Free Sword of Destiny by Andrzej Sapkowski Page B

be something which is extremely toxic, poisonous or rotten.’
    ‘Aha,’ the dwarf spoke, still smiling. ‘Well, what’s poisonous, foul and stinks? Do you know what, Sheepbagger? Looks like it’s you.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You bloody heard. Get lost, bodger, out of my sight.’
    ‘Lord Dorregaray,’ Boholt said, walking over to the sorcerer. ‘Make yourself useful. Call to mind some fables and tales. What do you know about golden dragons?’
    The sorcerer smiled, straightening up self-importantly.
    ‘What do I know about golden dragons, you ask? Not much, but enough.’
    ‘We’re listening.’
    ‘Then listen and listen attentively. Over there, before us, sits a golden dragon. A living legend, possibly the last and only creature of its kind to have survived your murderous frenzy. One doesn’t kill legends. I, Dorregaray, will not allow you to touch that dragon. Is that understood? You can get packed, fasten your saddlebags and go home.’
    Geralt was convinced an uproar would ensue. He was mistaken.
    ‘Noble sorcerer, sir,’ Gyllenstiern’s voice interrupted the silence. ‘Heed what and to whom you speak. King Niedamir may order you, Dorregaray, to fasten your saddlebags and go to hell. But not the other way around. Is that clear?’
    ‘No,’ the sorcerer said proudly, ‘it is not. For I am Master Dorregaray, and will not be ordered around by someone whose kingdom encompasses an area visible from the height of the palisade on a mangy, filthy, stinking stronghold. Do you know, Lord Gyllenstiern, that were I to speak a charm and wave my hand, you would change into a cowpat, and your underage king into something ineffably worse? Is
that
clear?’
    Gyllenstiern did not manage to answer, for Boholt walked up to Dorregaray, caught him by the shoulder and pulled him around to face him. Gar and Beanpole, silent and grim, appeared from behind Boholt.
    ‘Just listen, magician, sir,’ the enormous Reaver said. ‘Before you wave that hand, listen to me. I could spend a long time explaining what I would do with your prohibitions, your fables and your foolish chatter. But I have no wish to. Let this suffice as my answer.’
    Boholt placed a finger against his nose and from a short distance ejected the contents onto the toes of the sorcerer’s boots.
    Dorregaray blanched, but did not move. He saw–as everyone did–the morning star mace on a cubit-long shaft hanging low at Gar’s side. He knew–as everyone did–that the time he needed to cast a spell was incomparably longer than the time Gar needed to smash his head to pieces.
    ‘Very well,’ Boholt said. ‘And now move nicely out of the way, your lordship. And should the desire to open your gob occur to you, quickly shove a bunch of grass into it. Because if I hear you whining again, I’ll give you something to remember me by.’
    Boholt turned away and rubbed his hands.
    ‘Right, Gar, Beanpole, let’s get to work, because that reptile won’t hang around forever.’
    ‘Doesn’t seem to be planning on going anywhere,’ Dandelion said, looking at the foreground. ‘Look at it.’
    The golden dragon on the hill yawned, lifted its head, waved its wings and lashed the ground with its tail.
    ‘King Niedamir and you, knights!’ it yelled with a roar like a brass trumpet. ‘I am the dragon Villentretenmerth! As I see, the landslide which I–though I say it, as shouldn’t–sent down on your heads did not completely stop you. You have come this far. As you know, there are only three ways out of this valley. East, towards Barefield, and west, towards Caingorn. And you may use those roads. You will not take the northern gorge, gentlemen, because I, Villentretenmerth, forbid you. However, if anyone does not wish to respect my injunction, I challenge him to fight an honourable, knightly duel. With conventional weapons, without spells, without breathing fire. A fight to the utter capitulation of one of the sides. I await an answer through your herald, as custom