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    Wyrd Sisters: A Discworld Novel
    Wyrd Sisters: A Discworld Novel
    Wyrd Sisters: A Discworld Novel
    Ebook344 pages5 hours

    Wyrd Sisters: A Discworld Novel

    By Terry Pratchett

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    In Terry Pratchett's Wyrd Sisters, Granny Weatherwax teams with two other witches—Nanny Ogg and Margat Garlick—as an unlikely alliance to save a prince and restore him to the throne of Lancre, in a tale that borrows—or is it parodies—some of William Shakespeare's best-loved works.

    Meet Granny Weatherwax, the most highly regarded non-leader a coven of non-social witches could ever have. Generally, these loners don't get involved in anything, must less royal intrigue. But then there are those times they can't help it. As Granny Weatherwax is about to discover, 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 sleeve.

    The Discworld novels can be read in any order but Wyrd Sisters is the sixth Discworld book and the second in the Witches collection. The Witches collection includes:

    • Equal Rites
    • Wyrd Sisters
    • Witches Abroad
    • Lords and Ladies
    • Maskerade
    • Carpe Jugulum
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateOct 13, 2009
    ISBN9780061807152
    Wyrd Sisters: A Discworld Novel
    Author

    Terry Pratchett

    Terry Pratchett (1948–2015) was the acclaimed creator of the globally revered Discworld series. In all, he authored more than fifty bestselling books, which have sold more than one hundred million copies worldwide. His novels have been widely adapted for stage and screen, and he was the winner of multiple prizes, including the Carnegie Medal. He was awarded a knighthood by Queen Elizabeth II for his services to literature in 2009, although he always wryly maintained that his greatest service to literature was to avoid writing any.

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    Reviews for Wyrd Sisters

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    • 4/5
      The real start to the Lancre witches books is great. I really liked Equal Rites, but this book was different. It wasn't really about women breaking into a male field. It was about women doing witch magic. A different path, but no less entertaining. Nanny Ogg sure is something. And Granny. And Magrat. I'm glad Lancre has them to take care of it. Also, the Shakespeare allusions/parody were wonderful. Makes me almost want to read Macbeth!
    • 2/5


      Why how clever an overly wordy, clever, twisted, and self-amusing novel based on Hamlet.....

      A King is dead by the hand of his cousin & cousin's wife. Cousin hates the kingdom & the life of the kingdom hates him. The royal heir has disappeared as has the crown. The murdered King is now a ghost. The new king has visions of blood on his hands that can not be washed away.

      The land, flora, & fauna of the kingdom is so unhappy they all end up in front of the Main witch's house wanting her to "fix" the problem. The Fool falls in love w/ one of the 3 witches and then is sent to find the heir. The witches move the kingdom into the future in order for the rightful heir to return & claim his kingdom....

      Terry Pratchett is far too clever for himself, and there is too much nonsense in his writing... so much that it became tedious 2/3 of the way through. It seems as he was writing for himself in a very self-congratulating manner: "Wow, Look how very clever this sentence is!"

