The Witcher

THE LIMITS OF THE POSSIBLE 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 back up 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 b***h," Yarpen Zigrin replied. "Though saying that's an insult to dogs. Get lost, parasite!"

"Such recklessness!" shouted Kozojed. "We shall certainly see if you'll be as arrogant when my men arrive from Holopole. In their opinion, you..."

Yarpen, with an uncommon agility for his stature, effortlessly pivoted and struck him in the head with the handle of his axe. Nischuka, coming alongside, finished the job with a kick which sent Kozojed to graze on the grass some distance away.

"You'll regret this!" shouted the shoemaker, on all fours. "All of you..."

"Get him, lads!" roared Yarpen Zigrin. "That filthy-faced son of a w***e cobbler! Come on, Nischuka!"

Kozojed didn't hang about. He jumped up and took off at a run towards the eastern canyon.

The Reavers of Holopole chased after him. The dwarves threw stones at him, laughing.

"Already the air's got a lot fresher," laughed Yarpen. "Okay, Boholt, let's go and get the dragon!"

"Wait a minute." Yennefer raised her arm. "The only thing you're going to be hitting is the road...You can go back that way: now be off with you. Every single one of you."

"What?" Boholt flinched, his eyes flashed malevolently. "What are you talking about, dear lady sorceress?"

"Get out! Be gone! Go and find the shoemaker," repeated Yennefer. "Every last one of you.

I'm going to take on the dragon myself. With non-conventional weapons. Thank me before leaving. Without me, you would have had a taste of the witcher's sword. Go quickly, Boholt, before I get annoyed. I'm warning you: I know a spell which could transform you into geldings. I have only to wave my hand."

"Good grief," exclaimed Boholt. "My patience has reached its limit. I won't be made to look a fool. Ripper, remove the wagon's tongue. It seems to me that I also need a non-conventional weapon. Somebody's going to suffer, my dear lords. I'm not pointing a finger. I shall simply say that it's a certain despicable sorceress."

"Try it, Boholt. It would make my day."

"Yennefer," asked the dwarf, reproachfully, "Why?"

"Perhaps it's because I don't like to share, Yarpen."

"Oh well," the dwarf smiled, "you're only human. So human that it's even worthy of a dwarf.

It's nice to find one's own qualities in a sorceress. I don't like to share either, Yennefer."

He bent over in a movement as short and quick as a flash of lightning. A metal ball, produced from who knows where, flew through the air and struck Yennefer's forehead violently. Before the sorceress came to, Ripper and Nischuka immobilized her arms and Yarpen has bound her ankles with a rope. The sorceress howled with anger. One of Yarpen's boys, holding her from behind, threw a bridle over her head and pulled it tight, stifling her shouts by shoving the straps into her open mouth.

"What now, Yennefer?" shot Boholt, walking towards her. "How are you going to transform me into a gelding without being able to move your hands?"

He tore the neck of her tunic then ripped her shirt open. Trapped in the bridles, Yennefer hurled a***e at him in the form of stifled shouting.

"We have no time at present," said Boholt, groping her while ignoring the sniggering of the dwarves, "but wait just a little while, sorceress. When we've taken care of the dragon, we'll be able to have some fun. Tie her firmly to the wheel, lads. Both hands tied, so that she can't move a finger. And none of you boys dare to interfere with her, damn it. He who stands strongest against the dragon will have first place in the queue."

"Boholt," said Geralt quietly and ominously. "Watch out. I will hunt you to the ends of the earth."

"You surprise me," replied the Reaver, also quietly. "If I were you, I'd keep my mouth shut because, knowing your abilities, I'm likely take your threat seriously. You leave me no choice. I can't let you live, witcher. But we'll deal with you later. Nischuka, Ripper, to the horses."

"That's just your luck," Jaskier wailed. "Damn it, it's me who got you into this mess."

Dorregaray lowered his head and watched thick drops of his blood run slowly from his nose onto his belly.

