‘Get up, Yen!’
‘Geralt, look out!’
An enormous block of rock, which had broken loose from the wall with a grating noise, came down directly behind them with a thud. Geralt dropped to shield the sorceress with his body. The block exploded and broke into thousands of fragments as fine as wasp stings.
‘Hurry!’ cried Dorregaray. From his horse, he waved his wand, reducing to dust the other rocks that had come loose from the wall. ‘To the bridge, witcher!’
Yennefer made a sign with her hand, stretching out her fingers. Nobody understood what she shouted. Stones evaporated like raindrops on white-hot iron upon the bluish arch which had just formed above their heads.
‘To the bridge, Geralt!’ cried the sorceress. ‘Follow me!’
They ran behind Dorregaray and some unhorsed archers. The bridge swayed and cracked, beams bending, throwing them from one balustrade to the next.
‘Quickly!’
The bridge collapsed all at once with a deafening racket. The half that they had just crossed tore itself apart and fell with a crash into the void, taking with it the dwarves' wagon which smashed onto a row of rocks. They heard the dreadful neighing of the panicked horses. The party that remained on the bridge continued holding on, but Geralt realized that they ran on an increasingly steep slope. Yennefer, breathing heavily, cursed.
‘We're falling, Yen! Hold on!’
The rest of the bridge creaked, split apart and swung down like a drawbridge. Yennefer and Geralt slid, their fingers clutching at the cracks between the log. Realizing that she was gradually losing her grip, the sorceress gave a shriek. Holding on with one hand, Geralt drew his dagger with the other and drove it into a crack before hanging on to it with both hands. The joints of his elbows started to strain as Yennefer held on tightly to his sword belt and scabbard that he wore across his back. The bridge gave way and tilted more and more towards the vertical.
‘Yen,’ groaned the witcher. ‘Do something… damn it. Cast a spell!’
‘How?’ she replied in a low, hot-tempered growl. ‘I'm holding on with both hands!’
‘Free one of your hands.’
‘I can't…’
‘Hey!’ shouted Dandelion from higher up. ‘Can you hang on? Hey!’
Geralt didn't consider it helpful to reply.
‘Throw a rope!’ demanded Dandelion. ‘Quickly, god damn it!’
The Reavers, the dwarves and Gyllenstiern appeared beside Dandelion. Geralt heard the muffled voice of Boholt:
‘Wait a minute. She'll fall soon. We'll pull the witcher up afterwards.’
Yennefer hissed like a snake as she clung to Geralt's back. The bandolier bit into the witcher's torso painfully.
‘Yen? Can you get a hold? Can you use your feet?’
‘Yes,’ she groaned. ‘In theory.’
Geralt looked down at the river boiling between the sharp stones against which rolled a few logs from the bridge, the body of a horse and a corpse dressed in the vivid colours of Caingorn. Amongst the rocks, in the emerald, transparent depths, he saw a body of huge trout moving against the flow.
‘Can you hold on, Yen?’
‘Somewhat… yes…’
‘Pull yourself up. You must get a handhold.’
‘No… I can't…’
‘Throw a rope!’ shouted Dandelion. ‘Have you all gone mad? They're both going to fall!’
‘Wouldn't that be for the best?’ murmured Gyllenstiern quietly.
The bridge trembled and tilted even more. Geralt began to lose all feeling in his fingers as he gripped the handle of his dagger.
‘Yen…’
‘Shut up… and stop fidgeting…’
‘Yen?’
‘Don't call me that…’
‘Can you hold on?’
‘No,’ she replied coldly.
She no longer struggled, she just hung on his back; dead, inert weight.
‘Yen?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Yen. Forgive me.’
‘No. Never.’
Something slid along the beams, very quickly, like a snake.
Radiating a cold and pale light, wriggling and writhing as though it were alive, gracefully groping about with its mobile end, the rope found Geralt's neck, wormed its way under his armpits then formed a loose knot. Below Geralt, the sorceress moaned and caught her breath. The witcher was sure that she was going to burst into tears. He was mistaken.
‘Look out!’ Dandelion shouted above. ‘We'll hoist you up! Nischuka! Kennet! Pull! Heave-ho!’
