Free Discworld 27 - The Last Hero by Terry Pratchett

forgot to write down and will never remember again, and of
people who tell other people that “dog” is “god” spelled backwards and
think this is in some way revelatory). Bast (back, god of things left on
the doorstep or half-digested under the bed), and Nuggan (a local god,
but also in charge of paperclips, correct things in the right place in
small desk stationery-sets, and unnecessary paperwork).
Offler the Crocodile looked up from the playing board which was, in fact,
the world.
“All right, who doth he belong to?” he lisped. “We've got a clever one
here.”
There was a general craning of necks among the assembled deities, and
then one put up his hand.
“And you are ... ?” said Offler.
“The Almighty Nuggan. I'm worshipped in parts of Borogravia. The young
man was raised in my faith.”
“What do Nugganiteth believe in?”
“Er ... me. Mostly me. And followers are forbidden to eat chocolate,
ginger, mushrooms and garlic.”
Several of the gods winced.
“When you prohibit you don't meth about, do you?” said Offler.
“No sense in forbidding broccoli, is there? That sort of approach is very
old-fashioned.” said Nuggan. He looked at the minstrel. “He's never been
particularly bright up till now. Shall I smite him? There's bound to be
some garlic in that stew, Mrs McGarry looks the type.”
Offler hesitated. He was a very old god, who had arisen from steaming
swamps in hot, dark lands. He had survived the rise and fall of more
modem and certainly more beautiful gods by developing, for a god, a
certain amount of wisdom.
Besides, Nuggan was one of the newer gods, all full of hellfire and self-
importance and ambition. Offler was not bright, but he had some vague
inkling that for long-term survival gods needed to offer their
worshippers something more than a mere lack of thunderbolts. And he felt
an ungodlike pang of sympathy for any human whose god banned chocolate
     
 
   
and garlic. Anyway, Nuggan had an unpleasant moustache. No god had any
business with a fussy little moustache like that.
“No,” he said, shaking the dice box. “It'll add to the fun.”
Cohen pinched out the end of his ragged cigarette, stuffed it behind his
ear, and looked up at the green ice.
“It's not too late to turn back,” said Evil Harry. “If any-one wanted to,
I mean.”
“Yes it is,” said Cohen, without looking around. “Besides, someone's not
playing fair.”
“Funny, really,” said Vena. “All my life I've gone adventuring with old
maps found in old tombs and so on, and I never ever worried about where
they came from. It's one of those things you never think about, like who
leaves all the weapons and keys and medicine kits lying around in the
unexplored dungeons.”
“Someone he setting a trap,” said Boy Willie.
“Probably. Won't be the first trap I've walked into.” said Cohen.
“We're going up against the gods, Cohen.” said Harry. “A man does that, a
man's got to he sure of his luck.”
“Mine's worked up to now,” said Cohen. He reached out and touched the
rock face in front of him. “It's warm.”
“But it's got ice on!” said Harry.
“Yeah. Strange, eh?” said Cohen. “It's just like the scrolls said. And
see the way the snow's sticking to it? It's the magic. Well... here goes
...”
Archchancellor Ridcully decided that the crew needed to be trained.
Ponder Stibbons pointed out that they were going into the completely
unexpected, and Ridcully ruled therefore that they should be given some
unexpected training.
Rincewind, on the other hand, said that they were heading for certain
death, which everyone managed eventually with no training whatsoever.
Later he said that Leonard's device would do, though. After five minutes
on it, certain death seemed like a release.
“He's thrown up again, said the Dean.
”He's getting better at it, though,“ said the Chair of Indefinite
Studies.
”How can you say that? Last time it