The Sword of Destiny

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘A golden dragon,’ murmured Dorregaray. ‘It's impossible… a living legend!’

  ‘For crying out loud, golden dragons don't exist,’ asserted Nischuka, spitting. ‘I know what I'm talking about.’

  ‘What, therefore, do you see upon the height?’ asked Dandelion.

  ‘It's trickery.’

  ‘An illusion.’

  ‘It is not an illusion,’ said Yennefer.

  ‘It is a golden dragon,’ added Gyllenstiern. ‘Most certainly a golden dragon.’

  ‘Golden dragons exist only in legends!’

  ‘Stop,’ Boholt intervened with finality. ‘There's no need to make a fuss. Any fool can see that we're dealing with a golden dragon. What's the difference, my dear lords? Gold, speckled, chartreuse or checked? It's not big. We can deal with it in less than two. Ripper, Nischuka, take the canvas off the wagon, grab the equipment. Gold, not gold; it matters not.’

  ‘There is a difference, Boholt,’ said Ripper. ‘And an important one. It's not the dragon we're hunting. It's not the one who was poisoned near Holopole and who waits for us in his cavern, sleeping peacefully on precious metals and stones. This one is only resting on its arse in the meadow. What's the point of dealing with him?’

  ‘This dragon is gold, Kennet,’ shouted Yarpen Zigrin. ‘Have you seen its like before? Don't you understand? We'll get a lot more for its skin that what we could pull in for some pitiful treasure.’

  ‘And without damaging the market for precious stones,’ added Yennefer with an ugly smile. ‘Yarpen is right. The contract remains in effect. There is still something to share, don't you think?’

  ‘Hey! Boholt?’ shouted Nischuka from the wagon, noisily grabbing pieces of equipment. What do we use to protect the horses? Does a gold lizard spit out fire, acid or steam?’

  ‘The devil only knows, my dear lords,’ replied Boholt, concerned. ‘Hey! Magicians! Do the legends of golden dragons explain how to slay them?’

  ‘How should we kill it? In the usual way,’ replied Kozojed suddenly, raising his voice. ‘There's no time to waste. Give me an animal. We shall stuff it with poison then feed it to the lizard. That'll do it.’

  Dorregaray gave the shoemaker a filthy look. Boholt spat, Dandelion looked away grimacing with disgust. Yarpen Zigrin smiled unpleasantly, hands on hips.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Kozojed asked. ‘It is high time we got down to work. We must establish what the decoy will be composed of so that the reptile passes away immediately; we need something horribly noxious, toxic or rotten.’

  ‘Ah!’ said the dwarf, still smiling. ‘What is toxic, filthy and evil-smelling all at once? You mean you don't know, Kozojed? It seems that it's you, you little shit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get out of my sight, boot-buggerer, so I don't have to look at you anymore.’

  ‘Lord Dorregaray,’ said Boholt, going up to the magician, ‘Make yourself useful. Do you remember any legends or tales on the subject? What do you know about golden dragons? ‘

  The magician smiled, standing up again in a dignified fashion.

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

  ‘Speak.’

  ‘Listen carefully, very carefully: right here in front of us sits a golden dragon. A living legend, perhaps the last and only creature of its type to have survived your murderous folly. Legends should not be killed. I will not allow you to touch this dragon. It that understood? You can put away your equipment and pack up your saddlebags and go home.’

  Geralt was sure that a fight was going to erupt. He was wrong.

  Gyllenstiern broke the silence:

  ‘Honourable magician, be careful what you say and to whom you say it. King Niedamir can order you, Dorregaray, to pack up your saddlebags and go to hell; note that to suggest the same of him is improper. Is that clear?’

  ‘No,’ the magician replied proudly. ‘It isn't, because I am and remain Master Dorregaray. I will not obey the orders of an insignificant king governing a kingdom only visible from the top of a hill and in command an abject, filthy, stinking fortress. Did you know, my Lord Gyllenstiern, that with one wave of my hand I can transform you into cowpat, and your vulgar king into something much worse? Is that clear?’