      Too overwritten, so much so, I lost the main sense of the story..... PAH!
    • 4/5
      This is the first book of Terry pratchett's I every read. When I was about seven my mum had this and feet of clay, I was obsessed with the covers. I would sometimes stare at them for a good hour. I would play with them when ever I could get my hands on them. I love the covers still to this day. I love the written words even more. I find it unfair so much comical genius is given to one man alone *sigh* No who am I kidding I LOVE the fact! This one is about the witches. Granny weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Magrat. These three characters have enough spark to light a huge village and half the world with.Another thing I adore about them is they seem so foolish, so witty and sometimes downright rude but really they are a force to be reckoned with. No matter how silly it sometimes gets you also know that no matter what they face they win. plain and simple. In this novel you see the king killed and suddenly become a ghost, you see the real heir as a baby took by loyal servants and left with the witches and you see the scoundrel over take the throne. The witches decide to hide the baby with a traveling theatre and give him three gifts as godmothers should. The scoundrel demands that the witches be brought in and I love that fact the guards do not want to. Utterly fantastic. This is the book of all books that began my whole discworld fanatic life, from if i'm honest childhood. I really, really do not like to ruin these books with the telling of them that will do them no justice (for me there are no words good enough to even just explain the wit.) If you haven't read the discworld collection this could be a great place for you to start, if you don't mind a bit of backtracking (this will have no effect to the other stories, you will not miss anything but you must read the rest) Happy reading *smile as big as the cheshire cat*
    • 5/5
      Brilliant. Simply brilliant.
    • 5/5
      Well, now, I *did* enjoy this one more than the other Discworld books so far. I appreciate how Pratchett plays with Shakespeare, the Fool is a fantastic character, Granny Weatherwax is really growing on me, and Death makes an adorable appearance.
    • 2/5
      OK - typical discworld.
    • 4/5
      Granny Weatherwax and the other witches are charged with caring for the murdered King's infant son and end up freezing the kingdom for 15 years so that the child can grow up and take his rightful place on the throne. Terry Pratchett was a genius. His characters are about as funny as characters can get and his world building is very close to flawless. The books can be read in any order, but I'm going for publication order the first time around. Death is my favorite character and Rincewind follows close behind, but there is not one storyline that isn't as good or better than most other stories I've read.
    • 5/5
      This is the first Pratchett book that I read, and I literally laughed until I cried. And that's saying something. His writing is absolutely incredible, because while it's satirical, the story line is fascinating all on its own. I look forward to devouring each and every one of Sir Pratchett's books with great glee.
    • 5/5
      Wyrd Sisters is the first book in the Discworld series to involve the witches of Lancre, a small kingdom whose king has just been killed (or clumsily fell down the stairs to his death, depending on who is telling the story). This means that you can easily read this book without having read any other Discworld book. Granny Weatherwax is a formidable witch who doesn't trust what she can't see with her eyes and, frankly, doesn't trust many people either. Nanny Ogg is a mother and grandmother of so many I doubt even she can keep count. But you can always count on her for a dirty joke or two, at which Granny will scoff. Magrat Garlick is a new-age witch, who likes her crystals and candles, but still has a lot to learn as far as the other two (more traditional) witches are concerned. What's concerning them right now is the baby that's been left at their feet, a royal baby who father is now dead. They do the proper thing and hide the child and the crown and settle back into normal life in Lancre. Except Lancre itself is no longer normal. What does one do when the very country itself (more than just the people within it) rejects the usurper to the throne? What does the usurper do to rewrite history? Should the witches even involve themselves in the matter?As with all Pratchett novels, this one is very funny. The footnotes are often the best part, explaining, for instance just why the Theives have a Guild and why guild members must therefore give receipts to those they rob. The story involves many references to Shakepeare's plays, including Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello, and others. The characters are by turns endearing, intriguing, and in some cases horrifying. Death makes his usual cameo appearance and steals the show, literally. This is my favorite series, and I'm eagerly rereading the whole set.
    • 4/5
      This one came highly recommended by an LT friend as a possible starting point in the series (there are many, as the series need not at all be read in order, save for a few cases). This is a fantastic take on Shakespeare's Macbeth, and if you've actually read or seen the play, you'll get a lot out of the various jokes and insides made about that specific play and Shakespeare's approach to speech and playwriting in general. If you haven't, it's a jolly good story about three witches who decide to form a covenant to help the true heir to the throne take up his post, after a mad new king has done away with his predecessor to take power. The witches would have left well enough alone had the new king and his duchess been decent rulers, but the king is showing sings of advanced bipolar activity and his queen is a power-hungry sadist, which puts the whole kingdom on edge. One of my favourite quotes is the following: "There are thousands of good reasons why magic doesn't rule the world. They're called witches and wizards. It was probably some wonderful organization on the part of Nature to protect itself. It saw to it that anyone with magical talent was about as ready to co-operate as a she-bear with a toothache so all that dangerous power was safely dissipated as random bickering and rivalry. There were differences in style of course. Wizards assassinated each other in draughty corridors, witches just cut one another dead in the street. And they were all as self-centred as a spinning top. Even when they help other people, they're secretly doing it for themselves."Pratchett's humour is priceless in that he obviously has a vast classical culture which he blends with contemporary and timeless themes which result in a very clever commentary on our modern and very screwed up world, but all this done in with very British-humour, which I simply can't resist. I can now be counted among the many Terry Pratchett fans and there will be a lot more Discworld in my future, and probably other non-Discworld books too. Strongly recommended, and yes, a good place to start with the Discworld, along with Small Gods (which is where I actually started) and Guards! Guards!, both excellent and very funny.
    • 4/5
      In this Discworld novel, Terry Pratchett takes on Shakespeare with a trio of witches, the killing of a king, ghosts in abundance, and an heir that is spirited away for safety. If you’re familiar with Shakespeare, there are a lot of laughs. While there are still a lot of laughs if you’re not, you may get the feeling that you’re missing something. I’ve read a few of the Bard’s plays, but I frequently felt that I should have been getting a reference and wasn’t. A sort of whoosing feeling going over my head. But most of the story doesn’t rely on Bardic references. Nanny Ogg and Magrat Garlick join Granny Weatherwax as witches of Lancre, and, despite the witches habit of not interfering with things, find themselves having to right the wrong of the king’s murder. Between seeing how the witches- not being city, or even town or village people- react to theater (they don’t understand the conventions of men dressed as women, of fake sword play or the like), watching as too many inspirations hit Hwel the dwarvish playwright (causing a lot of rewriting, as some of his inspirations are more Charlie Chaplin than Hamlet) and wondering if the witches will be able to get the rightful heir onto the throne there is a lot funny stuff. Not one of Pratchett’s best, but definitely worth a read.
    • 5/5
      Loved it! Pratchett is always hilarious and enjoyable. This was a splendid subversion of expected tropes. Very fun read.
    • 5/5
      Love the dynamic between the witches, the frantic Shakespearian writing of Hwel and the elocution of Tomjon, and the menace of the Duke and Duchess!
    • 4/5
      Wyrd Sisters is the sixth Discworld novel and a pretty good one to start with, although I still would recommend Guards! Guards!, Going Postal, or maybe Small Gods over it.Wyrd Sisters is a story of witches and kings and Shakespeare and, of course, destiny. But destiny, says Wyrd Sisters, is something that you create.“Destiny is important, see, but people go wrong when they think it controls them. It’s the other way around.”When the king of Lancre is murdered by the villainous Duke and his wife, the Duchess, a local coven of three witches find themselves in a whole heap of trouble. The plot riffs of off Macbeth, and there are plenty of references to other of Shakespeare’s works. I’m not particularly familiar with Shakespeare, and I had the feeling that I was missing some of the jokes. Still, with a Discworld novel there are so many jokes that missing just a few doesn’t make it any less funny.I love the characters of the witches! Granny Weatherwax is hilariously arrogant but so capable that its easy to believe she could do anything. Nanny Ogg is a fairly amiable person, the matriarch of a huge clan encompassing her fifteen children and sprawling hordes of grandchildren and great grandchildren. Magrat Garlick, the youngest of the witches, is an earnest young women who believes in occult jewelry and magical knives but at the end of the day shows a tendency towards practicality. Together, they are hilarious and unstoppable.All around Wyrd Sisters is a very fun book with a lovable group of women at its core. I would recommend it to about anyone (my non-fantasy reading grandmother loves these books!) and especially to anyone with a fondness for Shakespeare.Originally posted on The Illustrated Page.
    • 3/5
      3.5 stars

