The Last Hero

‘Ah. And the theft of these rare items… I think the word that interests me here is the term “theft”, an activity frowned on by most of the world's major religions, is it not? The feeling stealing over me is that all these terms are defined by the hero. You could say: I am a hero, so when I kill you that makes you, defacto, the kind of person suitable to be killed by a hero. You could say that a hero, in short, is someone who indulges every whim that, within the rule of law, would have him behind bars or swiftly dancing what I believe is known as the hemp fandango. The words we might use are: murder, pillage, theft and rape. Have I understood the situation?’

‘Not rape, I believe,’ said Mr Betteridge, finding a rock on which he could stand. ‘Not in the case of Cohen the Barbarian. Ravishing, possibly.’

‘There is a difference?’

‘It's more a matter of approach, I understand,’ said the historian. ‘I don't believe there were ever any actual complaints.’

‘Speaking as a lawyer,’ said Mr Slant of the Guild of Lawyers, ‘it is clear that the first ever recorded heroic deed to which the message refers was an act of theft from the rightful owners. The legends of many different cultures testify to this.’

‘Was it something you could actually steal?’ said Ridcully.

‘Manifestly yes,’ said the lawyer. ‘Theft is central to the legend. Fire was stolen from the gods.’

‘This is not currently the issue,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘The issue, gentlemen, is that Cohen the Barbarian is climbing the mountain on which the gods live. And we cannot stop him. And he intends to return fire to the gods. Fire, in this case, in the shape of… let me see—’

Ponder Stibbons looked up from his notebooks, where he had been scribbling. ‘A fifty-pound keg of Agatean Thunder Clay,’ he said. ‘I'm amazed their wizards let him have it.’

‘He was… indeed. I assume he still is the Emperor,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘So I would imagine that when the supreme ruler of your continent asks you for something, it is not the time for a prudent man to ask for a docket signed by Mr Jenkins of Requisitions.’

‘Thunder Clay is terribly powerful stuff,’ said Ridcully. ‘But it needs a special detonator. You have to smash a jar of acid inside the mixture. The acid soaks into it, and then – kablooie, I believe the term is.’

‘Unfortunately the prudent man also saw fit to give one of these to Cohen,’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘And if the resulting kablooie takes place atop the mountain, which is the hub of the world's magic field, it will, as I understand it, result in the field collapsing for… remind me, Mister Stibbons?’

‘About two years,’ he said.

‘Really? Well, we can do without magic for a couple of years, can't we?’ said Mr Slant, managing to suggest that this would be a jolly good thing, too.

‘With respect,’ said Ponder, without respect, ‘we cannot. The seas will run dry. The sun will burn out and crash. The elephants and the turtle may cease to exist altogether.’

‘That'll happen in just two years?’

‘Oh, no. That'll happen within a few minutes, sir. You see, magic isn't just coloured lights and balls. Magic holds the world together.’

In the sudden silence, Lord Vetinari's voice sounded crisp and clear.

‘Is there anyone who knows anything about Ghengiz Cohen?’ he said. ‘And is there anyone who can tell us why, before leaving the city, he and his men kidnapped a harmless minstrel from our embassy? Explosives, yes, very barbaric… but why a minstrel? Can anyone tell me?’

There was a bitter wind this close to Cori Celesti. From here the world mountain, which looked like a needle from afar, was a raw and ragged cascade of ascending peaks. The central spire was lost in a haze of snow crystals, miles high. The sun sparkled on them. Several elderly men sat huddled around a fire.

‘I hope he's right about the stair of light,’ said Boy Willie. ‘We're going to look real muffins if it isn't there.’

‘He was right about the giant walrus,’ said Truckle the Uncivil.

‘When?’

‘Remember when we were crossing the ice? When he shouted, “Look out! We're going to be attacked by a giant walrus!”’

‘Oh, yeah.’

Willie looked back up at the spire. The air seemed thinner already, the colours deeper, making him feel that he could reach up and touch the sky. ‘Anyone know if there's a lavatory at the top?’ he said.

‘Oh, there's got to be,’ said Caleb the Ripper. ‘Yeah, I'm sure I heard tell about it. The Toilet of the Gods.’

‘Whut?’

They turned to what appeared to be a pile of furs on wheels. When the eye knew what it was looking for this became an ancient wheelchair, mounted on skis and covered with rags of blanket and animal skins. A pair of beady, animal eyes peered out suspiciously from the heap.

There was a barrel strapped behind the wheelchair.

‘It must be time for his gruel,’ said Boy Willie, putting a soot-encrusted pot on the fire.

‘Whut?’

‘JUST WARMING UP YOUR GRUEL, HAMISH!’

‘Bludy walrus again?’

‘YES!’

‘Whut?’