The Last Hero

‘All right now, lads, settle down. Settle down.’ Hughnon Ridcully, Chief Priest of Blind Io, looked down at the multitude of priests and priestesses that filled the huge Temple of Small Gods.

He shared many of the characteristics of his brother Mustrum. He also saw his job as being, essentially, one of organiser. There were plenty of people who were good at the actual believing, and he left them to it. It took a lot more than prayer to make sure the laundry got done and the building was kept in repair.

There were so many gods now… at least two thousand. Many were, of course, still very small. But you had to watch them. Gods were very much a fashion thing. Look at Om, now. One minute he was a bloodthirsty little deity in some mad hot country, and then suddenly he was one of the top gods. It had all been done by not answering prayers, but doing so in a sort of dynamic way that left open the possibility that one day he might and then there'd be fireworks. Hughnon, who had survived through decades of intense theological dispute by being a mean man at swinging a heavy thurible, was impressed by this novel technique.

And then, of course, you had your real newcomers like Amger, Goddess of Squashed Animals. Who would have thought that better roads and faster carts would have led to that? But gods grew bigger when called upon at need, and enough minds had cried out, ‘Oh god, what was that I hit?’

‘Brethren!’ he shouted, getting tired of waiting. ‘And sistren!’

The hubbub died away. A few flakes of dry and crumbling paint drifted down from the ceiling.

‘Thank you,’ said Ridcully. ‘Now, can you please listen? My colleagues and I—’ and here he indicated the senior clergy behind him – ‘have, I assure you, been working for some time on this idea, and there is no doubt that it is theologically sound. Can we please get on?’

He could still sense the annoyance among the priesthood. Born leaders didn't like being led.

‘If we don't try this,’ he tried, ‘the godless wizards may succeed with their plans. And a fine lot of mugginses we will look.’

‘This is all very well, but the form of things is important!’ snapped a priest. ‘We can't all pray at once! You know the gods don't like ecumenicalism! And what form of words will we use, pray?’

‘I would have felt that a short non-controversial—’ Hughnon Ridcully paused. In front of him were priests forbidden by holy edict from eating broccoli, priests who required unmarried girls to cover their ears lest they inflame the passions of other men, and priests who worshipped a small shortbread-and-raisin biscuit. Nothing was non-controversial.

‘You see, it does appear that the world is going to end,’ he said weakly.

‘Well? Some of us have been expecting that for some considerable time! It will be a judgement on mankind for its wickedness!’

‘And broccoli!’

‘And the short haircuts girls are wearing today!’

‘Only the biscuits will be saved!’

Ridcully waved his crozier frantically for silence.

‘But this isn't the wrath of the gods,’ he said. ‘I did tell you! It's the work of a man!’

‘Ah, but he may be the hand of a god!’

‘It's Cohen the Barbarian,’ said Ridcully.

‘Even so, he might—’

The speaker in the crowd was nudged by the priest next to him.

‘Hang on…’

There was a roar of excited conversation. There were few temples that hadn't been robbed or despoiled in a long life of adventuring, and the priests soon agreed that no god ever had anything in his hand that looked like Cohen the Barbarian. Hughnon turned his eyes up to the ceiling, with its beautiful but decrepit panorama of gods and heroes. Life must be a lot easier for gods, he decided.

‘Very well,’ said one of the objectors, haughtily. ‘In that case, I think perhaps we could, in these special circumstances, get around a table just this once.’

‘Ah, that is a good—’ Ridcully began.

‘But of course we will need to give some very serious consideration as to what shape the table is going to be.’

Ridcully looked blank for a moment. His expression did not change as he leaned down to one of his sub-deacons and said, ‘Scallop, please have someone ran along and tell my wife to pack my overnight bag, will you? I think this is going to take a little while…’

The central spire of Cori Celesti seemed to get no closer day by day.

‘Are you sure Cohen's all right in the head?’ said Evil Harry, as he helped Boy Willie manoeuvre Hamish's wheelchair over the ice.

‘'Ere, are you tryin' to spread discontent among the troops, Harry?’

‘Well, I did warn you, Will. I am a Dark Lord. I've got to keep in practice. And we're following a leader who keeps forgetting where he put his false teeth.’

‘Whut?’ said Mad Hamish.

‘I'm just saying that blowing up the gods could cause trouble,’ said Evil Harry. ‘It's a bit… disrespectful.’

‘You must've defiled a few temples in your time, Harry?’

‘I ran 'em, Will, I ran 'em. I was a Mad Demon Lord for a while, you know. I had a Temple of Terror.’

‘Yes, on your allotment,’ said Boy Willie, grinning.