It is said that the gods play games with the lives of men. But what games, and why, and the identities of the actual pawns, and what the game is, and what the rules are-who knows?
Best not to speculate.
Thunder rolled. . . .
It rolled a six.
...
Now pull back briefly from the dripping streets of Ankh-Morpork, pan across the morning mists of the Disc, and focus in again on a young man heading for the city with all the openness, sincerity and innocence of purpose of an iceberg drifting into a major shipping lane.
The young man is called Carrot. This is not because of his hair, which his father has always clipped short for reasons of Hygiene. It is because of his shape.
It is the kind of tapering shape a boy gets through clean living, healthy eating, and good mountain air in huge lungfuls. When he flexes his shoulder muscles, other muscles have to move out of the way first.
He is also bearing a sword presented to him in mysterious circumstances. Very mysterious circumstances. Surprisingly, therefore, there is something very unexpected about this sword. It isn't magical. It hasn't got a name. When you wield it you don't get a feeling of power, you just get blisters; you could believe it was a sword that had been used so much that it had ceased to be anything other than a quintessential sword, a long piece of metal with very sharp edges. And it hasn't got destiny written all over it. It's practically unique, in fact.
...
Thunder rolled.
The gutters of the city gurgled softly as the detritus of the night was carried along, in some cases protesting feebly.
When it came to the recumbent figure of Captain Vimes, the water diverted and flowed around him in two streams. Vimes opened his eyes. There was a moment of empty peace before memory hit him like a shovel.
It had been a bad day for the Watch. There had been the funeral of Herbert Gaskin, for one thing. Poor old Gaskin. He had broken one of the fundamental rules of being a guard. It wasn't the sort of rule that someone like Gaskin could break twice. And so he'd been lowered into the sodden ground with the rain drumming on his coffin and no-one present to mourn him but the three surviving members of the Night Watch, the most despised group of men in the entire city. Sergeant Colon had been in tears. Poor old Gaskin.
o;Of course, in the old days it was easy,” said Brother Doorkeeper happily.
“Why?”
“He just had to kill a dragon.”
The Supreme Grand Master clapped his hands together and offered a silent prayer to any god who happened to be listening. He'd been right about these people. Sooner or later their rambling little minds took them where you wanted them to go.
“What an interesting idea,” he trilled.
“Wouldn't work,” said Brother Watchtower dourly. “There ain't no big dragons now.”
“There could be.”
The Supreme Grand Master cracked his knuckles.
“Come again?” said Brother Watchtower.
“I said there could be.”
There was a nervous laugh from the depths of Brother Watchtower's cowl.
“What, the real thing? Great big scales and wings?”
“Yes.”
“Breath like a blast furnace.”
“Yes.”
“Them big claw things on its feet?”