The Witcher remained silent.
‘When we were hanging on the bridge,’ the sorceress said, ‘you asked me for something. I’ll meet your request. In spite of everything.’
The Witcher smiled sadly and touched the obsidian star on Yennefer’s neck with his index finger.
‘It’s too late, Yen. We aren’t hanging now. It’s stopped mattering to me. In spite of everything.’
He expected the worst: a cascade of fire, lightning, a smack in the face, abuse, curses. He was surprised just to see the suppressed trembling of her lips. Yennefer slowly turned away. Geralt regretted his words. He regretted the emotion which had engendered them. The limit of possibility overstepped, now snapped like a lute string. He looked at Dandelion and saw the troubadour quickly turn his head away and avoid his gaze.
‘Well, we’ve got the issue of knightly honour out of the way, my lords,’ Boholt called, now dressed in armour and standing before Niedamir, who was still sitting on a stone with an unvarying expression of boredom on his face. ‘Knightly honour is lying there, groaning softly. It was a lousy idea, Lord Gyllenstiern, to send out Eyck as your knight and vassal. I wouldn’t dream of pointing the finger, but I know whom Eyck can thank for his broken pins. Yes, I swear, we’ve killed two birds with one stone. One was a lunatic, insanely reviving the legends of how a bold knight defeats a dragon in a duel. And the other a swindler, who wanted to make money from it. Do you know who I’m talking about, Gyllenstiern, what? Good. And now our move. Now the dragon is ours. Now we, the Reavers, will sort out that dragon. But by ourselves.’
‘And the agreement, Boholt?’ the chancellor drawled. ‘What about the agreement?’
‘I don’t give a shit about the agreement.’
‘This is outrageous! This is lese-majesty!’ Gyllenstiern stamped his foot. ‘King Niedamir—’
‘What about the king?’ Boholt yelled, resting on an enormous, two-handed sword. ‘Perhaps the king will personally decide to take on the dragon by himself? Or perhaps you, his faithful chancellor, will squeeze your belly into a suit of armour and go into battle? Why not, please do, we’ll wait, my lord. You had your chance, Gyllenstiern. Had Eyck mortally lanced the dragon, you would have taken it in its entirety, nothing would have been left to us because we hadn’t helped, not one golden scale on its back. But it’s too late now. Open your eyes. There’s no one to fight under Caingorn’s colours. You won’t find another chump like Eyck.’
‘That’s not true!’ the cobbler Sheepbagger said, hurrying to the king, who was still busy watching a point on the horizon of interest only to him. ‘O King! Just wait a little, and our men from Barefield will be arriving, they’ll be ’ere any moment! To hell with the cocksure nobility, chase them away! You’ll see who is really brave, who is strong in deed, and not just in word!’
‘Shut your trap,’ Boholt said calmly, wiping a spot of rust from his breastplate. ‘Shut your trap, peasant, because if you don’t I’ll shut it so hard I’ll shove your teeth down your throat.’
Sheepbagger, seeing Kennet and Gar approaching, quickly backed away and hid among the Barefield constables.
‘King!’ Gyllenstiern called. ‘O King, what do you command?’
The expression of boredom suddenly vanished from Niedamir’s face. The underage monarch wrinkled his freckly nose and stood up.
‘What do I command?’ he said in a shrill voice. ‘You’ve finally asked, Gyllenstiern, rather than decide for me and speak for me and on my behalf? I’m very pleased. And may it thus remain, Gyllenstiern. From this moment you will be silent and listen to my orders. Here is the first of them. Muster the men and order Eyck of Denesle be placed on a wagon. We’re going back to Caingorn.’
‘But sire—’
‘Not a word, Gyllenstiern. Madam Yennefer, noble lords, I bid you farewell. I’ve lost some time on this expedition, but have gained much. I have learned a great deal. Thank you for your words, Madam Yennefer, Master Dorregaray, Sir Boholt. And thank you for your silence, Sir Geralt.’
‘O King,’ Gyllenstiern said. ‘What do you mean? The dragon is in our grasp. It’s there for the taking. King, your dream . . . ’
‘My dream,’ Niedamir repeated pensively. ‘I do not have it yet. And should I stay here . . . Then I might never have it.’
