The Last Hero

his drawing. Men were leaping from ships in flames, into a boiling sea.
    "You do this sort of thing as a hobby, do you?" said the Dean.
    "Oh, yes. There are no practical applications."
    "But couldn't someone build something like that?" said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "You practically include glue and transfers!"
    "Well, I daresay there are people like that," said Leonard diffidently. "But I am sure the government would put a stop to things before they went too far."
    And the smile on Lord Vetinari's face was one that probably even Leonard of Quirm, with all his genius, would never be able to capture on canvas.
    Very carefully, knowing that if they dropped one they probably wouldn't even know they'd dropped one, a team of students and apprentices lifted the cages of dragons into the racks under the rear of the flying machine. Occasionally one of the dragons hiccuped. Everyone present, bar one, would freeze. The exception was Rincewind, who would be crouched down behind a pile of timber many yards away.
    "They've all been well fed on Leonard's special feed and should be quite docile for four or five hours," said Ponder, pulling him out for the third time. "The first two stages were given their meals with a carefully timed interval, and the first lot should be in a mood to flame just as you go over the Rimfall."
    "What if we're delayed?"
    Ponder gave this some deep thought.
    "Whatever you do, don't be delayed," he said.
    "Thank you."
    "The ones that you'll be taking with you in flight may need feeding, too. We've loaded a mixture of naphtha, rock oil and anthracite dust."
    "For me to feed to the dragons."
    "Yes."
    "In this wooden ship, which will be very, very high?"
    "Well, in a technical sense, yes."
    "Could we focus on that technicality?"
    "Strictly speaking, there won't be any down. As such. Er... you could say that you will be travelling so fast that you won't be in any one place long enough to fall down." Ponder sought a glimmer of understanding in Rincewind's face. "Or, to put in another way, you'll be falling permanently without ever hitting the ground."
    Up above them, rack on rack of dragons sizzled contentedly. Wisps of steam drifted through the shadows.
    "Oh," said Rincewind.
    "You understand?" said Ponder.
    "No. I was just hoping that if I didn't say anything you'd stop trying to explain things to me."
    "How are we doing, Mr Stibbons?" said the Archchancellor, strolling up at the head of his wizards. "How's our enormous kite?"
    "Everything's going to plan, sir. We're at T minus five hours, sir."
    "Really? Good. We're at supper in ten minutes."
    Rincewind had a small cabin, with cold water and running rats. Most of it that wasn't occupied by his bunk was occupied by his luggage. The Luggage.
    It was a box that walked around on hundreds of little legs. It was magical, as far as he knew. He'd had it for years. It understood every word he said. It obeyed about one in every hundred, unfortunately.
    "There won't be any room ," he said. "And you know every time you've gone up in the air you've got lost."
    The Luggage watched him in its eyeless way.
    "So you stay with nice Mr Stibbons, all right? You've never been at ease around gods, either. I shall be back very soon."
    Still the eyeless stare went on.
    "Just don't look at me that way, will you?" said Rincewind.
    Lord Vetinari cast his eye over the three... what was the word?
    "Men," he said, settling for one that was undoubtedly correct, "it falls to me to congratulate you on... on..."
    He hesitated. Lord Vetinari was not a man who delighted in the technical. There were two cultures, as far as he was concerned. One was the real one, the other was occupied by people who liked machinery and ate pizza at unreasonable hours.
    "... on being the first people to leave the Disc with the resolute intention of returning to it," he went on. "Your... mission is to land on or near Con Celesti, locate Cohen the Barbarian and his men, and by whatever means feasible stop this ridiculous scheme of theirs. There must be some misunderstanding. Even barbarian heroes generally draw the line at blowing up the world." He sighed. "They're usually not civilised enough for that," he added. "Anyway... we implore him to listen to reason, et cetera. Barbarians are generally sentimentalists. Tell him about all the dear little puppies that will be killed, or something. Beyond that, I can't advise you further. I suspect classical force is out of the question. If Cohen was easy to kill,