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Discworld #11-15
Reaper Man / Witches Abroad / Small Gods / Lords and Ladies / Men at Arms
Please Note That The Following Individual Books As Per Original ISBN and Cover Image In this Listing shall be Dispatched
Discworld Series Collection 5 Books Set By Terry
Titles In This
Reaper Man
Witches Abroad
Small Gods
Lords And Ladies
Men At Arms
Discworld Series Collection 5 Books Set By Terry
Titles In This
Reaper Man
Witches Abroad
Small Gods
Lords And Ladies
Men At Arms
1430 pages, Paperback
Published January 1, 2022
24 people want to read
About the author
Terry Pratchett
680 books46.2k followersSir Terence David John Pratchett was an English author, humorist, and satirist, best known for the Discworld series of 41 comic fantasy novels published between 1983–2015, and for the apocalyptic comedy novel Good Omens (1990), which he co-wrote with Neil Gaiman.
Pratchett's first novel, The Carpet People, was published in 1971. The first Discworld novel, The Colour of Magic, was published in 1983, after which Pratchett wrote an average of two books a year. The final Discworld novel, The Shepherd's Crown, was published in August 2015, five months after his death.
With more than 100 million books sold worldwide in 43 languages, Pratchett was the UK's best-selling author of the 1990s. He was appointed an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) in 1998 and was knighted for services to literature in the 2009 New Year Honours. In 2001 he won the annual Carnegie Medal for The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, the first Discworld book marketed for children. He received the World Fantasy Award for Life Achievement in 2010.
In December 2007 Pratchett announced that he had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's disease. He later made a substantial public donation to the Alzheimer's Research Trust (now Alzheimer's Research UK, ARUK), filmed three television programmes chronicling his experiences with the condition for the BBC, and became a patron of ARUK. Pratchett died on 12 March 2015, at the age of 66.
Pratchett's first novel, The Carpet People, was published in 1971. The first Discworld novel, The Colour of Magic, was published in 1983, after which Pratchett wrote an average of two books a year. The final Discworld novel, The Shepherd's Crown, was published in August 2015, five months after his death.
With more than 100 million books sold worldwide in 43 languages, Pratchett was the UK's best-selling author of the 1990s. He was appointed an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) in 1998 and was knighted for services to literature in the 2009 New Year Honours. In 2001 he won the annual Carnegie Medal for The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, the first Discworld book marketed for children. He received the World Fantasy Award for Life Achievement in 2010.
In December 2007 Pratchett announced that he had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's disease. He later made a substantial public donation to the Alzheimer's Research Trust (now Alzheimer's Research UK, ARUK), filmed three television programmes chronicling his experiences with the condition for the BBC, and became a patron of ARUK. Pratchett died on 12 March 2015, at the age of 66.
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June 25, 2025
11. Reaper Man ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Death learns to live
If you've landed here straight from the clouds—or, more accurately, from the stratosphere of ignorance—and you’re entirely Pratchett -virginal, allow me to begin by saying that the Discworld , the ingenious universe created by Terry Pratchett , is a fantasy realm where satire, absurdity, and human truth coexist in a delicate balance—sometimes tenderly humorous, sometimes sharply ironic. On this disc, which rests upon four elephants standing on the back of a cosmic turtle, anything is possible—even Death losing his job.
Reaper Man (the 11th in the series, and the second to centre on Death ) is one of Pratchett’s most touching, philosophical, and well-crafted works, written as he races towards full literary maturity. In its pages, Death is punished for having developed… a personality—an " unheard-of " flaw for a primordial entity of the cosmos. He is compelled to live as a mortal under the name Bill Door , working on a farm beside the elderly, practical, and unexpectedly sensitive Miss Flitworth .
From the imperishable eternal to the grime of the finite everyday
Death’s sojourn in the realm of mortals confronts him with something he had never truly experienced, despite his millennia of observing ephemeral humankind: the passage of time, fatigue, fear. And yet, through this journey, Pratchett demonstrates that humanity lies not in biological characteristics but in the capacity for care, sacrifice, empathy.
“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.”