"Stop staring at me this instant!" the sorceress shouted at Geralt. She writhed like a snake in her bonds in a vain attempt to conceal her n***d charms. Geralt obediently diverted his eyes.

Jaskier didn't.

"According to what I see," mocked the bard, "you must have used a whole barrel of mandrake elixir, Yennefer. Your skin resembles that of a sixteen-year-old girl. It's giving me goosebumps."

"Shut up, you son of a w***e!" the sorceress replied. 

Jaskier didn't relent, "How old are you really? Two hundred years? Rather a hundred and fifty, say. And you act like..."

Yennefer stretched her neck to spit at him. It missed its target...

"Yen," muttered the witcher sadly, wiping his saliva spattered ear with his shoulder.

"Make him stop ogling me!"

"I have no intention of doing so," declared Jaskier, continuing to admire the pleasant view of the half-n***d sorceress. "It's because of her that we're prisoners. They'll cut our throats. At the very least, they're going to r**e her. At her age..."

"Shut up, Jaskier," ordered the witcher.

"Not on your life. I have a burning desire to compose a ballad about a pair of t**s. Please don't interrupt me."

"Jaskier," Dorregaray spat out some blood, "be serious."

"I'm very serious, damn it."

Boholt, helped up by a dwarf, clambered onto his saddle with difficulty due to the heavy leather armour he was decked out in. Nischuka and Ripper were already waiting on their mounts, huge longswords at their sides.

"Good," muttered Boholt. "Now to the dragon."

"No," a deep voice answered, the sonority of which was reminiscent of a brass horn. "It is I who will come to you!"

A long bright gold muzzle appeared behind the circle of rocks, followed by an elongated neck protected by a row of spines then long-clawed paws. Menacing reptilian eyes with vertical pupils observed the scene from on high.

"I couldn't wait on the battleground any longer," explained the dragon Villentretenmerth, looking around at them. "I therefore took the liberty of coming to join you. I see that the adversaries eager to fight me are growing fewer and fewer."

Boholt grabbed his reins between his teeth and his sword in his two fists.

"Thatsh gahd," he mumbled indistinctly, biting on the reins. "Ah hahp dat yer're reddy fer combat, monshter!"

"I am ready," replied the dragon, bowing its back into an arch and wafting its tail in the air as a sign of provocation.

Boholt checked what was going on around him. Nischuka and Ripper surrounded the animal slowly, with deliberate calmness, on either side. Yarpen Zigrin and the boys waited behind them, armed with axes.

"Aaargh!" bellowed Boholt, spurring his horse on wildly and brandishing his sword. 

The dragon pivoted, rising up and letting itself fall back to the earth; like a scorpion with its tail above its haunches, it struck downward, mowing down not Boholt, but Nischuka who attacked laterally. Nischuka fell with a crash, his horse neighing and screaming. Boholt, approaching at a gallop, attacked with a mighty blow from his sword, the broad blade of which the dragon skilfully avoided. The momentum of the gallop took Boholt on past the dragon. It twisted and, standing on its hind legs, hit Ripper with its claws, disembowelling the horse and goring its rider's thigh with a single swipe. Boholt, leaning in the saddle, managed to gain control of his mount and, still gripping the reins between his teeth, charged again.

Whipping the air with its tail, the dragon swept aside all of the dwarves as they came running up to it. Then it launched itself at Boholt, vigorously crushing Ripper in its passage as he tried to get up again. Boholt, turning his head, tried an evasive manoeuvre but the dragon was much quicker and more agile. Shrewdly intercepting Boholt from the left, cutting off his route, it hit him with its clawed foot. The horse reared and fell onto its side. Boholt flew from the saddle, losing both sword and helmet, and fell backwards before bashing his head on a boulder.

"Run, boys! Into the mountains!" yelled Yarpen Zigrin with a shout which drowned out the howling Nischuka, still crushed by his horse.

