The Last Hero

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.’