The Last Hero

anyone who knows anything about Ghengiz Cohen?" he said. "And is there anyone who can tell us why, before leaving the city, he and his men kidnapped a harmless minstrel from our embassy? Explosives, yes , very barbaric... but why a minstrel? Can anyone tell me?"
    There was a bitter wind this close to Cori Celesti. From here the world mountain, which looked like a needle from afar, was a raw and ragged cascade of ascending peaks. The central spire was lost in a haze of snow crystals, miles high. The sun sparkled on them. Several elderly men sat huddled around a fire.
    "I hope he's right about the stair of light," said Boy Willie. "We're going to look real muffins if it isn't there."
    "He was right about the giant walrus," said Truckle the Uncivil.
    "When?"
    "Remember when we were crossing the ice? When he shouted, "Look out! We're going to be attacked by a giant walrus!""
    "Oh, yeah."
    Willie looked back up at the spire. The air seemed thinner already, the colours deeper, making him feel that he could reach up and touch the sky. "Anyone know if there's a lavatory at the top?" he said.
    "Oh, there's got to be," said Caleb the Ripper. "Yeah, I'm sure I heard tell about it. The Toilet of the Gods."
    "Whut?"
    They turned to what appeared to be a pile of furs on wheels. When the eye knew what it was looking for this became an ancient wheelchair, mounted on skis and covered with rags of blanket and animal skins. A pair of beady, animal eyes peered out suspiciously from the heap.
    There was a barrel strapped behind the wheelchair.
    "It must be time for his gruel," said Boy Willie, putting a soot-encrusted pot on the fire.
    "Whut?"
    "JUST WARMING UP YOUR GRUEL, HAMISH!"
    "Bludy walrus again?"
    "YES!"
    "Whut?"
    They were, all of them, old men. Their background conversation was a litany of complaints about feet, stomachs and backs. They moved slowly. But they had a look about them. It was in their eyes.
    Their eyes said that wherever it was, they had been there. Whatever it was, they had done it, sometimes more than once. But they would never, ever, buy the T-shirt. And they did know the meaning of the word 'fear'. It was something that happened to other people.
    "I wish Old Vincent was here," said Caleb the Ripper, poking the fire aimlessly.
    "Well, he's gone, and there's an end of it," said Truckle the Uncivil shortly. "We said we weren't going to bloody talk about it."
    "But what a way to go... gods, I hope that doesn't happen to me. Something like that ... it shouldn't happen to anyone..."
    "Yes, all right," said Truckle.
    "He was a good bloke. Took everything the world threw at him."
    " All right ."
    "And then to choke on —"
    "We all know! Now bloody well shut up!"
    "Dinner's done," said Caleb, pulling a smoking slab of grease out of the embers. "Nice walrus steak, anyone? What about Mr Pretty?"
    They turned to an evidently human figure that had been propped against a boulder. It was indistinct, because of the ropes, but it was clearly dressed in brightly coloured clothes. This wasn't the place for brightly coloured clothes. This was a land for fur and leather.
    Boy Willie walked over to the colourful thing.
    "We'll take the gag off," he said, "if you promise not to scream."
    Frantic eyes darted this way and that, and then the gagged head nodded.
    "All right, then. Eat your nice walrus... er, lump," said Boy Willie, pulling at the cloth.
    "How dare you drag me all —" the minstrel began.
    "Now look ," said Boy Willie, "none of us like havin' to wallop you alongside the ear when you go on like this, do we? Be reasonable."
    " Reasonable ? When you kidnap —"
    Boy Willie snapped the gag back into place.
    "Thin streak of nothin'," he muttered at the angry eyes. "You ain't even got a harp. What kind of bard doesn't even have a harp? Just this sort of little wooden pot thing. Damn silly idea."
    "'S called a lute," said Caleb, through a mouthful of walrus.
    "Whut?"
    "IT'S CALLED A LUTE, HAMISH!"
    "Aye, I used to loot!"
    "Nah, it's for singin' posh songs for ladies," said Caleb. "About... flowers and that. Romance ."
    The Horde knew the word, although the activity had been outside the scope of their busy lives.
    "Amazin', what songs do for the ladies," said Caleb.
    "Well, when I was a lad," said Truckle, "if you wanted to get a girl's int'rest, you had to cut off your worst enemy's wossname and present it to her."
    "Whut?"
    "I SAID YOU HAD TO CUT OFF YOUR WORST ENEMY'S WOSSNAME AND PRESENT IT TO HER!"
    "Aye, romance is a