The book masterfully balances humour and existential inquiry. Through Death , who… learns to live , Pratchett touches upon fundamental questions: What does it mean to have a purpose? What is the value of life if it has no end?
Life after death (or before?)
Meanwhile, as Death shovels the metaphorical muck of mortal toil and shared fate, his absence from his official “ duties ” plunges the world into chaos: the spirits of the dead refuse to depart, and life stagnates. The deceased wizard Windle Poons returns not to seek vengeance by screaming skyward “ MWAHAHAHA ” amid thunderclaps, but for a second chance to discover what it means to be… alive .
His story—narrated through the hilariously unconventional “ undead activist ” group, the Fresh Start Club —offers satirical and socially charged counterpoint to Death’s inner path. As ever, Pratchett employs absurdity to speak of the essential: the need for change, for restless thought, for hope.
Satire, yes—but with “ ballz ” and heart
If Mort approached Death as the hero of a fantastical coming-of-age tale, Reaper Man elevates him to an almost theological level. His final dialogue with Azrael , the supreme entity embodying Death of the Universe , is one of the most profound and poetic moments in the entire series (and a majestic application of the theory of the imaginary institution of the real ):
“You need to believe in things that aren't true. How else can they become?”
The Pratchett locomotive is now running at full speed, with power that transcends the bounds of satire, offering us at least 20 more exceptional stops (books, of course) before that cursed Alzheimer’s desecrates this wonderfully creative, tender, human mind. Reaper Man is a literary moment of self-awareness, a gentle hymn to the importance of finitude, of tenderness, of coexistence. It is the book in which Terry Pratchett , behind the irony and the wit, reminds us that the most magical thing in the universe is that we care . And as long as that continues—in pages, in actions, in memory— Terry Pratchett shall never truly die.
12. Witches abroad ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Witches Abroad (twelfth instalment in the celebrated Discworld series) stands as one of Terry Pratchett’s most intelligent and subversive works. Set against the ever-recurring tension between fairy-tale enchantment and the Discworld’s grimly satirical, often absurd realism, Pratchett weaves a narrative rich in humour, irony, and philosophical inquiry.
At the centre—both narratively and thematically—are the ever-compelling trio of witches: Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg, and Magrat Garlick. Granny is terse, unbending, possessed of a wilful wisdom—or perhaps a wise wilfulness. Nanny, by contrast, is riotously earthy, gleefully bawdy, and inextricably connected to life’s simpler, ruder pleasures (yes, she’s had her flirtation with the hedonistic, and she’s still pouring “poison into the glass” if it helps the evening along—and frankly, who are we to judge?). Magrat, the youngest and most diffident, is a well-meaning “new age” witch, still fumbling for her place in the world—and in magic. This dynamic forms the decidedly un-Ibsenian “triangle” whose peculiar gravity holds the narrative—and the reader—together.
The plot is set in motion when Magrat inherits the wand of Desiderata Hollow, a fairy godmother with a regrettable taste for narrative inevitability. Her mission? To ensure the “happy ending” of Emberella, a Discworld iteration of Cinderella —or, to risk an etymological misfire, the Greco-equivalent of “Ashypoppet”. (Apologies to the Muses, I’ll retire to a monastery posthaste.) Emberella lives in a city that’s equal parts New Orleans and voodoo masquerade, where the wand, alas, turns everything it touches into… pumpkins. A droll nod to the fairy-tale trope—and, as Granny dryly remarks:
“When you give people what they think they want, you’re likely to end up with a mountain of pumpkins and not a shred of hope.”
What ensues is a journey of comic confusion, magical entanglement, and ideological confrontation, as our witches face Lilith—Granny’s sister and the personification of prescriptive narrative. Lilith is a fairy-tale autocrat, seeking to impose “happy endings” regardless of personal agency. As she chillingly insists:
“The story must unfold correctly. That means the girl marries the prince. What the girl wants is irrelevant.”
Cue the burning bras of second-wave feminism—or rather, their metaphorical equivalents smouldering on some ideological bonfire. But we move briskly on.
