I simply wanted to keep you informed. Pay close attention: King Niedamir and I will not tolerate this type of fanciful dichotomy consisting of separating monsters into good and bad. We don't want to hear, and even less to see, how witchers apply this principle.
Do not meddle in royal business, Lord, and cease conspiring with Dorregaray. How did you come to such a hypothesis? He goes beyond your dualistic dichotomy by considering that all monsters are good! But he defends his views with amazing tenacity. Frankly I wouldn't be surprised if he's up to something.
It's odd that he's joined this strange company I must say your presence here seems strange to me: a witcher with more scruples than there are fleas nesting in the coat of a fox; a magician who never stops spouting druidic incongruities regarding the balance of nature; a silent knight, Borch Three-Jackdaws and his escort from Zerricania - where, as everybody knows, they make sacrifices before effigies of dragons.
And they all suddenly join our hunt. It's strange, don't you find? Do not force me to use to it, witcher. You understand only too well. Thank you for this conversation, Geralt. Gyllenstiern sped up his pace to join the king behind the wagons. Eyck of Denesle, dressed in a jerkin stitched with pale leather still carrying the 30 impression of a breast-plate, passed by at walking pace leading a sleepy horse loaded with armour and carrying a silver shield and a powerful lance.
Geralt waved to him, but the knight errant looked away, pursing his lips, before spurring his horse onwards. You both lead a similar activity. The difference being that the knight Eyck is an idealist and you a professional. The difference of no importance to the beings whom you slaughter. Who knows which of us two would come off worse as a result of your comparison.
To tell the truth, to me you are just as loathsome as he is. Our world hangs in the balance. The destruction, the murder of any living being in this world threatens this balance. The absence of equilibrium leads to extinction, and thus the end of the world as we know it. An old hierophant introduced me to it before, in Rivia.
Two days after our conversation, rat-men tore him to shreds. It wasn't evident that any kind imbalance had occurred as a result.
A natural balance. Every species has its enemies, each is a natural enemy for the others. This fact also applies to human beings. The complete destruction of the natural enemies of man - to which you contribute, Geralt, as we can see threatens our degenerate race. Wait and see how she answers you. The witcher noticed that she had replaced her golden mesh with a white neckerchief rolled into a headband. They will continue treating you as an inoffensive maniac as long as you restrict yourself to words.
But if you try to do something, they will break your neck before you have time to take a breath. Dragons remain the worst natural enemy of man. It's not a matter of the degeneration of humanity, but its survival. In the end, mankind must get rid of his enemies and anything else that threatens it. The sorceress looked at him and smiled, only with her lips.
You, witcher, are not made to judge. You are only there to carry out certain tasks. Why would dragons appear among the main enemies of man? Why not other living beings with a hundred times more victims than dragons? Why not hirikkhis, giant centipedes, manticores, amphisbaena or griffons? Why not wolves? The superiority of man over other breeds and species, the fight for his rightful place in nature, his vital place, will only succeed when man has put an end to his aggressive, nomadic search for food, where he moves about in accordance with the changing of the seasons.
Otherwise, it will be impossible for him to multiply quickly enough. Humanity is a child without any real independence. A woman can only give birth safely sheltered by the walls of a city or a fortified town. Fertility, Dorregaray, is what's needed for development, survival and domination. Then we come to dragons: only a dragon can threaten a city or fortified town, no other monster.
If dragons are not exterminated, humans will scatter to ensure their security instead of uniting against it. If a dragon breathes fire on a densely populated quarter, it's a catastrophe - a terrible massacre with hundreds of victims. That's why every last dragon must be wiped out. Fortunately, it will never arrive. You will consume each other, you will poison yourselves, you will succumb to fever and typhus, because it will be filth and lice, not dragons, that will threaten your splendid cities where the women give birth every year, but where only one newborn baby out of ten will succeed in living more than ten days.
Yes, Yennefer, of course: breeding, breeding and more breeding. Take care, my dear, go and make some babies, as it's a more natural function with which to occupy yourself rather than wasting time spouting nonsense.
Seeing Yennefer's pale and tense face, Geralt instantly felt sorry for the magician. He grasped situation perfectly: Yennefer was sterile, as were most sorceresses, but unlike the others, she suffered as a result and became wild with rage when reminded of it. Dorregaray undoubtedly knew this weakness. He was, however, unaware that Yennefer had a cold-blooded thirst for vengeance. Watch out, Geralt. If it comes to that, don't hope that I'll defend you if you don't exhibit some common sense.
