The Last Hero

"Well, the way I see it, we don't think we are; so why should we care what anyone else thinks? We never have. Ready, Hamish? Then follow me, boys!"
    Vena watched as the Valkyries, squabbling among themselves, made their way back to the mountain. Then she waited. She had a feeling that there would be something to wait for.
    After a while, she heard another horse whinny.
    "Are you collecting?" she said, and turned to look at the mounted figure.
    That is something about which I do not propose to enlighten you, said Death.
    "But you are here," said Vena, although now she felt a lot more like Mrs McGarry again. Vena would probably have killed a few of the horsewomen just to make sure the others paid attention, but they'd all looked so young .
    I am, of course, everywhere.
    Mrs McGarry looked up at the stars.
    "In the olden days," she said, "when a hero had been really heroic, the gods would put them up in the stars."
    The heavens change, said Death. What today looks like a mighty hunter may look like a teacup in a hundred years" time.
    "That doesn't seem fair."
    No one ever said it had to be. But there are other stars.
    At the base of the mountain, at Vena's camp, Harry got the fire going again while the minstrel sat and picked out notes.
    "I want you listen to this," he said, after a while, and played something.
    It went on, it seemed to Evil Harry, for a lifetime.
    He wiped away a tear as the last notes died away.
    "I've got to do some more work on it," said the minstrel, in a faraway voice. "But will it do?"
    "You asking me will it do ?" said Evil Harry. "You're telling me you think you could make it even better ?"
    "Yes."
    "Well, it's not like... a real saga," said Evil Harry hoarsely. "It's got a tune . You could whistle it, even. Well, hum it. I mean, it even sounds like them. Like they'd sound if they was music..."
    "Good."
    "It's... wonderful..."
    "Thank you. It will get better as more people hear it. It's music for people to listen to."
    "And... it's not like we found any bodies, is it?" said the very small Dark Lord. "So they could be alive somewhere ."
    The minstrel picked a few notes on the lyre. The strings shimmered. "Somewhere," he agreed.
    "Y'know, kid," said Harry, "I don't even know your name."
    The minstrel's brow wrinkled. He wasn't certain himself, any more. And he didn't know where he was going to go, or what he was going to do, but he suspected that life might be a lot more interesting from now on.
    "I'm just the singer," he said.
    "Play it again," said Evil Harry.
    Rincewind blinked, stared, and then looked away from the window.
    "We've just been overtaken by some men on horseback." he said.
    "Ook," said the Librarian, which probably meant. "Some of us have got some flying to do."
    "I just thought I'd mention it."
    Spiralling through the air like a drunken clown, the Kite climbed the column of hot air from the distant crater. It was the only instruction Leonard had given before going and sitting so quietly at the back of the cabin that Carrot was getting seriously worried.
    "He just sits there whispering things like "ten years!" and "the whole world!"," he reported. "It's come as a terrible shock. What a penance!"
    "But he looks cheerful ," said Rincewind. "And he keeps drawing sketches. And he's leafing through all those pictures you took on the moon."
    "Poor chap. It's affecting his mind." Carrot leaned forward. "We ought to get him home as soon as possible. What's the usual direction? "Second star to the left and straight on 'til morning"?"
    "I think that may very probably be the stupidest piece of astronavigation ever suggested," said Rincewind. "We're just going to head for the lights. Oh, and we'd better be careful not to look down on the gods."
    Carrot nodded. "That's quite hard."
    "Practically impossible," said Rincewind.
    And in a place on no map the immortal Mazda, bringer of fire, lay on his eternal rock.
    Memory can play tricks after the first ten thousand years, and he wasn't quite sure what had happened. There had been some old men on horseback, who'd swooped out of the sky. They'd cut his chains, and given him a drink, and had taken it in turns to shake his withered hand.
    Then they'd ridden away, into the stars, as quickly as they'd come.
    Mazda lay back into the shape his body had worn into the stone over the centuries. He wasn't quite sure about the men, or why they'd come, or why they'd been so happy. He was only sure, in fact, about two things.
    He was sure it was nearly