The Last Continent by Terry Pratchett Read Free Book Online

someone’s life, all the eggs were in one basket.
    Rincewind’s hourglass looked like something created by a glassblower who’d had the hiccups in a time machine. According to the amount of actual sand it contained—and Death was pretty good at making this kind of estimate—he should have died long ago. But strange curves and bends and extrusions of glass had developed over the years, and quite often the sand was flowing backwards, or diagonally. Clearly, Rincewind had been hit by so much magic, had been thrust reluctantly through time and space so often that he’d nearly bumped into himself coming the other way, that the precise end of his life was now as hard to find as the starting point on a roll of really sticky transparent tape.
    Death was familiar with the concept of the eternal, ever-renewed hero, the champion with a thousand faces. He’d refrained from commenting. He met heroes frequently, generally surrounded by, and this was important, the dead bodies of very nearly all their enemies and saying, “Vot the hell shust happened?” Whether there was some arrangement that allowed them to come back again afterwards was not something he would be drawn on.
    But he pondered whether, if this creature did exist, it was somehow balanced by the eternal coward. The hero with a thousand retreating backs, perhaps. Many cultures had a legend of an undying hero who would one day rise again, so perhaps the balance of nature called for one who wouldn’t.
    Whatever the ultimate truth of the matter, the fact now was that Death did not have the slightest idea of when Rincewind was going to die. This was very vexing to a creature who prided himself on his punctuality.
    Death glided across the velvet emptiness of his study until he reached the model of the Discworld, if indeed it was a model.
    Eyeless sockets looked down.
    S HOW , he said.
    The precious metals and stones faded. Death saw ocean currents, deserts, forests, drifting cloudscapes like albino buffalo herds…
    S HOW .
    The eye of observation curved and dived into the living map, and a reddish splash grew in an expanse of turbulent sea. Ancient mountain ranges slipped past, deserts of rock and sand glided away.
    S HOW .
    Death watched the sleeping figure of Rincewind. Occasionally its legs would jerk.
    H MM .
    Death felt something crawling up the back of his robe, pause for a minute on his shoulder, and leap. A small rodent skeleton in a black robe landed in the middle of the image and started flailing madly at it with his tiny scythe, squeaking excitedly.
    Death picked up the Death of Rats by his cowl and held him up for inspection.
    N O, WE DON’T DO IT THAT WAY .
    The Death of Rats struggled madly. S QUEAK ?
    B ECAUSE IT’S AGAINST THE RULES , said Death. N ATURE MUST TAKE ITS COURSE .
    He glanced down at the image again as if a thought had struck him, and lowered the Death of Rats to the floor. Then he went to the wall and pulled a cord. Far away, a bell tolled.
    After a while an elderly man entered, carrying a tray.
    “Sorry about that, master. I was cleaning the bath.”
    I BEG YOUR PARDON , A LBERT ?
    “I mean, that’s why I was late with your tea, sir,” said Albert.
    T HAT IS OF NO CONSEQUENCE . T ELL ME, WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF THIS PLACE ?
    Death’s finger tapped the red continent. His manservant looked closely.
    “Oh, there ,” he said. “Terror Incognita’ we called it when I was alive, master. Never went there myself. It’s the currents, you know. Many a poor sailorman has washed up on them fatal shores rather than get carried right over the Rim, and regretted it, I expect. Dry as a statue’s ti—Very dry, master, or so they say. And hotter’n a demon’s joc—Very hot, too. But you must’ve been there yourself?”
    O H, YES . B UT YOU KNOW HOW IT IS WHEN YOU’RE THERE ON BUSINESS AND THERE’S HARDLY ANY TIME TO SEE THE COUNTRY …
    Death pointed to the great spiral of clouds that turned slowly around the continent, like jackals warily