Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“Follow it!” he said.

...

The horn sounded again.

Other people were hurrying towards the plaza. The dragon drifted ahead of them like a shark heading towards a wayward airbed, its tail flicking slowly from side to side.

“Some loony is going to fight it!” said Nobby.

“I thought someone would have a go,” said Colon. “Poor bugger'll be baked in his own armour.”

This seemed to be the opinion of the crowds lining the plaza. The people of Ankh-Morpork had a straightforward, no-nonsense approach to entertainment, and while they were looking forward to seeing a dragon slain, they'd be happy to settle instead for seeing someone being baked alive in his own armour. You didn't get the chance every day to see someone baked alive in their own armour. It would be something for the children to remember.

normally did the trick. It didn't appear to be working this time.

“But the dragon-” Brother Watchtower began.

“There won't be any dragon! We won't need it. Look,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “it's quite simple. The lad will have a marvellous sword. Everyone knows kings have marvellous swords-”

“This'd be the marvellous sword you've been telling us about, would it?” said Brother Plasterer.

“And when it touches the dragon,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “it'll be . . . foom!”

“Yeah, they do that,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “My uncle kicked a swamp dragon once. He found it eating his pumpkins. Damn thing nearly took his leg off.”

The Supreme Grand Master sighed. A few more hours, yes, and then no more of this. The only thing he hadn't decided was whether to let them alone- who'd believe them, after all?-or send the Guard to arrest them for being terminally stupid.

“No,” he said patiently, “I mean the dragon will vanish. We'll have sent it back. End of dragon.”

“Won't people be a bit suspicious?” said Brother Plasterer. “Won't they expect lumps of dragon all over the place?”

“No,” said the Supreme Grand Master triumphantly, “because one touch from the Sword of Truth and Justice will totally destroy the Spawn of Evil!”

The Brethren stared at him.

“That's what they'll believe, anyway,” he added. “We can provide a bit of mystic smoke at the time.”

“Dead easy, mystic smoke,” said Brother Fingers.

“No bits, then?” said Brother Plasterer, a shade disappointed.

Brother Watchtower coughed. “Dunno if people will accept that,” he said. “Sounds a bit too neat, like.”

“Listen,” snapped the Supreme Grand Master, “they'll accept anything! They'll see it happen! People will be so keen to see the boy win, they won't think twice about it! Depend upon it! Now ... let us commence . . .”

He concentrated.

Yes, it was easier. Easier every time. He could feel the scales, feel the rage of the dragon as he reached into the place where the dragons went and took control.

This was power, and it was his.

...

Sergeant Colon winced. “Ow.”

“Don't be a big softy,” said Lady Ramkin cheerfully, tightening the bandage with a well-practised skill handed down through many generations of Ramkin womenfolk. “He hardly touched you.”

“And he's very sorry,” said Carrot sharply. “Show the sergeant how sorry you are. Go on.”