The Sword of Destiny (9 page)

"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"The valorous Eyck of Denesle may be withdrawn from the ground.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 backup 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 hanging 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 Jaskier 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."

"And our contract, Boholt?" the chancellor shot back. "What about our contract?"

"I don't give a shit."

"This is outrageous! It's contempt of court!" Gyllenstiern stamped his foot. "King Niedamir..."

"What about the king?" replied an irate Boholt, leaning on a colossal longsword. "Perhaps the king personally wants to pit his strength against the dragon? Or maybe you, his faithful chancellor? You would need to shield your big fat belly with armour before going into battle! Why not? You're welcome to try. We'll wait, your grace. You had your chance, Gyllenstiern, when Eyck tried to run the dragon through with his lance. You would have taken everything for yourself, and we would have received nothing - not a single scale from its back. Now, it's too late. Open your eyes. Nobody else is likely to fight in the colours of Caingorn. You won't find another fool such as Eyck."

"That's not true!" The shoemaker Kozojed threw himself to the king's feet, who always seemed to be staring at an invisible point on the horizon. "Lord King! Wait just a little while until our Holopole chaps put in an appearance. It'll be well worth the wait. Damn that lot's stuck up arrogance. Look to the brave men who you can rely on, not to these blowhards!"

"Shut up!" Boholt calmly ordered, brushing a trace of rust from his breast-plate. "Shut your mouth, peasant, otherwise I'll shut it for you by making you choke on your teeth."

Kozojed, seeing the approaching Kennet and Nischuka, retreated quickly and blended in with the group of the scouts from Holopole.

"Sire," asked Gyllenstiern. "Sire, what do you order?"

The bored expression immediately disappeared from Niedamir's face. The young monarch scowled, wrinkled his freckled nose and got up.

"What do I order?" he said slowly. "Finally you ask me, Gyllenstiern, instead of deciding for me and in my own name. I'm delighted. Let's keep it like that, Gyllenstiern. From now on, I want you silent and obedient. This, therefore, is the first of my orders. Gather all the people. Order them to place Eyck of Denesle on a wagon. We return to Caingorn."

"Lord..."

"Not a word, Gyllenstiern. Lady Yennefer, noble lords, I take my leave of you. I wasted a fair amount of time carrying out this expedition, but the benefits which I take away from it are incommensurable. I learnt a lot. Thanks to you and your words, Lady Yennefer, Lord Dorregaray, Lord Boholt. And thanks to your silence, Lord Geralt."

"Sire," said Gyllenstiern, "why? The dragon is right there, at your mercy. Sire, what happened to your ambition?"

"My ambition," repeated Niedamir, lost in his thoughts. "I don't have it any more. And if I stay here, I risk losing it forever."

"And Malleore? And the hand of the princess?" The chancellor had not given up; he continued, wringing his hands. "And the throne, Sire? The people consider that..."

"Screw the people of Malleore, to use the expression of Mr Boholt," replied Niedamir. "The throne of Malleore belongs to me in any case: three hundred cavalry make my reign law in Caingorn and I have one thousand five hundred infantrymen against their measly thousand

shields. They will have to acknowledge my legitimacy. As long as I hang, slay and cleave my way through the roads of Malleore, they will have to acknowledge my legitimacy. As for their princess, that fatted calf, I shall reject her hand. I need only her belly to make me heirs. Afterwards, I shall get rid of her. With the old fashioned method of Master Kozojed. We've spoken enough, Gyllenstiern. It's time to carry out my orders."

"Indeed," murmured Jaskier to Geralt. "He did learn a lot."

"Yes, a lot," confirmed the witcher, looking at the hillock where the golden dragon, lowering its triangular head, licked something that sat in the grass beside it with its scarlet, forked tongue. "But I wouldn't like to be one of his subjects, Jaskier."

"What's going to happen now, do you think?"

The witcher gazed at a tiny green-grey creature that leaned against the golden dragon's paw, flapping its bat-like wings.

"And you, Jaskier, what do you have to say about it?"

"What does it matter what I think? I'm a poet, Geralt. Has my opinion the slightest importance?"

"Certainly."

"In that case, I'll tell you, Geralt. When I see a reptile, a snake for instance, or a lizard, it disgusts me and scares me, they're horrible... While this dragon..."