      I read this for the Free Space for Halloween Bingo

      She gave the guards a nod as she went through. It didn’t occur to either of them to stop her because witches, like beekeepers and big gorillas, went where they liked.

      Part of the Discworld but also the Witches series, Granny, Nanny, and Magrat run and steal the show. I would describe this as kind of a Monty Python take on Macbeth and Hamlet (with a little bit of King Lear, Sleeping Beauty, Hansel and Gretel, and probably splashes of more I missed). If you're a reader of the Discworld, you'll be ready for the little bit chaotic, humor, brick wall bleakness, and underlining too true takes on humanity.

      A kingdom is made up of all sorts of things. Ideas. Loyalties. Memories. It all sort of exists together. And then all these things create some kind of life. Not a body kind of life, more like a living idea. Made up of everything that’s alive and what they’re thinking. And what the people before them thought.”

      We start off with the murder of a King, who becomes a ghost, our three witches taking a baby from soldiers, the new mad King and his reveling in her evilness wife, and a wise fool. Even though the witches normally try to stay out of things, Granny decides that she needs to set things to rights and have the true heir on the throne. I enjoyed the first half, which was more Macbeth, than the magically fast forward 15 years Hamlet like second.

      The duke smiled out over the forest. “It works,” he said. “The people mutter against the witches. How do you do it, Fool?”
      “Jokes, nuncle. And gossip. People are halfway ready to believe it anyway. Everyone respects the witches. The point is that no one actually likes them very much.”

      Shining through and underlining all these seemingly chaotic going-ons, are some excellent hot takes on propaganda and how history is recorded, by who, why they are writing events and figures the way they are, and how this influences and shapes future attitudes. This is an aspect of history that I don't think is talked about enough, questioning the motives behind historical recorders.

      “But I’m his Fool,” said the Fool. “A Fool has to be loyal to his master. Right up until he dies. I’m afraid it’s tradition. Tradition is very important.”
      “But you don’t even like being a Fool!”
      “I hate it. But that’s got nothing to do with it. If I’ve got to be a Fool, I’ll do it properly.”
      “That’s really stupid,”said Magrat.
      “Foolish, I’d prefer.”

      Granny is the immediate stand-out in this but the Fool is the dark horse. In all this spoofing, he has some of the most thought provoking quotes; they bordered on dystopian at times. I couldn't help reading this through a current political climate lens and it hurt at times reading the scenes with the Fool, the new King, and his wife. Even when we get the second part of the witches work to change things, it doesn't end up quite to their preference but maybe for the best? This would be a great book club selection as I highlighted the heck out of this and could have endless discussions about it.

      I've mentioned before how humor is a tough one for me, so that hurt my overall enjoyment along with the frenetic/chaotic tone pushing against my more structured self. Many friends have said this is one of their favorites from the disc world and I can see why, the three witches will delight you, I felt the second half let them down a bit. Even though things may not have worked out exactly like Granny wanted, I leave you with some inspiration from her,

      Granny Weatherwax was often angry. She considered it one of her strong points. Genuine anger was one of the world’s great creative forces. But you had to learn how to control it. That didn’t mean you let it trickle away. It meant you dammed it, carefully, let it develop a working head, let it drown whole valleys of the mind and then, just when the whole 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.
    • 5/5
      This was the first Discworld novel I ever read, I picked up the hardcover from a ‘new books’ display while waiting at the library, and never looked back. Excellent book in an hilarious series. The three witches of Lancre get involved in the royal succession, and something suspiciously like a certain Scottish play (it’s bad luck to say the name).
    • 5/5
      This helps make up for enduring Macbeth as taught in high school.
    • 4/5
      A nice bit of brain candy
    • 4/5
      Fun, tongue-in-cheek fantasy novel. My first taste of Pratchett.
    • 3/5
      Book 6 of the Discworld series.Much the same style as earlier volumes, but with the minor variation that this plot consisted of one major thread, while earlier books had multiple threads that came together at the end.The wry humour is still there, but I'm starting to wonder if the occasional smiles are worth the 350+ pages of reading (eg quaffing is much the same as drinking, but you spill more). But, still, a pleasant diversion.
    • 5/5
      When King Verence of Lancre is murdered by his cousin, Duke Felmet, the three witches Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Magrat Garlick know that this will not mean any good. By coincidence, they happen to get the old king’s son Tomjon and his crown and take care of both until the boy is old enough to fight his uncle. However, the kingdom is angry about their new leader long before and therefore, something must be done immediately. A slight adjustment of time will help them to send an equal to the new king. Terry Pratchett’s “Wyrd Sisters” is the sixth instalment of the Disc World Series and was first published in 1988. Due to its very own universe, the novel has not lost the slightest bit of its appeal in more than 30 years. The three witches instantly remind you of the three famous witches from Shakespeare’s Macbeth and, accordingly, they are only the beginning of a brilliant adaptation of the Bard’s great tragedy – just that it is not a tragedy but utterly funny. Continuing to explore Disc World leads to small new feature one can detect in every new novel. I totally adore how Pratchett created this world with such a love for detail that remind you of the real world but that is just a bit different to fit into the flat planet’s peculiarities. Especially the animals – this time a cat – are intriguing and charming.Even though each instalment has its own appeal, I was highly interested in this one due to see how the author transformed Shakespeare’s plays. Surely, I was far from disappointed. Chief playwright Hwel calls his theatre “The Dysc”, the witches meet in a stormy night and – of course just like in Macbeth – ask the famous question when they will meet again, the play within a play and the ghost of the former King quite obviously are taken from Hamlet – there is much more to uncover which is just great fun.There is not much more one can say apart from calling the novel a masterpiece.
    • 5/5
      I just reread this for about the umpteenth time because it was a selection in one of the Goodreads groups.