‘But Malleore? And the hand of the princess?’ The chancellor waved his arms, not giving up. ‘And the throne? King, the people there will acknowledge you as . . . ’
‘I don’t give a shit about the people there, as Sir Boholt would say,’ Niedamir laughed. ‘The throne of Malleore is mine anyway, because in Caingorn I have three hundred armoured troops and fifteen hundred foot soldiers against their thousand crappy spearmen. Do they acknowledge me? They will have to. I’ll keep hanging, beheading and dismembering until they do. And their princess is a fat goose and to hell with her hand, I only need her womb. Let her bear me an heir, and then I’ll poison her anyway. Using Master Sheepbagger’s method. That’s enough chatter, Gyllenstiern. Set about carrying out my orders.’
‘Indeed,’ Dandelion whispered to Geralt, ‘he has learned a great deal.’
‘A great deal,’ Geralt confirmed, looking at the hillock where the golden dragon, with its triangular head lowered, was licking something grey-green sitting in the grass beside it with its forked, scarlet tongue. ‘But I wouldn’t like to be his subject, Dandelion.’
‘And what do you think will happen now?’
The Witcher looked calmly at the tiny, grey-green creature, fluttering its bat-like wings beside the golden talons of the stooping dragon.
‘And what’s your opinion about all this, Dandelion? What do you think?’
‘What does it matter what I think? I’m a poet, Geralt. Does my opinion matter at all?’
‘Yes it does.’
‘Well I’ll tell you then. When I see a reptile, Geralt, a viper, let’s say, or some other serpent, it gives me the creeps, the vileness disgusts and terrifies me. But that dragon . . . ’
‘Yeah?’
‘It . . . it’s pretty, Geralt.’
‘Thank you, Dandelion.’
‘What for?’
Geralt turned his head away, and with a slow movement reached for the buckle of his belt, which crossed his chest diagonally, and shortened it by two holes. He lifted his right hand to check if his sword hilt was positioned correctly. Dandelion looked on with eyes wide open.
‘Geralt! Do you plan to . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ the Witcher said calmly, ‘there is a limit to what I can accept as possible. I’ve had enough of all this. Are you going with Niedamir or staying, Dandelion?’
The troubadour leaned over, placed his lute beneath a stone cautiously and with great care and then straightened up.
‘I’m staying. What did you say? The limits of possibility? I’m bagging that as the title of a ballad.’
‘It could be your last one, Dandelion.’
‘Geralt?’
‘Mm?’
‘Don’t kill it . . . Can you not?’
‘A sword is a sword, Dandelion. Once drawn . . . ’
‘Please try.’
‘I will.’
Dorregaray chuckled, turned towards Yennefer and the Reavers, and pointed at the receding royal caravan.
‘Over there,’ he said, ‘King Niedamir is leaving. He no longer gives orders through Gyllenstiern’s mouth. He is departing, having demonstrated good sense. I’m glad you’re here, Dandelion. I suggest you begin composing a ballad.’
‘What about?’
‘About,’ the sorcerer drew his wand from his coat, ‘Master Dorregaray, sorcerer, chasing back home the rabble who wanted to use vulgar methods to kill the last golden dragon left in the world. Don’t move, Boholt! Yarpen, hands off your battle-axe! Don’t move a muscle, Yennefer! Off you go, good-for-nothings, follow the king, like good little boys. Be off, mount your horses or wagons. I warn you that if anybody makes a false move all that will remain of him will be a burning smell and a bit of
fused sand. I am serious.’
‘Dorregaray!’ Yennefer hissed.
‘My lord sorcerer,’ Boholt said conciliatorily. ‘Is this any way to act—’
‘Be quiet, Boholt. I told you not to touch that dragon. Fables are not to be killed. About-turn and scram.’
Yennefer’s hand suddenly shot forward, and the ground around Dorregaray exploded in blue flame, seething in a dust cloud of torn turf and grit.
The sorcerer staggered, encircled by fire. Gar leaped forward and struck him in the face with the heel of his hand. Dorregaray fell to the ground, a bolt of red lightning shooting from his wand and harmlessly zapping out among the rocks. Beanpole sprang at him from the other side, kicked the sorcerer to the ground, and took a backswing to repeat the blow. Geralt fell among them, pushed Beanpole away, drew his sword and thrust flat, aiming between the breastplate and the spaulder. He was thwarted by Boholt, who parried the blow with the broad blade of his two-handed sword. Dandelion tried to trip Gar, but ineffectively; Gar clung to the bard’s rainbow-hued jerkin and thumped him between the eyes with his fist. Yarpen Zigrin, leaping from behind, tripped Dandelion, hitting him behind his knees with the haft of a hatchet.
