Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

The door of the Mended Drum had been torn off during riots so often that specially-tempered hinges had recently been installed, and the fact that the next tremendous crash tore the whole door and doorframe out of the wall only showed that quite a lot of money had been wasted. A figure in the midst of the wreckage tried to raise itself on its elbows, groaned, and slumped back.

“Well, it would seem that it's all-” the captain began, and Nobby said: “It's that bloody troll!”

“What?” said Vimes.

“It's the troll! The one they have on the door!”

They advanced with extreme caution.

It was, indeed, Detritus the splatter.

It is very difficult to hurt a creature that is, to all intents and purposes, a mobile stone. Someone seemed to have managed it, though. The fallen figure was groaning like a couple of bricks being crushed together.

“That's a turnup for the books,” said the sergeant vaguely. All three of them turned and peered at the brightly-lit rectangle where the doorway had been. Things had definitely quietened down a bit in there.

“You don't think,” said the sergeant, "that he's winning, do you?''

The captain thrust out his jaw. ' 'We owe it to our colleague and fellow officer,“ he said, ”to find out."

There was a whimper from behind them. They turned and saw Nobby hopping on one leg and clutching a foot.

“What's up with you, man?” said Vimes.

Nobby made agonised noises.

Sergeant Colon began to understand. Although cautious obsequiousness was the general tenor of Watch behaviour, there wasn't one member of the entire squad who hadn't, at some time, been at the wrong end of Detritus's fists. Nobby had merely tried to play catch-up in the very best traditions of policemen everywhere.

“He went and kicked him inna rocks, sir,” he said.

“Disgraceful,” said the captain vaguely. He hesitated. “Do trolls have rocks?” he said.

“Take it from me, sir.”

“Good grief,” Vimes said. “Dame Nature moves in strange ways, doesn't she.”

“Right you are, sir,” said the sergeant obediently.

“And now,” said the captain, drawing his sword, “forward!”

“Yessir.”

“This means you too, Sergeant,” the captain added.

“Yessir.”

...

It was possibly the most circumspect advance in the history of military manoeuvres, right down at the bottom end of the scale that things like the Charge of the Light Brigade are at the top of.

They peered cautiously around the ravished doorway.

There were a number of people sprawled across the tables, or what remained of the tables. Those who were still conscious looked unhappy about it.

nside of the Mended Drum is now legendary as the most famous disreputable tavern on the Disc-world, and such a feature of the city that, after recent unavoidable redecorations, the new owner spent days recreating the original patina of dirt, soot and less identifiable substances on the walls and imported a ton of pre-rotted rushes for the floor. The drinkers were the usual bunch of heroes, cut throats, mercenaries, desperadoes and villains, and only microscopic analysis could have told which was which. Thick coils of smoke hung in the air, perhaps to avoid touching the walls.

The conversation dipped fractionally as the two guards wandered in, and then rose to its former level. A couple of cronies waved to Nobby.

He realised that Carrot was busy.