      **Spoilers**

      Wyrd Sisters is, obviously, a parody of Shakespeare's Macbeth (with references to other plays). I personally find it far more enjoyable than the original, but then it's closer to my age and cultural experience than Shakespeare is.

      It's a story about expectations. You see the parallels to the play and think this will mirror what happens in it. It doesn't. The witches also have expectations (about the son returning heroically to overthrow the usurper). Nope. A clever twist at the end about the parentage of Tomjon and the Fool also overturns an expectation. Pratchett often surprises, but perhaps he's just warning us about assumptions.

      Wyrd Sisters is also a story about stories, and about the power of words and how they can create a subjective reality in people's minds. Early on in the book, the Fool states this succinctly. "'In the Guild,' said the Fool, 'we learned that words can be even more powerful than magic.'"

      That they can. Pratchett's certainly are.
    • 4/5
      I've been listening to the audio for the past month, as narrated by Celia Imrie, but either my copy, or the production as a whole was so horribly done - 90% of the thing sounds like it was recorded from underneath a feather pillow - that towards the end I finally cracked and last night picked up my hardcover edition and finished it off. That's not to say Celia Imrie did a bad job - she didn't, she was excellent (although her Nanny Ogg voice was too shaky and sometimes made her difficult to understand).  If you're tempted to listen to this book on audio, and you see this particular edition, listen to a sample first and make sure you're edition is not muffled under a pillow. As for the story - taken at face value, it was ok.  But you can't take any Pratchett at face value, and the veiled subtext upgraded it, for me, to good (with bonus points for the mugging scene).  I love Granny Weatherwax, and Nanny Ogg.  I wasn't quite getting the appeal of Greebo, until the scene with the Fool - that moment where he looks down at the Fool from atop of his head was sublime, (and Celia did it perfectly).  As for the Fool himself, I think I liked him more for having heard him narrated, than I would have had I read him from the start; Celia infused an intelligence in him I'm not sure I'd have given him, given the repetitious nature of his speech. I think I failed to receive the characters of the Lord and Lady Felmut the way the author intended them.  If satirically humorous is what he was aiming for, I definitely failed.  These two just came across bitter, twisted and creepy - I should say Lord Felmut did; Lady Felmut just seemed to me a straight caricature.  And since I'm complaining (not really) I'll add that while I loved the element of The Land, I wish Pratchett had not been quite so vague about it and it's connection to the throne.  I understood it well enough but would have enjoyed it more with a tiny pinch more detail.  And I understood the dynamic at the end, between the two brothers, until Granny, Nanny and Magrat got through with me.  And how old is Magrat supposed to be anyway? Overall, even though it doesn't sound like it, I did enjoy the story - it's Pratchett after all, and even his weak books are better than a lot of best efforts.  I'm going to try Witches Abroad on audio too, because even though this edition's sound quality sucked, I think I get more enjoyment out of the stories when they're read by someone who obviously understands Pratchett's writing.  But I'm definitely checking out the samples first.
    • 5/5
      Shakespeare in the hands of an absurdist. The characters in Pratchett's Discworld books have always been worth getting to know (IMO), and the Wyrd Sisters-Granny Weatherwax, Gytha Ogg and Magrat are a testament to that sentiment. A king is murdered, his heir to the throne too young to rule, and a coven of witches take it upon themselves to hide the young lad until he is old enough to assume the throne. But their meddling sets the young prince on a career path in, of all places, the theater.

      I enjoy the character development in Pratchett's books. Another light and fun read for me.
    • 3/5
      I have a love/hate r'ship with the Discworld books.
      I enjoy every encounter I have with Rincewind, the Luggage, and the Librarian.
      Carrot is mildly interesting
      Bits of concepts throughout the series are clever.
      Pretty much the rest of the characters, and books, annoy and/or frustrate me.
    • 4/5
      All the Disc's a stage.

