Introducing the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Look out everyoooone!’

  Sheepbagger and several members of the Barefield constabulary, who had been sent ahead to reconnoitre, were running back from the narrow opening to the gorge.

  ‘What is it? Why’s he bellowing like that?’ Gar lifted his head up.

  ‘Good people . . . Your . . . Excellencies . . . ’ the cobbler panted.

  ‘Get it out, man,’ Gyllenstiern said, hooking his thumbs into his golden belt.

  ‘A dragon! There’s a dragon there!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Beyond the gorge . . . On level ground . . . Sire, he . . . ’

  ‘To horse!’ Gyllenstiern ordered.

  ‘Gar!’ Boholt yelled, ‘onto the wagon! Beanpole, get mounted and follow me!’

  ‘Look lively, lads!’ Yarpen Zigrin roared. ‘Look lively, by thunder!’

  ‘Hey, wait for me!’ Dandelion slung his lute over his shoulder. ‘Geralt! Take me with you!’

  ‘Jump on!’

  The gorge ended in a mound of light-coloured rocks, which gradually thinned out, creating an irregular ring. Beyond them the ground descended gently into a grassy, undulating mountain pasture, enclosed on all sides by limestone walls, gaping with thousands of openings. Three narrow canyons, the mouths of dried-up streams, opened out onto the pasture.

  Boholt, the first to gallop to the barrier of rocks, suddenly reined in his horse and stood up in his stirrups.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ he said. ‘Oh, bloody hell. It . . . it can’t be!’

  ‘What?’ Dorregaray asked, riding up. Beside him Yennefer, dismounting from the Reavers’ wagon, pressed her chest against the rocky block, peeped out, moved back and rubbed her eyes.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Dandelion shouted, leaning out from behind Geralt’s back. ‘What is it, Boholt?’

  ‘That dragon . . . is golden.’

  No further than a hundred paces from the gorge’s rocky entrance from which they had emerged, on the road to the northward-leading canyon, on a gently curving, low hill, sat the creature. It was sitting, arching its long, slender neck in a smooth curve, inclining its narrow head onto its domed chest, wrapping its tail around its extended front feet.

  There was something inexpressibly graceful in the creature and the way it was sitting; something feline, something that contradicted its clearly reptilian origins. But it was also undeniably reptilian. For the creature was covered in distinctly outlined scales, which shone with a glaring blaze of bright, yellow gold. For the creature sitting on the hillock was golden; golden from the tips of its talons, dug into the ground, to the end of its long tail, which was moving very gently among the thistles growing on the hill. Looking at them with its large, golden eyes, the creature unfurled its broad, golden, bat-like wings and remained motionless, demanding to be admired.

  ‘A golden dragon,’ Dorregaray whispered. ‘It’s impossible . . . A living fable!’

  ‘There’s no such thing as a bloody golden dragon,’ Gar pronounced and spat. ‘I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Then what’s sitting on that hillock?’ Dandelion asked pointedly.

  ‘It’s some kind of trickery.’

  ‘An illusion.’

  ‘It is not an illusion,’ Yennefer said.

  ‘It’s a golden dragon,’ Gyllenstiern said. ‘An absolutely genuine, golden dragon.’

  ‘Golden dragons only exist in fables!’

  ‘Stop that, all of you,’ Boholt suddenly broke in. ‘There’s no point getting worked up. Any blockhead can see it’s a golden dragon. And what difference does it make, my lords, if it’s golden, lapis lazuli, shit-coloured or chequered? It’s not that big, we’ll sort it out in no time. Beanpole, Gar, clear the debris off the wagon and get the gear out. What’s the difference if it’s golden or not?’

  ‘There is a difference, Boholt,’ Beanpole said. ‘And a vital one. That isn’t the dragon we’re stalking. Not the one that was poisoned outside Barefield, which is now sitting in its cave on a pile of ore and jewels. That one’s just sitting on its arse. What bloody use is it to us?’

  ‘That dragon is golden, Kennet,’ Yarpen Zigrin snarled. ‘Have you ever seen anything like it? Don’t you understand? We’ll get more for its hide than we would for a normal treasure hoard.’

  ‘And without flooding the market with precious stones,’ Yennefer added, smiling unpleasantly. ‘Yarpen’s right. The agreement is still binding. Quite something to divide up, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hey, Boholt?’ Gar shouted from the wagon, where he was clattering amongst the tackle. ‘What shall we equip ourselves and the horses with? What could that golden reptile belch, hey? Fire? Acid? Steam?’