  Gyllenstiern had no time to reply. Boholt approached Dorregaray: he grabbed him by the arm and turned him around. Nischuka and Ripper, silent and grim-faced, stood right behind Boholt.

  ‘Listen well, sir magician,’ said the huge Reaver quietly. ‘Listen to me before you wave your hand: I could take the time to tell you, your grace, what I think of your protestations and legends, not to mention your stupid chattering. But I don't feel like it. Content yourself with following answer:’

  Boholt cleared his throat, sank a finger into his nostril and snorted onto the magician's shoes.

  Dorregaray turned pale, but did not move. He had noticed, as had all the others, the morning star that Nischuka held loosely in his hand. He knew, as did all the others, that the necessary time to cast a spell was undoubtedly longer than that which Nischuka needed to shatter his head into a thousand pieces.

  ‘Okay,’ said Boholt. ‘Now kindly step aside, your grace. And if the desire to open your mouth returns, I recommend that you stop up your trap at once with a tuft of grass. Because if I hear your babblings once more, I promise you that you'll regret it.’ Boholt turned his back on him, rubbing his hands. ‘Nischuka, Ripper, get to work or the reptile is going to end up eluding us.’

  ‘It doesn't seem intent on escape,’ said Dandelion looking around. ‘Look at it’.

  The golden dragon sat on the hillock, yawned, moved its head and wings and struck the earth with its tail.

  ‘King Niedamir and ye knights!’ a voice like the sounding of a brass clarion suddenly roared. ‘I am the dragon Villentretenmerth! I see that the landslide that I created, and was rather proud of, did not deter you. So here you are. As you know, there are only three exits to this valley. To the East towards Holopole and to the West towards Caingorn. You can leave by these two roads, but you will not pass by the ravine located to the north, because I, Villentretenmerth, forbid it. If anybody does not intend to respect my order, I honourably challenge him, in the form of a knight's duel using only conventional weapons; that is, without magic or bursts of flame. Battle will continue until the surrender of one of the parties. I await your answer through your herald, in accordance with protocol!’

  All were dumbfounded.

  ‘It talks!’ Boholt murmured, barely able to catch his breath. ‘Incredible!’

  ‘And very intelligently, at that,’ added Yarpen Zigrin. ‘Does anybody know what a confessional weapon is?’

  ‘Common place, without magic,’ answered Yennefer, frowning. ‘Something else surprises me, however. They cannot articulate properly with a forked tongue. This rascal uses telepathy. Watch out because it works in both directions. It knows how to read your thoughts.’

  ‘Is it completely mad or what?’ declared Kennet alias Ripper, annoyed. ‘A duel of honour? With a stupid reptile? It's so small! Let's go at it all together! As a group!’

  ‘No.’

  They looked amongst themselves.

  Eyck of Denesle, already on his horse, fully equipped, his lance at his stirrup, cut a more impressive figure than when he moved on foot. Fevered eyes shone beneath the raised visor of his helmet. His face was pallid.

  ‘No, Lord Kennet,’ repeated the knight, ‘over my dead body. I will not allow insult to the honour of knights in my presence. He who dares to violate the code of honour of duelling…’ Eyck spoke more and more intensely; his impassioned voice broke and trembled with excitement. ‘Who dares to make fun of honour, makes fun of me. His blood or mine will run on this wasted earth. The animal demands a duel? So be it! Let the herald sound my name! Let the Judgment of the Gods decide our fate! The might of fangs and claws for the dragon, his infernal fury, and for me…’

  ‘What a moron,’ murmured Yarpen Zigrin.r />
  ‘For me, law, faith and the tears of the virgins that this lizard…’

  ‘Shut up, Eyck, you're giving us the urge to vomit!’ Boholt reprimanded. ‘Get on with it. Get yourself over to that meadow instead of babbling on!’

  ‘Hey, Boholt! Wait!’ the leader of the dwarves intervened, stroking his beard. ‘You forget the contract? If Eyck strikes down the lizard, he will acquire half…’

  ‘Eyck will acquire nothing at all,’ replied Boholt, grinning. ‘I know it. If Dandelion dedicates a song to him, that will be more than enough for him.’

