Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

Errol remained quite still for a while and then, with extreme difficulty, half-crawled and half-rolled out of his box. Strange messages were coming from the massive part of his brain that controlled his digestive system. It was demanding certain things that he couldn't put a name to. Fortunately it was able to describe them in minute detail to the complex receptors in his enormous nostrils. They flared, subjecting the air of the room to an intimate examination. His head turned, triangulating.

He pulled himself across the floor and began to eat, with every sign of enjoyment, Carrot's tin of armour polish.

...

People streamed past Vimes as he strolled up the Street of Small Gods. Smoke rose into the air from the Plaza of Broken Moons.

The dragon squatted in the middle of it, on what remained of the coronation dais. It had a self-satisfied expression.

There was no sign of the throne, or of its occupant, although it was possible that complicated forensic examination of the small pile of charcoal in the wrecked and smouldering woodwork might offer some clue.

Vimes caught hold of an ornamental fountain to steady himself as the crowds stampeded by. Every street out of the plaza was packed with struggling bodies. Not noisy ones, Vimes noticed. People weren't wasting their breath with screaming any more. There was just this solid, deadly determination to be somewhere else.

The dragon spread its wings and flapped them luxuriously. The people at the rear of the crowd took this as a signal to climb up the backs of the people in front of them and run for safety from head to head.

Within a few seconds the square was empty of all save the stupid and the terminally bewildered. Even the badly trampled were making a spirited crawl for the nearest exit.

Vimes looked around him. There seemed to be a lot of fallen flags, some of which were being eaten by an elderly goat which couldn't believe its luck. He could distantly see Cut-me-own-Throat on his hands and knees, trying to restore the contents of his tray.

By Vimes's side a small child waved a flag hesitantly and shouted “Hurrah”.

Then everything went quiet.

Vimes bent down.

“I think you should be going home,” he said.

The child squinted up at him.

“Are you a Watch man?” it said.

“No,” said Vimes. “And yes.”

“What happened to the king, Watch man?”

“Er. I think he's gone off for a rest,” said Vimes.

“My auntie said I shouldn't talk to Watch men,” said the child.

“Do you think it might be a good idea to go home and tell her how obedient you've been, then?” said Vimes.

“My auntie said, if I was naughty, she'd put me on the roof and call the dragon,” said the child, conversationally. “My auntie said it eats you all up starting with the legs, so's you can see what's happening.”

“Why don't you go home and tell your auntie she's acting in the best traditions of Ankh-Morpork child-rearing?” said Vimes. “Go on. Run along.”

“It crunches up all your bones,” said the child happily. “And when it gets to your head, it-”

“Look, it's up there!” shouted Vimes. “The great big dragon that crunches you up! Now go home!”

The child looked up at the thing perched on the crippled dais.

“I haven't seen it crunch anyone yet,” it complained.

“Push off or you'll feel the back of my hand,” said Vimes.

This seemed to fit the bill. The child nodded understandingly.

“Right. Can I shout hurrah again?”