The Last One

A Tale From The Discworld by Australis

NOTE: this story is set after the events of Monstrous Regiment.

He struggled into town with the first of the blizzards, his black cloak ripped and faded from many miles of long, hard travel. And the town of Slomow wasn't a big reward after all he'd endured. But it was somewhere. And somewhere else. A new start.

For the first few days he made himself lie low. But he couldn't do so for long; the Work demanded to be done. And there was so much to do.

Idgar Hobz was the first to notice, and he hurried down to the Trousers and Ferret to see if anyone else knew.

"There's a priest? In the old Nuggan church?" said Mob Handit, the innkeeper, slowly rubbing what is charitably called a mug with something that approximated a cloth.

"Yes", said Hobz. "He's cleaning it out, and fixing the broken windows, and he's put a new door on and everything!"

"What does he want?" asked Munty Splotz, cradling a tankard of Rathuiz's Old Indifferent.

"Who knows?! He's a priest of Nuggan! It could be anything!"

Handit looked at the mug and sighed. "I'm sure we'll soon find out."

The bell rang out clear and cold on Octeday. Sleepy people dragged themselves out of bed and were dressing in their best and putting on dimity scarves before the memory component finally kicked the brain into the "what the hey?" stage, and they all crept warily to the church.

At the door stood a man, pale but broad shouldered, thin-lipped but hands like shovels, in faded robe and with flashing eyes, and a thick book under his arm. The people of Slomow stood before him, in a dozen different poses that he was ignored.

"My name is Father Orwen. I am the new priest for your town."

A long silence.

"Don't want one", a voice at the back said eventually. Father Orwen drew himself to his full height and held the book above his head.

"Behold! I come with the Book of Nuggan! I have come to lead your feet back to the right path! I will lead you and correct you!"

It was the voice, the kind of voice you've heard since you were a child, the voice that demanded obedience. Now.

Without another word they filed into the church, and the big doors slammed shut behind them.

Three weeks later, winter was beginning to bite, and Father Orwen was working his way into Slomow.

"And I say unto you, the Book of Nuggan is clear! There shall be no turnips, for they are an Abomination! And do not look at the sky, lest its colour inflame you, and you give way to base passions!"

He stood over them, the black book raised on high like a hammer. Foam flecked the corners of his mouth. And then came the voice the villagers had grown to fear the most. The quiet one, the calm one, the one that spoke all the dark madnesses.

"Soon, brothers, we shall take back the holy way of Nuggan. We shall set the glorious kingdom of Borogravia onto the path of greatness again, and set us on the crusade against the godless infidels around us. We shall restore the glorious glory of Nuggan."

And they all cowed, scrunching lower into the pews, wishing it was all over, that they were anywhere else. There were so few young or even middle-aged men left, they couldn't waste them on a mission to bring Nuggan back to the people. Already he was getting the best they had in food, and had spent a long time restoring old Father Chane's place to its former, pristine newness. In their hearts, as one, they cried for relief. There were no new gods, yet, but something or someone heard them.

Munty Splotz half carried the woman through the storm. It would soon pass, but she'd been out in it too long, and he was by no means a young man anymore. So he took her to the nearest house.

"Oh, the poor woman!" exclaimed Father Orwen at the door. "Who is she?"

"Old Jibriz's daughter, she's from Bad Yairdayze."

"Well, you'd better take her into the village and see her safe."

"But I thought we could, um…" he trailed off.

"Yes?"

"That you could… help… with her…"

The priest slapped his hands together in a gesture of uncooperative sympathy. "Oh, I'd like to, child" – this from a man at least twenty years younger – "but I am hard at work on the next sermon and preparing handouts of the new Abominations, and as yet I have no servants to help with such tasks." Behind him, the heat swelled through the door, Splotz could feel it on his face, and hear the faint roar of the fire,

He wanted to swell up, rise up against his impersonal, unfeeling attitude, but one look at the iron under the patronising gaze and many years of conditioning kicked in.

"Well. I'd better. Get her to the inn. Thank you. Father."