Geralt spun into a pirouette, evading Boholt’s sword, and jabbed at the onrushing Beanpole, tearing off his iron bracer. Beanpole leaped back, tripped and fell over. Boholt grunted and whirled his sword like a scythe. Geralt jumped over the whistling blade, slammed the hilt of his sword into Boholt’s breastplate, fended him off, and thrust, aiming for his cheek. Boholt, realising he could not parry with his heavy sword, threw himself backwards, falling on his back. The Witcher leaped at him and at that moment felt the earth fall away from under his rapidly numbing feet. He saw the horizon going from horizontal to vertical. Vainly trying to form a protective Sign with his fingers, he fell heavily onto the ground on his side, his sword slipping from his numb hand. There was a pounding and a buzzing in his ears.
‘Tie them up before the spell stops working,’ Yennefer said, somewhere above and very far away. ‘All three of them.’
Dorregaray and Geralt, befuddled and paralysed, allowed themselves to be bound and tethered to a wagon, silently and without resisting. Dandelion fought and cursed, so he received a punch in the face before he was tied to the wagon.
‘Why tie ’em up, traitors, sons of dogs?’ Sheepbagger said, walking over. ‘They should be clubbed to death at once and be done with it.’
‘You’re a son yourself, and not a dog’s,’ Yarpen Zigrin said, ‘Don’t insult dogs here. Scram, you heel.’
‘You’re awfully brave,’ Sheepbagger snapped. ‘We’ll see if you’re brave enough when my comrades arrive from Barefield. They’ll be here any moment. You’ll . . . ’
Yarpen, twisting with surprising agility considering his build, whacked Sheepbagger over the head with his hatchet. Gar, standing alongside, gave him a kick for good measure. Sheepbagger flew a few feet through the air and fell nose-first in the grass.
‘You’ll be sorry!’ he yelled, crawling on all fours. ‘I’ll fix . . . ’
‘Lads!’ Yarpen Zigrin roared. ‘Kick the cobbler in the cobblers! Grab ’im, Gar!’
Sheepbagger did not wait. He sprang up and dashed towards the eastern canyon. The Barefield trackers followed him, cringing. The dwarves, cackling, sent a hail of stones after them.
‘The air’s freshened up already,’ Yarpen laughed. ‘Right, Boholt, let’s get down to the dragon.’
‘Hold on,’ Yennefer raised a hand. ‘The only thing you’re getting down to is the bottom of the valley. Be gone, all of you.’
‘Excuse me?’ Boholt bent over, his eyes blazing ominously. ‘What did you say, Most Honourable Madam Witch?’
‘Follow that cobbler,’ Yennefer repeated. ‘All of you. I’ll deal with the dragon myself. Using unconventional weapons. And you can thank me as you leave. Had it not been for me you would have tasted the Witcher’s sword. Come now, quickly, Boholt, before I lose my temper. I warn you that I know a spell which can make you all geldings. I just have to raise my hand.’
‘Is that so?’ Boholt drawled. ‘My patience has reached its limits. I won’t be made a fool of. Beanpole, unhook the shaft from the cart. I feel I’ll also be needing unconventional weapons. Someone is soon going to get a damn good thrashing, my lords. I won’t point the finger, but a certain hideous witch is going to get a bloody sound hiding.’
‘Just try, Boholt. You’ll brighten up my day.’
‘Why, Yennefer?’ the dwarf asked reproachfully.
‘Perhaps I simply don’t like sharing, Yarpen?’
‘Well now,’ Yarpen Zigrin smiled. ‘That’s profoundly human. So human it’s almost dwarven. It’s nice to see familiar qualities in a sorceress. Because I don’t like sharing, either, Yennefer.’
He hunched into a short, very rapid backswing. A steel ball, appearing out of his pocket as if from nowhere, whirred through the air and smacked Yennefer right in the forehead. Before the sorceress had time to come to her senses, she was suspended in the air, being held up by Beanpole and Gar, and Yarpen was binding her ankles with twine. Yennefer screamed furiously, but one of Yarpen’s boys threw the wagon’s reins over her head from behind and pulled them tight, the leather strap digging into her open mouth, stifling her cries.
‘Well, Yennefer,’ Boholt said as he walked over, ‘how do you plan to turn me into a gelding now? When you can’t move a hand?’
He tore the collar of her coat and then ripped and wrenched open her blouse. Yennefer shrieked, choked by the reins.
‘I don’t have the time now,’ Boholt said, groping her shamelessly to the cackling of the dwarves, ‘but wait a little while, witch. Once we’ve sorted out the dragon, we’ll make merry. Tie her firmly to the wheel, boys. Both little hands to the rim, so she won’t be able to lift a finger. And no one’s to bloody touch her yet, my lords. We’ll sort the order out depending on who does a good job on the dragon.’