Here lies the book’s central thematic concern: the tyranny of narrative. Pratchett’s contention that story, when wielded as an instrument of control, can edge into the fascistic is an audacious argument—one he camouflages in laughter. Lilith is not merely “the villain”; she is the embodiment of coercion masquerading as “magic” . She is, in effect, a kind of narrative inquisitor—an enforcer of saccharine orthodoxy—akin, perhaps, to the genteel authoritarianism of mid-century Britain, where stories were scrubbed clean by moral censors, and fairy tales were sterilised by those who feared dissent more than dragons.
This theme recalls the structural analysis of Vladimir Propp in his Morphology of the Folktale , yet Pratchett cleverly undermines those archetypes. The hero and the happy ending are not organic developments, but imposed constraints. Lilith operates as a Foucauldian panopticon: her stories regulate reality, rewrite will, and overwrite truth. Through comedy, Pratchett interrogates how narrative constructs subjectivity—a kind of “biopolitics of fairy tales”, if one is inclined to wear one’s Derrida on one’s sleeve. If not, the analysis proceeds merrily nonetheless.
This dynamic naturally affects the characters. Magrat, initially hesitant and ineffectual, grows into something braver—particularly as she grasps that innocence is not always a virtue. One of the novel’s most affecting moments is her confrontation with Lilith, in which Magrat declares:
“We’re not here to play roles. We’re here to live.”
Witches Abroad delights in unravelling the very structures it parodies. The frog remains a frog, the princess may very well not want saving, and the “happily ever after” is negotiable at best. Even Joseph Campbell, were he peering from some mythopoeic cloud, might blush to see his monomyth wryly dismantled. In Discworld, the hero’s journey leads not to glorification but to its deconstruction.
True, the plot may lack the gravitas of other Discworld volumes— Small Gods or Night Watch , for instance—but the richness of atmosphere, unflagging wit, and subterranean philosophical undercurrents make this one of the series’ most rewarding entries.
Witches Abroad is far more than a fairy-tale spoof. It is a profoundly reflective and bitingly clever satire on how stories—even the sweetest of them—become dangerous when weaponised as instruments of power. And, as ever with Pratchett, that truth arrives not with a sermon, but with laughter, pumpkins, and three marvellous witches simply… doing their job.
13. Small Gods ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Small Gods (the 13th novel in the Discworld series) is arguably Terry Pratchett’s most philosophical and provocative work. Though nominally (and, admittedly, practically) part of the wider series that spans 41 volumes, it functions entirely independently and requires no prior familiarity with the other books — unlike Mort (which deals with Death and fate) or Guards! Guards! (a satire on policing and political institutions). Small Gods, by contrast, strips Discworld of its usual cast of familiar faces and focuses instead on one god and one believer — making it stand out through its contemplative tone and its focus on the nature of belief, divinity, and humanity. It explores how belief itself confers existence upon the divine — belief which, of course, originates in the human.
The story begins with the god Om, who has been trapped in the body of a humble tortoise due to the fact that only one true believer remains: a young novice named Brutha, illiterate but blessed (or cursed) with a photographic memory and very little critical thought (if this brings to mind the rote-learners of your schooldays who could recite a text flawlessly without grasping its meaning, I don’t blame you — I despised them too). Their journey, both literal and spiritual, leads them into conflict with a theocratic empire, philosophers with dangerously subversive ideas, and a regime terrified of dissent (nothing more familiar, really…). The result is a rich allegory exploring the relationship between faith and power, as well as the capacity of individual conscience to resist dogma.
Pratchett, with his trademark humanist wit and quiet irony that never bows before sacred cows, absurdities or cognitive dissonance (the quintessence of all religion), takes aim at institutions and authority. In one scene, for instance, Om — still a tortoise — attempts to deliver a divine sign to Brutha by dropping a brick on his head, only to discover that “divine revelations have a disappointingly low success rate when they involve blunt force trauma.” In another, the philosophers of Ephebe engage in an abstract debate about the existence of the external world, even as one of them is quite literally on fire, refusing to acknowledge it because it “didn’t fit with his theory.”
