Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Terry Pratchett's Guards! Guards!

'What! A real dragon?'
The Supreme Grand Master's eyes rolled in the privacy of his hood.
'Yes, a real one. Not a little pet swamp dragon. The genuine article.'
'But I thought they were, you know... miffs.'
'They were myths and they were real,' he said loudly. 'Both a wave and a particle.'
'You've lost me there,' said Brother Plasterer.

...He is also bearing a sword presented to him in mysterious circumstances. Very mysterious circumstances. Surprisingly, therefore, there is something very unexpected about this sword. It isn't magical. It hasn't got a name. When you wield it you don't get a feeling of power, you just get blisters; you could believe it was a sword that has been used so much that it had ceased to anything other than a quintessential sword, a long piece of metal with very sharp edges. And it hasn't got destiny written all over it.
It's practically unique, in fact. 
(Hilarious as "He" is not a very sharp witted bloke and the sword is a symbol for reason.)

He opened the book.
He'd been rather surprised to find, after pages and pages of pious ramblings, that the actual Summoning itself was one short sentence. Not a chant, not a brief piece of poetry, but a mere assemblage of meaningless syllables. De Malachite said they caused interference patterns in the waves of reality, but the daft old fool was probably making it up as he went along. That was the trouble with wizards, they had to make everything look difficult. All you really needed was willpower.

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