Read Discworld 27 - The Last Hero for Free Online

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    Discworld 27 - The Last Hero
    Discworld 27 - The Last Hero
     
 
   
The barge, under whose huge tarpaulin something was already taking shape,
wallowed between the boats. Lord Vetinari went aboard only once, and
looked gloomily at the vast piles of material that littered the deck.
“This is costing us a considerable amount of money,” he told Leonard, who
had set up an easel. “I just hope there will be something to show for
it.”
“The continuation of the species, perhaps,” said Leonard, completing a
complex drawing and handing it to an apprentice.
“Obviously that, yes.”
“We shall learn many new things,” said Leonard, “that I am sure will be
of immense benefit to posterity. For example, the survivor of the Maria
Pesto reported that things floated around in the air as if they had
become extremely light, so I have devised this.”
He reached down and picked up what looked, to Lord Vetinari, like a
perfectly normal kitchen utensil.
“It's a frying pan that sticks to anything,” he said, proudly. “I got the
idea from observing a type of teazel, which-”
“And this will be useful?” said Lord Vetinari.
“Oh, indeed. We will need to eat meals and cannot have hot fat floating
around. The small details matter, my lord. I have also devised a pen
which writes upside down.”
“Oh. Could you not simply turn the paper up the other way?”
The line of sledges moved across the snow.
“It's damn cold.” said Caleb.
“Feeling your age. are you?” said Boy Willie. “You're as old as you feel,
I always say.”
“Whut?”
“HE SAYS YOU'RE AS OLD AS YOU FEEL, HAMISH!”
“Whut? Feelin' whut?”
“I don't think I've become old.” said Boy Willie. “Not your actual old.
Just more aware of where the next lavatory is.”
“The worst bit.” said Truckle, “is when young people come and sing happy
songs at you.”
“Why're they so happy?” said Caleb.
“Cos they're not you, I suppose.”
Fine, sharp snow crystals, blown off the mountain tops, hissed across
their vision. In deference to their profession, the Horde mostly wore
tiny leather loincloths and bits and pieces of fur and chainmail. In
deference to their advancing years, and entirely without comment among
themselves, these has been underpinned now with long woolly combinations
and various strange elasticated things. They were dealing with Time as
they had dealt with nearly everything else in their lives, as something
you charged at and tried to kill. At the front of the party, Cohen was
giving the minstrel some tips. “First off, you got to describe how you
feel about the saga,” he said. “How singing it makes your blood race and
you can hardly contain yourself that... you got to tell 'em what a great
saga it's gonna be ... understand?”
“Yes, yes ... I think so ... and then I say who you are ...” said the
minstrel., scribbling furiously.
“Nah, then you say what the weather was like.”
“You mean like, ”It was a bright day“?”
“Nah, nah, nah. You got to talk saga. So, first off, you gotta put the
sentences the wrong way round.”
“You mean like, ”Bright was the day“ ?”
“Right! Good! I knew you was clever.”
“Clever you was, you mean!” said the minstrel, before he could stop
himself.
     
 
   
There was a moment of heart-stopping uncertainty, and then Cohen grinned
and slapped him on the hack. It was like being hit with a shovel.
“That's the style! What else, now ...? Ah. yes ... no one ever talks, in
sagas. They always spakes.”
“Spakes?”
“Like ”Up spake Wulf the Sea-rover“, see? An'... an'... an' people are
always the something. Like me. I'm Cohen the Barbarian, right? But it
could be ”Cohen the Bold-hearted“ or ”Cohen the Slayer of Many“, or any
of that class of a thing.”
“Er ... why are you doing this?” said the minstrel. “I ought to put that
in. You're going to return fire to the gods?”
“Yeah. With