The Sword of Destiny (8 page)

"The dragon! Over there, the dragon!"

"Where?"

"On the other side of the ravine... on the flats... lord... It..."

"To the horses!" commanded Gyllenstiern.

"Nischuka!" shouted Boholt, "To the wagon! Ripper, to your horse and follow me!"

"Get to it, boys!" yelled Yarpen Zigrin. "Get to it, damn it!"

"Hey! Wait!" Jaskier had slung his lute over his shoulder. "Geralt, take me on your horse!"

"Jump on!"

The ravine ended with a scattering of pale rocks spread increasingly further apart, creating an irregular circle. Behind them, the ground sloped slightly before becoming uneven and grassy pasture, enclosed all around by limestone cliffs studded with thousands of holes. Three narrow canyons, ancient beds of dried up mountain streams, overlooked the pasture.

Boholt arrived first and, galloping up to the rocky barrier, stopped his horse suddenly and stood up in his stirrups.

"By the plague," he said. "By the yellow plague. This... this... it cannot be!"

"What?" asked Dorregaray, going up to him.

Next to him, Yennefer jumped off the Reavers' wagon, pressed her chest up against a large boulder and looked in turn. She stood back, rubbing her eyes.

"What? What is it?" shouted Jaskier, trying to see over Geralt's shoulder. "What is it Boholt?"

"The dragon... It's gold."

Not more than one hundred paces from the narrowing of the ravine from which they had just emerged, atop a small hillock on the gently sloping path leading to the main northern canyon, sat a creature. Resting its narrow head on a rounded chest, it stretched its long and slender neck in a perfect arch, its tail wound around its outstretched paws.

There was in this creature an ineffable grace, something feline that clearly contradicted its reptilian provenance, for it was, without a doubt, reptilian. The scales it bore gave the appearance of being finely painted on. Furiously brilliant light shone in the dragon's bright yellow eyes. The creature was most certainly gold: from the tips of its claws planted in the earth up to the end of its long tail that moved slowly amongst the thistles proliferating upon the height. The creature opened its big, amber, bat-like wings and remained still, looking at them with its huge golden eyes and demanding that they admire it.

"A golden dragon," murmured Dorregaray. "It's impossible... a living legend!"

"For crying out loud, golden dragons don't exist," asserted Nischuka, spitting. "I know what I'm talking about."

"What, therefore, do you see upon the height?" asked Jaskier.

"It's trickery."

"An illusion."

"It is not an illusion," said Yennefer.

"It is a golden dragon," added Gyllenstiern. "Most certainly a golden dragon."

"Golden dragons exist only in legends!"

"Stop," Boholt intervened with finality. "There's no need to make a fuss. Any fool can see that we're dealing with a golden dragon. What's the difference, my dear lords? Gold, speckled, chartreuse or checked? It's not big. We can deal with it in less than two. Ripper, Nischuka, take the canvas off the wagon, grab the equipment. Gold, not gold; it matters not."

"There is a difference, Boholt," said Ripper. "And an important one. It's not the dragon we're hunting. It's not the one who was poisoned near Holopole and who waits for us in his cavern, sleeping peacefully on precious metals and stones. This one is only resting on its arse in the meadow. What's the point of dealing with him?"

"This dragon is gold, Kennet," shouted Yarpen Zigrin. "Have you seen its like before? Don't you understand? We'll get a lot more for its skin that what we could pull in for some pitiful treasure."

"And without damaging the market for precious stones," added Yennefer with an ugly smile. "Yarpen is right. The contract remains in effect. There is still something to share, don't you think?"

"Hey! Boholt?" shouted Nischuka from the wagon, noisily grabbing pieces of equipment. What do we use to protect the horses? Does a gold lizard spit out fire, acid or steam?"

"The devil only knows, my dear lords," replied Boholt, concerned. "Hey! Magicians! Do the legends of golden dragons explain how to slay them?"

"How should we kill it? In the usual way," replied Kozojed suddenly, raising his voice. "There's no time to waste. Give me an animal. We shall stuff it with poison then feed it to the lizard. That'll do it."

Dorregaray gave the shoemaker a filthy look. Boholt spat, Jaskier looked away grimacing with disgust. Yarpen Zigrin smiled unpleasantly, hands on hips.

