Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

Without taking his eyes off it, he grabbed Sgt Colon's shoulder and gently pointed him in the right direction.

He said, “Can you see anything odd about the top of the tower?”

Colon stared up for a while, and then laughed nervously. “Well, it looks like there's a dragon sitting on it, doesn't it?”

“Yes. That's what I thought.”

“Only, only, only when you sort of look properly, you can see it's just made up out of shadows and clumps of ivy and that. I mean, if you half-close one eye, it looks like two old women and a wheelbarrow.”

Vimes tried this. “Nope,” he said. “It still looks like a dragon. A huge one. Sort of hunched up, and looking down. Look, you can see its wings folded up.”

“Beg pardon, sir. That's just a broken turret giving the effect.”

They watched it for a while.

Then Vimes said, “Tell me, Sergeant-I ask in a spirit of pure inquiry-what do you think's causing the effect of a pair of huge wings unfurling?”

Colon swallowed.

“I think that's caused by a pair of huge wings, sir,” he said.

“Spot on, Sergeant.”

The dragon dropped. It wasn't a swoop. It simply kicked away from the top of the tower and half-fell, half-flew straight downwards, disappearing from view behind the University buildings.

Vimes caught himself listening for the thump.

And then the dragon was in view again, moving like an arrow, moving like a shooting star, moving like something that has somehow turned a thirty-two feet per second plummet into an unstoppable upward swoop. It glided over the rooftops at little more than head height, all the more horrible because of the sound. It was as though the air was slowly and carefully being torn in half.

The Watch threw themselves flat. Vimes caught a glimpse of huge, vaguely horse-like features before it slid past.

“Sodding arseholes,” said Nobby, from somewhere in the guttering.

Vimes redoubled his grip on the chimney and pulled himself upright. “You are in uniform, Corporal Nobbs,” he said, his voice hardly shaking at all.

“Sorry, Captain. Sodding arseholes, sir. ”

“Where's Sergeant Colon?”

“Down here, sir. Holding on to this drainpipe, sir.”

“Oh, for goodness sake. Help him up, Carrot.”

' 'Gosh,'' said Carrot, “look at it go!”

You could tell the position of the dragon by the rattle of arrows across the city, and by the screams and gurgles of all those hit by the misses and ricochets.

“He hasn't even flapped his wings yet!” shouted Carrot, trying to stand on the chimney pot. "Look at him go!''

It shouldn't be that big, Vimes told himself, watching the huge shape wheel over the river. It's as long as a street!

There was a puff of flame above the docks, and for a moment the creature passed in front of the moon. Then it flapped its wings, once, with a sound like the damp hides of a pedigree herd being slapped across a cliff.

It turned in a tight circle, pounded the air a few times to build up speed, and came back.

When it passed over the Watch House it coughed a column of spitting white fire. Tiles under it didn't just melt, they erupted in red-hot droplets. The chimney stack exploded and rained bricks across the street.

Vast wings hammered at the air as the creature hovered over the burning building, fire spearing down on what rapidly became a glowing heap. Then, when all that was left was a spreading puddle of melted rock with interesting streaks and bubbles in it, the dragon raised itself with a contemptuous flick of its wings and soared away and upwards, over the city.