My Hero

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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First US e-book edition: September 2012

ISBN: 978-0-316-23297-5

Also by Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller
Who's Afraid of Beowulf?
Flying Dutch
Ye Gods!
Overtime
Here Comes the Sun
Grailblazers
Faust Among Equals
Odds and Gods
Djinn Rummy
My Hero
Paint Your Dragon
Open Sesame
Wish You Were Here
Only Human
Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Valhalla
Nothing But Blue Skies
Falling Sideways
Little People
The Portable Door
In Your Dreams
Earth, Air, Fire and Custard
You Don't Have to be Evil to Work Here, But It Helps
Barking
The Better Mousetrap
May Contain Traces of Magic
Blonde Bombshell
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Sausages
Doughnut

For Patrick, Haydn and Auntie Ram-raiders od distinction

And

For Chris (And thanks for all the Fish)

CHAPTER ONE

A
gainst the background of a green sky, the two champions circled warily.

The arena was, incredibly, quiet. One hundred thousand spectators held their breath. In all of that huge multitude, nobody moved, nobody coughed, nobody was buying popcorn. More remarkable still, nobody was
selling
popcorn.

It was the culmination of the longest day of the year, and for the two men out in the middle - Regalian of Perimadeia, the reigning champion, and Gordian of Saressus, the challenger - it was the last day of one of their lives. That was, in fact, the only certainty; certain, because in their last nine bouts these two perfectly matched opponents had hammered each other to a standstill, until neither man had the strength to stand, and one thing the Perimadeian State Lottery couldn't permit was ten consecutive no-score draws.

The last round. From his box, the Emperor Maxen saw the first ray of sunset flashing a premonition of red off two swordblades, and shuddered.

Regalian struck first; a dazzling feint to the left, followed
by a curling dropped-elbow backhand (âReminiscent,' muttered the arena correspondent of the
Perimadeia Globe
under his breath, âof Mazentius in his prime, if lacking the true finesse . . .') which Gordian met with a scrambled parry, only to find that the blade had somehow eluded him. For a fraction of a second both men froze, staring at the welling red gash on the top of Gordian's forearmâ

(Desperately, the arena correspondent ransacked his brain for a lightning-flash of imagery, a drop of verbal amber in which to catch this mayfly moment. âSick,' he scribbled, âas a parrot . . .')

âAnd then Regalian dropped his shoulder, put his weight behind it and committed himself to the final, irrevocable lunge.

Click.

The lights went out.

Jane tutted loudly, and swung the mouse up to the appropriate window.

Seventy pages still to go. There was no way she could afford to lose a central character now. Nothing for it but to erase the whole evening's work and start again.

âC'mon, you guys,' she sighed. âAnybody'd think you
wanted
to kill each other.'

âOkay,' said a voice in the darkness, âwho forgot to bring the torch?'

âIt's Dave's turn.'

âNo it bloody isn't, it was my turn yesterday.'

âYou forgot.'

âOkay, but it was still my turn yesterday. Somebody else's turn today.'

Somebody struck a match, and the eerie orange glow illuminated an empty lot, with five or six figures standing
listlessly on the edge of the light. The arena, the circles of seats, altars and Imperial box had all vanished.

âWe're definitely going to have to draw up a rota,' said Regalian, wearily. âThis is getting absolutely ridiculous.'

âIt was Neville's turn, surely.'

âNo it wasn't, it was my turn Thursday,' replied the tall young man who was standing in the centre, the hem of his cloak pressed hard against his forearm to staunch the bleeding. âAnd besides, the batteries are flat.'

âFine,' sighed his erstwhile opponent. âSo we need a batteries rota as well. And who's going to end up organising it, we ask ourselves? Muggins, that's who.'

âPack it in, you two,' snapped the Emperor Maxen, then he yelped as the match burned down on to his fingers, and there was darkness once more. âThe hell with this,' he said. âLast one down the pub gets them in. Mine's a Mackeson.'

