‘Sounds like it.’
There was another long pause.
Then:
‘I suppose they’ve got minstrels here? Be a bit of a bloody waste, wouldn’t it, if we all got killed and no-one made up any songs about it.’
‘Bound to have loads of minstrels, a city like this.’
‘No problem there, then.’
‘No.’
‘No.’
There was another lengthy pause.
‘Not that we’re going to get killed.’
‘Right. I don’t intend to start getting killed at my time of life, haha.’
Another pause.
‘Cohen?’
‘Yep?’
‘You a religious man at all?’
‘Well, I’ve robbed loads of temples and killed a few mad priests in my time. Don’t know if that counts.’
‘What do your tribe believe happens to you when you die in battle?’
‘Oh, these big fat women in horned helmets take you off to the halls of Io where there is fighting and carousing and quaffing for ever.’
Another pause.
‘You mean, like, really for ever?’
‘S’pose so.’
‘ ‘Cos generally you get fed up even with turkey by about day four.’
‘All right, what do your lot believe?’
‘I think we go off to Hell in a boat made of toenail dippings. Something like that, anyway.’
Another pause.
‘But it’s not worth talking about ‘cos we’re not going to get killed today.’
‘You said it.’
‘Hah, it’s not worth dying if all you’ve got to look toward to is leftover meat and floating around in a boat smelling of your socks, is it, eh?’
‘Haha.’
Another pause.
‘Down in Klatch they believe if you lead a good life you’re rewarded by being sent to a paradise with lots of young women.’
‘That’s your reward, is it?’
‘Dunno. Maybe it’s their punishment. But I do remember you eat sherbet all day.’
‘Hah. When I was a lad we had proper sherbet, in little tube things and a liquorice straw to suck it up with. You don’t get that sort of thing today. People’re too busy rushin’ about.’
‘Sounds a lot better than quaffing toenails, though.’
Another pause.
‘Did you ever believe that business about every enemy you killed becoming your servant in the next world?’
‘Dunno.’
‘How many you killed?’
‘What? Oh. Maybe two, three thousand. Not counting dwarfs and trolls, o’ course.’
‘Definitely not going to be short of a hairbrush or someone to open doors for you after you’re dead, then.’
A pause.
‘We’re definitely not going to die, right?’
‘Right.’
‘I mean, odds of 100,000 to one . . . hah. The difference is just a lot of zeroes, right?’
‘Right.’
‘I mean, stout comrades at our side, a strong right arm . . . What more could we want?’
Pause.
‘A volcano’d be favourite.’
Pause.
‘We’re going to die, aren’t we?’
‘Yep.’
The Horde looked at one another.
‘Still, to look on the bright side, I recall I still owe Fafa the dwarf fifty dollars for this sword,’ said Boy Willie. ‘Looks as though I could end up ahead of the game.’
Mr Saveloy put his head in his hands.
‘I’m really sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Cohen.
The grey light of dawn was just visible in the high windows.
‘Look,’ said Mr Saveloy, ‘you don’t have to die. We could . . . well, we could sneak out. Back along the pipe, maybe. Perhaps we could carry Hamish. People are coming and going all the time. I’m sure we could get out of . . . the city . . . without . . . any . . .’
His voice faded away. No voice could keep going under the pressure of those stares. Even Hamish, whose gaze was generally focused on some point about eighty years away, was glaring at him.
‘Ain’t gonna run,’ said Hamish.
‘It’s not running away,’ he managed. ‘It’s a sensible withdrawal. Tactics. Good grief, it’s common sense!’
‘Ain’t gonna run.’
‘Look, even barbarians can count! And you’ve admitted you’re going to die!’
‘Ain’t gonna run.’
Cohen leaned forward and patted Mr Saveloy on the hand.
‘It’s the heroing, see,’ he said. ‘Who’s ever heard of a hero running away? All them kids you was telling us about . . . you know, the ones who think we’re stories . . . you reckon they’d believe we ran away? Well, then. No, it’s not part of the whole deal, running away. Let someone else do the running.’
