The Last Hero (the discworld series)

by Terry Pratchett

  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?’

  ‘Hah!’ sneered Fate, but a few of the brighter gods looked suddenly thoughtful.

  ‘Anyway,’ Cohen went on, ‘it dunt matter if someone kills the gods. It does matter that someone tried. Next time, someone'll try harder.’

  ‘All that will happen is that you will be killed,’ said Fate, but the more thoughtful gods were edging away.

  ‘What have we got to lose?’ said Boy Willie. ‘We're going to die anyway. We're ready to die.’

  ‘We've always been ready to die,’ said Caleb the Ripper.

  ‘That's why we've lived such a long time,’ said Boy Willie.

  ‘But… why be so upset?’ said Blind Io. ‘You've had long eventful lives, and the great cycle of nature—’

  ‘Ach, the great cycle o' nature can eat ma loin-cloth!’ said Mad Hamish.

  ‘And there's not many as would want to do that,’ said Cohen. ‘And I ain't much good with words, but… I reckon we're doing this 'cos we are goin' to die, d'yer see? And 'cos some bloke got to the edge of the world somewhere and saw all them other worlds out there and burst into tears 'cos there was only one lifetime. So much universe, and so little time. And that's not right…’

  But the gods were looking around.

  The wings had shattered and broken off. The fuselage smashed down on to the cobbles, and slid on.

  ‘Now is the time to panic,’ said Rincewind. The stricken Kite continued to scrape across the flagstones in a growing smell of scorched wood.

  A pale hand reached past Rincewind.

  ‘It would be advisable,’ said Leonard, ‘to hold on to something.’

  He pulled a small handle labelled ‘Sekarb’.

  Now the Kite stopped. In a very dynamic sort of way.

  The gods looked down.

  A hatch opened in the strange wooden bird. It fell off and rolled a little way.

  The gods saw a figure get out. He appeared, in many ways, to be a hero, except that he was far too clean.

  He looked around, removed his helmet and saluted.

  ‘Good afternoon, O mighty ones,’ he said. ‘I do apologise, but this should not take long. And may I take this opportunity to say on behalf of the people of the Disc that you are doing a wonderful job here.’

  He marched towards the Horde, past the astonished gods, and stopped in front of Cohen.

  ‘Cohen the Barbarian?’

  ‘What's it to you?’ said Cohen, mystified.

  ‘I am Captain Carrot of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, and I hereby arrest you on a charge of conspiracy to end the world. You need not say anything—’

  ‘I don't intend to say anything,’ said Cohen, raising his sword. ‘I'm j
ust gonna cut your —ing head off.’

  ‘Hold it, hold it,’ said Boy Willie urgently. ‘Do you know who we all are?’

  ‘Yessir. I believe so. You are Boy Willie, aka Mad Bill, Wilhelm the Chopper, the Great—’

  ‘And you are going to arrest us? You say you are some kind of a watchman?’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  ‘We must've killed hundreds of watchmen in our time, lad!’

  ‘I'm sorry to hear that, sir.’

  ‘'Ow much do they pay you, boy?’ said Caleb.

  ‘Forty-three dollars a month, Mr Ripper. With allowances.’

  The Horde burst out laughing. Then Carrot drew his sword.

  ‘I must insist, sir. What you are planning to do will destroy the world.’

  ‘Only this bit, lad,’ said Cohen. ‘Now you could go off home and—’

  ‘I'm being patient, sir, out of respect for your grey hairs.’

  There was a further burst of laughing and Mad Hamish had to be slapped on the back.

  ‘Just a moment, boys,’ said Mrs McGarry quietly. ‘Are we thinking this one through? Look around you.’

  They looked around.

  ‘Well?’ Cohen demanded.

  ‘There's me, and you,’ said Vena, ‘and Truckle and Boy Willie and Hamish and Caleb and the minstrel,’

  ‘So? So?’

