Sword of Destiny

  ‘The Crinfrid Reavers.’

  ‘The dragon doesn't stand a chance, even if it recovers its health. Those three are a famous band of experienced hunters. They don't fight within the rules, but their efficiency is without question. They exterminated all the dracolizards and giant centipedes of Redania, killing three red and one black dragon along the way, and that really is something. Is that everyone?’

  ‘No. Six dwarfs also joined them: five bearded men commanded by Yarpen Zigrin.’

  ‘I don't know him.’

  ‘You've undoubtedly heard about the dragon Ocvista of Mount Quartz.’

  ‘I've heard of it. I've even seen stones that came from his treasure; sapphires in incredible shades and diamonds as big as cherries.’

  ‘Know that it was Yarpen Zigrin and his dwarfs that slew Ocvista. I also composed a ballad about this adventure but it was quite boring and you lost nothing by not hearing it.’

  ‘Is that everybody?’

  ‘Yes. Not counting you. You insisted that you knew nothing about the dragon. Who knows, maybe it's true. Anyway, you now know. Now what?’

  ‘Now nothing. I'm not interested in the dragon.’

  ‘Ah! Very sneaky, Geralt. In any case, you don't have a pass.’

  ‘I repeat: the dragon doesn't interest me. What about you, Dandelion? What brought you to these lands?’

  ‘The usual.’ The troubadour shrugged. ‘I have to be near events and stimulating situations. People will talk about this battle with the dragon for a long time. I could, of course, compose a ballad from the tales they'll tell, but it will be better if it's sung by somebody who saw the battle with their own eyes.’

  ‘Battle?’ asked Three Jackdaws. ‘It's more of an act reminiscent of an autopsy or the butchery of a pig. The more I listen to you, the more you astound me. A bunch of warriors stumbling over each other to finish off a half-dead dragon that's been poisoned by some yokel, I don't know whether to laugh or puke.’

  ‘You're mistaken about the half-dead part,’ replied Geralt, ‘If the dragon didn't die straight after it swallowed the poison, it means that it will have recovered. It's of no great importance; the Crinfrid Reavers will kill it all the same, but the battle, if you must know, will not be quick.’

  ‘Your money's on the Reavers then, Geralt?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘I wouldn't be so sure about that,’ the artistic guard who had kept silent until then interrupted. ‘The dragon is a magical living being that can only be killed by spells. If somebody helps the sorceress who crossed the bridge yesterday… ‘

  ‘Who?’ Geralt's head tilted to look at him.

  ‘A sorceress,’ repeated the guard. ‘As I said.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘She gave it, but I've forgotten. She had a pass. Young, attractive in her own way, but those eyes… you know the type, lords… they send a shiver down your spine when they look at you. ‘

  ‘Do you know who it might be, Dandelion?’

  ‘No,’ replied the bard, grimacing. ‘Young, attractive and those eyes… it's not much to go on. They all answer this description. None of these girls who I know - and I know a lot - seem to look more than twenty-five, thirty years, but many of them remember the days when Novigrad was still a forest of conifers. But don't women make elixirs of mandrake? That can also make their eyes shine. It's definitely a woman, that's for sure.’

  ‘Was she a redhead?’ the witcher asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ answered the lieutenant. ‘She had black hair.’

  ‘What was the colour of her horse? Chestnut with a white star?’

  ‘No, it was as dark as her hair. I'm telling you, lords, it is she who will exterminate the dragon. Dragons are magician's business. Human strength can do nothing against these monsters.’

  ‘I'm curious to know what the shoemaker Kozojed thinks about it,’ said Dandelion, laughing. ‘If he had had something stronger to hand than hellebore and belladonna, the dragon's skin would be drying on a fence, my ballad would already be finished and I would not be drying out in the sun today… ‘

  ‘Why didn't Niedamir take you with him?’ Geralt asked, giving the poet a dirty look. ‘You stayed in Holopole when he left. Doesn't the king like the company of artists? Why are you here drying out instead of playing for the king?’