  ‘Haven’t got an effing clue,’ Boholt said, sounding worried. ‘Hey, sorcerers! Anything in the fables about golden dragons, about how to kill them?’

  ‘How do you kill them? The usual way!’ Sheepbagger suddenly shouted. ‘No point pondering, give us an animal. We’ll stuff it full of something poisonous and feed it to the reptile, and good riddance.’

  Dorregaray looked askance at the cobbler, Boholt spat, and Dandelion turned his head away with a grimace of disgust. Yarpen Zigrin smiled repulsively, hands on hips.

  ‘Wha’ you looking at?’ Sheepbagger asked. ‘Let’s get to work, we have to decide what to stuff the carcass with so the reptile quickly perishes. It ’as to be something which is extremely toxic, poisonous or rotten.’

  ‘Aha,’ the dwarf spoke, still smiling. ‘Well, what’s poisonous, foul and stinks? Do you know what, Sheepbagger? Looks like it’s you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You bloody heard. Get lost, bodger, out of my sight.’

  ‘Lord Dorregaray,’ Boholt said, walking over to the sorcerer. ‘Make yourself useful. Call to mind some fables and tales. What do you know about golden dragons?’

  The sorcerer smiled, straightening up self-importantly.

  ‘What do I know about golden dragons, you ask? Not much, but enough.’

  ‘We’re listening.’

  ‘Then listen and listen attentively. Over there, before us, sits a golden dragon. A living legend, possibly the last and only creature of its kind to have survived your murderous frenzy. One doesn’t kill legends. I, Dorregaray, will not allow you to touch that dragon. Is that understood? You can get packed, fasten your saddlebags and go home.’

  Geralt was convinced an uproar would ensue. He was mistaken.

  ‘Noble sorcerer, sir,’ Gyllenstiern’s voice interrupted the silence. ‘Heed what and to whom you speak. King Niedamir may order you, Dorregaray, to fasten your saddlebags and go to hell. But not the other way around. Is that clear?’

  ‘No,’ the sorcerer said proudly, ‘it is not. For I am Master Dorregaray, and will not be ordered around by someone whose kingdom encompasses an area visible from the height of the palisade on a mangy, filthy, stinking stronghold. Do you know, Lord Gyllenstiern, that were I to speak a charm and wave my hand, you would change into a cowpat, and your underage king into something ineffably worse? Is that clear?’

  Gyllenstiern did not manage to answer, for Boholt walked up to Dorregaray, caught him by the shoulder and pulled him around to face him. Gar and Beanpole, silent and grim, appeared from behind Boholt.

  ‘Just listen, magician, sir,’ the enormous Reaver said. ‘Before you wave that hand, listen to me. I could spend a long time explaining what I would do with your prohibitions, your fables and your foolish chatter. But I have no wish to. Let this suffice as my answer.’

  Boholt placed a finger against his nose and from a short distance ejected the contents onto the toes of the sorcerer’s boots.

  Dorregaray blanched, but did not move. He saw – as everyone did – the morning star mace on a cubit-long shaft hanging low at Gar’s side. He knew – as everyone did – that the time he needed to cast a spell was incomparably longer than the time Gar needed to smash his head to pieces.

  ‘Very well,’ Boholt said. ‘And now move nicely out of the way, your lordship. And should the
desire to open your gob occur to you, quickly shove a bunch of grass into it. Because if I hear you whining again, I’ll give you something to remember me by.’

  Boholt turned away and rubbed his hands.

  ‘Right, Gar, Beanpole, let’s get to work, because that reptile won’t hang around forever.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be planning on going anywhere,’ Dandelion said, looking at the foreground. ‘Look at it.’

  The golden dragon on the hill yawned, lifted its head, waved its wings and lashed the ground with its tail.

  ‘King Niedamir and you, knights!’ it yelled with a roar like a brass trumpet. ‘I am the dragon Villentretenmerth! As I see, the landslide which I – though I say it, as shouldn’t – sent down on your heads did not completely stop you. You have come this far. As you know, there are only three ways out of this valley. East, towards Barefield, and west, towards Caingorn. And you may use those roads. You will not take the northern gorge, gentlemen, because I, Villentretenmerth, forbid you. However, if anyone does not wish to respect my injunction, I challenge him to fight an honourable, knightly duel. With conventional weapons, without spells, without breathing fire. A fight to the utter capitulation of one of the sides. I await an answer through your herald, as custom dictates!’