The limitations within which we can act are clearly and distinctly fixed. You're a witcher, you can't change that. Your duty This argument is starting to make me sick. Your nausea as well as your restricted range of actions are of no interest to me. Or talk about dragons, dreadful enemies of the human tribe.
I know better. Magicians even less so. It's interesting to note that, in every hunt for a dragon, there is the presence of magicians who are strongly linked to the guild of jewellers.
Yourself, for example. Later, while the market is saturated with stones, the ones from the dragon's hoard disappear as if by magic and their price remains constantly inflated. Therefore don't talk to me about duty and battles for survival of the species.
I know you too well and for too long. But don't think that you know me well, you son of a bitch. Damn it, what a fool I was Go to hell! I can't look at you anymore," She cried out, launching her dark horse into a flat-out gallop towards the head of the convoy. The witcher stopped his mount to let through the wagon of the dwarves who shouted, swore and played on bone flutes. Among them, sprawled out on some bags of oats, Jaskier strummed his lute.
I'm curious, whatever can it be? It resembles a mare! Yennefer pretended not to hear them. Geralt stopped his horse to let Niedamir's archers through. Behind them, a little way off, Borch rode slowly and right behind him, bringing up the rear guard, the Zerricanians. Geralt waited for them. He positioned his mare next to Borch's horse. They rode on in silence. Where should I go? Tell me. For what purpose? In this company there are plenty of people to talk to. Some don't even cut short their conversations when I approach them.
Those that don't like me tell me to my face, rather than talking behind my back. I accompany them for the same reason that I went with you in the bargemen's inn. Because it's all the same to me. I'm not expected to be anywhere in particular. There's nothing for me at the end of the road. Everybody has one. Even you, in spite of your difference. It's all a matter of what you believe and to what you devote yourself.
Nobody can know this better than What witcher? That of Eyck of Denesle to protect the humans from dragons. Dorregaray feels called to accomplish a diametrically opposite purpose. Yennefer cannot fulfil her ambition owing to the changes to which her body has been subjected, and it upsets her. By the devil, only the Reavers and the dwarves seem not to need ambition.
They simply want to make a packet. Perhaps that's why they appeal to me. I'm neither blind nor deaf. You didn't take out your purse to the soft music of their name.
It seems to me that Vea uttered something, looking strangely worried. It had been constructed with imposing logs of pine resting on a square pillar against which the current broke with crash in long rivulets of foam. Why go this way? The track goes on farther westward! He cut a comical air in his frockcoat covered with an old-fashioned breast-plate dating from at least the time of King Sambuk. The track leads towards the ruins of an ancient fortified town, winds around Chiava to the north, and carries on beyond the source of the river.
By taking the bridge, we can shorten the way. We can follow the ravine up to a body of water located between the mountains. If we find no trace of the dragon there, we can head eastward to examine the adjacent gulches. Even farther eastward, there are flat mountain pastures, then a path leading directly to Caingorn, towards your domains, lord.
I was a shepherd in my youth. Whoever wanted to cross had to pay a hefty sum. But there were rarely any takers, so the trolls packed up and left. The bridge remained.
Isn't it better to stay on the track? The king had expressed his eagerness to battle the dragon. He beamed with impatience. Where I'm from we have a habit of sending the most valiant first. Watch out that our wheels go straight.
The witcher's mare snorted. Then the earth shook. The jagged edge of the rocky walls suddenly blurred against the background of the sky and the wall itself issued a dull, palpable roar. Geralt saw a black fissure forming across the path behind him. It broke and collapsed into space with a deafening crash. We have to cross quickly! Behind them, the royal wagon bearing a standard marked with a griffin crashed with a dull thud onto the faltering beams.
Get off the path! The dwarves' wagon crashed into some of the archers as it overtook Niedamir's second wagon. Get out of the way! If it wasn't for his deathly pale face and jaw clenched in grimace, one might think that the knight errant didn't notice the rocks and stones tumbling down onto the track. A wild cry went up from a group of archers who remained behind.