  ‘It's because of a young widow,’ answered Dandelion with a despondent air. ‘Damn it! I romped about with her and when I awoke the following day Niedamir and the troops had already crossed the river. They even took this Kozojed and the scouts of the militia of Holopole, but had forgotten about me. I tried unsuccessfully to explain it to the lieutenant, but he…’

  ‘If you had a pass, there wouldn't have been a problem,’ explained the halberdier dispassionately, leaning against the wall of the toll collector's booth. ‘No pass, no debate. An order is an order…’

  ‘Ah!’ Three Jackdaws interrupted him. ‘The girls are back with the beer.’

  ‘And not alone,’ added Dandelion getting up. ‘Look at that horse. It looks like a dragon.’

  The Zerricanians emerged at a gallop from the birch wood flanked by a horseman riding a large nervous stallion, dressed for war.

  The witcher also rose.

  The rider wore a purple velvet tunic and a short jacket adorned with sable fur. He looked at them arrogantly from his saddle. Geralt knew this type of look and didn't much care for it.

  ‘Hello, gentlemen. I am Dorregaray,’ the horseman introduced himself as he dismounted slowly and with dignity. ‘Master Dorregaray. Magician.’

  ‘Master Geralt. Witcher.’

  ‘Master Dandelion. Poet.’

  ‘Borch, otherwise Three Jackdaws. The girls opening the barrel are with me. I believe you already know them, Lord Dorregaray.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied the magician without smiling. ‘The beautiful Zerricanian warriors and I have already exchanged greetings.’

  ‘Oh well! To your health!’ Dandelion distributed the leather goblets brought by Vea. ‘Drink with us, sir magician. Lord Borch, can the lieutenant also join us?’

  ‘Sure. Join us, good warrior.’

  ‘I think’ said the magician having taken a small sip in a distinguished fashion, ‘that you're waiting at the bridge for the same reason that I do.’

  ‘If you're thinking of the dragon, Lord Dorregaray,’ replied Dandelion, ‘that is it exactly. I want to be present at the battle and to compose a ballad. Unfortunately, the lieutenant here, a man some might say is lacking in manners, refused me passage. He demands a pass.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ the halberdier clucked his tongue and drank his beer. ‘I can let nobody through without permission. I have no choice in the matter. It seems that all of Holopole prepared wagons to hunt the dragon in the mountain, but I must comply with orders… ‘

  ‘Your orders, soldier,’ Dorregaray interrupted, frowning, ‘concern the unpleasant rabble, the prostitutes likely to spread immorality and riot, thieves, scoundrels and that type. But not me.’

  ‘I let nobody through without permission, ‘ retorted the lieutenant pointedly.’I swear…’

  ‘Don't swear,’ Three Jackdaws interrupted him, rather coldly. ‘Tea, pour another one for the valiant warrior! Let us sit down, my lords. To drink standing up, quickly and without appreciating the merchandise, is not fitting for the nobility.’

  They sat down on logs scattered around the keg. The halberdier, newly promoted to noble, became crimson with contentment.

  ‘Drink, brave captain,’ pressed Three Jackdaws.

  ‘I am only a lieutenant, not a captain,’ he answered, going red with renewed vigour.

  ‘But you will become a captain, it's obvious.’ Borch grinned. ‘Boys as clever as you get promoted in a jiffy.’

  Dorregaray turned to Geralt having refused an additional glassful:

  ‘In town they're still talking about your basilisk, noble witcher, and you are already taking an interest in the dragon,’ he said in a low voice. ‘
I'm curious to know if you intend to slay this endangered species for pleasure or for pay.’

  ‘Such curiosity is unusual,’ replied Geralt, ‘when it comes from somebody who flocks double quick to the execution of a dragon to rip out his teeth. Aren't they precious for the making of your medicines and magical elixirs? Is it true, noble magician, that those ripped from still living dragons are the best?’

  ‘Are you sure that's why I'm here?’

  ‘Yes, I'm sure about that. But somebody has beaten you to it, Dorregaray. One of your female colleagues crossed the bridge armed with the pass that you lack. A sorceress with black hair, if it interests you.’

  ‘On a black horse?’

  ‘Yes, apparently.’

  ‘Yennefer,’ said Dorregaray with a worried air.

  The witcher shuddered, unnoticed by anyone.

