Interesting Times

waste, wouldn’t it, if we all got killed and no one made up any songs about it.”
    “Bound to have loads of minstrels, a city like this.”
    “No problem there, then.”
    “No.”
    “No.”
    There was another lengthy pause.
    “Not that we’re going to get killed.”
    “Right. I don’t intend to start getting killed at my time of life, haha.”
    Another pause.
    “Cohen?”
    “Yep?”
    “You a religious man at all?”
    “Well, I’ve robbed loads of temples and killed a few mad priests in my time. Don’t know if that counts.”
    “What do your tribe believe happens to you when you die in battle?”
    “Oh, these big fat women in horned helmets take you off to the halls of Io where there is fighting and carousing and quaffing for ever.”
    Another pause.
    “You mean, like, really for ever?”
    “S’pose so.”
    “’Cos generally you get fed up even with turkey by about day four.”
    “All right, what do your lot believe?”
    “I think we go off to Hell in a boat made of toenail clippings. Something like that, anyway.”
    Another pause.
    “But it’s not worth talking about ’cos we’re not going to get killed today.”
    “You said it.”
    “Hah, it’s not worth dying if all you’ve got to look forward to is leftover meat and floating around in a boat smelling of your socks, is it, eh?”
    “Haha.”
    Another pause.
    “Down in Klatch they believe if you lead a good life you’re rewarded by being sent to a paradise with lots of young women.”
    “That’s your reward, is it?”
    “Dunno. Maybe it’s their punishment. But I do remember you eat sherbet all day.”
    “Hah. When I was a lad we had proper sherbet, in little tube things and a liquorice straw to suck it up with. You don’t get that sort of thing today. People’re too busy rushin’ about.”
    “Sounds a lot better than quaffing toenails, though.”
    Another pause.
    “Did you ever believe that business about every enemy you killed becoming your servant in the next world?”
    “Dunno.”
    “How many you killed?”
    “What? Oh. Maybe two, three thousand. Not counting dwarfs and trolls, o’ course.”
    “Definitely not going to be short of a hairbrush or someone to open doors for you after you’re dead, then.”
    A pause.
    “We’re definitely not going to die, right?”
    “Right.”
    “I mean, odds of 100,000 to one…hah. The difference is just a lot of zeroes, right?”
    “Right.”
    “I mean, stout comrades at our side, a strong right arm…What more could we want?”
    Pause.
    “A volcano’d be favorite.”
    Pause.
    “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”
    “Yep.”
    The Horde looked at one another.
    “Still, to look on the bright side, I recall I still owe Fafa the dwarf fifty dollars for this sword,” said Boy Willie. “Looks as though I could end up ahead of the game.”
    Mr. Saveloy put his head in his hands.
    “I’m really sorry,” he said.
    “Don’t worry about it,” said Cohen.
    The grey light of dawn was just visible in the high windows.
    “Look,” said Mr. Saveloy, “you don’t have to die. We could…well, we could sneak out. Back along the pipe, maybe. Perhaps we could carry Hamish. People are coming and going all the time. I’m sure we could get out of…the city…without…any…”
    His voice faded away. No voice could keep going under the pressure of those stares. Even Hamish, whose gaze was generally focused on some point about eighty years away, was glaring at him.
    “Ain’t gonna run,” said Hamish.
    “It’s not running away,” he managed. “It’s a sensible withdrawal. Tactics. Good grief, it’s common sense!”
    “Ain’t gonna run.”
    “Look, even barbarians can count! And you’ve admitted you’re going to die!”
    “Ain’t gonna run.”
    Cohen leaned forward and patted Mr. Saveloy on the hand.
    “It’s the heroing, see,” he said. “Who’s ever heard of a hero running away? All them kids you was telling us about…you know, the ones who think we’re stories…you reckon they’d believe we ran away? Well, then. No, it’s not part of the whole deal, running away. Let someone else do the running.”
    “Besides,” said Truckle, “where’d we get another chance like this? Six against five armies! That’s bl—that’s fantastic! We’re not talking legends here, I reckon we’ve got a good crack at some mythology as well.”
    “But…you’ll… die .”
    “Oh, that’s part of it, I’ll grant you, that’s part of it. But what a way to go,