"What are you waiting for?" Kozojed asked. "It is high time we got down to work. We must establish what the decoy will be composed of so that the reptile passes away immediately; we need something horribly noxious, toxic or rotten."

"Ah!" said the dwarf, still smiling. "What is toxic, filthy and evil-smelling all at once? You mean you don't know, Kozojed? It seems that it's you, you little shit."

"What?"

"Get out of my sight, boot-buggerer, so I don't have to look at you anymore."

"Lord Dorregaray," said Boholt, going up to the magician, "Make yourself useful. Do you remember any legends or tales on the subject? What do you know about golden dragons? "

The magician smiled, standing up again in a dignified fashion.

"What do I know about golden dragons, you ask? Not much, but enough."

"Speak."

"Listen carefully, very carefully: right here in front of us sits a golden dragon. A living legend, perhaps the last and only creature of its type to have survived your murderous folly. Legends should not be killed. I will not allow you to touch this dragon. It that understood? You can put away your equipment and pack up your saddlebags and go home."

Geralt was sure that a fight was going to erupt. He was wrong.

Gyllenstiern broke the silence:

"Honourable magician, be careful what you say and to whom you say it. King Niedamir can order you, Dorregaray, to pack up your saddlebags and go to hell; note that to suggest the same of him is improper. Is that clear?"

"No," the magician replied proudly. "It isn't, because I am and remain Master Dorregaray. I will not obey the orders of an insignificant king governing a kingdom only visible from the top of a hill and in command an abject, filthy, stinking fortress. Did you know, my Lord

Gyllenstiern, that with one wave of my hand I can transform you into cowpat, and your vulgar king into something much worse? Is that clear?"

Gyllenstiern had no time to reply. Boholt approached Dorregaray: he grabbed him by the arm and turned him around. Nischuka and Ripper, silent and grim-faced, stood right behind Boholt.

"Listen well, sir magician," said the huge Reaver quietly. "Listen to me before you wave your hand: I could take the time to tell you, your grace, what I think of your protestations and legends, not to mention your stupid chattering. But I don't feel like it. Content yourself with following answer:"

Boholt cleared his throat, sank a finger into his nostril and snorted onto the magician's shoes.

Dorregaray turned pale, but did not move. He had noticed, as had all the others, the morning star that Nischuka held loosely in his hand. He knew, as did all the others, that the necessary time to cast a spell was undoubtedly longer than that which Nischuka needed to shatter his head into a thousand pieces.

"Okay," said Boholt. "Now kindly step aside, your grace. And if the desire to open your mouth returns, I recommend that you stop up your trap at once with a tuft of grass. Because if I hear your babblings once more, I promise you that you'll regret it." Boholt turned his back on him, rubbing his hands. "Nischuka, Ripper, get to work or the reptile is going to end up eluding us."

"It doesn't seem intent on escape," said Jaskier looking around. "Look at it".

The golden dragon sat on the hillock, yawned, moved its head and wings and struck the earth with its tail.

"King Niedamir and ye knights!" a voice like the sounding of a brass clarion suddenly roared. "I am the dragon Villentretenmerth! I see that the landslide that I created, and was rather proud of, did not deter you. So here you are. As you know, there are only three exits to this valley. To the East towards Holopole and to the West towards Caingorn. You can leave by these two roads, but you will not pass by the ravine located to the north, because I, Villentretenmerth, forbid it. If anybody does not intend to respect my order, I honourably challenge him, in the form of a knight's duel using only conventional weapons; that is, without magic or bursts of flame. Battle will continue until the surrender of one of the parties. I await your answer through your herald, in accordance with protocol!"

All were dumbfounded.

"It talks!" Boholt murmured, barely able to catch his breath. "Incredible!"

"And very intelligently, at that," added Yarpen Zigrin. "Does anybody know what a confessional weapon is?"

"Common place, without magic," answered Yennefer, frowning. "Something else surprises me, however. They cannot articulate properly with a forked tongue. This rascal uses telepathy. Watch out because it works in both directions. It knows how to read your thoughts."

"Is it completely mad or what?" declared Kennet alias Ripper, annoyed. "A duel of honour? With a stupid reptile? It's so small! Let's go at it all together! As a group!"

"No."

They looked amongst themselves.

Eyck of Denesle, already on his horse, fully equipped, his lance at his stirrup, cut a more impressive figure than when he moved on foot. Fevered eyes shone beneath the raised visor of his helmet. His face was pallid.

