Wyrd Sisters (Discworld, Book 6)
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Terry's Pratchett's profoundly irreverent novels are consistent number one bestsellers in England, where they have catapulted him into the highest echelons of parody next to Mark Twain, Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Adams, and Carl Hiaasen.
Meet Granny Weatherwx, the most highly regarded non-leader a coven of non-social witches could ever have. Generally, these loners don't get involved in anything, mush less royal intrigue. but then there are those times they can't help it. As Granny Weatherwzx is about to discover, though, it's a lot harder to stir up trouble in the castle than some theatrical types would have you think. Even when you've got a few unexpected spells up your sleave.
though they were pawns on the chessboard of fate. In the middle of this elemental storm a fire gleamed among the dripping furze bushes like the madness in a weasel’s eye. It illuminated three hunched figures. As the cauldron bubbled an eldritch voice shrieked: “When shall we three meet again?” There was a pause. Finally another voice said, in far more ordinary tones: “Well, I can do next Tuesday.” Through the fathomless deeps of space swims the star turtle Great A’Tuin, bearing on its back
SHOUTING THINGS AT YOU IN THE STREET? “About what? Dying?” NO, I SUPPOSE NOT. IT WOULD BE TOO MUCH TO EXPECT, said Death sourly. THEY LEAVE IT ALL TO ME. “Who do?” said Verence, mystified. FATE. DESTINY. ALL THE REST OF THEM. Death laid a hand on the king’s shoulder. THE FACT IS, I’M AFRAID, YOU’RE DUE TO BECOME A GHOST. “Oh.” He looked down at his…body, which seemed solid enough. Then someone walked through him. DON’T LET IT UPSET YOU. Verence watched his own stiff corpse being carried
alone knew what kind of demon would respond to a summoning like this. Granny was also a little uneasy. She didn’t much care for demons in any case, and all this business with incantations and implements whiffed of wizardry. It was pandering to the things, making them feel important. Demons ought to come when they were called. But protocol dictated that the host witch had the choice, and Nanny quite liked demons, who were male, or apparently so. At this point Granny was alternately cajoling and
lasted more than fifteen years. Not even frogs can manage that. The Fool drew back, his eyes glazed, his expression one of puzzlement. “Did you feel the world move?” he said. Magrat peered over his shoulder at the forest. “I think she’s done it,” she said. “Done what?” Magrat hesitated. “Oh. Nothing. Nothing much, really.” “Shall we have another try? I don’t think we got it quite right that time.” Magrat nodded. This time it lasted only fifteen seconds. It seemed longer. A tremor ran
structure was about to collapse, opened a tiny pipeline at the base and let the iron-hard stream of wrath power the turbines of revenge. She felt the land below her, even through several feet of foundations, flagstones, one thickness of leather and two thicknesses of sock. She felt it waiting. She heard the king say, “My own flesh and blood? Why has he done this to me? I’m going to confront him!” She gently took Nanny Ogg’s hand. “Come, Gytha,” she said. Lord Felmet sat back in his throne