Yet despite the satire, the novel is not devoid of tenderness. Brutha does not become a prophet because he hears voices or performs miracles, but because he learns to think, to feel — and ultimately, to doubt. His transformation from a passive believer to a morally autonomous individual forms the novel’s core, as does Om’s own slow and moving metamorphosis from an egotistical god into something more… human.
If there is a flaw, it is that the plot occasionally halts to make room for philosophical or historical digressions. These, however, serve to deepen the work’s intellectual resonance — even if they require a touch more patience from the reader.
Small Gods is a bold meditation on what it means to believe — not necessarily in a god, but in something greater than oneself. It challenges without alienating, amuses without mocking (well, perhaps it does mock — but with that distinctly Pratchettian elegance), and moves without ever descending into sentimentality. One of Pratchett’s most mature and distinctive novels, and an ideal point of entry for those wishing to explore the Discworld through a more philosophical lens.
14. Lords and Ladies ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Lords and Ladies stands as one of Terry Pratchett’s most mature and darkly intelligent moments in the Discworld series. As the fourteenth book in the universe (and the fourth in the “witches” subseries), it manages to strike a delicate balance between satire, fantasy, and a subterranean, almost melancholic exploration of identity, free will, and death. Beginning with a satirical “fairy-tale wedding” and culminating in a confrontation with a form of abusive magic that recognises no consent, Pratchett mounts a subtle — and potent — critique of the illusions we construct around power, memory, and our place in the stories we inherit.
The magical element: A whittled-down fairy tale, a rotting pumpkin, a fairy godmother with a three-day beard, and a faint suspicion that sparkle does not always mean kindness.
The parody of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, with its otherworldly Elves, is deftly overturned: these are not dainty woodland creatures but pagan, unrelenting forces that wield glamour as both manipulation and destruction.
Pratchett draws from the primal myth of the “Fair Folk” or “People of the Hills” in Celtic folklore, where Elves were never benign, but perilous beings capable of dragging mortals into warped pockets of time, soaked in seduction, loss, and forgetfulness. In Lords and Ladies, this mythological root is honoured even as it is ironised. Glamour is not merely enchantment — it becomes a technology of power. It is the ability to alter others’ perception of reality, to dress violence in beauty, to mask subjugation as reverence. A seductive aesthetic that resonates eerily with modern mechanisms of spin and spectacle, whether political, cultural, or commercial. In this reading, glamour becomes a metaphor for the way “charm” can be used to veil coercion — or indeed to dissolve will entirely.
The Witches of Lancre – Each one, a story.
The formidable witching trio we’ve come to know (Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Magrat Garlick) are in fine form, though Pratchett never rests on familiar dynamics. He explores the dissolution and rebirth of their circle, with Magrat at its centre, transforming from a self-doubting “young witch” into a battle-hardened queen through a path of self-discovery marked by irony and… brass (her armour is, quite literally, made from kitchen pots).
Magrat might seem, momentarily, to echo Tolkien’s Éowyn, lifting a sword and casting aside assigned roles. But unlike Tolkien’s solemn epic, Pratchett’s heroine never relinquishes her sense of doubt or self-mockery. The armour is there — but it clanks. The glory is present — but beneath it, she’s still wearing a floral dressing gown. This is not heroic idealism, but something far braver: a woman who rises, not above ridicule, but through it.
Granny Weatherwax, by contrast, confronts the ghosts of the selves she might have been. Beyond the existential gravitas this lends the book, it is deeply moving — especially if you’ve grown fond of this grimly proud, stern old spinster. Make no mistake: this is less a story about witches, and more a reckoning with the nature of consciousness and solitude.
The plot unfolds slowly at first, which may have been the reason for some of the early negative reviews (I’ve waited decades to write, you see…). Indeed, it takes time to gather momentum, but once it does — particularly with the arrival of the malevolent Elves — the narrative intensifies with remarkable force. The final third is nothing short of a masterclass in narrative escalation:
Superb psychological depth, especially in the portrayals of Magrat and Granny. The humour is more acerbic and subterranean than in Pratchett’s other works — but remains crystalline. It won’t disappoint. The use of Elves as a metaphorical critique of idealised, raw power and dangerous romanticism is particularly incisive — and, perhaps, increasingly relevant today.
