Dragons at Crumbling Castle: And Other Tales

Dragons at Crumbling Castle: And Other Tales

Dragons at Crumbling Castle: And Other Tales

Dragons at Crumbling Castle: And Other Tales


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New York Times Bestseller!

This never-before-published collection of fourteen funny and inventive tales by acclaimed author Sir Terry Pratchett, creator of the beloved and bestselling Discworld fantasy series, features a memorable cast of inept wizards, sensible heroes, and unusually adventuresome tortoises.

Including more than one hundred black-and-white illustrations, the appealingly designed book celebrates Pratchett’s inimitable wordplay and irreverent approach to the conventions of storytelling. These accessible and mischievous tales are an ideal introduction for young readers to this beloved author. Established fans of Pratchett’s work will savor the playful presentation of the themes and ideas that inform his popular novels.

Read more of Sir Terry's silliest stories in The Witch's Vacuum Cleaner!

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780544813137
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date: 10/04/2016
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 352
Sales rank: 145,401
Product dimensions: 5.10(w) x 7.60(h) x 1.10(d)
Lexile: 820L (what's this?)
Age Range: 10 - 12 Years

About the Author

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.

Mark Beech has illustrated numerous books for children, from picture books through young novels. He lives in England. Visit him at markbeechillustration.format.com.


Salisbury, Wiltshire, England

Date of Birth:

April 28, 1948

Place of Birth:

Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire, England


Four honorary degrees in literature from the universities of Portsmouth, Bristol, Bath and Warwick

Read an Excerpt

Dragons at Crumbling Castle

In the days of King Arthur there were no newspapers, only town criers, who went around shouting the news at the tops of their voices.
   King Arthur was sitting up in bed one Sunday, eating an egg, when the Sunday town crier trooped in. Actually, there were several of them, including a man to draw the pictures, a jester for the jokes, and a small man in tights and soccer cleats who was called the Sports Page.
   “DRAGONS INVADE CRUMBLING CASTLE,” shouted the News Crier (this was the headline), and then he said in a softer voice, “For full details hear page nine.”
   King Arthur dropped his spoon in amazement. Dragons! All the knights were out on quests, except for Sir Lancelot—and he had gone to France for a vacation.
   The Ninth Page came panting up, coughed, and said: “Thousands flee for their lives as family of green dragons burns and rampages around Crumbling Castle. . . .”
   “What is King Arthur doing about this?” demanded the Editorial Crier pompously. “What do we pay our taxes for? The people of Camelot demand action. . . .”
   “Throw them out and give them fourpence each,” said the king to the butler. “Then assemble the guard.”


Later that day, the king went out to the courtyard. “Now then, men,” he said. “I want a volunteer . . .” Then he adjusted his spectacles. The only other person in the courtyard was a small boy in a suit of mail much too big for him.
   “Ralph reporting, Sire!” the lad said, and saluted.
   “Where’s everyone else?”
   “Tom, John, Ron, Fred, Bill, and Jack are out sick,” said Ralph, counting on his fingers. “And William, Bert, Joe, and Albert are on vacation. James is visiting his granny. Rupert has gone hunting. And Eric . . .”
   “Well then,” said the king, “Ralph, how would you like to visit Crumbling Castle? Nice scenery, excellent food, only a few dragons to kill. Take my spare suit of armor—it’s a bit roomy but quite thick.”
   So Ralph got on his donkey and trotted across the drawbridge, whistling, and disappeared over the hills. When he was out of sight, he took off the armor and hid it behind a hedge, because it squeaked and was too hot, and put on his ordinary clothes.
   High on a wooded hill sat a mounted figure in coal-black armor. He watched the young boy pass by, then galloped down after him on his big black horse.
   “HALT IN THE NAME OF THE FRIDAY KNIGHT,” he cried in a deep voice, raising his black sword.
   Ralph looked around. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Is this the right road to Crumbling Castle?”
   “Well, yes, actually it is,” said the knight, looking rather embarrassed, and then he remembered that he was really a big bad knight and continued in a hollow voice, “BUT YOU’LL HAVE TO FIGHT ME FIRST!”
   Ralph looked up in amazement as the black knight got off his horse and charged at him, waving his sword.
   “Yield!” the knight yelled. Then he got his foot stuck in a rabbit hole, and he tripped over in a great clatter, like an explosion in a tin factory. Bits of armor flew everywhere.
   There was silence for a moment, and then the helmet unscrewed itself, and Ralph saw that the Friday knight himself was a very small man indeed. Or, at least, he had a very small head.
   “Sorry,” said the knight. “Can I try again?”
   “Certainly not!” said Ralph, and unsheathed his rusty sword. “I’ve won. You’ve fallen over first. I shall call you Fortnight, as my journey to Crumbling Castle and back should take no more than two weeks! You are my prisoner for that time, Sir Knight!”
   There was a great deal of clanking inside the armor, and then Fortnight climbed out through a trap door in the back. His ferocious black armor was three times as big as he was.
   So Ralph continued his journey to Crumbling Castle on his donkey, followed by Fortnight the Friday knight on his great black charger. After a while they became quite friendly, because Fortnight knew lots of jokes and could sing quite well. He’d belonged to a circus before he became a knight.


