The Last Hero (the discworld series)

by Terry Pratchett

  In the shaking, rattling Kite, Rincewind watched the last two dragon pods drop from the wings. They tumbled alongside for a moment, broke up, and fell away.

  He stared at the levers again. Someone, he thought muzzily, really should be doing something with them, shouldn't they?

  Dragons contrailed across the sky. Now they were free of the pods, they were in a hurry to get home.

  The wizards had created Thurlow's Interesting Lens just above the deck. The display was quite impressive.

  ‘Better than fireworks,’ observed the Dean.

  Ponder banged on the omniscope. ‘Ah, it's working now,’ he said, ‘but all I can see is this huge—’

  More of Rincewind's face than a giant nose became visible as he drew back.

  ‘What levers do I pull? What levers do I pull?’ he screamed.

  ‘What's happened?’

  ‘Leonard's still out cold and the Librarian is pulling Carrot out of all the junk and this is definitely a bumpy ride! We've got no dragons left! What are all these dials for? I think we're falling! What shall I do?’

  ‘Didn't you watch how Leonard did it?’

  ‘He had his feet on two pedals and was pulling all the levers all the time!’

  ‘All right, all right, I'll see if I can work out what to do from his plans and we can talk you down!’

  ‘Don't! Talk me Up! Up is where we want to stay! Not down!’

  ‘Are any of the levers marked?’ said Ponder, scrabbling through Leonard's sketches.

  ‘Yes, but I don't understand them! Here's one marked “Troba”!’

  Ponder scanned the pages, covered in Leonard's backwards writing. ‘Er… er…’ he muttered.

  ‘Do not pull the lever marked “Troba”!’ snapped Lord Vetinari, leaning forward.

  ‘My lord!’ said Ponder, and went red as Lord Vetinari's gaze fell upon him. ‘I'm sorry, my lord, but this is rather technical, it is about machinery, and it would perhaps be better if those whose education had been more in the field of the arts did not…’

  His voice faded under the Patrician's stare.

  ‘This one's got a normal label! It's called “Prince Haran's Tiller”!’ said a desperate voice from the omniscope.

  Lord Vetinari patted Ponder Stibbons on the shoulder.

  ‘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.’

  ‘And things?’ a goddess asked Hamish. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Still lyin' aroond!’

  ‘And are you omnipotent?’

  ‘Aye, lass, but there's pills I'm takin' f'r it!’

  ‘And you're the Muse of Swearing?’ said a god to Truckle.

  ‘Bloody right!’ said Truckle desperately.

  Cohen looked up and saw Offler the Crocodile God. He wasn't a god who was hard to recognise, but in any case Cohen had seen him many times before. His statue in temples throughout the world was a pretty good likeness, and now was the time for a man to reflect on the fact that so many of those temples had been left a good deal poorer as a result of Cohen's activities. He didn't, however, because it was not the kind of thing he ever did. But it did seem to him that the Horde was being hustled along. ‘Where're we off to, friend?’ he said.

  ‘To watch the Gameth, your fithneth,’ said Offler.

  ‘Oh, yeah. That's where yo – we play around with u – mortals, right?’ said Cohen.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said a god on the other side of Cohen. ‘And currently we've found some mortals actually attempting to enter Dunmanifestin.’

  ‘The devils, eh?’ said Cohen pleasantly. ‘Give 'em a taste of hot thunderbolt, that's my advice. It's the only language they understand.’

  ‘Mostly because it's the only language you use,’ mumbled the minstrel, eyeing the surrounded gods.

  ‘Yes, we thought something like that would be a good idea,’ said the god. ‘I'm Fate, by the way.’

  ‘Oh, you're Fate?’ said Cohen, as they reached the gaming table. ‘Always wanted to meet you. I thought you were supposed to be blind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about if someone stuck two fingers in yer eyes?’

  ‘I'm sorry?’

  ‘Just my little joke.’

  ‘Ha. Ha,’ said Fate. ‘I wonder, O God of Fish, how good a player you are?’

  ‘Never been much of a gambler,’ said Cohen, as a solitary die appeared between Fate's fingers. ‘A mug's game.’

  ‘Perhaps you would care for a little… venture?’

  The crowd went silent. The minstrel looked into Fate's bottomless eyes, and knew that if you played dice with Fate the roll was always fixed.