Yet (there is always a “yet” when you see a score shy of five, however small the shortfall), the book does require some patience from the reader. Its early structure, filled with brief scenes and character reintroductions, may initially feel scattered. But all is woven together in time — just not immediately. After all, when preparing an exceptional dinner, one doesn’t serve raw ingredients straight onto the plate — nor does one splash guests with wine in the hope they’ll drink faster.
Lords and Ladies is less uproarious and more astringent; less dazzling, more introspective. It is a book about the myth we construct around power and around the self, with the witches — and particularly the women — confronting not only external threats, but their own place in the world.
And if, in 2025, fantasy still has a role beyond mere escapism, then Lords and Ladies is the book that reminds us that even fairy tales can speak of truths we would rather forget.
15. Men At Arms ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Men at Arms is the 15th instalment in the Discworld series—and the second in the "City Watch" subseries. But beyond being “yet another piece of the iconic saga”, it stands out as an exquisitely crafted and socially charged work by Terry Pratchett. First published in 1993, it marks a pivotal transition in the author’s oeuvre—from straightforward parody to deeper politico-social satire. Pratchett, writing “with tongue firmly in cheek”, begins to pass the baton to a more mature, inclusive, and, indeed, “deeper” Pratchett.
The narrative centres on Captain Sam Vimes and the reformation of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, [more in first comment due to GR character limit]
Death learns to live
If you've landed here straight from the clouds—or, more accurately, from the stratosphere of ignorance—and you’re entirely Pratchett -virginal, allow me to begin by saying that the Discworld , the ingenious universe created by Terry Pratchett , is a fantasy realm where satire, absurdity, and human truth coexist in a delicate balance—sometimes tenderly humorous, sometimes sharply ironic. On this disc, which rests upon four elephants standing on the back of a cosmic turtle, anything is possible—even Death losing his job.
Reaper Man (the 11th in the series, and the second to centre on Death ) is one of Pratchett’s most touching, philosophical, and well-crafted works, written as he races towards full literary maturity. In its pages, Death is punished for having developed… a personality—an " unheard-of " flaw for a primordial entity of the cosmos. He is compelled to live as a mortal under the name Bill Door , working on a farm beside the elderly, practical, and unexpectedly sensitive Miss Flitworth .
From the imperishable eternal to the grime of the finite everyday
Death’s sojourn in the realm of mortals confronts him with something he had never truly experienced, despite his millennia of observing ephemeral humankind: the passage of time, fatigue, fear. And yet, through this journey, Pratchett demonstrates that humanity lies not in biological characteristics but in the capacity for care, sacrifice, empathy.
“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.”
The book masterfully balances humour and existential inquiry. Through Death , who… learns to live , Pratchett touches upon fundamental questions: What does it mean to have a purpose? What is the value of life if it has no end?
Life after death (or before?)
Meanwhile, as Death shovels the metaphorical muck of mortal toil and shared fate, his absence from his official “ duties ” plunges the world into chaos: the spirits of the dead refuse to depart, and life stagnates. The deceased wizard Windle Poons returns not to seek vengeance by screaming skyward “ MWAHAHAHA ” amid thunderclaps, but for a second chance to discover what it means to be… alive .
His story—narrated through the hilariously unconventional “ undead activist ” group, the Fresh Start Club —offers satirical and socially charged counterpoint to Death’s inner path. As ever, Pratchett employs absurdity to speak of the essential: the need for change, for restless thought, for hope.
Satire, yes—but with “ ballz ” and heart
If Mort approached Death as the hero of a fantastical coming-of-age tale, Reaper Man elevates him to an almost theological level. His final dialogue with Azrael , the supreme entity embodying Death of the Universe , is one of the most profound and poetic moments in the entire series (and a majestic application of the theory of the imaginary institution of the real ):
“You need to believe in things that aren't true. How else can they become?”