  ‘Silence!’ Gyllenstiern ordered. ‘So shall it be. Faith and honour will rally against the dragon in the form of the knight errant, Eyck of Denesle, fighting in the colours of Caingorn as lance and sword of the King Niedamir. Such is the will of the king!’

  ‘You see?’ ground out Yarpen Zigrin under his breath. ‘The lance and the sword of Niedamir. The idiot King of Caingorn has definitely got us. What do we do now?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Boholt spat. ‘You are not going to pick a fight with Eyck, alright? Certainly, he talks crap, but since he's already rashly mounted his horse, it's better to let him go. Let him go, damn it, and let him settle his score with this dragon. Afterwards, we shall see.’

  ‘Who holds the office of herald?’ Dandelion asked. ‘The dragon wanted a herald. Perhaps me?’

  ‘No. It's not a question of singing some ditty, Dandelion,’ replied Boholt, frowning. ‘Yarpen Zigrin has a booming voice; let him be the herald.’

  ‘Agreed, what does it matter?’ replied Yarpen. ‘Give me the standard with the coat of arms so that we can do this properly.’

  ‘Watch out, lord dwarf, make sure you're polite and respectful.’ scolded Gyllenstiern.

  ‘Don't tell me what to do.’ The dwarf thrust out his chest proudly. ‘I had already conducted my first official engagement while you were still learning how to talk.’

  The dragon remained sat on the hillock, waving its tail cheerfully while it waited patiently. The dwarf heaved himself onto the highest rock. He cleared his throat and bellowed:

  ‘Hey! You there!’ he shouted, putting his hands on his hips. ‘Scaly shithead! Are you ready to hear what the herald has to say? That's me, in case you were wondering! The knight errant Eyck of Denesle will be the first to take you on, all above board! He will drive his lance into your belly in accordance with sacred custom: which may be unfortunate for you, but it will be joy for the poor virgins and King Niedamir! Battle will have to respect the code of honour and law. You will be forbidden to belch fire. You will only be allowed to make mincemeat out of each other in the conventional way. Battle will go on as long as the opposing party has not given up the ghost or snuffed it… and we wish that for you more than anything! Did you get all that, dragon?’

  The dragon yawned, shook its wings and swiftly slid down the hillock onto the flat ground.

  ‘I heard you, virtuous herald,’ it replied. ‘The valorous Eyck of Denesle deigns to come to me on meadow. I am ready! ‘

  ‘What mugs!’ Boholt spat, casting a gloomy look towards the knight Eyck as he trotted out to the barrier of rocks. ‘It's a bloody farce…’

  ‘Shut it, Boholt,’ shouted Dandelion, rubbing his hands. ‘Look, Eyck is going to charge! Bloody hell, what a fine ballad I'm going to compose!’

  ‘Hurrah! Three cheers for Eyck!’ one of the archers of Niedamir exclaimed.

  ‘I,’ Kozojed interjected sadly ‘would have made him gulp down some sulphur, just to be on the safe side.’

  On the battleground, Eyck returned salute to the dragon by raising his lance. He slammed down the visor of his helmet before driving his spurs into the sides of his mount.

  ‘Well, well,’ the dwarf responded. ‘He might be a fool, but he really knows what he's doing. Look at him!’

  Leaning forward, straining in the saddle, Eyck lowered his lance when he was at a gallop. In spite of Geralt's assumption, the dragon did not leap back. Neither did it try to elude its adversary by going around him, but launched itself flat out towards the knight who attacked it.

  ‘Kill it! Kill it, Eyck!’ shouted Yarpen.

  Eyck did not throw himself blindly into a frontal attack. In spite of going full tilt, he skilfully changed direction at the last minute, shifting his lance over his horse's head. Flying alongside the dragon, he struck with all his might, standing up in his stirrups. Everybody started to shout in unison, except Geralt who refused to participate in the chorus.

  The dragon evaded the thrust with an elegant circular movement, agile and full of grace. With a whip-like motion, it pivoted and, in a combination of feline exuberance and nonchalance, disembowelled the horse with its paw. The horse reared high and let out a grunt. The knight, badly shaken, did not drop his lance, however. As the horse collapsed to the ground, the dragon swept Eyck from his saddle with one strike of its mighty paw. He was shot into the air, the plate of his armour grating against itself. Everybody heard the crash and clatter of his fall onto the ground.