The rope jerked and tightened around them painfully, making it hard to breathe. Yennefer signed heavily. They were pulled up quickly, scraping against the wooden beams.
Above, Yennefer got to her feet first.
VII
‘Out of the whole fleet,’ announced Gyllenstiern, ‘we saved only a baggage wagon, Majesty, not including that of the Reavers. Of the escort, only seven archers have survived. On the other side of precipice, the path has completely disappeared. As far as we can see, to the curve of the cliff, nothing but a pile of rocks and a smooth wall remain. It's not known if all the individuals present on the bridge at the time of its collapse still live.’
Niedamir did not answer. Standing to attention in front of him, Eyck of Denesle fixed him with a fevered gaze.
‘We are incurring the Wrath of the Gods,’ said the knight, raising his arms. ‘We have sinned, King Niedamir. It was to be a crusade; a crusade against evil. Because the dragon is evil, yes, every dragon is evil incarnate. Evil is nothing to me: I'll crush it under my foot… destroy it… yes, just as is commanded by the Gods and Holy Scripture.’
‘Is he delirious?’ said Boholt, becoming sullen.
‘I don't know,’ replied Geralt, readjusting his mare's harness. ‘I didn't understand a thing he said.’
‘Hush,’ demanded Dandelion ‘I'm trying to memorize his words. They might be able to serve me for my rhymes.’
‘The Holy Book says,’ Eyck continued, all in a rage, ‘that a serpent shall appear from the chasm, a dreadful dragon with seven heads and ten horns. On its hindquarters shall sit a woman dressed in purple and scarlet, a golden chalice in her hands, and on her forehead shall be inscribed the mark of her profound and complete debasement!’
‘I knew it!’ interrupted Dandelion merrily. ‘It's Cilia, the wife of Burgrave Sommerhalder!’
‘Keep quiet, sir poet,’ Gyllenstiern commanded. ‘And you, Knight of Denesle, speak further, by the grace of the Gods.’
‘In order to fight evil,’ continued Eyck with grandiloquence, ‘it is necessary for oneself to have a pure heart and conscience with head held high! But whom do we see here? Dwarves, pagans who are born in blackness and revere dark powers! Blasphemous magicians, assuming divine right, power and privilege! A witcher, odious mutant, accursed and unnatural creation. Are you therefore surprised that punishment smites us? Let us cease pushing the limits of divine grace! I urge you, O King, that you purge this vermin from our ranks before…’
‘Not even a single word about me,’ Dandelion interrupted him, complaining. ‘No word about poets. And yet I tried my best!’
Geralt smiled at Yarpen Zigrin who stroked the sharp edge of the axe that hung on his belt with a slow and steady movement. Amused, the dwarf grinned. Yennefer turned her back on the scene ostentatiously, showing greater concern for her dress which had torn up to the hip than for the words of Eyck.
‘We perhaps went a little too far,’ Dorregaray granted, ‘but for noble reasons, Lord Eyck, without a doubt. I consider, however, your comments regarding magicians, dwarves and witchers unseemly, even if we're used to these types of opinions they are neither polite nor worthy of a knight, Lord Eyck. And I will also add: all the less comprehensible as it was you, and no one else, who a short while ago ran up and threw the magical elven rope which saved the witcher and the sorceress from certain death. From what you're now saying, I don't understand why you didn't pray for them to fall instead.�
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‘Bloody hell,’ murmured Geralt to Dandelion. ‘It's him who brought the rope? Eyck? Not Dorregaray?’
‘No,’ muttered the bard. ‘It was definitely Eyck.’
Geralt shook his head in disbelief. Yennefer cursed under her breath and straightened up.
‘Knight Eyck,’ she said to him with a smile that all, except Geralt, believed kind and benevolent. ‘Can you explain why? I am vermin, but you saved my life?’
‘You are a lady, dear Yennefer.’ The knight bowed stiffly. ‘Your charming and sincere face makes me think that one day you will break free of your accursed magic.’
Boholt snorted.
‘I thank you, sir knight,’ Yennefer replied coldly. ‘The witcher Geralt also thanks you. Thank him Geralt.’