The Pratchett locomotive is now running at full speed, with power that transcends the bounds of satire, offering us at least 20 more exceptional stops (books, of course) before that cursed Alzheimer’s desecrates this wonderfully creative, tender, human mind. Reaper Man is a literary moment of self-awareness, a gentle hymn to the importance of finitude, of tenderness, of coexistence. It is the book in which Terry Pratchett , behind the irony and the wit, reminds us that the most magical thing in the universe is that we care . And as long as that continues—in pages, in actions, in memory— Terry Pratchett shall never truly die.
12. Witches abroad ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Witches Abroad (twelfth instalment in the celebrated Discworld series) stands as one of Terry Pratchett’s most intelligent and subversive works. Set against the ever-recurring tension between fairy-tale enchantment and the Discworld’s grimly satirical, often absurd realism, Pratchett weaves a narrative rich in humour, irony, and philosophical inquiry.
At the centre—both narratively and thematically—are the ever-compelling trio of witches: Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg, and Magrat Garlick. Granny is terse, unbending, possessed of a wilful wisdom—or perhaps a wise wilfulness. Nanny, by contrast, is riotously earthy, gleefully bawdy, and inextricably connected to life’s simpler, ruder pleasures (yes, she’s had her flirtation with the hedonistic, and she’s still pouring “poison into the glass” if it helps the evening along—and frankly, who are we to judge?). Magrat, the youngest and most diffident, is a well-meaning “new age” witch, still fumbling for her place in the world—and in magic. This dynamic forms the decidedly un-Ibsenian “triangle” whose peculiar gravity holds the narrative—and the reader—together.
The plot is set in motion when Magrat inherits the wand of Desiderata Hollow, a fairy godmother with a regrettable taste for narrative inevitability. Her mission? To ensure the “happy ending” of Emberella, a Discworld iteration of Cinderella —or, to risk an etymological misfire, the Greco-equivalent of “Ashypoppet”. (Apologies to the Muses, I’ll retire to a monastery posthaste.) Emberella lives in a city that’s equal parts New Orleans and voodoo masquerade, where the wand, alas, turns everything it touches into… pumpkins. A droll nod to the fairy-tale trope—and, as Granny dryly remarks:
“When you give people what they think they want, you’re likely to end up with a mountain of pumpkins and not a shred of hope.”
What ensues is a journey of comic confusion, magical entanglement, and ideological confrontation, as our witches face Lilith—Granny’s sister and the personification of prescriptive narrative. Lilith is a fairy-tale autocrat, seeking to impose “happy endings” regardless of personal agency. As she chillingly insists:
“The story must unfold correctly. That means the girl marries the prince. What the girl wants is irrelevant.”
Cue the burning bras of second-wave feminism—or rather, their metaphorical equivalents smouldering on some ideological bonfire. But we move briskly on.
Here lies the book’s central thematic concern: the tyranny of narrative. Pratchett’s contention that story, when wielded as an instrument of control, can edge into the fascistic is an audacious argument—one he camouflages in laughter. Lilith is not merely “the villain”; she is the embodiment of coercion masquerading as “magic” . She is, in effect, a kind of narrative inquisitor—an enforcer of saccharine orthodoxy—akin, perhaps, to the genteel authoritarianism of mid-century Britain, where stories were scrubbed clean by moral censors, and fairy tales were sterilised by those who feared dissent more than dragons.
This theme recalls the structural analysis of Vladimir Propp in his Morphology of the Folktale , yet Pratchett cleverly undermines those archetypes. The hero and the happy ending are not organic developments, but imposed constraints. Lilith operates as a Foucauldian panopticon: her stories regulate reality, rewrite will, and overwrite truth. Through comedy, Pratchett interrogates how narrative constructs subjectivity—a kind of “biopolitics of fairy tales”, if one is inclined to wear one’s Derrida on one’s sleeve. If not, the analysis proceeds merrily nonetheless.
This dynamic naturally affects the characters. Magrat, initially hesitant and ineffectual, grows into something braver—particularly as she grasps that innocence is not always a virtue. One of the novel’s most affecting moments is her confrontation with Lilith, in which Magrat declares:
“We’re not here to play roles. We’re here to live.”