‘Beware, Boholt,’ Geralt, arms tied, said, softly, calmly and ominously. ‘I’ll follow you to the ends of the world.’
‘You surprise me,’ the Reaver replied, just as calmly. ‘In your place I’d keep mum. I know you, and I know I have to take your threat seriously. I won’t have a choice. You might not come out of this alive, Witcher. We’ll return to this matter. Gar, Beanpole, to horse.’
‘What bad luck,’ Dandelion snapped. ‘Why the hell did I get mixed up in this?’
Dorregaray, lowering his head, watched the thick drops of blood slowly dripping from his nose onto his belly.
‘Would you stop staring!’ the sorceress screamed at Geralt. She was writhing like a snake in her bonds, vainly trying to conceal her exposed charms. The Witcher obediently turned his head away. Dandelion did not.
‘You must have used an entire barrel of mandrake elixir on what I can see, Yennefer,’ the bard laughed. ‘Your skin’s like a sixteen-year-old’s, dammit.’
‘Shut your trap, whore’s son!’ the sorceress bellowed.
‘How old are you, actually, Yennefer?’ Dandelion asked, not giving up. ‘Two hundred? Well, a hundred and fifty, let’s say. And you’re behaving like . . . ’
Yennefer twisted her neck and spat at him, but was wide of the mark.
‘Yen,’ the Witcher said reproachfully, wiping his spit-covered ear on his shoulder.
‘I wish he would stop staring!’
‘Not on your life,’ Dandelion said, without taking his eyes off the bedraggled sorceress. ‘I’m here because of her. They may slit our throats, but at least I’ll die happy.’
‘Shut up, Dandelion,’ the Witcher said.
‘I have no intention of so doing. In fact I plan to compose the Ballad of the Two Tits. Please don’t interfere.’
‘Dandelion,’ Dorregaray sniffed through his bloody nose. ‘Be serious.’
‘I am being bloody serious.’
The dwarves heaved Boholt up into the saddle. He was heavy and squat from the armour and the leather pads he was
wearing. Gar and Beanpole were already mounted, holding huge, two-handed swords across their saddles.
‘Right,’ Boholt rasped, ‘let’s have at him.’
‘Oh, no,’ said a deep voice, sounding like a brass trumpet. ‘I have come to you!’
From beyond the ring of boulders emerged a long snout shimmering with gold, a slender neck armed with a row of triangular, serrated projections and, behind, taloned feet. The evil, reptilian eyes, with their vertical pupils, peered from beneath horned eyelids.
‘I was tired of waiting in the open,’ the dragon Villentretenmerth said, looking around, ‘so I came myself. Fewer and fewer challengers, I see.’
Boholt held the reins in his teeth and a longsword two-handed.
‘Thas nuff,’ he said indistinctly, holding the strap in his teeth. ‘Stah an fight, heptile!’
‘I am,’ the dragon said, arching its back and lifting its tail insultingly.
Boholt looked around. Gar and Beanpole slowly, almost ostentatiously, calmly, flanked the dragon. Yarpen Zigrin and his boys waited behind, holding battle-axes.
‘Aaaargh!’ Boholt roared, striking his horse hard with his heels and lifting his sword.
The dragon curled up, flattened itself to the ground and struck with its tail from above and behind, like a scorpion, hitting not Boholt, but Gar, who was attacking from the side. Gar fell over with his horse amid a clanking, screaming and neighing tumult. Boholt, charging at a gallop, struck with a terrible blow, but the dragon nimbly dodged the wide blade. The momentum of the gallop carried Boholt alongside the dragon’s body. The dragon twisted, standing on its hind legs, and clawed Beanpole, tearing open his horse’s belly and the rider’s thigh with a single slash. Boholt, leaning far out from the saddle, managed to steer his horse around, pulling the reins with his teeth, and attacked once more.
The dragon lashed its tail over the dwarves rushing towards it, knocking them all over, and then lunged at Boholt, en route – seemingly in passing – stamping vigorously on Beanpole, who was trying to get up. Boholt, jerking his head around, tried to steer his galloping horse, but the dragon was infinitely quicker and more agile. Cunningly stealing up on Boholt from the left in order to obstruct his swing, it struck with a taloned foot. The horse reared up and lurched over to one side. Boholt flew from the saddle, losing his sword and helmet, tumbling backwards onto the ground, banging his head against a rock.
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