The Last Hero

way for a hero to die, all soft and fat and eating big dinners. A hero should die in battle."
    "Yeah, but you lads've never got the hang of dying," Evil Harry pointed out.
    "That's because we haven't picked the right enemies," said Cohen. "This time we're going to see the gods." He tapped the barrel he was sitting on, and the other members of the Horde winced when he did so. "Got something here that belongs to them." Cohen added.
    He glanced around the group and noted some almost imperceptible nods.
    "Why don't you come with us, Evil Harry?" he said. "You can bring your evil henchmen."
    Evil Harry drew himself up. "Hey, I'm a Dark Lord! How'd it look if I was to go around with a bunch of heroes?"
    "It wouldn't look anything ," said Cohen sharply. "And I'll tell you for why, shall I? We're the last, see. Us "n" you. No one else cares. There's no more heroes, Evil Harry. No more villains, neither."
    "Oh, there's always villains!" said Evil Harry.
    "No, there's vicious evil underhand bastards, true enough. But they use laws now. They'd never call themselves Evil Harry."
    "Men who don't know the Code," said Boy Willie. Everyone nodded. You mightn't live by the law but you had to live by the Code.
    "Men with bits of paper," said Caleb.
    There was another group nod. The Horde were not great readers. Paper was the enemy, and so were the men who wielded it. Paper crept around you and took over the world.
    "We always liked you, Harry," said Cohen. "You played it by the rules. How about it... are you coming with us?"
    Evil Harry looked embarrassed. "Well, I'd like to," he said. "But... well, I'm Evil Harry, right? You can't trust me an inch. First chance I get, I'll betray you all, stab you in the back or something... I'd have to, see? Of course, if it was up to me , it'd be different... but I've got a reputation to think about, right? I'm Evil Harry. Don't ask me to come."
    "Well spake," said Cohen. "I like a man I can't trust. You know where you stand with an untrustworthy man. It's the ones you ain't never sure about who give you grief. You come with us, Harry. You're one of us. And your lads, too. New ones, I see..." Cohen raised his eyebrows.
    "Well, yeah, you know how it is with the really stupid henchmen," said Evil. "This is Slime —"
    "... nork nork," said Slime.
    "Ah, one of the old Stupid Lizard Men," said Cohen. "Good to see there's one left. Hey, two left. And this one is— ?"
    "... nork nork."
    "He's Slime, too." said Evil Harry, patting the second lizard man gingerly to avoid the spikes. "Never good at remembering more than one name, your basic lizard man. Over here we have..." He nodded at something vaguely like a dwarf, who gave him an imploring look.
    "You're Armpit," prompted Evil Harry.
    "Your Armpit," said Armpit gratefully.
    "... nork nork," said one of the Slimes, in case this remark had been addressed to him.
    "Well done, Harry," said Cohen. "It's damn hard to find a really stupid dwarf."
    "Wasn't easy, I can tell you." Harry admitted proudly as he moved on. "And this is Butcher."
    "Good name, good name," said Cohen, looking up at the enormous fat man. "Your jailer, right?"
    "Took a lot of finding," said Evil Harry, while Butcher grinned happily at nothing. "Believes anything anyone tells him, can't see through the most ridiculous disguise, would let a transvestite washerwomen go free even if she had a beard you could camp in, falls asleep real easily on a chair near the bars and —"
    "— carries his keys on a big hook on his belt so's they can be easily lifted off!" said Cohen. "Classic. A master touch, that. And you've got a troll, I see."
    "Dat's me," said the troll.
    "... nork, nork."
    "Dat's me."
    "Well, you've got to have a troll, haven't you?" said Evil Harry. "Bit brighter than I'd like, but he's got no sense of direction and can't remember his name."
    "And what do we have here?" said Cohen. "A real old zombie? Where did you dig him up? I like a man who's not afraid to let all his flesh fall off."
    "Gak," said the zombie.
    "No tongue, eh?" said Cohen. "Don't worry, lad, a blood-curdling screech is all you need. And a few bits of wire, by the look of it. It's all a matter of style."
    "Dat's me."
    "... nork nork."
    "Gak."
    "Dat's me."
    "Your Armpit."
    "They must make you proud. I don't know when I've ever seen a more stupid bunch of henchmen," said Cohen, admiring. "Harry, you're like a refreshin' fart in a roomful of roses. You bring 'em all along. I wouldn't hear of you staying