Witches Abroad delights in unravelling the very structures it parodies. The frog remains a frog, the princess may very well not want saving, and the “happily ever after” is negotiable at best. Even Joseph Campbell, were he peering from some mythopoeic cloud, might blush to see his monomyth wryly dismantled. In Discworld, the hero’s journey leads not to glorification but to its deconstruction.
True, the plot may lack the gravitas of other Discworld volumes— Small Gods or Night Watch , for instance—but the richness of atmosphere, unflagging wit, and subterranean philosophical undercurrents make this one of the series’ most rewarding entries.
Witches Abroad is far more than a fairy-tale spoof. It is a profoundly reflective and bitingly clever satire on how stories—even the sweetest of them—become dangerous when weaponised as instruments of power. And, as ever with Pratchett, that truth arrives not with a sermon, but with laughter, pumpkins, and three marvellous witches simply… doing their job.
13. Small Gods ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Small Gods (the 13th novel in the Discworld series) is arguably Terry Pratchett’s most philosophical and provocative work. Though nominally (and, admittedly, practically) part of the wider series that spans 41 volumes, it functions entirely independently and requires no prior familiarity with the other books — unlike Mort (which deals with Death and fate) or Guards! Guards! (a satire on policing and political institutions). Small Gods, by contrast, strips Discworld of its usual cast of familiar faces and focuses instead on one god and one believer — making it stand out through its contemplative tone and its focus on the nature of belief, divinity, and humanity. It explores how belief itself confers existence upon the divine — belief which, of course, originates in the human.
The story begins with the god Om, who has been trapped in the body of a humble tortoise due to the fact that only one true believer remains: a young novice named Brutha, illiterate but blessed (or cursed) with a photographic memory and very little critical thought (if this brings to mind the rote-learners of your schooldays who could recite a text flawlessly without grasping its meaning, I don’t blame you — I despised them too). Their journey, both literal and spiritual, leads them into conflict with a theocratic empire, philosophers with dangerously subversive ideas, and a regime terrified of dissent (nothing more familiar, really…). The result is a rich allegory exploring the relationship between faith and power, as well as the capacity of individual conscience to resist dogma.
Pratchett, with his trademark humanist wit and quiet irony that never bows before sacred cows, absurdities or cognitive dissonance (the quintessence of all religion), takes aim at institutions and authority. In one scene, for instance, Om — still a tortoise — attempts to deliver a divine sign to Brutha by dropping a brick on his head, only to discover that “divine revelations have a disappointingly low success rate when they involve blunt force trauma.” In another, the philosophers of Ephebe engage in an abstract debate about the existence of the external world, even as one of them is quite literally on fire, refusing to acknowledge it because it “didn’t fit with his theory.”
Yet despite the satire, the novel is not devoid of tenderness. Brutha does not become a prophet because he hears voices or performs miracles, but because he learns to think, to feel — and ultimately, to doubt. His transformation from a passive believer to a morally autonomous individual forms the novel’s core, as does Om’s own slow and moving metamorphosis from an egotistical god into something more… human.
If there is a flaw, it is that the plot occasionally halts to make room for philosophical or historical digressions. These, however, serve to deepen the work’s intellectual resonance — even if they require a touch more patience from the reader.
Small Gods is a bold meditation on what it means to believe — not necessarily in a god, but in something greater than oneself. It challenges without alienating, amuses without mocking (well, perhaps it does mock — but with that distinctly Pratchettian elegance), and moves without ever descending into sentimentality. One of Pratchett’s most mature and distinctive novels, and an ideal point of entry for those wishing to explore the Discworld through a more philosophical lens.
14. Lords and Ladies ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Lords and Ladies stands as one of Terry Pratchett’s most mature and darkly intelligent moments in the Discworld series. As the fourteenth book in the universe (and the fourth in the “witches” subseries), it manages to strike a delicate balance between satire, fantasy, and a subterranean, almost melancholic exploration of identity, free will, and death. Beginning with a satirical “fairy-tale wedding” and culminating in a confrontation with a form of abusive magic that recognises no consent, Pratchett mounts a subtle — and potent — critique of the illusions we construct around power, memory, and our place in the stories we inherit.
