Need? Need? it roared, when the sound had died away. You talk to me of need? Isn 't it the tradition that the finest flower of womanhood should be sent to the dragon to ensure peace and prosperity ?
“But, you see, we have always been moderately peaceful and reasonably prosperous-”
DO YOU WANT THIS STATE OF AFFAIRS TO CONTINUE?
The force of the thought drove Wonse to his knees.
“Of course,” he managed.
The dragon stretched its claws luxuriantly.
Then the need is not mine, it is yours, it thought.
Now get out of my sight.
Wonse sagged as it left his mind.
The dragon slithered over the cut-price hoard, leapt up on to the ledge of one of the hall's big windows, and smashed the stained glass with its head. The multicoloured image of a city father cascaded into the other debris below.
The long neck stretched out into the early evening air, and turned like a seeking needle. Lights were coming on across the city. The sound of a million people being alive made a muted, deep thrumming.
The dragon breathed deeply, joyfully.
Then it hauled the rest of its body on to the ledge, shouldered the remains of the window's frame aside, and leapt into the sky.
...
“What is it?” said Nobby.
It was vaguely round, of a woodish texture, and when struck made a noise like a ruler plucked over the edge of a desk.
Sergeant Colon tapped it again.
“I give in,” he said.
Carrot proudly lifted it out of the battered packaging.
“It's a cake,” he said, shoving both hands under the thing and raising it with some difficulty. “From my mother.” He managed to put it on the table without trapping his fingers.
“Can you eat it?” said Nobby. “It's taken months to get here. You'd think it would go stale.”
“Oh, it's to a special dwarfish recipe,” said Carrot. “Dwarfish cakes don't go stale.”
Sergeant Colon gave it another sharp rap. “I suppose not,” he conceded.
“It's incredibly sustaining,” said Carrot. “Practically magical. The secret has been handed down from dwarf to dwarf for centuries. One tiny piece of this and you won't want anything to eat all day.”
“Get away?” said Colon.
“A dwarf can go hundreds of miles with a cake like this in his pack,” Carrot went on.
“I bet he can,” said Colon gloomily, “I bet all the time he'd be thinking, 'Bloody hell, I hope I can find something else to eat soon, otherwise it's the bloody cake again.' ”
Carrot, to whom the word irony meant something to do with metal, picked up his pike and after a couple of impressive rebounds managed to cut the cake into approximately four slices.
“There we are,” he said cheerfully. “One for each of us, and one for the captain.” He realised what he had said. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Yes,” said Colon flatly.