Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“What do you reckon on the fight, then?”

Vimes looked back up. Smoke trails spiralled across the city.

“I'm afraid it's not going to work,” said Lady Ramkin. “Oh. Hallo, Nobby.”

“Afternoon, ma'am,” said Nobby, touching what he thought was his forelock.

“What d'you mean, it's not going to work?” said Vimes. “Look at him go! It hasn't hit him yet!”

“Yes, but his flame has touched it several times. It doesn't seem to have any effect. It's not hot enough, I think. Oh, he's dodging well. But he's got to be lucky every time. It has only got to be lucky once.”

The meaning of this sank in.

“You mean,” said Vimes, “all this is just-just show? He's just doing it to impress?”

“ 'S'not his fault,” said Colon, materialising behind them. “It's like dogs, innit? Doesn't really dawn on the poor little bugger that he's up against a big one. He's just ready for a scrap.”

Both dragons appeared to realise that the fight was the well-known Klatchian standoff. With another smoke ring and a billow of white flame they parted and retreated a few hundred yards.

The king hovered, flapping its wings quickly. Height. That was the thing. When dragon fought dragon, height was always the thing . . .

rabbed a handful of chain and wrapped it around one pudgy fist.

“Some of those guards don't know how to treat-” she began.

“No time, no time,” said Vimes, grabbing her arm. It was like trying to drag a mountain.

The cheering stopped, abruptly.

There was a sound behind Vimes. It was not, particularly, a loud noise. It just had a peculiarly nasty carrying quality. It was the click of four sets of talons hitting the flagstones at the same time.

Vimes looked around and up.

Soot clung to the dragon's hide. A few pieces of charred wood had lodged here and there, and were still smouldering. The magnificent bronze scales were streaked with black.

It lowered its head until Vimes was a few feet away from its eyes, and tried to focus on him.

Probably not worth running, Vimes told himself. It's not as if I've got the energy anyway.

He felt Lady Ramkin's hand engulf his.

“Jolly well done,” she said. “It nearly worked.”

...

Charred and blazing wreckage rained down around the distillery. The pond was a swamp of debris, covered with a coating of ash. Out of it, dripping slime, rose Sergeant Colon.

He clawed his way to the bank and pulled himself up, like some sea-dwelling lifeform that was anxious to get the whole evolution thing over with in one go.

Nobby was already there, spread out like a frog, leaking water.

“Is that you, Nobby?” said Sergeant Colon anxiously.

“It's me, Sergeant.”

“I glad about that, Nobby,” said Colon fervently.

“I wish it wasn't me, Sergeant.”