      This one was a full-on blast. Witches, actors, struggling playwrights, time travel...I mean, what more do you need?
    • 4/5
      A Discworld novel featuring Granny Weatherwax and a couple more witches, a man who might be king and a woman who would very much like that he should be. The best sort of ridiculous nonsense, taking off on Shakespeare, Tolkien and lots of others things in a Monty Python sort of way with dashes of Eddie Izzard. Never stretches itself too far; just when I say to myself "I SEE what you're doing there", he stops doing that and switches to something else. Tear-jerkingly funny at times. Highly recommended to those who savor this sort of silliness.Review written May 2012
    • 5/5
      One of the earlier Discworld books, and one of my favourites. Something of a spoof on MacBeth with a touch of Hamlet and King Lear, so it helps to be familiar with these Shakespeare plays - but it's not vital. Subplots abound, lots of humour, very enjoyable. Just as good on re-reading ten or so years after the last time.
    • 3/5
      This was a fun read which played with fantasy tropes and Shakespeare in a lovely mix. There was murder of a king, three old crones on a hilltop, a lost heir and everything you could imagine, but all told in the mad Discworld way. 3.5 stars.
    • 4/5
      Arguably the point where Discworld stops being 'early Discworld' and becomes Discworld. A Macbeth parody, and although Granny Weatherwax appeared in Equal Rites, pretty much the first book in the Witches series. Fun, page turny, twisty, Good triumphs, Bad loses, and it's all just a little bit more complicated than that. It's always nice to see a theatre played properly.

    Book preview

    Wyrd Sisters - Terry Pratchett

    Begin Reading

    The wind howled. Lightning stabbed at the earth erratically, like an inefficient assassin. Thunder rolled back and forth across the dark, rain-lashed hills.

    The night was as black as the inside of a cat. It was the kind of night, you could believe, on which gods moved men as 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 the four giant elephants who carry on their shoulders the mass of the Discworld. A tiny sun and moon spin around them, on a complicated orbit to induce seasons, so probably nowhere else in the multiverse is it sometimes necessary for an elephant to cock a leg to allow the sun to go past.

    Exactly why this should be may never be known. Possibly the Creator of the universe got bored with all the usual business of axial inclination, albedos and rotational velocities, and decided to have a bit of fun for once.

    It would be a pretty good bet that the gods of a world like this probably do not play chess and indeed this is the case. In fact no gods anywhere play chess. They haven’t got the imagination. Gods prefer simple, vicious games, where you Do Not Achieve Transcendence but Go Straight To Oblivion; a key to the understanding of all religion is that a god’s idea of amusement is Snakes and Ladders with greased rungs.

    Magic glues the Discworld together—magic generated by the turning of the world itself, magic wound like silk out of the underlying structure of existence to suture the wounds of reality.

    A lot of it ends up in the Ramtop Mountains, which stretch from the frozen lands near the Hub all the way, via a lengthy archipelago, to the warm seas which flow endlessly into space over the Rim.

    Raw magic crackles invisibly from peak to peak and earths itself in the mountains. It is the Ramtops that supply the world with most of its witches and wizards. In the Ramtops the leaves on the trees move even when there is no breeze. Rocks go for a stroll of an evening.

    Even the land, at times, seems alive…

    At times, so does the sky.

    The storm was really giving it everything it had. This was its big chance. It had spent years hanging around the provinces, putting in some useful work as a squall, building up experience, making contacts, occasionally leaping out on unsuspecting shepherds or blasting quite small oak trees. Now an opening in the weather had given it an opportunity to strut its hour, and it was building up its role in the hope of being spotted by one of the big climates.

    It was a good storm. There was quite effective projection and passion there, and critics agreed that if it would only learn to control its thunder it would be, in years to come, a storm to watch.

    The woods roared their applause and were full of mists and flying leaves.

    On nights such as these the gods, as has already been pointed out, play games other than chess with the fates of mortals and the thrones of kings. It is important to remember that they always cheat, right up to the end…

    And a coach came hurtling along the rough forest track, jerking violently as the wheels bounced off tree roots. The driver lashed at the team, the desperate crack of his whip providing a rather neat counterpoint to the crash of the tempest overhead.

    Behind—only a little way behind, and getting closer—were three hooded riders.

    On nights such as this, evil deeds are done. And good deeds, of course. But mostly evil, on the whole.

    On nights such as this, witches are abroad.

    Well, not actually abroad. They don’t like the food and you can’t trust the water and the shamans always hog the deckchairs. But there was a full moon breasting the ragged clouds and the rushing air was full of whispers and the very broad hint of magic.

    In their clearing above the forest the witches spoke thus:

    I’m babysitting on Tuesday, said the one with no hat but a thatch of white curls so thick she might have been wearing a helmet. For our Jason’s youngest. I can manage Friday. Hurry up with the tea, luv. I’m that parched.

    The junior member of the trio gave a sigh, and ladled some boiling water out of the cauldron into the teapot.

    The third witch patted her hand in a kindly fashion.

    You said it quite well, she said. Just a bit more work on the screeching. Ain’t that right, Nanny Ogg?

    Very useful screeching, I thought, said Nanny Ogg hurriedly. And I can see Goodie Whemper, maysherestinpeace, gave you a lot of help with the squint.

    It’s a good squint, said Granny Weatherwax.

    The junior witch, whose name was Magrat Garlick, relaxed considerably. She held Granny Weatherwax in awe. It was known throughout the Ramtop Mountains that Miss Weatherwax did not approve of anything very much. If she said it was a good squint, then Magrat’s eyes were probably staring up her own nostrils.

    Unlike wizards, who like nothing better than a complicated hierarchy, witches don’t go in much for the structured approach to career progression. It’s up to each individual witch to take on a girl to hand the area over to when she dies. Witches are not by nature gregarious, at least with other witches, and they certainly don’t have leaders.