‘Besides,’ said Truckle, ‘where’d we get another chance like this? Six against five armies! That’s bl that’s fantastic! We’re not talking legends here. I reckon we’ve got a good crack at some mythology as well.’
‘But . . . you’ll . . . die.’
Oh, that’s part of it, I’ll grant you, that’s part of it. But what a way to go, eh?’
Mr Saveloy looked at them and realized that they were speaking another language in another world. It was one he had no key to, no map for. You could teach them to wear interesting pants and handle money but something in their soul stayed exactly the same.
‘Do teachers go anywhere special when they die?’ said Cohen.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Mr Saveloy gloomily. He wondered for a moment whether there really was a great Free Period in the sky. It didn’t sound very likely. Probably there would be some marking to do.
‘Well, whatever happens, when you’re dead, if you ever feel like a good quaff, you’re welcome to drop in at any time,’ said Cohen. ‘It’s been fun. That’s the important thing. And it’s been an education, hasn’t it, boys?’
There was a general murmur of assent.
‘Amazing, all those long words.’
‘And learnin’ to buy things.’
‘And social intercourse, hur, hur . . . sorry.’
‘Whut?’
‘Shame it didn’t work out, but I’ve never been one for plans,’ said Cohen.
Mr Saveloy stood up.
‘I’m going to join you,’ he said grimly.
‘What, to fight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know how to handle a sword?’ said Truckle.
‘Er. No.’
‘Then you’ve wasted all your life.’
Mr Saveloy looked offended at this.
‘I expect I’ll get the hang of it as we go along,’ he said.
‘Get the hang of it? It’s a sword!’
‘Yes, but . . . when you’re a teacher, you have to pick things up fast.’ Mr Saveloy smiled nervously. ‘I once taught practical alchemy for a whole term when Mr Schism was off sick after blowing himself up, and up until then I’d never seen a crucible.’
‘Here.’ Boy Willie handed the teacher a spare sword. He hefted it.
‘Er. I expect there’s a manual, or something?’
‘Manual? No. You hold the blunt end and poke the other end at people.’
‘Ah? Really? Well, that seems quite straightforward. I thought there was rather more to it than that.’
‘You sure you want to come with us?’ said Cohen.
Mr Saveloy looked firm. ‘Absolutely. I very much doubt if I’ll survive if you lose and . . . well, it seems that you heroes get a better class of Heaven. I must say I rather suspect you get a better class of life, too. And I really don’t know where teachers go when they’re dead, but I’ve got a horrible suspicion it’ll be full of sports masters.’
‘It’s just that I don’t know if you could really go properly berserk,’ said Cohen. ‘Have you ever had the red mist come down and woke up to find you’d bitten twenty people to death?’
‘I used to be reckoned a pretty ratty man if people made too much noise in class,’ said Mr Saveloy. ‘And something of a dead shot with a piece of chalk, too.’
‘How about you, taxman?’
Six Beneficent Winds backed away hurriedly.
‘I . . . I think I’m probably more cut out for undermining the system from within,’ he said.
‘Fair enough.’ Cohen looked at the others. ‘I’ve never done this official sort of warring before,’ he said. ‘How’s it supposed to go?’
‘I think you just line up in front of one another and then charge,’ said Mr Saveloy.
‘Seems straightforward enough. All right, let’s go.’
They strode, or in one case wheeled and in another case moved at Mr Saveloy’s gentle trot, down the hall, The taxman trailed after them.
‘Mr Saveloy!’ he shouted. ‘You know what’s going to happen! Have you lost your senses?’
‘Yes,’ said the teacher, ‘but I may have found some better ones.’
He grinned to himself. The whole of his life, so far, had been complicated. There had been timetables and lists and a whole basket of things he must do and things he shouldn’t do, and the life of Mr Saveloy had been this little wriggly thing trying to survive in the middle of it all. But now it had suddenly all become very simple. You held one end and you poked the other into people. A man could live his whole life by a maxim like that. And, afterwards, get a very interesting afterlife—
‘Here, you’ll need this too,’ said Caleb, poking something round at him as they stepped into the grey light. ‘It’s a shield.’