  You could have heard a sparrow fall.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Cohen, at last. ‘Why not?’

  Fate tossed the die on to the board. ‘Six,’ he said, without breaking eye contact.

  ‘Right,’ said Cohen. ‘So I've got to a get a six too, yeah?’

  Fate smiled. ‘Oh, no. You are, after all, a god. And gods play to win. You, O mighty one, must throw a seven.’

  ‘Seven?’ said the minstrel.

  ‘I fail to see why this should present a difficulty,’ said Fate, ‘to one entitled to be here.’

  Cohen turned the die over and over. It had the regulation six sides.

  ‘I could see that could present a difficulty,’ he said, ‘but only for mortals, o' course.’ He tossed the die up in the air once or twice. ‘Seven?’ he said.

  ‘Seven,’ said Fate.

  ‘Could be a knotty one,’ said Cohen.

  The minstrel stared at him, and felt a shiver run down his spine.

  ‘You'll remember I said that, lad?’ Cohen added.

  The Kite banked through high cloud.

  ‘Ook!’ said the Librarian happily.

  ‘He flies it better than Leonard did!’ said Rincewind.

  ‘It must come more… easily,’ whispered Carrot. ‘You know… what with him being naturally atavistic.’

  ‘Really? I've always thought of him as quite good-natured. Except when he's called a monkey, of course.’

  The Kite turned again, curving through the sky like a pendulum.

  ‘Ook!’

  ‘“If you look out of the left window you can see practically everywhere”,’ Rincewind translated.

  ‘Ook!’

  ‘“And if you look out of the right window, you can see—” Good grief!’

  There was the Mountain. And there, glittering in the sunlight, was the home of the gods. Above it, just visible even in the brilliant air, was the shimmering misty funnel of the world's magical field earthing itself at the centre of the world.

  ‘Are you, er, are you much of a religious man yourself?’ said Rincewind as clouds whipped by the window.

  ‘I believe all religions do reflect some aspect of an eternal truth, yes,’ said Carrot.

  ‘Good wheeze,’ said Rincewind. ‘You might just get away with it.’

  ‘And you?’ said Carrot.

  ‘We-ll… you know that religion that thinks that whirling round in circles is a form of prayer?’

  ‘Oh, yes. The Hurtling Whirlers of Klatch.’

  ‘Mine is like that, only we go more in… straight lines. Yes. That's it. Speed is a sacrament.’

  ‘You believe it gives you some sort of eternal life?’

  ‘Not eternal, as such. More… well, just more, really. More life. That is,’ Rincewind added, ‘more life than you would have if you did not go very fast in a straight line. Although curving lines are acceptable in broken country.’

  Carrot sighed. ‘You're just a coward really, aren't you?’

  ‘Yes, but I've never understood what's wrong with the idea. It takes guts to run away, you know. Lots of people would be as cowardly as me if they were brave enough.’

  They looked out of the window again. The mountain was nearer.

  ‘According to the mission notes,’ said Carrot, thumbing through the sheaf of hastily written research notes that Ponder had thrust into his hand just before departure, ‘a number of humans have entered Dunmanifestin in the past and returned alive.’

  ‘Returned alive perse is not hugely comforting,’ said Rincewind. ‘With their arms and legs? Sanity? All minor extremities?’

  ‘Mostly they were mythical characters,’ said Carrot, uncertainly.

  ‘Before or after?’

  ‘The gods traditionally look favourably on boldness, daring and audacity,’ Carrot went on.

  ‘Good. You can go in first.’

  ‘Ook,’ said the Librarian.

  ‘He says we'll have to land soon,’ said Carrot. ‘Was there some position we're supposed to get into?’

  ‘Ook!’ said the Librarian. He seemed to be fighting the levers.

  ‘What do you mean, “lie on your back with your arms folded across your chest”?’

  ‘Eek!’

  ‘Didn't you watch what Leonard did when he landed us on the m
oon?’

  ‘Ook!’

  ‘And that was a good landing,’ said Rincewind. ‘Oh well, shame about the end of the world, but these things happen, eh?’

  WOULD YOU LIKE A PEANUT? I AM AFRAID IT IS A LITTLE HARD TO GET THE PACKET OPEN.

  A ghostly chair hung in the air next to Rincewind. A violet flaring round the edge of his vision told him that 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.