Beards blowing in the wind, the dwarves ran towards the rocks at an amazing speed for their short legs. The dragon did not pursue them. He sat quietly and looked around. Nischuka thrashed and yelled under the weight of his horse. Boholt was lying motionless. Ripper limped back to the shelter of the rocks, walking sideways like a crab.

"It's incredible," murmured Dorregaray. "Incredible..."

"Hey!" Jaskier pulled so hard on his bonds, the wagon shook. "What's that? There! Look!"

They saw a big cloud of dust on the side of the eastern ravine, soon followed by a tumult of shouting, rattle and clatter. The dragon raised its head to look.

Three big wagons carrying armed men came out onto the plain. They scattered to encircle the dragon.

"b****y hell! It's the militia and guilds of Holopole! " cried Jaskier. "They succeeded in by-passing the river Braa! Yes, it's them! Look, there's Kozojed at the head!"

The dragon lowered its head to gently push the small, greyish, chirping creature towards the wagon. It then struck the ground with its tail, roaring loudly, before launching itself like a speeding arrow to meet the inhabitants of Holopole.

"What's that small thing moving in the grass over there, Geralt?" Yennefer asked.

"It's what the dragon protected," replied the witcher. "It was just recently hatched in a cavern in the northern ravine. It's the offspring of the female dragon poisoned by Kozojed."

The baby reptile, stumbling and hugging the ground with its rounded belly, came up to the wagon with a halting step. It chirped, stood on its hind legs and unfurled its wings. It suddenly went to snuggle up against the sorceress. Yennefer sighed deeply, looking puzzled.

"He likes you," murmured Geralt. 

"He may be young, but he's no i***t," added Jaskier, fidgeting enthusiastically in spite of his bonds. "Look where he lays his little head. I'd like to be in his place, damn it. Hey! Little one!

You should run away. This is Yennefer, the bane of dragons! And witchers! At least of one witcher in particular..."

"Shut up, Jaskier," shouted Dorregaray. "Look at what's happening on the ground over there!

They're going to catch it! Plague upon on all of them!"

The wagons of the inhabitants of Holopole, rumbling like chariots, rushed at the attacking dragon.

"Hack it to pieces," shouted Kozojed hanging on the driver's shoulders. "Hack it to pieces until it's dead, my friends! Don't hold back!"

In a single leap, the dragon evaded the first wagon, but found itself trapped between the two following, from whence a big double fisherman's net, tied with ropes, was thrown over him.

The entangled dragon fell, struggling, then curled into a ball before lashing out its legs. The net ripped sharply, torn to pieces. The first wagon, which had now managed to turn around, threw another net, immobilizing it completely. The other two wagons made a u-turn and charged the dragon once again, rattling and bouncing over the potholes in the ground.

"You are caught in the net, carp!" yelled Kozojed. "We're not going to delay gutting you!"

The dragon roared, fire billowing out into the sky with clouds of smoke. The Holopole militiamen jumped down from their wagons and rushed towards it. The dragon roared once again, a desperate, resounding call.

An answer came up from the northern canyon in the form of a piercing war cry.

At a full on gallop, their blonde braids flitting in the wind and blades flashing, there suddenly appeared from the ravine...

"The Zerricanians!" cried the witcher, struggling to free himself from his bonds.

"Oh, s**t!" exclaimed Jaskier. "Geralt, do you know what this means?"

The Zerricanians cut through the mass of militiamen like a hot knife in through butter, leaving in their wake heaps of slashed bodies. They dismounted from their horses before running flat out towards the imprisoned dragon. A militiaman tried to intervene. His head rolled from his shoulders. Another one tried to stab Vea with a pitchfork, but the Zerricanian, holding her sword with both hands, disembowelled him from his perineum up to his sternum.

The others took to their heels.

"To the wagons," shouted Kozojed. "To the wagons, my friends! We shall crush them with the wagons."