The next day they found a wizard sitting on a milestone, reading a book. He had the normal wizard’s uniform: long white beard, pointed hat, a sort of nightgown covered in signs and spells, and long floppy boots, which he had taken off, revealing red socks.
   “Excuse me, sir,” said Ralph, because you have to be careful when talking to wizards. “Is this the way to Crumbling Castle?”
   “Thunder and lightning! Yes,” said the wizard, closing his book with a snap. “Do you mind if I come too? I’ve got a few antidragon spells I’d like to try out.”
   He said his name was Fossfiddle, and he was sitting by the road because his magic seven-league boots had broken down. He pointed out the pair of high brown boots by the milestone: magic boots are handy things—you can walk as far as you like in them without getting tired—but Fossfiddle’s needed a bit of work done on them.
   So they gathered around, and since Fossfiddle knew a bit about magic and Fortnight knew a bit about boots and Ralph knew a bit about walking, they soon had the boots working again. Fossfiddle put them on and trotted along by Ralph’s donkey.
   The land around them grew grimmer and grimmer, and black mountains loomed up on either side. Gray clouds covered the sun, and a cold wind sprang up. The three of them plodded on and came to a cave hidden in a clump of thornbushes.
   “We could do with a fire,” said Ralph.
   “Nothing easier,” said Fossfiddle. He muttered something and produced a funny-looking glass bulb, a small hat, a banana, and a brass candlestick. It wasn’t that he was a bad wizard: he just got things mixed up. And if he had but known it, the funny-looking bulb was several centuries ahead of itself.
   After Fortnight had lit a fire, they settled down around it and Ralph and Fossfiddle dozed off. But Fortnight thought he could hear something.
   Crack! went a stick in the bushes. Something was sneaking toward them.
   Fortnight picked up his sword and crept toward the bushes. Something was moving in them, something with very large feet. The night was very dark, and somewhere an owl hooted.
   “Yield!” yelled Fortnight, and dashed into the bushes. This woke up Ralph and Fossfiddle, who heard a great cracking and bashing about. They got up and ran to Fornight’s help.
   For five minutes there was no sound to be heard but swishings—and swear words when people trod on thorns. It was so dark, nobody knew if anything was sneaking up behind them, so they kept turning around and around just to make sure.
   “I’VE GOT IT!” shouted Fortnight, and jumped on something.
   “You’ve got me!” Fossfiddle’s voice came from the leaf mold.
   While all this was going on, something very small crawled out of the bushes and began to warm its feet by the fire. Then it rummaged through the knapsacks and ate Fossfiddle’s breakfast for tomorrow.
   “I heard something, I tell you,” muttered Fortnight as the three of them came, scratched and bruised, out of the brambles. “Look, there it is!”
   “It’s a dragon!” shouted Fossfiddle.
   “It’s a very weeny one . . .” said Ralph.
   The dragon was about the size of a small kettle; it was green and had very large feet. It looked up at them, sniffed a bit, and began to cry.
   “Perhaps my breakfast didn’t agree with it,” muttered Fossfiddle, looking at his knapsack.
   “Well, what shall we do with it?” asked Ralph. “It doesn’t look very dangerous, I must say.”
   “Has it lost its mommy?” cooed Fortnight, getting down on his hands and knees and smiling at it. It backed away and breathed some smoke at him. Fortnight wasn’t very good with children.
   Finally they made it a bed in a big saucepan, put the lid on, and went back to sleep.