‘The devil take me first,’ replied the witcher with absolute sincerity. ‘Why should I thank him? I'm only a detestable mutant whose vile face brooks no improvement. The Knight Eyck pulled me from the void by accident, only because I was stubbornly held by a lady. If I'd been alone, Eyck wouldn't even have lifted his little finger. Am I mistaken, knight?’
‘You are mistaken, Lord Geralt,’ replied the knight errant serenely. ‘I never refuse assistance to those that need it. Even a witcher.’
‘Thank him, Geralt. And beg his forgiveness,’ the sorceress told him firmly. ‘Otherwise, you confirm all that Eyck says about you. You don't know how to live with others because you're different. Your presence in this expedition is a mistake. An absurd purpose brings you here. It would be more reasonable for us to leave. I think that you understand this yourself. If not, it's high time that you did understand it.’
‘What purpose are you talking about, madam?’ Gyllenstiern intervened.
The sorceress looked at him without answering. Dandelion and Yarpen Zigrin smiled at each other significantly, but so as not to be seen be the sorceress.
The witcher fixed his gaze on Yennefer's eyes. They were cold.
‘Please excuse me, Knight of Denesle, my sincere thanks you,’ he announced, bowing his head. ‘I also thank all persons present for our hasty rescue. Hanging from the bridge, I heard how all and sundry rushed to our assistance. I beg you all for forgiveness. Except for the noble Yennefer, whom I thank without asking anything in return. Goodbye. This vermin is leaving the company, because this vermin has had enough of you. Take care, Dandelion.’
‘Hey, Geralt,’ said Boholt. ‘Stop acting like a spoiled little girl throwing a tantrum. There's no need to make a mountain out of a molehill. Damn it…’
‘My looords!’
From out of the gorge ran Kozojed and some of the Holopole militiamen who had been sent out to scout the narrows of the ravine.
‘What's happening? What's wrong with him?’ asked Nischuka, raising his head.
‘My lords… my… dear lords,’ the shoemaker finally managed, out of breath.
‘Stop wheezing, friend,’ said Gyllenstiern, jamming his thumbs into his gold belt.
‘The dragon! Over there, the dragon!’
‘Where?’
‘On the other side of the ravine… on the flats… lord… It…’
‘To the horses!’ commanded Gyllenstiern.
‘Nischuka!’ shouted Boholt, ‘To the wagon! Ripper, to your horse and follow me!’
‘Get to it, boys!’ yelled Yarpen Zigrin. ‘Get to it, damn it!’
‘Hey! Wait!’ Dandelion had slung his lute over his shoulder. ‘Geralt, take me on your horse!’
‘Jump on!’
The ravine ended with a scattering of pale rocks spread increasingly further apart, creating an irregular circle. Behind them, the ground sloped slightly before becoming uneven and grassy pasture, enclosed all around by limestone cliffs studded with thousands of holes. Three narrow canyons, ancient beds of dried up mountain streams, overlooked the pasture.
Boholt arrived first and, galloping up to the rocky barrier, stopped his horse suddenly and stood up in his stirrups.
‘By the plague,’ he said. ‘By the yellow plague. This… this… it cannot be!’
‘What?’ asked Dorregaray, going up to him.
Next to him, Yennefer jumped off the Reavers' wagon, pressed her chest up against a large boulder and looked in turn. She stood back, rubbing her eyes.
‘What? What is it?’ shouted Dandelion, trying to see over Geralt's shoulder. ‘What is it Boholt?’
‘The dragon… It's gold.’
Not more than one hundred paces from the narrowing of the ravine from which they had just emerged, atop a small hillock on the gently sloping path leading to the main northern canyon, sat a creature. Resting its narrow head on a rounded chest, it stretched its long and slender neck in a perfect arch, its tail wound around its outstretched paws.
There was in this creature an ineffable grace, something feline that clearly contradicted its reptilian provenance, for it was, without a doubt, reptilian. The scales it bore gave the appearance of being finely painted on. Furiously brilliant light shone in the dragon's bright yellow eyes. The creature was most certainly gold: from the tips of its claws planted in the earth up to the end of its long tail that moved slowly amongst the thistles proliferating upon the height. The creature opened its big, amber, bat-like wings and remained still, looking at them with its huge golden eyes and demanding that they admire it.
‘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:’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher] Page 6