"No, Lord Kennet," repeated the knight, "over my dead body. I will not allow insult to the honour of knights in my presence. He who dares to violate the code of honour of duelling..." Eyck spoke more and more intensely; his impassioned voice broke and trembled with excitement. "Who dares to make fun of honour, makes fun of me. His blood or mine will run on this wasted earth. The animal demands a duel? So be it! Let the herald sound my name! Let the Judgment of the Gods decide our fate! The might of fangs and claws for the dragon, his infernal fury, and for me..."

"What a moron," murmured Yarpen Zigrin.

"For me, law, faith and the tears of the virgins that this lizard..."

"Shut up, Eyck, you're giving us the urge to vomit!" Boholt reprimanded. "Get on with it. Get yourself over to that meadow instead of babbling on!"

"Hey, Boholt! Wait!" the leader of the dwarves intervened, stroking his beard. "You forget the contract? If Eyck strikes down the lizard, he will acquire half..."

"Eyck will acquire nothing at all," replied Boholt, grinning. "I know it. If Jaskier dedicates a song to him, that will be more than enough for him."

"Silence!" Gyllenstiern ordered. "So shall it be. Faith and honour will rally against the dragon in the form of the knight errant, Eyck of Denesle, fighting in the colours of Caingorn as lance and sword of the King Niedamir. Such is the will of the king!"

"You see?" ground out Yarpen Zigrin under his breath. "The lance and the sword of Niedamir. The idiot King of Caingorn has definitely got us. What do we do now?"

"Nothing." Boholt spat. "You are not going to pick a fight with Eyck, alright? Certainly, he talks crap, but since he's already rashly mounted his horse, it's better to let him go. Let him go, damn it, and let him settle his score with this dragon. Afterwards, we shall see."

"Who holds the office of herald?" Jaskier asked. "The dragon wanted a herald. Perhaps me?"

"No. It's not a question of singing some ditty, Jaskier," replied Boholt, frowning. "Yarpen Zigrin has a booming voice; let him be the herald."

"Agreed, what does it matter?" replied Yarpen. "Give me the standard with the coat of arms so that we can do this properly."

"Watch out, lord dwarf, make sure you're polite and respectful." scolded Gyllenstiern.

"Don't tell me what to do." The dwarf thrust out his chest proudly. "I had already conducted my first official engagement while you were still learning how to talk."

The dragon remained sat on the hillock, waving its tail cheerfully while it waited patiently. The dwarf heaved himself onto the highest rock. He cleared his throat and bellowed:

"Hey! You there!" he shouted, putting his hands on his hips. "Scaly shithead! Are you ready to hear what the herald has to say? That's me, in case you were wondering! The knight errant Eyck of Denesle will be the first to take you on, all above board! He will drive his lance into your belly in accordance with sacred custom: which may be unfortunate for you, but it will be joy for the poor virgins and King Niedamir! Battle will have to respect the code of honour and law. You will be forbidden to belch fire. You will only be allowed to make mincemeat out of each other in the conventional way. Battle will go on as long as the opposing party has not given up the ghost or snuffed it... and we wish that for you more than anything! Did you get all that, dragon?"

The dragon yawned, shook its wings and swiftly slid down the hillock onto the flat ground.

"I heard you, virtuous herald," it replied. "The valorous Eyck of Denesle deigns to come to me on meadow. I am ready! "

"What mugs!" Boholt spat, casting a gloomy look towards the knight Eyck as he trotted out to the barrier of rocks. "It's a bloody farce..."

"Shut it, Boholt," shouted Jaskier, rubbing his hands. "Look, Eyck is going to charge! Bloody hell, what a fine ballad I'm going to compose!"

"Hurrah! Three cheers for Eyck!" one of the archers of Niedamir exclaimed.

"I," Kozojed interjected sadly "would have made him gulp down some sulphur, just to be on the safe side."

On the battleground, Eyck returned salute to the dragon by raising his lance. He slammed down the visor of his helmet before driving his spurs into the sides of his mount.

"Well, well," the dwarf responded. "He might be a fool, but he really knows what he's doing. Look at him!"

Leaning forward, straining in the saddle, Eyck lowered his lance when he was at a gallop. In spite of Geralt's assumption, the dragon did not leap back. Neither did it try to elude its adversary by going around him, but launched itself flat out towards the knight who attacked it.