  A silence set in, that the future captain disrupted with a belch:

  ‘Nobody… without a pass.’

  ‘Would 200 lintars be enough for you?’ Geralt offered, retrieving the purse acquired from the fat burgrave from his pocket.

  ‘Geralt,’ said Three Jackdaws, smiling in an enigmatic way. ‘Really…’

  ‘Please accept my apologies, Borch. I'm sorry I can't accompany you to Hengfors. Another time perhaps, if we meet again.’

  ‘Nothing is compelling me to go to Hengfors,’ Three Jackdaws replied carefully. ‘Nothing at all, Geralt.’

  ‘Please put the purse away, sir,’ threatened the future captain. ‘It's corruption, pure and simple. Even for 300, I won't let you cross.’

  ‘And for 500?’ Borch took out his purse. ‘Put away your silver, Geralt. I take responsibility for payment of the toll. It's starting to amuse me. 500, soldier. 100 per head, considering my girls as a single and beautiful unit. What do you say?’

  ‘Goodness me,’ the future captain was anxious as he hid Borch's purse inside his tunic. ‘What shall I tell the king?’

  ‘You should say to him,’ suggested Dorregaray as he stood up and withdrew an ivory wand from his belt, ‘that you were scared senseless you when you saw the show.’

  ‘What show, sir?’

  The magician drew a form with his wand and shouted out a spell. A pine growing next to the river exploded; wild flames consumed it from base to top in an instant.

  ‘To the horses!’ Dandelion jumped up nimbly and slung his lute onto his back. ‘To the horses, gentlemen! And ladies!’

  ‘Raise the barrier,’ the wealthy lieutenant with a promising career as a captain shouted to the halberdiers.

  On the bridge, behind the barrier, Vea pulled on the reins. Her horse danced, the beat of its hooves resounding on the planks of the bridge. The girl, braids flitting in the wind, gave a piercing cry.

  ‘Right, Vea!’ Three Jackdaws replied. ‘Let's get to it Zerricanian! Like the wind in an uproar!‘

  IV

  ‘So,’ declared the oldest of the Reavers. Boholt, imposing and powerful like the trunk of a thousand year old oak. ‘Apparently Niedamir did not scatter you to the four winds, noble lords. Though I could have sworn he would have done so. Well in the end, it's not down to us, the commoners, to discuss royal decisions. Come and share the fire. Make a place, lads. Just between us, witcher, tell me the subject of your conversation with the king.’

  ‘We spoke of nothing,’ Geralt replied, leaning comfortably against his saddle positioned near the fire. ‘He didn't even come out of his tent to meet us. He only sent one of his footmen, what's his name…?’

  ‘Gyllenstiern,’ Yarpen Zigrin told him, a stocky and bearded dwarf whose huge neck, tarry and covered with dust, shone in the light of fire. ‘A bombastic clown. An overfed pig. When we arrived, he put on lofty airs, drivelled on and on, 'remember well, dwarves,' he said, 'who commands here and to whom you owe obedience. It is King Niedamir who commands and his word is law,' and so on. I just listened, all the while wanting to send the boys in to throw him down and trample him into the ground. But I had self-control, you know. They only would have said that dwarves are dangerous, aggressive sons of bitches and that it's impossible for… for… as it's said, for the devil… to coexist or something like that. And there would have been another race riot in a small city. So I just listened politely, nodding my head.’

  ‘It seems from what you say that Sir Gyllenstiern doesn't know how to do anything else,’ Geralt continued, ‘because he dressed us down in exactly the same way. Of course, we also deferred to his opinion.’

  ‘In my opinion,’ another Reaver intervened as he deposited a large blanket onto a heap of firewood. ‘It's a pity that Niedamir didn't send you away. Everyone is hot on the heels of this dragon, it's incredible. The place is teeming. It's not an expedition any more, it's a funeral procession. I don't like to fight in a crowd.’

  ‘Calm down, Nischuka,’ Boholt cut in. ‘It's better for us to travel with one another. Haven't you ever hunted a dragon? There's always a whole crowd nearby, a veritable fair, a brothel on wheels. But when the reptile shows itself, you well know who stays put. Us. Nobody else.’