Horses neighed. Geralt tugged on the reins, his horse rearing. Just in front of him, the earth trembled under the impact of the rocks that hurtled down the slope. Rumbling over the stones, the dwarves' wagon jolted just before it reached the bridge and overturned with a crack. One of its axles broke and a wheel bounced off the balustrade before falling into the turbulence. The witcher's mare, struck by shards of sharp rock, chewed at the bit. Geralt tried to jump from his mount, but his boot remained stuck in the stirrup.
He fell. The mare neighed and rushed onto the bridge as it wobbled over the gap. The dwarves ran across shouting and swearing. Behind them, a whole section of path collapsed. A cloud of dust went up, created by the landslide and the crashing of Niedamir's wagons as they broke to pieces.
The witcher managed to hang on to the straps of the magician's saddlebags. He heard a scream. Yennefer fell with her horse, then rolled aside. She threw herself to the ground and protected her head with her hands, trying to remain out of reach of the hooves that kicked out blindly.
The witcher let go to rush toward her, avoiding a rain of stones and jumping over the fissures which formed under his feet. Clutching an injured shoulder, Yennefer rose to her knees. Her eyes were wide and there was a cut above her eyebrow. Blood trickled down to her earlobe. Geralt dropped to shield the sorceress with his body.
The block exploded and broke into thousands of fragments as fine as wasp stings. From his horse, he waved his wand, reducing to dust the other rocks that had come loose from the wall. Nobody understood what she shouted. Stones evaporated like raindrops on white-hot iron upon the bluish arch which had just formed above their heads. The bridge swayed and cracked, beams bending, throwing them from one balustrade to the next. 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. Hold on! 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. Cast a spell! Geralt heard the muffled voice of Boholt: "Wait a minute. She'll fall soon. We'll pull the witcher up afterwards.
The bandolier bit into the witcher's torso painfully. Can you get a hold? Can you use your feet? Amongst the rocks, in the emerald, transparent depths, he saw a body of huge trout moving against the flow. You must get a handhold.
I can't They're both going to fall! The bridge trembled and tilted even more. Geralt began to lose all feeling in his fingers as he gripped the handle of his dagger. She no longer struggled, she just hung on his back; dead, inert weight. Forgive me. Below Geralt, the sorceress moaned and caught her breath.
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The girls smiled, flashing their teeth, and blinked. They had blue stripes tattooed from the corners of their eyes to the tips of their ears. Lynx pelt clad their strong muscles from thigh to hip and their bare arms curved above their mail gauntlets. From behind the mail-clad shoulder of each rose the hilt of a sabre. Pimply got down on one knee and slowly, very slowly, placed his knife on the ground.
From the hole in ruins came a rumble of stones, grinding, and then from the darkness there emerged two hands clutching the jagged edge of the wall. Following the hands, a white head appeared, the hair powdered with brick dust, a pale face and then, finally, shoulders, above which stood the hilt of a sword. A murmur escaped the crowd.
The alabaster-haired man straightened and pulled a strange shape from the hole; a small, odd looking body covered in dust and blood. Holding the beast by its long lizard-like tail, the man tossed it to the feet of the burgrave without a word. Its slashed throat, once carmine, was now a dirty red-brown. Its sunken eyes were glassy. I will check them, I'm warning you. The white-haired man looked around at the townsfolk, his gaze resting on the pimply-faced man, his discarded knife at his feet.
He also noticed the man in the brown tunic and the young women in the lynx pelts. You people never change, damn you to hell! The men armed with the clubs had long since hidden themselves in the crowd. At the sight of his smile, which bloomed on his pale face like an open wound, the crowd began to disperse. Go in peace. But go quickly. The spots stood out on his pallid face making him look even more hideous.
Wait a minute! Her sabre, drawn faster than the eye could see, cut through the air. The head of the pimplyfaced man flew upwards, tracing an arc before disappearing into the gaping hole. His body rolled stiff and heavy, like a freshly felled tree, amongst the broken rubble. The crowd cried out in unison. The second girl, her hand on the hilt of her sabre, turned agilely, covering her back.
It was unnecessary - the crowd rushed and stumbled through the ruins towards the town as fast as their legs could carry them. At the head of the crowd, leaping impressively, was the burgrave - slightly ahead of the butcher. I humbly bow before the skill and beauty of free warrior women.
