finished it! ’

Up on the mountain, as the blizzards closed in, there was a red glow in the snow. It was there all winter, and when the spring gales blew, the rubies glittered in the sunshine.

No one remembers the singer. The song remains.

THE END

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1. Compared to, say, the Republican Bees, who committeed rather than swarmed and tended to stay in the hive a lot, voting for more honey.

2. That is, all those wizards who knew Archchancellor Ridcully, and were prepared to be led.

3. Few religions are definite about the size of Heaven, but on the planet Earth the Book of Revelation (ch. XXI, v. 16) gives it as a cube 12,000 furlongs on a side. This is somewhat less than 500,000,000.000,000,000,000 cubic feet. Even allowing that the Heavenly Host and other essential services take up at least two thirds of this space, this leaves about one million cubic feet of space for each human occupant – assuming that every creature that could be called ‘human’ is allowed in, and that the human race eventually totals a thousand times the number of humans alive up until now. This is such a generous amount of space that it suggests that room has also been provided for some alien races or – a happy thought – that pets are allowed.

4. Many of the things built by the architect and freelance designer Bergholt Stuttley (‘Bloody Stupid’) Johnson were recorded in Ankh-Morpork, often on the line where it says ‘Cause of Death’. He was, people agreed, a genius, at least if you defined the word broadly. Certainly no one else in the world could make an explosive mixture out of common sand and water. A good designer, he always said, should be capable of anything. And, indeed, he was.