The Sword of Destiny (4 page)

"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 300,1 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!" Jaskier 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 Jaskier!"

"Jaskier," 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. Jaskier 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 from 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.

"There's no booze left," Ripper interrupted them, turning the empty demijohn upside down.

"Get some more then. You're the youngest. The contract, Geralt, was our idea, because we aren't mercenaries or some other unscrupulous kind. Niedamir can't just send us into the dragon's clutches and then give us a pittance of gold pieces. The truth is that we don't need to slay the dragon for Niedamir. On the contrary, he needs us. In this situation, who has the most significant role and who should get the most silver are obvious questions. We therefore proposed a fair deal: those who will personally take part in the battle against the dragon will take half the treasure. Niedamir will take a quarter by virtue of birth and title. The others, if they contributed in any way to the enterprise, will equally share the last quarter. What do you think of it?"

"What did Niedamir think of it?"

"He answered neither yes nor no. It would be in his best interest to cooperate, that greenhorn, because I'm telling you: alone, he will never slay the dragon. Niedamir remains dependent on professionals, that's to say on us, the Reavers, as well as on Yarpen and his boys. It's us, and nobody else, that will come within a sword's length of the dragon. If any others help out, including magicians, they will be able to share a quarter of the treasure."

"Besides the magicians, who do you count amongst these others?" Jaskier asked with interest.

"Certainly not musicians and authors of trashy verse," Yarpen laughed. "We include those who toil with the axe, not with the lute."

"Ah good!" Three Jackdaws interjected, looking up at the starry sky. "And what did the shoemaker Kozojed and his band toil with?"

Yarpen Zigrin spat into the fire, muttering something in the language of the dwarves.

"The Holopole militia knows these shitty mountains and will be our guide," explained Boholt in a low voice. "It's fair to include them in distribution. As far as the shoemaker's concerned, that's a bit different. When a dragon arrives in a region, it's no good that the people think they can force-feed it poison with impunity then carry on screwing girls in the fields instead of calling professionals. If such a practice carried on, we'd be reduced to begging, wouldn't we?"

"That's true," replied Yarpen. "That's why I'm telling you: the shoemaker should be held responsible for that mess rather than be declared a legend."

"He's got it coming," punctuated Nischuka firmly. "I'll do it."

"And Jaskier," continued the dwarf, "can write a comedic ballad about it, so that his shame and ignominy can live on forever in song."

"You forgot an important element," said Geralt. "There is one who can confuse matters by refusing any payment or contract. I'm talking about Eyck of Denesle. Did you talk to him?"

"For what purpose?" Boholt murmured under his breath while stirring the fire with a branch. "Regarding Eyck, there's nothing to discuss, Geralt. He doesn't know what he's doing."

"We encountered him," Three Jackdaws said. "On the path leading to your camp. Kneeling on the stones, dressed in his complete armour, he was gazing at the sky."

"He always does that," explained Ripper. "He meditates or prays. He says it's his divine mission to protect humans from evil."

"Back home, in Crinfrid," muttered Boholt, "They lock madmen such as him up in the in the back of a cowshed, tie them to a chain and when they give them a piece of coal, they draw marvellous pictures on the walls. But let's cease wasting time by endlessly discussing our fellows: let's talk business."

A young petite woman, with black hair covered with a gold mesh and dressed in a wool coat, silently entered the circle of light.

"What stinks so?" Yarpen Zigrin asked, pretending not to notice her. "Is it sulphur?"

"No." Boholt sniffed ostentatiously looking away "It's musk or some kind of incense."

"No, it's probably..." the dwarf grimaced: "Ah! It's the noble Lady Yennefer. Welcome, welcome!"

The sorceress' gaze slowly took in the gathered individuals. Her shining eyes stopped for one instant on the witcher. Geralt smiled slightly.

"May I sit?"

"But of course, benefactor," replied Boholt, hiccupping. "Take a seat, there near the saddle. Move over, Kennet my friend, and give your seat to the sorceress."

"My Lords, I hear that you're talking business." Yennefer sat down, stretching out in front of her shapely legs sheathed in black stockings. "Without me?"

"We wouldn't dare bother such an important person," replied Yarpen Zigrin.

Yennefer blinked, turning to the dwarf:

"You, Yarpen, you would better off being silent. Since the first day we met you've treated me like a bad smell. Now please continue and don't mind me. It doesn't bother me in the least."

"What are you saying, fair lady?" Yarpen smiled showing a row of uneven teeth. "Leeches devour me if I do not treat you better than a bad smell. I sometimes pollute the air, but I would never dare to do so in your presence."

The bearded 'boys' burst out laughing. They were immediately silent at the sight of a grey light which had formed around the sorceress.

"Another word out of you and you'll be polluted air, Yarpen," Yennefer shot back at him in a metallic voice. "And a black stain on the grass."

"Very well" Boholt broke the silence which had just descended with a cough. "Be silent, Zigrin. Let us hear what Lady Yennefer wants to tell us. She regrets that our business discussion is taking place without her. I deduce from this that she has a proposal to make to us. Let's listen, my dear fellows, to what this proposal consists of. However, let's hope that she doesn't offer to slay the dragon alone with her spells."

"Why not?" Yennefer reacted, raising her head. "Do you think it impossible, Boholt?"

"It is perhaps possible. But for us not very lucrative, because you would then demand half of the dragon's treasure."

"At the very least," the sorceress replied coldly.

"You see that's not a good solution. We, madam, are only poor warriors. If we don't get paid, hunger threatens. We've only been eating sorrel and white goose..."