"Yes?"

"It's... it's beautiful, Geralt."

"Thank you, Jaskier."

"What for?"

Geralt turned around and, with a slow movement, tightened the buckle on the bandolier across his chest by two holes. He raised his right hand to check that the hilt of his sword was well positioned. The poet looked at him wide-eyed.

"Geralt, you're going to..."

"Yes," replied the witcher, calmly. "There is a limit as to what is possible. I've had enough of all this. What are you going to do, Jaskier? Will you stay or will you follow Niedamir's troops?"

The troubadour bent to carefully put his lute down against a stone, then straightened up.

"I'll stay. What are you talking about? Limits of the possible? I reserve the right to use this expression as the title of my ballad."

"It might be your last ballad."

"Geralt."

"Yes?"

"Don't kill it... if you can."

"A sword is a sword, Jaskier. When it's drawn..."

"Try."

"I shall try."

Dorregaray sneered, turning towards Yennefer and the Reavers he pointed to the royal standard as it moved away.

"There," he said, "goes King Niedamir. He no longer gives orders by the mouth of Gyllenstiern as he has finally gained some common sense. It's a good thing that you're with us, Jaskier. I propose that you begin composing your ballad."

"About what?"

The magician produced his wand from inside his sable coat.

"How Master Dorregaray, wizard by trade, succeeded in driving away a bunch of brigands eager to exterminate the last living golden dragon. Don't move Boholt! Yarpen, take your hand away from your axe! Yennefer, don't even think about moving a finger! Go, you wretched curs, I suggest that you follow the king like a pack of hounds traipsing after their master. Take your horses and your wagons. I warn you: the slightest wrong movement, and there will remain of the perpetrator only a smell of burning and an empty space on the sand. I'm not joking."

"Dorregaray," Yennefer hissed.

"Dear magician," said Boholt in a reasonable voice. "Either we come to an agreement..."

"Be silent, Boholt. I repeat: do not touch this dragon. Take your business elsewhere and good riddance."

Yennefer's hand suddenly shot forward and the ground around Dorregaray exploded in a flash of azure fire, whirling about in cloud of gravel and ripped up clods. The magician staggered, surrounded by flames. Nischuka took advantage of this to leap up and punch him in the face. Dorregaray fell to the ground, his wand firing off a flash of red lightning that struck harmlessly amongst the rocks. Ripper, suddenly appearing at his side, kicked the unfortunate magician. He had already pivoted to repeat this gesture when the witcher fell between them. He pushed Ripper back, drawing his sword and striking horizontally at the space between his pauldron and cuirass. Boholt blocked the blow with his longsword. Jaskier tried to trip up Nischuka, but to no avail: Nischuka took hold of the bard's rainbow tunic and punched him between eyes. Yarpen Zigrin, springing up behind Jaskier, buckled his legs by hitting him in the back of his knees with the handle of his axe.

Geralt dodged Boholt's sword with a pirouette and struck Ripper at close quarters as he tried to evade him, tearing his iron armband from his arm. Ripper retreated backwards with a jump, tripped over and fell to the ground. Boholt grunted, wielding his sword like a scythe. Geralt jumped over the hissing blade and rammed Boholt's cuirass with the hilt of his sword,

pulled back then aimed for Boholt's cheek. Boholt, seeing that he could not parry blow, threw himself backwards and fell onto his back. In one leap, the witcher had already joined him... At this instant, Geralt felt the earth give way and his feet falter. The horizon became vertical. Trying in vain to draw the Sign of Protection with his hand, he fell heavily onto his side, letting his sword slip free from his paralysed hand. He heard his pulse knocking in his ears and a continuous hiss.

"Bind them while the spell still lasts," shouted Yennefer, from further away upon the height. "All three!"

Dorregaray and Geralt, stunned and powerless, allowed themselves to be bound and tied to the wagon wordlessly and without resistance. Jaskier cursed and put up a fight and as a result was trussed up after first having received a few blows.

"What's the point in taking these sons of bitches prisoner?" Kozojed interrupted, approaching the group. "It's better to kill these traitors right away and be done with it."

"You're a son of the same bitch," Yarpen Zigrin replied. "Though saying that's an insult to dogs. Get lost, parasite!"