    Granny Weatherwax was the most highly-regarded of the leaders they didn’t have.

    Magrat’s hands shook slightly as they made the tea. Of course, it was all very gratifying, but it was a bit nerve-racking to start one’s working life as village witch between Granny and, on the other side of the forest, Nanny Ogg. It’d been her idea to form a local coven. She felt it was more, well, occult. To her amazement the other two had agreed or, at least, hadn’t disagreed much.

    An oven? Nanny Ogg had said. What’d we want to join an oven for?

    She means a coven, Gytha, Granny Weatherwax had explained. You know, like in the old days. A meeting.

    A knees up? said Nanny Ogg hopefully.

    No dancing, Granny had warned. I don’t hold with dancing. Or singing or getting over-excited or all that messing about with ointments and similar.

    Does you good to get out, said Nanny happily.

    Magrat had been disappointed about the dancing, and was relieved that she hadn’t ventured one or two other ideas that had been on her mind. She fumbled in the packet she had brought with her. It was her first sabbat, and she was determined to do it right.

    Would anyone care for a scone? she said.

    Granny looked hard at hers before she bit. Magrat had baked bat designs on it. They had little eyes made of currants.

    The coach crashed through the trees at the forest edge, ran on two wheels for a few seconds as it hit a stone, righted itself against all the laws of balance, and rumbled on. But it was going slower now. The slope was dragging at it.

    The coachman, standing upright in the manner of a charioteer, pushed his hair out of his eyes and peered through the murk. No one lived up here, in the lap of the Ramtops themselves, but there was a light ahead. By all that was merciful, there was a light there.

    An arrow buried itself in the coach roof behind him.

    Meanwhile King Verence, monarch of Lancre, was making a discovery.

    Like most people—most people, at any rate, below the age of sixty or so—Verence hadn’t exercised his mind much about what happened to you when you died. Like most people since the dawn of time, he assumed it all somehow worked out all right in the end.

    And, like most people since the dawn of time, he was now dead.

    He was in fact lying at the bottom of one of his own stairways in Lancre Castle, with a dagger in his back.

    He sat up, and was surprised to find that while someone he was certainly inclined to think of as himself was sitting up, something very much like his body remained lying on the floor.

    It was a pretty good body, incidentally, now he came to see it from outside for the first time. He had always been quite attached to it although, he had to admit, this did not now seem to be the case.

    It was big and well-muscled. He’d looked after it. He’d allowed it a mustache and long-flowing locks. He’d seen it got plenty of healthy outdoor exercise and lots of red meat. Now, just when a body would have been useful, it had let him down. Or out.

    On top of that, he had to come to terms with the tall, thin figure standing beside him. Most of it was hidden in a hooded black robe, but the one arm which extended from the folds to grip a large scythe was made of bone.

    When one is dead, there are things one instinctively recognizes.

    HALLO.

    Verence drew himself up to his full height, or what would have been his full height if that part of him of which the word height could have been applied was not lying stiff on the floor and facing a future in which only the word depth could be appropriate.

    "I am a king, mark you," he said.

    WAS, YOUR MAJESTY.

    What? Verence barked.

    I SAID WAS. IT’S CALLED THE PAST TENSE. YOU’LL SOON GET USED TO IT.

    The tall figure tapped its calcareous fingers on the scythe’s handle. It was obviously upset about something.

    If it came to that, Verence thought, so am I. But the various broad hints available in his present circumstances were breaking through even the mad brain stupidity that made up most of his character, and it was dawning on him that whatever kingdom he might currently be in, he wasn’t king of it.

    Are you Death, fellow? he ventured.

    I HAVE MANY NAMES.

    Which one are you using at present? said Verence, with a shade more deference. There were people milling around them; in fact, quite a few people were milling through them, like ghosts.

    Oh, so it was Felmet, the king added vaguely, looking at the figure lurking with obscene delight at the top of the stairs. My father said I should never let him get behind me. Why don’t I feel angry?

    GLANDS, said Death shortly. ADRENALIN AND SO FORTH. AND EMOTIONS. YOU DON’T HAVE THEM. ALL YOU HAVE NOW IS THOUGHT.

    The tall figure appeared to reach a decision.

    THIS IS VERY IRREGULAR, he went on, apparently to himself. HOWEVER, WHO AM I TO ARGUE?

    Who indeed.

    WHAT?

    I said, who indeed.

    SHUT UP.

    Death stood with his skull on one side, as though listening to some inner voice. As his hood fell away the late king noticed that Death resembled a polished skeleton in every way but one. His eye sockets glowed sky blue. Verence wasn’t frightened, however; not simply because it is difficult to be in fear of anything when the bits you need to be frightened with are curdling several yards away, but because he had never really been frightened of anything in his life, and wasn’t going to start now. This was partly because he didn’t have the imagination, but he was also one of those rare individuals who are totally focused in time.

    Most people aren’t. They live their lives as a sort of temporal blur around the point where their body actually is—anticipating the future, or holding onto the past. They’re usually so busy thinking about what happens next that the only time they ever find out what is happening now is when they come to look back on it. Most people are like this. They learn how to fear because they can actually tell, down at the subconscious level, what is going to happen next. It’s already happening to them.

    But Verence had always lived only for the present. Until now, anyway.

    Death sighed.

    I SUPPOSE NO ONE MENTIONED ANYTHING TO YOU? he hazarded.

    Say again?

