Guards! Guards! (Discworld)

Guards! Guards! (Discworld)

Terry Pratchett

Language: English

Pages: 416

ISBN: 0062225758

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Welcome to Guards! Guards!, the eighth book in Terry Pratchett’s legendary Discworld series.

Long believed extinct, a superb specimen of draco nobilis ("noble dragon" for those who don't understand italics) has appeared in Discworld's greatest city. Not only does this unwelcome visitor have a nasty habit of charbroiling everything in its path, in rather short order it is crowned King (it is a noble dragon, after all...). How did it get there? How is the Unique and Supreme Lodge of the Elucidated Brethren of the Ebon Night involved? Can the Ankh-Morpork City Watch restore order – and the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork to power?

Magic, mayhem, and a marauding dragon...who could ask for anything more?

Jokes: Philosophical Thoughts on Joking Matters

Geek Wisdom

Tales from a Not-So-Talented Pop Star (Dork Diaries, Book 3)

Florida Roadkill (Serge Storms, Book 1)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a total mystery to him why he chose to dart forward, bringing Carrot’s sword up in a half-baked attempt at blocking the stroke… Perhaps it was something to do with doing it by the book. There was a clang. Not a particularly loud one. He felt something bright and silver whirr past his ear and strike the wall. Wonse’s mouth fell open. He dropped the remnant of his sword and backed away, clutching The Summoning. “You’ll be sorry,” he hissed. “You’ll all be very sorry!” He started to mumble

white hair back under a headscarf and extended a veiny brown hand. “Brenda Rodley. That’s Rosie Devant-Molei. She runs the Sunshine Sanctuary, you know.” The other woman, who had the build of someone who could pick up carthorses in one hand and shoe them with the other, gave him a friendly grin. “Samuel Vimes,” said Vimes weakly. “My father was a Sam,” said Brenda vaguely. “You can always trust a Sam, he said.” She shooed a dragon back into its box. “We’re just helping Sybil. Old friends, you

window, pulled himself up to it, and hissed: “Now let us in, I’m soaked.” There was another damp pause. “These deeps…did you say mighty or nightly?” “Mighty, I said. Mighty deeps. On account of being, you know, deep. It’s me, Brother Fingers.” “It sounded like nightly to me,” said the invisible doorkeeper cautiously. “Look, do you want the bloody book or not? I don’t have to do this. I could be at home in bed.” “You sure it was mighty?” “Listen, I know how deep the bloody deeps are all

squinted, trying to see what was on fire. Down below, in their long kennels, the little dragons howled. Traditionally, upon waking from blissfully uneventful insensibility, you ask: “Where am I?” It’s probably part of the racial consciousness or something. Vimes said it. Tradition allows a choice of second lines. A key point in the selection process is an audit to see that the body has all the bits it remembers having yesterday. Vimes checked. Then comes the tantalizing bit. Now that the

case it’s got to be a lot less than a million-to-one chance,” said Carrot. “It could be a hundred-to-one. If the dragon’s flying slowly and it’s a big spot, it could be practically a certainty.” Colon’s lips shaped themselves around the phrase, It’s a certainty but it might just work. He shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “So what we’ve got to do, then,” said Nobby slowly, “is adjust the odds…” Now there was a shallow hole in the mortar near the middle bar. It wasn’t much, Vimes knew, but it

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