  Boholt remained silent for a moment. He drank a good mouthful from a demijohn covered with wicker and sniffed loudly. He then cleared his throat:

  ‘All the better,’ he continued, ‘as it so often happens that feasting and butchery begin just after the death of the dragon and before you know it heads are rolling like pears in an orchard. When the treasure is found, the hunters launch themselves at one another's throats. Geralt? Huh? Am I right? Witcher, I'm telling you.’

  ‘I know of such cases,’ confirmed Geralt in a dry tone.

  ‘You know, so you say. Perhaps from hearsay, because I have never heard of a witcher hunting a dragon. Your presence here is all the stranger.’

  ‘That's true,’ interjected Kennet, nicknamed Ripper, the youngest of the Reavers. ‘It is strange. And we…’

  ‘Wait, Ripper, I'm the one doing the talking,’ Boholt interrupted him. ‘Besides, I don't intend to dwell on the subject. The witcher already knows what I'm getting at. I know it and he also knows it. Our paths have never crossed before and never will again. Imagine, my lads, for example, that I want to disturb the witcher while he's doing his job or that I try to steal his dues from him. Would he not immediately strike me with his sword, and rightfully so? Am I right?’

  Nobody confirmed or denied it. Boholt did not seem to be waiting especially for a reply.

  ‘Yep,’ he went on, ‘It's better to travel with one another, I say. The witcher could prove to be useful. The area is wild and uninhabited. If a chimera, ilyocoris or striga happens upon us, we'll have problems. But if Geralt remains with us, we'll avoid these problems because it's his speciality. But the dragon is not his speciality. Right?’

  Again, nobody confirmed or denied it.

  ‘And Lord Three Jackdaws,’ Boholt continued, handing the demijohn to the leader of the dwarves, ‘is a companion of Geralt. This guarantee is enough for me. Whose presence bothers you then, Nischuka and Ripper? Surely not Dandelion!’

  ‘Dandelion,’ Yarpen Zigrin intervened, handing the demijohn to the bard, ‘is always found where something of interest is happening. Everybody knows that he neither helps nor hurts and that he never slows down operations. He's like a tick on a dog's tail. Don't you think so, boys?’

  The 'boys', robust dwarfs, burst out laughing, making their beards tremble. Dandelion slid his hat back onto his neck and drank from the demijohn.

  ‘Damn! This is strong,’ he groaned, gasping. ‘It'll make me lose my voice. What's it distilled from? Scorpions?’

  ‘One thing I don't like, Geralt,’ said Ripper, taking the bottle out of the minstrel's hands. ‘Is that this magician is with you. There are already far too many.’

  ‘That's true,’ confirmed Yarpen. ‘Ripper is right. This Dorregaray is about as useful to us as a saddle on a pig. We already have our own sorceress, the noble Yennefer. Ugh!’

  ‘Yes!’ Boholt chimed in, scratching his bullish neck which he had just freed fro
m a leather gorget, bristling with studs. ‘There are too many magicians hereabouts, my dear fellows, in the heat of the royal tent they conspire, these wily foxes: Niedamir, the sorceress, the magician and Gyllenstiern. Yennefer is the worst of all. Do you know what they conspire about? How to rip us off, that's for sure!’

  ‘And they stuff themselves with venison!’ added Ripper with a despondent air. ‘And us, what do we eat? Marmots! The marmot, what is it, I ask you? A rat, nothing more than a rat. What do we eat? Rat!’

  ‘That's nothing,’ Nischuka replied, ‘Soon we'll dine on dragon's tail. There's nothing like it when it's been braised over coals.’

  ‘Yennefer,’ continued Boholt, ‘is a totally despicable, vicious woman, a shrew. Nothing like your girls, Lord Borch, who certainly know how to behave and keep quiet. Look, they stayed near the horses to whet their swords. When I passed by them, I greeted them amiably. They smiled at me in return. I like them. They are not like Yennefer who schemes and connives. I'm telling you: we must watch out, because our contract could just be hot air.’

  ‘What kind of contract, Boholt?’

  ‘Yarpen, can the witcher be put in the picture?’

  ‘I don't see a problem with that,’ answered the dwarf.