The magical element: A whittled-down fairy tale, a rotting pumpkin, a fairy godmother with a three-day beard, and a faint suspicion that sparkle does not always mean kindness.
The parody of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, with its otherworldly Elves, is deftly overturned: these are not dainty woodland creatures but pagan, unrelenting forces that wield glamour as both manipulation and destruction.
Pratchett draws from the primal myth of the “Fair Folk” or “People of the Hills” in Celtic folklore, where Elves were never benign, but perilous beings capable of dragging mortals into warped pockets of time, soaked in seduction, loss, and forgetfulness. In Lords and Ladies, this mythological root is honoured even as it is ironised. Glamour is not merely enchantment — it becomes a technology of power. It is the ability to alter others’ perception of reality, to dress violence in beauty, to mask subjugation as reverence. A seductive aesthetic that resonates eerily with modern mechanisms of spin and spectacle, whether political, cultural, or commercial. In this reading, glamour becomes a metaphor for the way “charm” can be used to veil coercion — or indeed to dissolve will entirely.
The Witches of Lancre – Each one, a story.
The formidable witching trio we’ve come to know (Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Magrat Garlick) are in fine form, though Pratchett never rests on familiar dynamics. He explores the dissolution and rebirth of their circle, with Magrat at its centre, transforming from a self-doubting “young witch” into a battle-hardened queen through a path of self-discovery marked by irony and… brass (her armour is, quite literally, made from kitchen pots).
Magrat might seem, momentarily, to echo Tolkien’s Éowyn, lifting a sword and casting aside assigned roles. But unlike Tolkien’s solemn epic, Pratchett’s heroine never relinquishes her sense of doubt or self-mockery. The armour is there — but it clanks. The glory is present — but beneath it, she’s still wearing a floral dressing gown. This is not heroic idealism, but something far braver: a woman who rises, not above ridicule, but through it.
Granny Weatherwax, by contrast, confronts the ghosts of the selves she might have been. Beyond the existential gravitas this lends the book, it is deeply moving — especially if you’ve grown fond of this grimly proud, stern old spinster. Make no mistake: this is less a story about witches, and more a reckoning with the nature of consciousness and solitude.
The plot unfolds slowly at first, which may have been the reason for some of the early negative reviews (I’ve waited decades to write, you see…). Indeed, it takes time to gather momentum, but once it does — particularly with the arrival of the malevolent Elves — the narrative intensifies with remarkable force. The final third is nothing short of a masterclass in narrative escalation:
Superb psychological depth, especially in the portrayals of Magrat and Granny. The humour is more acerbic and subterranean than in Pratchett’s other works — but remains crystalline. It won’t disappoint. The use of Elves as a metaphorical critique of idealised, raw power and dangerous romanticism is particularly incisive — and, perhaps, increasingly relevant today.
Yet (there is always a “yet” when you see a score shy of five, however small the shortfall), the book does require some patience from the reader. Its early structure, filled with brief scenes and character reintroductions, may initially feel scattered. But all is woven together in time — just not immediately. After all, when preparing an exceptional dinner, one doesn’t serve raw ingredients straight onto the plate — nor does one splash guests with wine in the hope they’ll drink faster.
Lords and Ladies is less uproarious and more astringent; less dazzling, more introspective. It is a book about the myth we construct around power and around the self, with the witches — and particularly the women — confronting not only external threats, but their own place in the world.
And if, in 2025, fantasy still has a role beyond mere escapism, then Lords and Ladies is the book that reminds us that even fairy tales can speak of truths we would rather forget.
15. Men At Arms ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Men at Arms is the 15th instalment in the Discworld series—and the second in the "City Watch" subseries. But beyond being “yet another piece of the iconic saga”, it stands out as an exquisitely crafted and socially charged work by Terry Pratchett. First published in 1993, it marks a pivotal transition in the author’s oeuvre—from straightforward parody to deeper politico-social satire. Pratchett, writing “with tongue firmly in cheek”, begins to pass the baton to a more mature, inclusive, and, indeed, “deeper” Pratchett.
The narrative centres on Captain Sam Vimes and the reformation of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, [more in first comment due to GR character limit]
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