They made it as far as the road, where they both fell down as the wind intensified. Munty began to fear. This was beyond his strength.

A steely grip took his arm and gently pulled him to his feet.

"We'd better get her to the inn, " a voice shouted over the gale. "You hold on and I'll push you both against the wind."

So they staggered along to the inn, and there was a fire going, though not as generous as the priest's. The stranger pushed them through the door, but when Handit went to help him, there was no one there.

Munty refused to talk about the priest for days afterward, his anger rendering him inarticulate. Some of them were glad for the quiet, Munty being a bit on the garrulous side.

"Ah, sister Glomar, I see you have new bread baked."

"Yes, Father Orwen, I have." Eleana Glomar quailed inside. She wanted to curse herself for leaving the loaf to cool on the window sill during a lull between storms, but the fear gripped her. She tried to keep her voice from shaking. "Would you care for some?"

"That I would, that I would."

"Would you have some to share with a traveller?" said a voice, some distance from the hut. They turned to look at its owner.

The first thing you noticed was he had no right arm, everything at first blurred around that. If you finally dragged your eyes from the empty sleeve tucked into his jacket front, you saw a face that had once been humorous and strove constantly to recover it, though the scars and the pain lines and the neat, full beard obscured a lot of this struggle. Only the eyes were distinct, twinkling on the surface, and hardened to ice underneath.

Eleana dragged her gaze to Father Orwen, to see what he would say. And was amazed.

For the first time, she saw on his face what she constantly felt. Terror.

Fleck and Henny Birratz walked through Slomow early one morning, as if they didn't want to be seen. They leaned against the biting wind, Henny holding the bundle close in her arms. They took shelter in the stable doorway. They looked at one another, but didn't say anything, they didn't need words.

"Good morning", said a dry voice behind them. They looked into the gloom, until the black-robed figure stepped out of the darkness and fixed them with an iron glare.

"Mister and Mrs Birratz."

"Father Orwen", they mumbled, shuffling back a step.

"And what do we have here?" The voice was level and calm but would stand for no resistance. Henny carefully unfolded the blanket. Small pink fingers stretched and flexed in their freedom, and dark eyes looked out into the cold world.

"I see you have a child."

"His name is Firenz."

"It is a baby. Nuggan Abominates babies." Henny's face set hard. Her husband knew her well enough to know there would be blood spilled in just a minute unless he did something.

"Yes, but he was born just before we received the Notice of Abomination, we're so far away here."

"You must keep it inside, away from others, lest it inflame them, and they want to have babies of their own."

"That's why we walk at this time, where we can see no one."

"Including me, I think."

"Father, I – ." He cut off, to watch the hay drifting down from the loft.

"Hello, there!" a cheery voice called down. "You woke me a little earlier than I'm accustomed to!" The traveller's face was peering down on them, looking as if he'd been awake for hours. "Is that a child? Let me look!"

He made his way carefully down the ladder, relying on his legs rather than his arm. The priest had the look of a rabbit caught in the torch glare of a fast moving coach.

"Oh, yes, he's a lovely strong lad! Just what the village needs, after all the war and so on." He gave the child a pat. "Keep him warm. And don't keep him out on a day like this!" He made shooing motions, and the Barritzes fled while Orwen was distracted.

Fleck turned back to see the men in deep, intense discussion. He couldn't hear what was being said, until the traveller raised his voice.

"'You should tell them now', that's what he said. And the priest said back, 'I will tell them when Nuggan says to', then just walked away." Fleck took a long pull at his mug.

"So who is he?" The Trousers and Ferret was filled with the remaining men of Slomow. Mob had no problem with his inn being used as a meeting place, all this talking was thirsty work. And it wasn't like it was so very busy. Idgar was the one who finally had some solid information.

"Says he's Harad Turnwood, returning home from the war."

"War?" said Clem Clammer. "Did we win?"

"Hmf, could we tell either way?" said Munty.

"Says we did. Says there's lots of changes going on."

"Didn't happen to tell you what they were?"