Where they come from, nobody knows. Where they go to, afterwards, who cares? They are there to do a job. Provided the job gets done, what they get up to in their own time is nobody's business but their own.

Characters. As Tolstoy is reported to have said: some of my best friends are characters, but would you let your daughter marry one?

âFor God's sake,' snapped Regalian, fishing the lemon out of his gin and tonic and discarding it into the ashtray, âput a bit of sticking plaster or something on it, before you bleed to death. You're dripping all over my sandwiches. '

The young man (Gordian to the countless fans of Jane Armitage's
Circle In Chaos
trilogy, Neville to his mother, and That Tall Pillock, universally, behind his back) shook his head vehemently. âI can't go on tomorrow with my
arms covered in Band Aid,' he reasoned. âBesides, they stick to hairs and when you pull them off it hurts like hell.'

âI've got some iodine in my bag,' Doris suggested, putting down her knitting. âIf you like, I'll . . .'

At the mention of the word iodine, Neville had turned a pale, blanched colour, and Doris (who specialised in minor Arthurian enchantresses and Celtic earth mothers with lots of silver jewellery) shrugged and went back to her matinÃ©e jacket. Regalian shifted his sandwiches ostentatiously to another table.

âIt's your fault,' said Neville peevishly to his turned back. âIf you didn't get quite so carried away, I wouldn't have got cut in the first place. I knew you'd do somebody an injury with that thing one day.'

âTerribly sorry,' Regalian replied with his mouth full. âI somehow got the impression we were having a sword fight, whereas in fact we were doing traditional Perimadeian folk dances. How stupid of me, I do apologise. '

âYou two, save it for the show. We'll have the whole bloody thing to do over again tomorrow, don't forget.'

Names can be terribly confusing. The Emperor Maxen's real name was, in fact, Max; which shouldn't have been a problem, in theory. In practice, however, he generally found himself having to write down which one he was at any given moment on the inside of his wrist. As a result, he spent a lot of his time glancing down and thus failing to meet other people's frank and fearless gazes, which meant he usually got typecast as the wicked emperor.

âAnd whose fault is that?' Neville pressed on relentlessly. âIf someone who shall remain nameless hadn't got all over-excited and started lashing about with a whacking great sword . . .'

Regalian looked up. âCome off it, Nev,' he said irritably, âyou're for the chop this time, and you know it.'

âDo I really?'

Regalian nodded. âYes,' he said. âNot your fault, mind,' he added. âIt's just that the silly bitch has really written herself into a corner this time.'

âTypical,' commented Doris. âShe's about as much good at plots as Guy Fawkes.'

âActually . . .' Linda (Lady Helionassa; dozy princesses and thick-as-two-short-dryads elf-maidens) furrowed her brow, that harbinger of the painfully obvious remark. âActually, Guy Fawkes must have been
quite
good at plots, or how did he get the gunpowder down in the cellars in the first place?'

Silence. Whenever Linda took part in a conversation, it generally tended to die shortly afterwards, rather like the three heavies leaning on the bar when Clint Eastwood first walks into the saloon. Regalian returned to his sandwiches. Neville dabbed at his arm with a bar towel. Max stared, pointedly but to no avail, at the bottom of his empty glass. Doris cast off the end of her row and consulted the pattern.

âAlthough,' Linda went on, âI s'poseâ'

âGosh,' said Regalian, standing up. âIs it that time already? Ah well, lines to learn, moves to block out. See you all tomorrow.'

He escaped quickly, to a chorus of âNight, Reg,' into the relative safety of the beer garden. The time had been when he'd objected to being called Reg, on the grounds that Reg wasn't his name. Neither, it was pointed out to him, was Regalian; that was just what his character was called. Maybe; but he'd been Regalian so long that he couldn't remember what he'd been called before. These days he tended to answer to anything beginning with R, with the possible exception of Rover.

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