"Geralt!" Yennefer shouted suddenly. Stretching her trussed up legs, she managed to move them under the wagon, very close to the witcher's hands which were tied behind his back.

"The Sign of Igni! Burn my bonds! Can you feel the rope? Burn it, damn it!"

"Without looking?" Geralt protested. "I'll burn you, Yen!"

"Form the sign! I can take it!" 

Geralt obeyed. He felt a tingling in his fingers, forming the Sign of Igni just above the sorceress' ankles. Yennefer turned her head to bite the neck of her tunic, stifling a moan. The young dragon nestled his wings against her, chirping.

"Yen!"

"Burn the rope!" she wailed.

The bonds finally gave way as the foul smell of charred meat became intolerable. Dorregaray issued a strange sound before fainting, sagging in his bonds against the wheel of the wagon.

The sorceress, face twisted with pain, sat back and extended a freed leg. She cried out in a voice full of rage and suffering. The medallion Geralt wore at his neck trembled as though it were alive. Yennefer shifted her hips and gestured with her leg towards the wagons of the Holopole militia and called out a spell. The air vibrated and filled with the smell of ozone.

"Oh! By the Gods!" Jaskier moaned with awe. "What a ballad it will be, Yennefer!"

The spell cast by her pretty leg did not quite succeed. The first wagon and everyone inside it took on a shade of buttercup yellow which the warriors Holopole, blinded by the heat of battle, did not even notice. The spell was more effective on the second wagon: all its crew were instantly transformed into huge pimply frogs which fled, croaking comically, in all directions. The wagon, deprived of a driver, turned over and smashed onto the ground.

Dragging the torn off tongue behind them, the horses disappeared into the distance, neighing hysterically. 

Yennefer bit her lip, raising her leg once more. The buttercup yellow wagon, accompanied by a rousing music coming from somewhere above, was reduced to a cloud of smoke of the same colour; all of the crew, dazed, crashed to the grass, forming a picturesque heap.

The wheels of the third wagon became square: the horses reared up, the wagon collapsed in on itself and the Holopole militiamen were ejected. Out of pure spite, Yennefer moved her leg again, and with an additional charm, transformed all of them at random into turtles, geese, millipedes, pink flamingos or suckling pigs. The Zerricanians expertly and methodically dispatched the others.

The dragon, finally tearing the net to pieces, jumped up, flapping its wings. It roared and flew like an arrow in pursuit of Kozojed, who had succeeded in escaping the m******e. The shoemaker ran like a gazelle, but the dragon was faster. Geralt, seeing its open maw and flashing teeth as sharp as daggers, turned away. He heard a bloodcurdling scream then a terrible crunch. Jaskier stifled a cry. Yennefer, pale as a sheet, doubled over and turned around to vomit under the wagon. 

The silence which followed was broken only by the croaking, squawking and shrieking of the survivors of the Holopole militia.

Vea stood over Yennefer, legs wide apart, wearing a nasty smile. The Zerricanian drew her sword. Yennefer, pale, raised her leg.

"No," interrupted Borch, alias Three Jackdaws, sat on a stone. He held in his arms the young dragon, calm and happy. 

"We will not kill Lady Yennefer," the dragon Villentretenmerth continued. "There's no point now. Besides, we are now grateful to Lady Yennefer for her invaluable help. Release them, Vea."

"Did you know, Geralt?" Jaskier murmured, rubbing his numb hands. "Did you know?

There's an ancient ballad about a golden dragon. Golden dragons can..."

"can take all forms," completed the witcher, "even human form. I've also heard about it, but I didn't believe it."

"Mr. Yarpen Zigrin!" the dragon called out to the dwarf hanging on the vertical cliff wall, about two hundred cubits above the ground. "What are you looking for up there? Marmots?

They are not to your taste, if I remember rightly. Get down, I beg you, and busy yourself with the Reavers. They need assistance. Killing is over for today. It's better for everybody."