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Swamp
dragons
shot
determinedly
out
of
the
wreckage
like
champagne
corks
,
wings
whirring
frantically
.
Still
the
smoke
unrolled
.
But
there
was
something
in
there
,
some
point
of
fierce
white
light
that
was
gently
rising
.
It
disappeared
from
view
as
it
passed
a
stricken
window
,
and
then
,
with
a
piece
of
roof
tile
still
spinning
on
the
top
of
his
head
,
Errol
climbed
above
his
own
smoke
and
ascended
into
the
skies
of
Ankh
-
Morpork
.
The
sunlight
glinted
off
his
silver
scales
as
he
hovered
about
a
hundred
feet
up
,
turning
slowly
,
balancing
nicely
on
his
own
flame
.
.
.
Vimes
,
awaiting
death
on
the
plaza
,
realised
that
his
mouth
was
hanging
open
.
He
shut
it
again
.
There
was
absolutely
no
sound
in
the
city
now
but
the
noise
of
Errol
’
s
ascent
.
They
can
rearrange
their
own
plumbing
,
Vimes
told
himself
bemusedly
.
To
suit
circumstances
.
He
’
s
made
it
work
in
reverse
.
But
his
thingys
,
his
genes
.
.
.
surely
he
must
have
been
halfway
to
it
anyway
.
No
wonder
the
little
bugger
has
got
such
stubby
wings
.
His
body
must
have
known
he
wasn
’
t
going
to
need
them
,
except
to
steer
.
Good
grief
.
I
’
m
watching
the
first
ever
dragon
to
flame
backwards
.
He
risked
a
glance
immediately
above
him
.
The
great
dragon
was
frozen
,
its
enormous
bloodshot
eyes
concentrating
on
the
tiny
creature
.