I am Geralt of Rivia. And these are my bodyguards Tea and Vea. At least that's what I call them because their true names are a tongue twister. They are both, as you so finely guessed, Zerricanian. My thanks to you, warriors, and also to you, noble lord. And I'm no gentleman. Is there anything keeping you in this region, Geralt of Rivia? In that case, I have a proposition. Not far from here, at the crossroads on the road to the river-port, is an inn called The Pensive Dragon.
The food is unequalled throughout this whole region. I'm on my way there now with the intention of dining and spending the night. It would be an honour if you would accompany me. I'm a witcher. And you said that as if you were saying, 'I'm a leper. In the end, all I can do is pity them. I stand by my proposal. It's a pleasure to meet you.
II The landlord wiped the uneven surface of the table with a cloth, bowed and smiled. He was missing two front teeth. On second thoughts, a keg of beer. And with the beer With the beer we'd like something sour and spicy. His two front teeth were not the only ones that he lacked. For two please. And after that, some soup. Like the one I ate last time with the mussels, small fish and other crap floating in it. Next, roast lamb with eggs and onions. Then about sixty crayfish.
Throw some fennel into the pan, as much as you can muster. Then ewe's cheese and a salad. After that Is that for everyone? All four of you? Lamb only for us two. Bring the beer and eels immediately, leave the rest for a while so that the other dishes don't get cold. We didn't come here to stuff our faces, just to spend time in pleasant conversation. Give me your hand, my beauty," gold coin jingled and the landlord smiled as widely as possible. Now get back to your kitchen, my good fellow.
Geralt loosened his belt, removed his doublet then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. They made short work of the eels and quarter of the beer barrel. Although the Zerricanians were obviously enjoying the evening, they did not drink much of the beer. They spoke together quietly until Vea suddenly burst into throaty laughter. And they're not exactly chatterboxes, which is nice. How's your soup, Geralt? That is your job, isn't it?
Say to carry out a special order. What do you do then? Yet there is a certain principal underlying it, Geralt.
The conflict between the forces of Order and those of Chaos, as one of my wizard friends likes to say. I imagine that you always take missions that involve protecting humans from the Evil that is all around us. Undoubtedly this places you on the good side of the fence. You want at all costs for me to place myself on one side of the fence in a conflict that all regard as eternal, a conflict that's been going on since before we were born and will continue long after we're gone. On which side should the blacksmith place himself in this business?
Or the landlord who hurries to bring us roast lamb? What, according to you, defines the boundary between Chaos and Order? It is on the side of violence and aggression. Order, on the other hand, opposes it. That is why it must be protected and needs someone to defend it. But let us drink and make a start on this lamb. Vea leaned on the shoulder of her companion, and murmured something in her ear, her braids brushing the tabletop. Tea, the shorter of the two, burst into laughter, her tattooed eyelids blinking merrily.
I see that prefer not to take sides in the conflict between the forces. You just want to do your job. In spite of your comparison, you're not a blacksmith. I saw how you work; you enter an underground tunnel and come out of it with a small, mangled basilisk.
There is a difference, my pretty, between shoeing horses and killing basilisks. You've already indicated that you'll journey to the other side of the world to slay a certain monster if the pay is worth it. Let's say a fierce dragon destroys I don't kill dragons, in spite of the fact they no doubt represent Chaos.
Surely of all the monsters, the dragon is the most dangerous, vicious and cruel. Most terrible of all the reptiles. It attacks humans, spits fire and it even steals virgins! Haven't you heard enough stories about that? Is it possible that you, witcher, do not have a few dragon slayings in your list of accomplishments? Dracolizards, dermopterans but not real dragons, greens, blacks or reds.
Make no mistake about it. Enough talking about dragons for now. I see something red on the horizon; undoubtedly our crayfish. Drink up! Salty water, stinging painfully, ran down to their wrists.
Borch served up some more beer, scraping the bottom of the small cask with the ladle, while the Zerricanians amused themselves by watching the goings on around them. They laughed unpleasantly at a soothsayer on the next table over and the witcher was convinced that they were looking for a fight. Three Jackdaws also noticed it and waved a crayfish at them threateningly.
The girls giggled, Tea blowing him a kiss and giving him an ostentatious wink. Her tattoos made the gesture slightly macabre. However, they are worth all the money in the world. Did you know that they can..? Zerricanians are born warriors, trained in combat from a very early age.
