“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.
...
Lady Ramkin lowered her telescope and shook her head slowly.
“That's not right,” she whispered. “That's not right at all. Shouldn't be able to do anything like that. ”
She raised the lens again and squinted, trying to see what was on fire. Down below, in their long kennels, the little dragons howled.
...
Traditionally, upon waking from blissfully uneventful insensibility, you ask: “Where am I?” It's probably part of the racial consciousness or something.
Vimes said it.
Tradition allows a choice of second lines. A key point in the selection process is an audit to see that the body has all the bits it remembers having yesterday.
Vimes checked.
Then comes the tantalising bit. Now that the snowball of consciousness is starting to roll, is it going to find that it's waking up inside a body lying in a gutter with something multiple, the noun doesn't matter after an adjective like “multiple”, nothing good ever follows “multiple”, or is it going to be a case of crisp sheets, a soothing hand, and a businesslike figure in white pulling open the curtains on a bright new day? Is it all over, with nothing worse to look forward to now than weak tea, nourishing gruel, short, strengthening walks in the garden and possibly a brief platonic love affair with a ministering angel, or was this all just a moment's blackout and some looming bastard is now about to get down to real business with the thick end of a pickaxe helve? Are there, the consciousness wants to know, going to be grapes?