    NO PREMONITIONS? STRANGE DREAMS? MAD OLD SOOTHSAYERS 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 reverentially from the hall.

    I’ll try, he said.

    GOOD MAN.

    I don’t think I will be up to all that business with the white sheets and the chains, though, he said. Do I have to walk around moaning and screaming?

    Death shrugged. DO YOU WANT TO? he said.

    No.

    THEN I SHOULDN’T BOTHER, IF I WERE YOU. Death pulled an hour-glass from the recesses of his dark robe and inspected it closely.

    AND NOW I REALLY MUST BE GOING, he said. He turned on his heel, put his scythe over his shoulder and started to walk out of the hall through the wall.

    I say? Just hold on there! shouted Verence, running after him.

    Death didn’t look back. Verence followed him through the wall; it was like walking through fog.

    Is that all? he demanded. "I mean, how long will I be a ghost? Why am I a ghost? You can’t just leave me like this. He halted and raised an imperious, slightly transparent finger. Stop! I command you!"

    Death shook his head gloomily, and stepped through the next wall. The king hurried after him with as much dignity as he could still muster, and found Death fiddling with the girths of a large white horse standing on the battlements. It was wearing a nosebag.

    You can’t leave me like this! he repeated, in the face of the evidence.

    Death turned to him.

    I CAN, he said. YOU’RE UNDEAD, YOU SEE. GHOSTS INHABIT A WORLD BETWEEN THE LIVING AND THE DEAD. IT’S NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY. He patted the king on the shoulder. DON’T WORRY, he said, IT WON’T BE FOREVER.

    Good.

    IT MAY SEEM LIKE FOREVER.

    How long will it really be?

    UNTIL YOU HAVE FULFILLED YOUR DESTINY, I ASSUME.

    And how will I know what my destiny is? said the king, desperately.

    CAN’T HELP THERE. I’M SORRY.

    Well, how can I find out?

    THESE THINGS GENERALLY BECOME APPARENT, I UNDERSTAND, said Death, and swung himself into the saddle.

    And until then I have to haunt this place. King Verence stared around at the drafty battlements. All alone, I suppose. Won’t anyone be able to see me?

    OH, THE PSYCHICALLY INCLINED. CLOSE RELATIVES. AND CATS, OF COURSE.

    I hate cats.

    Death’s face became a little stiffer, if that were possible. The blue glow in his eye sockets flickered red for an instant.

    I SEE, he said. The tone suggested that death was too good for cat-haters. YOU LIKE GREAT BIG DOGS, I IMAGINE.

    As a matter of fact, I do. The king stared gloomily at the dawn. His dogs. He’d really miss his dogs. And it looked like such a good hunting day.

    He wondered if ghosts hunted. Almost certainly not, he imagined. Or ate, or drank either for that matter, and that was really depressing. He liked a big noisy banquet and had quaffed* many a pint of good ale. And bad ale, come to that. He’d never been able to tell the difference till the following morning, usually.

    He kicked despondently at a stone, and noted gloomily that his foot went right through it. No hunting, drinking, carousing, no wassailing, no hawking…It was dawning on him that the pleasures of the flesh were pretty sparse without the flesh. Suddenly life wasn’t worth living. The fact that he wasn’t living it didn’t cheer him up at all.

    SOME PEOPLE LIKE TO BE GHOSTS, said Death.

    Hmm? said Verence, gloomily.

    IT’S NOT SUCH A WRENCH, I ASSUME. THEY CAN SEE HOW THEIR DESCENDANTS GET ON. SORRY? IS SOMETHING THE MATTER?

    But Verence had vanished into the wall.

    DON’T MIND ME, WILL YOU, said Death, peevishly. He looked around him with a gaze that could see through time and space and the souls of men, and noted a landslide in distant Klatch, a hurricane in Howandaland, a plague in Hergen.

    BUSY, BUSY, he muttered, and spurred his horse into the sky.

    Verence ran through the walls of his own castle. His feet barely touched the ground—in fact, the unevenness of the floor meant that at times they didn’t touch the ground at all.

    As a king he was used to treating servants as if they were not there, and running through them as a ghost was almost the same. The only difference was that they didn’t stand aside.

    Verence reached the nursery, saw the broken door, the trailed sheets…

    Heard the hoofbeats. He reached the window, saw his own horse go full tilt through the open gateway in the shafts of the coach. A few seconds later three horsemen followed it. The sound of hooves echoed for a moment on the cobbles and died away.

    The king thumped the still, his fist going several inches into the stone.

    Then he pushed his way out into the air, disdaining to notice the drop, and half flew, half ran down across the courtyard and into the stables.

    It took him a mere twenty seconds to learn that, to the great many things a ghost cannot do, should be added the mounting of a horse. He did succeed in getting into the saddle, or at least in straddling the air just above it, but when the horse finally bolted, terrified beyond belief by the mysterious things happening behind its ears, Verence was left sitting astride five feet of fresh air.

    He tried to run, and got about as far as the gateway before the air around him thickened to the consistency of tar.

    You can’t, said a sad, old voice behind him. You have to stay where you were killed. That’s what haunting means. Take it from me. I know.

    Granny Weatherwax paused with a second scone halfway to her mouth.

    Something comes, she said.

    Can you tell by the pricking of your thumbs? said Magrat earnestly. Magrat had learned a lot about witchcraft from books.