"Said he wanted to talk with Father Orwen about them first. Funny, though, he hasn't been near the grange yet."

They pondered this for a short while.

"Mob", said Clem, "it might be time to ask the new man to share a meeting with us. Being proper religious people as we are."

"Yes, I think it's the proper thing to do," said Hobz.

The end finally came one Octeday when Orwen was in full harangue. It was instructive to his audience just how he dried up when Turnwood quietly entered and sat. He started again, but his words were faltering now, uncertain. Finally the traveller put his hand up. Orwen ignored him but he asked anyway.

"Excuse me, Father, but don't they know they don't have to pray anymore?"

"Of course they have to pray! They must pray! Prayer is the link between man and god!" But there was desperation there.

Idgar Hobz looked at Turnwood. "Of course we must pray. Why would we not?"

Turnwood stood and walked slowly to the front of the church, and faced them.

"You mean you don't know? Your really don't know? This thing didn't tell you?" A wave at Orwen. The priest sweating.

Absolute silence, before Eleana said, softly but clearly: "No."

Turnwood looked at Orwen, hard and sharp. Orwen looked back, defiant and scared, determined to stand his hard-won ground.

The soldier reached into his coat and pulled out two small packets. One was a sandwich, and he ate it with full relish (and a little butter) in front of them all.

"This is nice", he told the congregation.

"It's just a sandwich", someone said.

"Yes. Made with cheese. Garlic cheese, at that."

The congregation drew a sharp breath as one and pulled back, waiting for the lightning stroke. The only sound was contented munching, as they watched him finish it, and wondered at his intactness.

"And a little something to finish off. Something sweet." The other small packet was unwrapped, revealing a flat brown slab. He broke some off and popped it in his mouth. The women in the congregation groaned.

"Ever had chocolate made by Wienrich and Boettcher? It's good. Very good. They used to live in Borogravia before their very livelihood was regarded as an Abomination, and now live in Ankh-Morpork where they are venerated for their skills."

"Venerated?!" Orwen rose up in his anger. "It is your god Nuggan that should be venerated! People are just sacks for souls that should declare every day their worship of the one that nourishes them with his holy Word!"

The slab was struck from Turnwood's hand. The priest towered over him.

"You dare! You dare to bring that filth in here?! And eat it?!"

"Yes, " Turnwood replied calmly. "You know, in the war, at the front, we never got much food. Or armour. Or weapons. All we had were the latest Abominations from Nuggan. You know why we didn't get anything but Abominations?" Silence. "Because the only people left that were doing their jobs were the priests."

"That's as it should be – " began Orwen.

"Because everyone else was dead!" the soldier suddenly shouted until the rafters rang. "Everyone who made a sword or grew a crop or shoed a horse or anything that could help a soldier or a civilian were all conscripted and disappeared into the great battlefields over the horizon! Far from home, where they died for no reason! And the little priests sat safe in their holes and churches and grand houses with their servants and issued Abomination after useless Abomination! Babies! You Abominated babies! How are we meant to continue if children are condemned as evil when they're born?! Our people die of starvation and scurvy and a dozen ailments, and you just say it's Nuggan's way! You were all wrong, and in your blind foolishness you could not see how wrong you were!"

"This is no court – " Orwen tried to say.

"That's exactly what it is! It is a place where justice happens and is seen to happen!" Turnwood dropped his voice. "Defend yourself."

Orwen gripped the podium hard, and looked at them all, with contempt and fear. He picked up the Book of Nuggan and stood before the altar.

"You cannot judge me." There was a hiss from someone at the back. "No, you can't. A priest must see to the needs of the soul. Average people do not know what those needs are, and we have to spend years studying and growing to know the word of Nuggan, so we can pass on its wisdom to you in a form you can use every day. Food and housing and clothing and water and… and… chocolate… are just earthly things. For your very immortal soul, you must trust us. We need time to understand."

"And a big house", Turnwood added. Orwen drew himself up again, and stared down at him with fiery eyes.

