Terry Pratchett: The Last Hero

‘That at least is not a difficulty. They are becoming rather a pest.’

‘And the help of, oh, sixty apprentices and journeymen from the Guild of Cunning Artificers. Perhaps there should be a hundred. They will need to work round the clock.’

‘Apprentices? But I can see to it that the finest craftsmen—’

Leonard held up a hand.

‘Not craftsmen, my lord,’ he said. ‘I have no use for people who have learned the limits of the possible.’

The Horde found Cohen sitting on an ancient burial mound a little way from the camp.

There were a lot of them in this area. The members of the Horde had seen them before, sometimes, on their various travels across the world. Here and there an ancient stone would poke through the snow, carved in a language none of them recognised. They were very old. None of the Horde had ever considered cutting into a mound to see what treasures might lie within. Partly this was because they had a word for people who used shovels, and that word was ‘slave’. But mainly it was because, despite their calling, they had a keen moral Code, even if it wasn't the sort adopted by nearly everyone else, and this Code led them to have a word for anyone who disturbed a burial mound. That word was ‘die!’.

The Horde, each member a veteran of a thousand hopeless charges, nevertheless advanced cautiously towards Cohen, who was sitting cross-legged in the snow. His sword was thrust deep into a drift. He had a distant, worrying expression.

‘Coming to have some dinner, old friend?’ said Caleb.

‘It's walrus ,’ said Boy Willie. ‘Again.’

Cohen grunted.

‘I havfen't finiffed,’ he said, indistinctly.

‘Finished what, old friend?’

‘Rememb'rin',’ said Cohen.

‘Remembering who?’

‘The hero who waff buried here, all right?’

‘Who was he?’

‘Dunno.’

‘What were his people?’

‘Fearch me,’ said Cohen.

‘Did he do any mighty deeds?’

‘Couldn't fay.’

‘Then why –?’

‘ Fomeone 'f got to remember the poor bugger!’

‘You don't know anything about him!’

‘I can ftill remember him!’

The rest of the Horde exchanged glances. This was going to be a difficult adventure. It was a good job that it was to be the last.

‘You ought to come and have a word with that bard we captured,’ said Caleb. ‘He's getting on my nerves. He don't seem to understand what he's about.’

‘He'f juft got to write the faga afterwardf,’ said Cohen flatly and damply. A thought appeared to strike him. He started to pat various parts of his clothing, which, given the amount of clothing, didn't take long.

‘Yeah, well, this isn't your basic heroic saga kind of bard, y'see,’ said Caleb, as his leader continued the search. ‘I told you he wasn't the right sort when we grabbed him. He's more the kind of bard you want if you need some ditty being sung to a girl. We're talking flowers and spring here, boss.’

‘Ah, got 'em,’ said Cohen. From a bag on his belt he produced a set of dentures, carved from the diamond teeth of trolls. He inserted them in his mouth, and gnashed them a few times. ‘That's better. What were you saying?’

‘He's not a proper bard, boss.’

Cohen shrugged. ‘He'll just have to learn fast, then. He's got to be better'n the ones back in the Empire. They don't have a clue about poems longer'n seventeen syllables. At least this one's from Ankh-Morpork. He must've heard about sagas.’

‘I said we should've stopped off at Whale Bay,’ said Truckle. ‘Icy wastes, freezing nights… good saga country.’

‘Yeah, if you like blubber.’ Cohen drew his sword from the snowdrift. ‘I reckon I'd better go and take the lad's mind off of flowers, then.’

‘It appears that things revolve around the Disc,’ said Leonard. ‘This is certainly the case with the sun and the moon. And also, if you recall… the MariaPesto ?’

‘The ship they said went right under the Disc?’ said Archchancellor Ridcully.

‘Quite. Known to be blown over the Rim near the Bay of Mante during a dreadful storm, and seen by fishermen rising above the Rim near TinLing some days later, where it crashed down upon a reef. There was only one survivor, whose dying words were… rather strange.’

‘I remember,’ said Ridcully. ‘He said, “My God, it's full of elephants!”’

‘It is my view that with sufficient thrust and a lateral component a craft sent off the edge of the world would be swung underneath by the massive attraction and rise on the far side.’ said Leonard, ‘probably to a sufficient height to allow it to glide down to anywhere on the surface.’

The wizards stared at the blackboard. Then, as one wizard, they turned to Ponder Stibbons, who was scribbling in his notebook.

‘What was that about, Ponder?’

Ponder stared at his notes. Then he stared at Leonard. Then he stared at Ridcully.

‘Er… yes. Possibly. Er… if you fall over the edge fast enough, the… world pulls you back… and you go on falling but it's all round the world.’

‘You're saying that by falling off the world we – and by we , I hasten to point out, I don't actually include myself – we can end up in the sky ?’ said the Dean.

‘Um… yes. After all, the sun does the same thing every day…’

The Dean looked enraptured. ‘Amazing!’ he said. ‘Then… you could get an army into the heart of enemy territory! No fortress would be safe! You could rain fire down on to—’

He caught the look in Leonard's eye.

‘—on to bad people,’ he finished, lamely.

‘That would not happen,’ said Leonard severely. ‘ Ever !’

‘Could the… thing you are planning land on Cori Celesti?’ said Lord Vetinari.

‘Oh, certainly there should be suitable snowfields up there,’ said Leonard. ‘If there are not, I feel sure I can devise some appropriate landing method. Happily, as you have pointed out, things in the air have a tendency to come down.’

Ridcully was about to make an appropriate comment, but stopped himself. He knew Leonard's reputation. This was a man who could invent seven new things before breakfast, including two new ways with toast. This man had invented the ball-bearing, such an obvious device that no one had thought of it. That was the very centre of his genius – he invented things that anyone could have thought of, and men who can invent things that anyone could have thought of are very rare men.

This man was so absent-mindedly clever that he could paint pictures that didn't just follow you around the room but went home with you and did the washing-up.

Some people are confident because they are fools. Leonard had the look of someone who was confident because, so far, he'd never found a reason not to be. He would step off a high building in the happy state of mind of someone who intended to deal with the problem of the ground when it presented itself.

And might.

‘What do you need from us?’ said Ridcully.

‘Well, the… thing cannot operate by magic. Magic will be unreliable near the Hub, I understand. But can you supply me with wind?’

‘You have certainly chosen the right people,’ said Lord Vetinari. And it seemed to the wizards that there was just too long a pause before he went on, ‘They are highly skilled in weather manipulation.’

‘A severe gale would be helpful at the launch…’ Leonard continued.

‘I think I can say without fear of contradiction that our wizards can supply wind in practically unlimited amounts,’ said the Patrician. ‘Is that not so, Archchancellor?’

‘I am forced to agree, my lord.’