Both smiled and Vea seized a shellfish, as quick as a flash. She cracked the carapace with her teeth and blinked as she regarded the witcher. Her lips glistened with the salty water. Three Jackdaws belched loudly. I'll bear it in mind. Why categorise them by these three colours, may I ask? Is there a particular reason? Green dragons are most widespread though in fact they are rather gray, like dracolizards. To tell you the truth the reds are more red brown, the colour of brick.
The large dark brown dragons are usually called black dragons. Rarest of all are the white dragons. I've never seen one. They live in the far North, apparently. Do you know what other types of dragons I've heard of? But they don't exist. Just because you've never seen one? You've never seen a white one either.
Across the seas, in Ofir and Zangwebar, there are white horses with black stripes. I've never seen those either, but I know that they exist. The golden dragon is a myth, a legend, like the phoenix. Phoenixes and golden dragons do not exist. It may be there once was a golden dragon; the product of a single, unique mutation. My wizard friend was in the habit of saying that each and every being can prevail in nature in one manner or another.
The end of one existence always announces the beginning of another. There is no limit, at least when it comes to nature. There is one element he didn't take into consideration; errors made by nature or those that play with it.
The golden dragon and all the other mutants of its species, even if they have existed, could not survive. A natural limit inherent in them has prevented it. Only legends permit what nature condemns. Only myths can ignore the limits of what's possible.
Geralt saw that the girls' faces had suddenly become serious. Vea quickly leaned towards him, embracing him with her hard, muscular arms.
He felt her lips on his cheek, wet with beer. But a toast is necessary. Another keg! A tankard at most. The witcher noticed several pairs of eyes sparkle with greed at the sight of Borch's overstuffed coin-purse, but nobody dared to follow him as he staggered in the direction of the courtyard. Tea shrugged before following her employer. Vea smiled revealing a line of white teeth, much of her shirt was unbuttoned as far as the last possible limit of decency allowed.
Geralt did not doubt for an instant that her demeanour was designed to test the resistance of the other patrons in the room. He was not mistaken.
Warriors love of freedom. Can you tell me? The criteria used by women to assess the desirability of men had always been an enigma to him.
Three Jackdaws burst into the alcove re-buttoning his trousers and gave a loud command to the landlord. Tea, two steps behind him, feigned boredom as she looked around the tavern, the merchants and the mariners present avoiding her eyes.
Vea sucked at a crayfish while casting the witcher knowing glances. I have reserved you a room, Geralt. You have no reason to be wandering this night. Let's have some more fun. To your health, girls! Tea blinked and stretched. Her lovely breasts, contrary to Geralt's expectations, did not burst out of her shirt. Over here! Like one for washing linen in: solid and roomy. Get to it, my dear chap, and don't forget beer and at least three tankards. Well, we will decide when we're in the tub.
Hey, girls! Help me up the stairs. A long and solid beam positioned on trestles barred access to the other bank of the river. Halberdiers in buttoned leather jackets and mail were gathered there, standing guard on both sides. Aloft, a crimson pennant bearing a silver griffin flapped in the wind. What's going on? An epidemic of cattle plague? In whose name do you block the road? It's just as well that Holopole and not Caingorn collects the toll on the bridges of the Braa.
What's it got to do with Niedamir? A guard was sitting on a pile of dry straw behind the hut of the toll collector. He was drawing in the sand, with the end of his halberd, a picture of a woman; a rather detailed view from an unusual perspective. Next to him there was a thin man, half dozing, delicately strumming chords on a lute.
An eccentric plum coloured hat decorated with a silver buckle and a long egret feather drooped over his eyes. Geralt recognized the hat and the feather so famous in Buina and Iaruga and known in all the manors, castles, guesthouses, inns and brothels.
Especially in the brothels. Is it really you? You wouldn't happen to have a pass, by chance? What's going on here, Jaskier? I'm travelling with the knight Borch of the Three Jackdaws and his escort and we want to cross the river. It was the lieutenant who refused; and he's also an artist, as you can see. It will take longer to get to Hengfors, but we don't have much choice," said the witcher. You're not hunting the dragon? You really don't know? In that case, I shall tell you all about it, my lords.
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