The Last Hero

The minstrel's brow wrinkled. He wasn't certain himself, any more. And he didn't know where he was going to go, or what he was going to do, but he suspected that life might be a lot more interesting from now on.

‘I'm just the singer,’ he said.

‘Play it again,’ said Evil Harry.

Rincewind blinked, stared, and then looked away from the window.

‘We've just been overtaken by some men on horseback.’ he said.

‘Ook,’ said the Librarian, which probably meant. ‘Some of us have got some flying to do.’

‘I just thought I'd mention it.’

Spiralling through the air like a drunken clown, the Kite climbed the column of hot air from the distant crater. It was the only instruction Leonard had given before going and sitting so quietly at the back of the cabin that Carrot was getting seriously worried.

‘He just sits there whispering things like “ten years!” and “the whole world!”,’ he reported. ‘It's come as a terrible shock. What a penance!’

‘But he looks cheerful,’ said Rincewind. ‘And he keeps drawing sketches. And he's leafing through all those pictures you took on the moon.’

‘Poor chap. It's affecting his mind.’ Carrot leaned forward. ‘We ought to get him home as soon as possible. What's the usual direction? “Second star to the left and straight on 'til morning”?’

‘I think that may very probably be the stupidest piece of astronavigation ever suggested,’ said Rincewind. ‘We're just going to head for the lights. Oh, and we'd better be careful not to look down on the gods.’

Carrot nodded. ‘That's quite hard.’

‘Practically impossible,’ said Rincewind.

And in a place on no map the immortal Mazda, bringer of fire, lay on his eternal rock.

Memory can play tricks after the first ten thousand years, and he wasn't quite sure what had happened. There had been some old men on horseback, who'd swooped out of the sky. They'd cut his chains, and given him a drink, and had taken it in turns to shake his withered hand.

Then they'd ridden away, into the stars, as quickly as they'd come.

Mazda lay back into the shape his body had worn into the stone over the centuries. He wasn't quite sure about the men, or why they'd come, or why they'd been so happy. He was only sure, in fact, about two things.

He was sure it was nearly dawn.

He was sure that he held, in his right hand, the very sharp sword the old men had given him.

And he could hear, coming closer with the dawn, the beat of an eagle's wings.

He was going to enjoy this.

It is in the nature of things that those who save the world from certain destruction often don't get hugely rewarded because, since the certain destruction does not take place, people are uncertain how certain it may have been and are, therefore, somewhat tight when it comes to handing out anything more substantial than praise.

The Kite was landed rather roughly on the corrugated surface of the river Ankh and, as happens to public things lying around which don't appear to belong to anyone, quickly became the private property of many, many people.

And Leonard began the penance for his hubris. This was much approved of by the Ankh-Morpork priesthood. It was definitely the sort of thing to encourage piety.

Lord Vetinari was therefore surprised when he received an urgent message three weeks after the events recounted, and forced his way through the mob to the Temple of Small Gods.

‘What's going on?’ he demanded of the priests peering around the door.

‘This is… blasphemy!’ said Hughnon Ridcully.

‘Why? What has he painted?’

‘It's not what he's painted, my lord. What he's painted is… is amazing. And he's finished it!’

Up on the mountain, as the blizzards closed in, there was a red glow in the snow. It was there all winter, and when the spring gales blew, the rubies glittered in the sunshine.

No one remembers the singer. The song remains.

THE END