  Everyone stood with their mouths open wide.

  ‘It can talk!’ Boholt panted. ‘Remarkable!’

  ‘Not only that, but very intelligently,’ Yarpen Zigrin said. ‘Anyone know what a confessional weapon is?’

  ‘An ordinary, non-magical one,’ Yennefer said frowning. ‘But something else puzzles me. With a forked tongue it’s not capable of articulated speech. The rogue is using telepathy! Be careful, it works in both directions. It can read your thoughts.’

  ‘Has it gone completely barmy, or what?’ Kennet Beanpole said, annoyed. ‘An honourable duel? With a stupid reptile? Not a chance! We’ll attack him together! There’s strength in numbers!’

  ‘No.’

  They looked around.

  Eyck of Denesle, already mounted in full armour, with his lance set by his stirrup, looked much better than he had on foot. His feverish eyes blazed from beneath his raised visor and his face was pale.

  ‘No, Kennet, sir,’ the knight repeated. ‘Unless it is over my dead body. I will not permit knightly honour to be insulted in my presence. Whomsoever dares to violate the principles of this honourable duel . . . ’

  Eyck was talking louder and louder. His exalted voice was cracking and he was trembling with excitement.

  ‘ . . . whomsoever affronts honour, also affronts me, and his or my blood will be shed on this tired earth. The beast calls for a duel? Very well! Let the herald trumpet my name! May divine judgement decide! On the dragon’s side is the power of fang and talon and infernal fury, and on my side . . . ’

  ‘What a moron,’ Yarpen Zigrin muttered.

  ‘ . . . on my side righteousness, faith, the tears of virgins, whom this reptile—’

  ‘That’s enough, Eyck, you make me want to puke!’ Boholt yelled. ‘Go on, to the lists! Don’t talk, set about that dragon!’

  ‘Hey, Boholt, wait,’ one of the dwarves, tugging on his beard, suddenly said. ‘Forgotten about the agreement? If Eyck lays low the serpent, he’ll take half . . . ’

  ‘Eyck won’t take anything,’ Boholt grinned. ‘I know him. He’ll be happy if Dandelion writes a song about him.’

  ‘Silence!’ Gyllenstiern declared. ‘Let it be. Against the dragon will ride out the virtuous knight errant, Eyck of Denesle, fighting in the colours of Caingorn as the lance and sword of King Niedamir. That is the kingly will!’

  ‘There you have it,’ Yarpen Zigrin gnashed his teeth. ‘The lance and sword of Niedamir. The Caingorn kinglet has fixed us. What now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Boholt spat. ‘I reckon you don’t want to cross Eyck, Yarpen? He talks nonsense, but if he’s already mounted his horse and roused himself, better get out of his way. Let him go, dammit, and sort the dragon out. And then we’ll see.’

  ‘Who shall be the herald?’ Dandelion asked. ‘The dragon wanted a herald. Maybe me?’

  ‘No. We don’t need a song, Dandelion,’ Boholt frowned. ‘Yarpen Zigrin can be the herald. He’s got a voice like a bull.’

  ‘Very well, no bother,’ Yarpen said. ‘Bring me a flag-bearer with a banner so that everything is as it should be.’

  ‘Just talk politely, dwarf, sir. And courteously,’ Gyllenstiern cautioned.

  ‘Don’t learn me how to talk,’ the dwarf proudly stuck out his belly. ‘I was sent on diplomatic missions when you lot were still knee-high to a grasshopper.’

  The dragon continued to sit patiently on the hillock, waving its tail cheerfully. The dwarf clambered up onto the largest boulder, hawked and spat.

  ‘Hey, you there!’ he yelled, putting his hands on his hips. ‘You fucking dragon, you! Listen to what the herald has to say! That means me! The first one to take you on honourably will be the meandering knight, Eyck of Denesle! And he will stick his lance in your paunch, according to the holy custom, to your confusion, and to the joy of poor virgins and King Niedamir! It will be a fair fight and honourable, breathing fire is not allowed, and you may only lambast the other confessionally, until the other gives up the ghost or expires! Which we sincerely wish on you! Understood, dragon?’

  The dragon yawned, flapped its wings, and then, flattening itself to the ground, quickly descended from the hillock to level ground.