    The pricking of my ears, said Granny. She raised her eyebrows at Nanny Ogg. Old Goodie Whemper had been an excellent witch in her way, but far too fanciful. Too many flowers and romantic notions and such.

    The occasional flash of lightning showed the moorland stretching down to the forest, but the rain on the warm summer earth had filled the air with mist wraiths.

    Hoofbeats? said Nanny Ogg. No one would come up here this time of night.

    Magrat peered around timidly. Here and there on the moor were huge standing stones, their origins lost in time, which were said to lead mobile and private lives of their own. She shivered.

    What’s to be afraid of? she managed.

    Us, said Granny Weatherwax, smugly.

    The hoofbeats neared, slowed. And then the coach rattled between the furze bushes, its horses hanging in their harnesses. The driver leapt down, ran around to the door, pulled a large bundle from inside and dashed toward the trio.

    He was halfway across the damp peat when he stopped and stared at Granny Weatherwax with a look of horror.

    It’s all right, she whispered, and the whisper cut through the grumbling of the storm as clearly as a bell.

    She took a few steps forward and a convenient lightning flash allowed her to look directly into the man’s eyes. They had the peculiarity of focus that told those who had the Know that he was no longer looking at anything in this world.

    With a final jerking movement he thrust the bundle into Granny’s arms and toppled forward, the feathers of a crossbow bolt sticking out of his back.

    Three figures moved into the firelight. Granny looked up into another pair of eyes, which were as chilly as the slopes of Hell.

    Their owner threw his crossbow aside. There was a glimpse of chain mail under his sodden cloak as he drew his sword.

    He didn’t flourish it. The eyes that didn’t leave Granny’s face weren’t the eyes of one who bothers about flourishing things. They were the eyes of one who knows exactly what swords are for. He reached out his hand.

    You will give it to me, he said.

    Granny twitched aside the blanket in her arms and looked down at a small face, wrapped in sleep.

    She looked up.

    No, she said, on general principles.

    The soldier glanced from her to Magrat and Nanny Ogg, who were as still as the standing stones of the moor.

    You are witches? he said.

    Granny nodded. Lightning skewered down from the sky and a bush a hundred yards away blossomed into fire. The two soldiers behind the man muttered something, but he smiled and raised a mailed hand.

    Does the skin of witches turn aside steel? he said.

    Not that I’m aware, said Granny, levelly. You could give it a try.

    One of the soldiers stepped forward and touched the man’s arm gingerly.

    Sir, with respect, sir, it’s not a good idea—

    Be silent.

    But it’s terrible bad luck to—

    Must I ask you again?

    Sir, said the man. His eyes caught Granny’s for a moment, and reflected hopeless terror.

    The leader grinned at Granny, who hadn’t moved a muscle.

    Your peasant magic is for fools, mother of the night. I can strike you down where you stand.

    Then strike, man, said Granny, looking over his shoulder. If your heart tells you, strike as hard as you dare.

    The man raised his sword. Lightning speared down again and split a stone a few yards away, filling the air with smoke and the stink of burnt silicon.

    Missed, he said smugly, and Granny saw his muscles tense as he prepared to bring the sword down.

    A look of extreme puzzlement crossed his face. He tilted his head sideways and opened his mouth, as if trying to come to terms with a new idea. His sword dropped out of his hand and landed point downward in the peat. Then he gave a sigh and folded up, very gently, collapsing in a heap at Granny’s feet.

    She gave him a gentle prod with her toe. Perhaps you weren’t aware of what I was aiming at, she whispered. Mother of the night, indeed!

    The soldier who had tried to restrain the man stared in horror at the bloody dagger in his hand, and backed away.

    I-I-I couldn’t let. He shouldn’t of. It’s—it’s not right to, he stuttered.

    Are you from around these parts, young man? said Granny.

    He dropped to his knees. Mad Wolf, ma’am, he said. He stared back at the fallen captain. They’ll kill me now! he wailed.

    But you did what you thought was right, said Granny.

    I didn’t become a soldier for this. Not to go around killing people.

    Exactly right. If I was you, I’d become a sailor, said Granny thoughtfully. Yes, a nautical career. I should start as soon as possible. Now, in fact. Run off, man. Run off to sea where there are no tracks. You will have a long and successful life, I promise. She looked thoughtful for a moment, and added, At least, longer than it’s likely to be if you hang around here.

    He pulled himself upward, gave her a look compounded of gratitude and awe, and ran off into the mist.

    And now perhaps someone will tell us what this is all about? said Granny, turning to the third man.

    To where the third man had been.

    There was the distant drumming of hooves on the turf, and then silence.

    Nanny Ogg hobbled forward.

    I could catch him, she said. What do you think?

    Granny shook her head. She sat down on a rock and looked at the child in her arms. It was a boy, no more than two years old, and quite naked under the blanket. She rocked him vaguely and stared at nothing.

    Nanny Ogg examined the two corpses with the air of one for whom laying-out holds no fears.

    Perhaps they were bandits, said Magrat tremulously.

    Nanny shook her head.

    A strange thing, she said. They both wear this same badge. Two bears on a black and gold shield. Anyone know what that means?

    It’s the badge of King Verence, said Magrat.

    Who’s he? said Granny Weatherwax.

    He rules this country, said Magrat.

    Oh. That king, said Granny, as if the matter was hardly worth noting.

    Soldiers fighting one another. Doesn’t make sense, said Nanny Ogg. Magrat, you have a look in the coach.

    The youngest witch poked around inside

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