  ‘That's seven,’ said Vena, ‘Seven of us, against one of him. Seven against one. And he thinks he's going to save the world. And he knows who we are and he's still going to fight us…’

  ‘You think he's a hero?’ cackled Mad Hamish. ‘Hah! Wha' kind o' hero works for forty-three dollars a month? Plus allowances!’

  But the cackle was all alone in the sudden quietness. The Horde could calculate the peculiar mathematics of heroism quite quickly.

  There was, there always was, at the start and finish… the Code. They lived by the Code. You followed the Code, and you became part of the Code for those who followed you. The Code was it. Without the Code, you weren't a hero. You were just a thug in a loincloth.

  The Code was quite clear. One brave man against seven… won. They knew it was true. In the past, they'd all relied on it. The higher the odds, the greater the victory. That was the Code.

  Forget the Code, dismiss the Code, deny the Code… and the Code would take you.

  They looked down at Captain Carrot's sword. It was short, sharp and plain. It was a working sword. It had no runes on it. No mystic gleam twinkled on its edge.

  If you believed in the Code, that was worrying. One simple sword in the hands of a truly brave man would cut through a magical sword like suet.

  It wasn't a frightening thought, but it was a thought.

  ‘Funny thing,’ said Cohen, ‘but I heard tell once that down in Ankh-Morpork there's some watchman who's really heir to the throne but keeps very quiet about it because he likes being a watchman…’

  Oh dear, thought the Horde. Kings in disguise… that was Code material, right there.

  Carrot met Cohen's gaze.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ he said.

  ‘To die for forty-three dollars a month,’ said Cohen, holding the gaze, ‘a man's got to be very, very stupid or very, very brave…’

  ‘What's the difference?’ said Rincewind, stepping forward. ‘Look, I don't want to break up a moment of drama or anything, but he's not joking. If that… keg explodes here, it will destroy the world. It'll… open a sort of hole and all the magic will drain away.’

  ‘Rincewind?’ said Cohen. ‘What're you doing here, you old rat?’

  ‘Trying to save the world,’ said Rincewind. He rolled his eyes. ‘Again.’

  Cohen looked uncertain, but heroes don't back down easily, even in the face of the Code.

  ‘It'll really all blow up?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘'S not much of a world,’ Cohen muttered. ‘Not any more…’

  ‘What about all the dear little kittens—’ Rincewind began.

  ‘Puppies,’ hissed Carrot, not taking his eyes off Cohen.

  ‘Puppies, I mean. Eh? Think of them.’

  ‘Well. What about them?’

  ‘Oh… nothing.’

  ‘But everyone will die,’ said Carrot.

  Cohen shrugged his skinny shoulders. ‘Everyone dies, sooner or later. So we're told.’

  ‘There will be no one left to remember,’ said the minstrel, as if he was talking to himself. ‘If there's no one left alive, no one will remember.’

  The Horde looked at him.

  ‘No one will remember who you were or what you did,’ he went on. ‘There will be nothing. No more songs. No one will remember.’

  Cohen sighed, ‘All right, then let's say supposing I don't—’

  ‘Cohen?’ said Truckle, in an unusually worried voice. ‘You know a few minutes ago, where you said “press the plunger”?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You meant I shouldn't've?’

  The keg was sizzling.

  ‘You pressed it?’ said Cohen.

  ‘Well, yes! You said.’

  ‘Can we stop it?’

  ‘No,’ said Rincewind.

  ‘Can we outrun it?’

  ‘Only if you can think of a way to run ten miles really, really fast,’ said Rincewind.

  ‘Gather round, lads! Not you, minstrel boy, this is sword stuff…’ Cohen beckoned the other heroes, and they went into a hurried huddle. It didn't seem to take long.

  ‘Right,’ said Cohen, as they straightened up. ‘You got all our names down right, Mr Bard?’

  ‘Of course—’

  ‘Then let's go, lads!’

  They heaved the keg back on to Hamish's wheelchair. Truckle half turned as they started to push it.

  ‘Here, bard! You sure you made a note of that bit where I—?’