When they set off in the morning, Fossfiddle carried the saucepan on his back. After all, they couldn’t just leave the dragon behind. A little while later the lid opened, and the dragon stared out.
   “This isn’t dragon country,” said Ralph. “I suppose it must have gotten lost.”
   “It’s the green variety. They grow to be thirty feet tall,” said Fortnight, “and then they take to roaring and rampaging and walking on the grass and other lawlessness and wicked deeds.”
   “What sort of deeds?” asked Ralph interestedly.
   “Oh—well, I don’t know. Leaving faucets running and slamming doors, I suppose.”
   That afternoon they came to Crumbling Castle.
   It was on a high hill all by itself and built of gray stone. In the valley below was a town, but most of it was burned down. There was no sign of anybody, not even a dragon.
   They plucked up the courage to knock at the big black door. Fortnight’s knees were knocking, and since he was wearing armor, this made a terrible din.
   “There’s no one in,” he said quickly. “Let’s go back!”
   The door wouldn’t open, so Fossfiddle got out his spell book.
   “Hopscotchalorum, trempledingotramlines! he chanted. “Open!”
   Instead, the door turned into pink meringue. Fossfiddle always got things wrong.
   “My word, what a tasty door,” said Fortnight when they finally got through. They were in an empty courtyard. It seemed they were being watched. “I don’t like this much,” he added, looking around and drawing his sword. “I get the feeling that something is going to jump out on us.”
   “That’s very nice, I must say,” said Fossfiddle, whose nerves were not as good as they had been.
   “It’s all right,” said Ralph. “Dragons are seldom bigger than the average house and not much hotter than the average furnace.” He trod on Fossfiddle’s cloak as the wizard tried to run away. “So come back.”
   Just then they met a dragon. It looked quite like the one asleep in the saucepan in Fossfiddle’s pack, except it was much, MUCH bigger. It crawled across the courtyard to them.
   “Morning,” it said.
   Now, this placed our heroes in a bit of a quandary, as you can see. You can’t go and kill something that’s just said good morning to you.
   “Good morning,” said Ralph, rather embarrassed. “I suppose we’ve come to the right place?”
   “Yes, this is Crumbling Castle. Have you come about all these people who’ve been bothering us?”
   “First we’ve heard of it,” said Ralph. “We were told that you dragons were bothering people. Where is everyone, anyway?”
   The old dragon yawned. “Down at the dragon caves.”
   Then he explained it all to them. Dragons were really quite peaceful, and these had been living in some caves down by the river, bothering no one except the fish, which they ate. But then the lord of the castle had built a dam downriver, and their caves had been flooded out.
   So the dragons had come to live in the castle, scaring everyone else away. They had burned a few houses down, but they always checked to make sure there was no one at home before they did so.
   While the old dragon was talking, other dragons came from various parts of the castle and sat around listening.
   “And now they’ve kidnapped the dragon prince,” said the dragon.
   “Is he about twelve inches long, with large paws and a habit of biting?” said Fossfiddle suspiciously. “Because if he is, we found him yesterday. He’d just gotten lost.” He held out the saucepan, and the little dragon hopped out.
   There had to be a lot of explaining. Fortnight went down to the river and found the lord hiding up a tree and brought him back. Most of the other castle people followed the lord.
   “I’m afraid there’s no possibility of taking the dam down,” said the lord, hiding behind Fortnight. “We built it to make a swimming pool.”
   “You don’t have to take it down,” said Ralph. “All you need to do is build a few caves out of bricks or something.”
   So they did. The three fighters pitched in and helped, and it wasn’t long before they had a nice row of caves, with hot and cold running water and a bath in each one. The dragons took to them at once and agreed to leave the castle.
   “I suppose that’s it then,” said Ralph as they strolled away from the castle with all the dragons and people waving to them.
   “Good thing for the dragons there wasn’t any fighting,” said Fossfiddle, “or they might have found out a thing or two!”
   They had a good laugh about that and disappeared over the hill.

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