The Witcher

THE LAST WISH I

The catfish stuck its barbelled head above the surface, tugged with force, splashed, stirred the water and flashed its white belly.

 'Careful, Dandilion!' shouted the witcher, digging his heels into the wet sand. 'Hold him, damn it!'

 'I am holding him . . .' groaned the poet. 'Heavens, what a monster! It's a leviathan, not a fish!

 There'll be some good eating on that, dear gods!'

 'Loosen it. Loosen it or the line will snap!'

 The catfish clung to the bed and threw itself against the current towards the bend in the river.

 The line hissed as Dandilion's and Geralt's gloves smouldered.

 'Pull, Geralt, pull! Don't loosen it or it'll get tangled up in the roots!'

 'The line will snap!'

 'No, it won't. Pull!'

 They hunched up and pulled. The line cut the water with a hiss, vibrated and scattered droplets which glistened like mercury in the rising sun. The catfish suddenly surfaced, set the water seething just below the surface, and the tension of the line eased. They quickly started to gather up the slack.

 'We'll smoke it,' panted Dandilion. 'We'll take it to the village and get it smoked. And we'll use the head for soup!'

 'Careful!'

 Feeling the shallows under its belly, the catfish threw half of its twelve-foot-long body out of the water, tossed its head, whacked its flat tail and took a sharp dive into the depths. Their gloves smouldered anew.

 'Pull, pull! To the bank, the son-of-a-b***h!'

 'The line is creaking! Loosen it, Dandilion!'

 'It'll hold, don't worry! We'll cook the head ... for soup . . .'

 The catfish, dragged near to the bank again, surged and strained furiously against them as if to let them know he wasn't that easy to get into the pot. The spray flew six feet into the air.

 'We'll sell the skin ..." Dandilion, red with effort, pulled the line with both hands. 'And the barbels . . . We'll use the barbels to make—'

 Nobody ever found out what the poet was going to make from the catfish's barbels. The line snapped with a c***k and both fishermen, losing their balance, fell onto the wet sand.

 'b****y hell!' Dandilion yelled so loud that the echo resounded though the osiers. 'So much grub escaped! I hope you die, you son-of-a-catfish.'

 'I told you,' Geralt shook his wet trousers. 'I told you not to use force when you pull. You screwed up, my friend. You make as good a fisherman as a goat's arse makes a trumpet.'

 'That's not true.' The troubadour was outraged. 'It's my doing that the monster took the bait in the first place.'

 'Oh really? You didn't lift a finger to help me set the line. You played the lute and hollered so the whole neighbourhood could hear you, nothing more.'

 'You're wrong,' Dandilion bared his teeth. 'When you fell asleep, you see, I took the grubs off the hook and attached a dead crow, which I'd found in the bushes. I wanted to see your face in the morning when you pulled the crow out. And the catfish took the crow. Your grubs would have caught s**t-all.'

 'They would have, they would have.' The witcher spat into the water, winding the line on to a little wooden rake. 'But it snapped because you tugged like an i***t. Wind up the rest of the lines instead of gabbling. The sun's already up, it's time to go. I'm going to pack up.'

 'Geralt!'

 'What?'

 'There's something on the other line, too . . . No, dammit, it

 only got caught. Hell, it's holding like a stone, I can't do it! Ah, that's it . . . Ha, ha, look what I'm bringing in. It must be the wreck of a barge from King Dezmod's time! What great stuff!

 Look, Geralt!'

 Dandilion was clearly exaggerating; the clump of rotted ropes, net and algae pulled out of the water was impressive but it was far from being the size of a barge dating from the days of the legendary king. The bard scattered the jumble over the bank and began to dig around in it with the tip of his shoe. The algae was alive with leeches, scuds and little crabs.

'Ha! Look what I've found!'

 Geralt approached, curious. The find was a chipped stoneware jar, something like a two-handled amphora, tangled up in netting, black with rotten algae, colonies of caddis-larvae and snails, dripping with stinking slime.

 'Ha!' Dandilion exclaimed again, proudly. 'Do you know what this is?'

 'It's an old pot.'

 'You're wrong,' declared the troubadour, scraping away shells and hardened, shiny clay. 'This is a charmed jar. There's a djinn inside who'll fulfil my three wishes.'