  ‘We are leaving!’ shouted Cohen, grabbing him. ‘See you later, Mrs McGarry’

  She nodded, and stood back. ‘You know how it is,’ she said sadly. ‘Great-grandchildren on the way and everything…’

  The wheelchair was already moving fast. ‘Get 'em to name one after me!’ yelled Cohen as he leapt aboard.

  ‘What're they doing?’ said Rincewind as the chair rolled down the street towards the far gates.

  ‘They'll never get it down from the mountain quickly enough!’ said Carrot, starting to run.

  The chair passed through the arch at the end of the street and rattled over the icy rocks.

  As they hurried after it, Rincewind saw it bounce out and into ten miles of empty air. He thought he heard the last words, as the downward plunge began: ‘Aren't we supposed to shout somethinggggg…’

  Then chair and figures and barrel became smaller and smaller and merged into the hazy landscape of snow and sharp hungry rocks.

  Carrot and Rincewind watched.

  After a while the wizard noticed Leonard, out of the corner of his eye. The man had his fingers on his own pulse and was counting under his breath.

  ‘Ten miles… hmm… allow for air resistance… call it three minutes plus… yes… yes, indeed… we should be averting our eyes around… yes… now. Yes, I think that would be a good i—’

  Even through closed lids, the world went red.

  When Rincewind crawled to the edge, he saw a small distant circle of evil black and crimson.

  Several seconds later thunder boomed up the flanks of Cori Celesti, causing avalanches. And that, too, died away.

  ‘Do you think they've survived?’ said Carrot, peering down into the fog of dislodged snow.

  ‘Huh?’ said Rincewind.

  ‘It wouldn't be the proper story if they didn't survive.’

  ‘Captain, they fell about ten miles into an explosion which has just reduced a mountain to a valley,’ said Rincewind.

  ‘They could have landed in really deep snow on some ledge,’ said Carrot.

  ‘Or there may have been a passing flock of really large soft birds?’ said Rincewind.

  Carrot bit his lip. �
�On the other hand… giving up their lives to save everyoneintheworld… that's a good ending, too.’

  ‘But it was them who were going to blow it up!’

  ‘Still very brave of them, though.’

  ‘In a way, I suppose.’

  Carrot shook his head sadly. ‘Perhaps we could get down and check.’

  ‘It's a great bubbling crater of boiling rock!’ Rincewind burst out. ‘It'd take a miracle!’

  ‘There's always hope.’

  ‘So? There's always taxes, too. It doesn't make any difference.’

  Carrot sighed and straightened up. ‘I wish you weren't right.’

  ‘You wish I wasn't right? Come on, let's get back. We're not exactly out of trouble ourselves, are we?’

  Behind them, Vena blew her nose and then tucked her handkerchief back into her armoured corset. It was time, she thought, to follow the smell of horses.

  The remains of the Kite were the subject of keen but uncomprehending interest among the deitic classes. They weren't certain what it was, but they definitely disapproved of it.

  ‘I feel,’ said Blind Io, ‘that if we had wanted people to fly, we would have given them wings.’

  ‘We allow broomthtickth and magic carpeth,’ said Offler.

  ‘Ah, but they're magical. Magic… religion… there is a certain association. This is an attempt to subvert the natural order. Just anyone could float around the place in one of these things.’ He shuddered. ‘Men could look down upon their gods!’

  He looked down upon Leonard of Quirm.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ he said.

  ‘You gave me wings when you showed me birds,’ said Leonard of Quirm. ‘I just made what I saw.’

  The rest of the gods said nothing. Like many professionally religious people – and they were pretty professional, being gods – they tended towards unease in the presence of the unashamedly spiritual.

  ‘None of us recognise you as a worshipper,’ said Io. ‘Are you an atheist?’

  ‘I think I can say that I definitely believe in the gods,’ said Leonard, looking around. This seemed to satisfy everyone except Fate.

  ‘And is that all?’ he said. Leonard thought for a while.

  ‘I think I believe in the secret geometries, and the colours on the edge of light, and the marvellous in everything,’ he said.

  ‘So you're not a religious man, then?’ said Blind Io.