Discworld 27 - The Last Hero Read Online Free PDF Page B

grunted as he raised the sword. “How the hell did you
carry this, old woman?”
“It's not my sword.” she said. “It belonged to the man over there.”
The man risked a look sideways. A pair of feet in armoured sandals were
just visible behind a rock. They were very big feet.
But I've got a weapon, he thought. And then he thought: so did he.
The old woman sighed and drew two knitting needles from the ball of wool.
The light glinted on them, and the blanket slid away from her shoulders
and fell on to the snow.
“Well, gentlemen?” she said.
Cohen pulled the gag off the minstrel's mouth. The man stared at him in
terror. “What's your name, son?” said Cohen. “You kidnapped me! I was
walking along the street and-”
“How much?” said Cohen.
     
 
   
“What?”
“How much to write me a saga?”
“You stink!”
“Yeah, it's the walrus.” said Cohen evenly. “”It's a bit like garlic in
that respect. Anyway ... a saga, that's what I want. And what you want is
a big bag of rubies, not unadjacent in size to the rubies what I have
here.“
He upended a leather bag into the palm of his hand. The stones were so
big the snow glowed red. The musician stared at them.
”You got - what's that word, Truckle?“ aid Cohen.
”Art,“ said Truckle.
”You got art, and we got rubies. We give you rubies, you give us art,“
said Cohen. ”End of problem, right?“
”Problem?“ The rubies were hypnotic.
”Well, mainly the problem you'll have if you tell me you can't write me a
saga.“ said Cohen, still in a pleasant tone of voice.
”But... look. I'm sorry, but... sagas are just primitive poems, aren't
they?“ The wind, never ceasing here near the Hub, had several seconds in
which to produce its more forlorn yet threatening whistle.
”It'll be a long walk to civilisation, all by yourself.“ said Truckle, at
length. ”Without yer feet“ said Boy Willie.
”Please!“
”Nah, nah, lads, we don't want to do that to the boy,“ said Cohen. ”He's
a bright lad, got a great future ahead of him ...“ He took a pull of his
home-rolled cigarette and added, ”up until now. Nah, I can see he's
thinking about it. A heroic saga. lad. It'll be the most famousest one
ever.“
”What about?“
”Us.“
”You? But you're all ol-“ The minstrel stopped. Even after a life that
had hitherto held no danger greater than a hurled meat bone at a banquet,
he could recognise sudden death when he saw it. And he saw it now. Age
hadn't weakened here - well, except in one or two places. Mostly, it had
hardened.
”I wouldn't know how to compose a saga,“ he said feebly.
We'll help,” said Truckle.
“We know lots” said Boy Willie.
“Been in most of 'em,” said Cohen.
The minstrel's thoughts ran like this: These men are rubies insane. They
are rubies sure to kill me. Rubies. They've dragged me rubies all the
rubies rubies.
They want to give me a big bag of rubies rubies ...
“I suppose I could extend my repertoire,” he mumbled. A look at their
faces made him readjust his vocabulary. “All right. I'll do it,” he said.
A tiny bit of honesty, though, survived even the glow of the jewels. “I'm
not the world's greatest minstrel, you know.”
“You will be after you write this saga,” said Cohen, untying his ropes.
“Well... I hope you like it...”
Cohen grinned again. “ S' not up to us to like it. We won't hear it,” he
said.
“What? But you just said you wanted me to write you a saga-”
“Yeah, yeah. But it's gonna be the saga of how we died.”
It was a small flotilla that set sail from Ankh-Morpork next day. Things
had happened quickly. It wasn't that the prospect of the end of the world
was concentrating minds unduly, because that is a general and universal
danger that people find hard to imagine. But the Patrician was being
rather sharp with people, and that is a specific and highly personal
danger and people had no problem relating to it at