  The dragon crushed the horse with its foot, sat down and plunged in with its toothy maw. The horse bellowed with terror before dying in a last spasm.

  All heard the deep voice of the dragon Villentretenmerth in the silence that had fallen.

  ‘The valorous Eyck of Denesle may be withdrawn from the ground. He is unfit to continue battle. Next, please.’

  ‘Oh Shit!’ said Yarpen Zigrin in the quiet.

  VIII

  ‘Both legs,’ said Yennefer, drying her hands on a linen cloth. ‘And undoubtedly part of his backbone. His armour is split in the back as though it's been rammed. His legs were shredded by his own lance. He's not ready to get back up on a horse any time soon, supposing that he gets back up at all.’

  ‘Occupational hazard,’ murmured Geralt.

  The sorceress frowned.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘What else do you want to hear, Yennefer?’

  ‘This dragon is incredibly quick, too quick to be struck down by a human.’

  ‘I understand. No, Yen. Not me.’

  ‘Is it because of your principles?’ the sorceress smiled maliciously. ‘Or perhaps it's just plain, ordinary fear. It would be the only human emotion you're capable of feeling.’

  ‘Both,’ replied the witcher dispassionately. ‘What difference does it make?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Yennefer approached him. ‘None at all. Principles can be overridden; fear can be conquered. Kill this dragon, Geralt. Do it for me.’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘For me. I want this dragon. All of it. I want it for myself.’

  ‘Use your spells and kill it yourself.’

  ‘No. You kill it. With my spells, I shall immobilize the Reavers and the others so that they don't interrupt you.’

  ‘There will be deaths, Yennefer.’

  ‘Since when does that bother you? You'll be in charge of the dragon. I'll take care of the others.’

  ‘Yennefer,’ the witcher replied coldly. ‘I'm having trouble understanding. Why do you need this dragon? Does the yellow colour of its scales please you that much? Poverty threatens you not at all; your means are numerous, you are famous. So what is it? Just don't say anything about duty, I beg you.’

  Yennefer remained silent. Then, frowning, she kicked a pebble lying in the grass.

  ‘There's somebody who can help me. Apparently it… you know what I'm talking about… Apparently it's reversible. There is a chance. I can still have… Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘It is a complicated and costly operation. But in exchange for a golden dragon… Geralt?’

  The witcher remained silent.

  ‘When we were hanging from the bridge,’ she continued, ‘you asked me for something. I grant it to you, in spite of everything.’

  The witcher smiled sadly. He touched the star of obsidian which hung on Yennefer's neck with his index finger.

  ‘It's too late, Yen. We're no longer h
anging from the bridge. I don't care anymore. In spite of everything.’

  He expected the worst: a cascade of flames, flashes of lightning, blows raining down on his face, insults and curses. There was nothing. He saw, with astonishment, only the subtle trembling of her lips. Yennefer turned around slowly. Geralt regretted his words. He regretted the emotion from which they had originated. The last possible limit, like the strings of a lute, had been broken. He glanced at Dandelion and saw that the troubadour quickly turned away to avoid his gaze.

  ‘Questions of honour and chivalry don't seem to apply any more, my dear Lord,’ announced Boholt, already equipped with the armour of Niedamir, as he sat motionless on a stone with an expression of worry on his face. ‘The honour of the knights is lying over there, moaning quietly. It was a very bad idea, Sire Gyllenstiern, to send Eyck into battle as the knight and vassal of your king. I wouldn't dare to point a finger at the culprit, but I definitely know to whom Eyck owes a pair of broken pins. It is true, however, that we've killed two birds with one stone: we've got rid of a madman who wanted to relive the knights' legends by single-handedly defeating a dragon and a smart aleck who intended to get rich quick thanks to first. Do you know who I'm talking about, Gyllenstiern? Yes? Good. Now, it's our turn. This dragon belongs to us. It is to us, the Reavers, that it falls to kill the dragon. But for our own benefit.’