"And why not? We aren't concerned with the little things like twenty years or a town or what food you will eat. We are talking about your relationship with Nuggan! What he will give you, and what you give him in return."

"We gave Nuggan everything. And were given permission to hate children."

"You have no idea! Nuggan is your god! Your soul is in peril!"

"How? How could it be any worse? What will he do to us?"

"He will… he will…"

Orwen's voice faded as a treacherous thought wormed its way through his mind: What could be worse than everything that has happened to them? But he could not back down now. He slammed the Book on the podium.

"There is no worse fate than to be cut off from your god! He will not know you, and you will not see his face in the afterlife!"

Mob Handit stepped forward, his face set hard.

"Sounds like a good deal to me."

It was an hour later. Orwen slammed out through the door of the priest's house. The Book of Nuggan, a cloak and a pack with some food were in his arms. These fools, these utter fools would never know the grace of Nuggan, they could die and he didn't care! Somewhere beyond, there would be another village, where he could rebuild the Church of Nuggan, and then he would bring an army back, and then we would see how insolent these people would be!

As the villagers approached his house, in the locally approved manner, waving pitchforks and carrying torches, he reached the treeline and disappeared out of sight.

"Must you follow him?" Eleana asked Turnwood.

"Yes." The soldier was slipping a pack on over the heavy greatcoat and adjusting the sword on his hip. "He'll try again at some other village, and someone has to stop him. Someone has to tell the truth, and stand on the side of justice."

"There'll be a place here for you if you come back." She kissed him on the cheek and followed him to the door.

The one armed man set off after the fugitive.

And now it was a week later, and far beyond the borders of civilisation, Father Orwen watched as his remains were dragged away into the forest by the wolves. There was a tall figure robed in black beside him. The former priest turned to him.

"I do not fear you!"

THAT'S NICE.

"My god Nuggan waits for me!"

I'M SURE HE DOES.

"And there will be others! They will take up the cause and restore him!"

Death leaned down and looked him, unblinking, in the eye.

NO. YOU ARE THE LAST ONE. The scythe came down.

A day later, Turnwood found a long, priestly cloak, torn and bloody. And beside it, a thick book bound in starless, midnight black leather. Something – or someone – had taken the time to chew the cover a little at the corners. But all around was stillness. There was no one else now.

Turnwood felt the cold through his clothes. Tomorrow he would turn back to Slomow. It was a nice village and the pace was easier. It would be a good place to settle down, and find peace.

But right now, he needed warmth. A fire was called for, and he grinned.

And, on the other side of forever, Orwen found himself on the edge of an endless plain of black sand. There was someone there.

"Hello? Hello? Where am I?" A crunching underfoot, a faint black cloud, as he approached the figure. It looked like a child. No, a very small man. Orwen towered over it. It squealed when it saw him and put its hands up.

"Don't hurt me!"

"Who are you?" he asked. But there was something… the cast of his face… the faint glow… the little moustache… "You… you're Nuggan?"

"Maybe." The fear was all too apparent in the voice.

"But… we lived for you! We fought nations for you! But… you're so small! And you're here? It was all for nothing?!"

"I didn't ask you to!"

"You did! And you gave us the Abominations!" Orwen paused, and looked down at his god, diminishing before his eyes. "You hated us!"

"No! You needed guidance! Resistance to the world!"

"Chocolate? And babies?!"

There was a long silence, finally broken by Orwen in a low voice:

"Run."

"Where?"

"Away from here. From me."

Nuggan looked like he was about to argue, until he looked up and up into Orwen's eyes. And he ran away into the silken black desert.

The priest sat. He would give him a head start. A long head start. That would give both of them time to think.

When summer rolled around to Slomow, it was clear that Nuggan had departed forever.. But travellers often commented on the Village Centre. Here a stranger could get food, see the local art (flower-decorated clogs, a local beer, and a local variety of chocolate, rich and deep and dark), and in general see how life was returning to a stricken land. What always gave them pause for thought were the little children, growing in the shadow of the wooden podium they used as a playhouse.

Nothing to fear there. Nothing at all.

The End.