 The witcher snorted.

 'You can laugh,' Dandilion finished his scraping, bent over and rinsed the amphora. 'But there's a seal on the spigot and a wizard's mark on the seal.''

 'What mark? Let's see.'

 'Oh, sure.' The poet hid the jar behind his back. 'And what more do you want? I'm the one who found it and I need all the wishes.'

 'Don't touch that seal! Leave it alone!'

 'Let go, I tell you! It's mine!'

 'Dandilion, be careful!'

 'Sure!'

 'Don't touch it! Oh, b****y hell!'

 The jar fell to the sand during their scuffle, and luminous red smoke burst forth.

 The witcher jumped back and rushed towards the camp for his sword. Dandilion, folding his arms across his chest, didn't move.

 The smoke pulsated and collected in an irregular sphere level with Dandilion's eyes. The sphere formed a six-foot-wide distorted head with no nose, enormous eyes and a sort of beak.

 'Djinn!' said Dandilion, stamping his foot. 'I freed thee and as of this day, I am thy lord. My wishes—'

 The head snapped its beak, which wasn't really a beak but something in the shape of drooping, deformed and ever-changing lips.

 'Run!' yelled the witcher. 'Run, Dandilion!'

 'My wishes,' continued the poet, 'are as follows. Firstly, may Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, die of apoplexy as soon as possible. Secondly, there's a count's daughter in Caelf called Virginia who refuses all advances. May she succumb to mine. Thirdly—'

 No one ever found out Dandilion's third wish.

 Two monstrous paws emerged from the horrible head and grabbed the bard by the throat.

 Dandilion screeched.

 Geralt reached the head in three leaps, swiped his silver sword and slashed it through the middle. The air howled, the head exhaled smoke and rapidly doubled in diameter. The monstrous jaw, now also much larger, flew open, snapped and whistled; the paws pulled the struggling Dandilion around and crushed him to the ground.

 The witcher crossed his fingers in the Sign of Aard and threw as much energy as he could muster at the head. The energy materialised in a blinding beam, sliced through the glow surrounding the head and hit its mark. The boom was so loud that it stabbed Geralt's ears, and the air sucked in by the implosion made the willows rustle. The roar of the monster was deafening as it grew even larger, but it released the poet, soared up, circled and, waving its paws, flew away over the water.

 The witcher rushed to pull Dandilion - who was lying motionless - away. At that moment, his fingers touched a round object buried in the sand.

 It was a brass seal decorated with the sign of a broken cross and a nine-pointed star.

 The head, suspended above the river, had become the size of a haystack, while the open, roaring jaws looked like the gates of an average-sized barn. Stretching out its paws, the monster attacked.

 Geralt, not having the least idea of what to do, squeezed the seal in his fist and, extending his hand towards the assailant, screamed out the words of an exorcism a priestess had once taught him. He had never used those words until now because, in principle, he didn't believe in superstitions.

 The effect surpassed his expectations.

 The seal hissed and grew hot, burning his hand. The gigantic head froze in the air, suspended, motionless above the river. It hung like that for a moment then, at last, it began to howl, roar, and dispersed into a pulsating bundle of smoke, into a huge, whirling cloud. The cloud whined shrilly and whisked upstream with incredible speed, leaving a trail of churned-up water on the surface. In a matter of seconds, it had disappeared into the distance; only a dwindling howl lingered across the water.

 The witcher rushed to the poet, cowering on the sand.

 'Dandilion? Are you dead? Dandilion, damn it! What's the matter with you?'

 The poet jerked his head, shook his hands and opened his mouth to scream. Geralt grimaced and narrowed his eyes - Dandilion had a trained - loud - tenor voice and, when frightened, could reach extraordinary registers. But what emerged from the bard's throat was a barely audible, hoarse croak.

 'Dandilion! What's the matter with you? Answer me!'

 'Hhhh . . . eeee . . . kheeeee . . . theeee whhhhorrrrrrre . . .'

 'Are you in pain? What's the matter? Dandilion!'

 'Hhhh . . . Whhhooo ..."

'Don't say anything. If everything's all right, nod.'

 Dandilion grimaced and, with great difficulty, nodded and then immediately turned on his side, curled up and - choking and coughing - vomited blood.

 Geralt cursed.