The Last Hero

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 back. 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 interest ."
    "But... why ?"
    "'Cos we've seen a lot of old friends die," said Caleb.
    "That's right," said Boy Willie. "And we never saw no big wimmin on flying horses come and take 'em to the Halls of Heroes."
    "When Old Vincent died, him being one of us," said Boy Willie, "where was the Bridge of Frost to take him to the Feast of the Gods, eh? No, they got him, they let him get soft with comfy beds and someone to chew his food for him. They nearly got us all."
    "Hah! Milky drinks!" spat Truckle.
    "Whut?" said Hamish, waking up.
    "HE ASKED WHY WE WANT TO RETURN FIRE TO THE GODS, HAMISH!"
    "Eh? Someone's got to do it!" cackled Hamish.
    "Because it's a big world and we ain't seen it all," said Boy Willie.
    "Because the buggers are immortal," said Caleb.
    "Because of the way my back aches on chilly nights," said Truckle.
    The minstrel looked at Cohen, who was staring at the ground.
    "Because..." said Cohen, "because... they've let us grow old."
    At which point, the ambush was sprung. Snowdrifts erupted. Huge figures raced towards the Horde. Swords were in skinny, spotted hands with the speed born of experience. Clubs were swung —
    "Hold everything!" shouted Cohen. It was a voice of command.
    The fighters froze. Blades trembled an inch away from throat and torso.
    Cohen looked up into the cracked and craggy features of an enormous troll, its club raised to smash him.
    "Don't I know you?" he said.
    The wizards were working in relays. Ahead of the fleet, an area of sea was mill-pond calm. From behind, came a steady unwavering breeze. The wizards were good at wind, weather being a matter not of force but of lepidoptery. As Archchancellor Ridcully said, you just had to know where the damn butterflies were.
    And therefore some million-to-one chance must have sent the sodden log under the barge. The shock was slight, but Ponder Stibbons, who had been carefully rolling the