  ‘I have understood, noble herald!’ it yelled back. ‘Then may the virtuous Eyck of Denesle enter the fray. I am ready!’

  ‘What a pantomime,’ Boholt spat, following Eyck with a grim expression, as he walked his horse over the barrier of boulders. ‘A ruddy barrel of laughs . . . ’

  ‘Shut your yap, Boholt,’ Dandelion shouted, rubbing his hands. ‘Look, Eyck is preparing to charge! It’ll be a bloody beautiful ballad!’

  ‘Hurrah! Long live Eyck!’ someone shouted from Niedamir’s troop of bowmen.

  ‘And I,’ Sheepbagger said gloomily, ‘would still have stuffed him full of brimstone, just to be certain.’

  Eyck, already in the field, saluted the dragon with his upraised lance, slammed down his visor and struck his horse with his spurs.

  ‘Well, well,’ the dwarf said. ‘He may be stupid, but he knows how to charge. Look at him go!’

  Eyck, lent forward, braced in the saddle, lowered his lance at full gallop. The dragon, contrary to Geralt’s expectations, did not leap aside, did not move in a semicircle, but, flattened to the ground, rushed straight at the attacking knight.

  ‘Hit him! Hit him, Eyck!’ Yarpen yelled.

  Eyck, although in full gallop, did not strike headlong, straight ahead. At the last moment he nimbly changed direction, shifting the lance over his horse’s head. Flashing past the dragon, he thrust with all his might, standing up in the stirrups. Everybody shouted in unison. Geralt did not join in with the choir.

  The dragon evaded the blow with a delicate, agile, graceful turn and, coiling like a living, golden ribbon, as quick as lightning, but softly, catlike, reached a foot beneath the horse’s belly. The horse squealed, jerking its croup high up, and the knight rocked in the saddle, but did not release his lance. Just as the horse was about to hit the ground snout first, the dragon swept Eyck from the saddle with a fierce swipe of his clawed foot. Everybody saw his breastplate spinning upwards and everybody heard the clanking and thudding with which the knight fell onto the ground.

  The dragon, sitting on its haunches, pinned the horse with a foot, and lowered its toothy jaws. The horse squealed shrilly, struggled and then was quiet.

  In the silence that fell everybody heard the deep voice of the dragon Villentretenmerth.

  ‘The doughty Eyck of Denesle may now be taken from the battlefield, for he is incapable of fighting any longer. Next, please.’

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ Yarpen Zigrin said in the silence that followed.

  VIII

  ‘Both legs,’ Yennefer said wi
ping her hands on a linen cloth, ‘and probably something with his spine. The armour on his back is dented as though he’d been hit by a pile driver. He injured his legs with his own lance. He won’t be mounting a horse for some time. If he ever mounts one again.’

  ‘Professional hazard,’ Geralt muttered. The sorceress frowned.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘And what else would you like to hear, Yennefer?’

  ‘That dragon is unbelievably fast, Geralt. Too fast for a man to fight it.’

  ‘I understand. No, Yen. Not me.’

  ‘Principles,’ the sorceress smiled spitefully, ‘or ordinary, commonplace fear? The only human feeling that wasn’t eradicated in you?’

  ‘One and the other,’ the Witcher agreed dispassionately. ‘What difference does it make?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Yennefer came closer. ‘None. Principles may be broken, fear can be overcome. Kill that dragon, Geralt. For me.’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘For me. I want that dragon, Geralt. In one piece. I want to have him all for myself.’

  ‘So cast a spell and kill it.’

  ‘No. You kill it. And I’ll use my spells to hold back the Reavers and the others so they don’t interfere.’

  ‘You’ll kill them, Yennefer.’

  ‘Since when has that ever bothered you? You take care of the dragon, I’ll deal with the people.’

  ‘Yennefer,’ the Witcher said coldly, ‘I don’t understand. What do you want with that dragon? Does the yellowness of its scales dazzle you to that degree? You don’t suffer from poverty, after all. You have numerous sources of income; you’re famous. What are you about? Just don’t talk about a calling, I beg you.’

  Yennefer was silent, then finally, twisting her lips, aimed a powerful kick at a stone lying in the grass.

  ‘There’s someone who can help me, Geralt. Apparently, it’s . . . you know what I’m talking about . . . Apparently it isn’t irreversible. There’s a chance. I could still have . . . Do you understand?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘It’s a complex operation, costly. But in exchange for a golden dragon . . . Geralt?’