The Witcher

A QUESTION OF PRICE III

The witcher spun and, with the centre of his blade, slashed a guard who was trying to dig the sharp tongue of his lance between Urcheon's apron and breastplate. The guard tumbled to the ground, losing his helmet. More guards came running in from the entrance.

'This is not befitting!' roared Eist Tuirseach, grabbing a chair. He shattered the unwieldly piece of furniture against the floor with great force and, with what remained in his hand, threw himself at those advancing on Urcheon.

Urcheon, caught by two guisarme hooks at the same time, collapsed with a clang, cried out and huffed as he was dragged along the floor. A third guard raised his lance to stab down and Geralt cut him in the temple with the point of his sword. Those dragging Urcheon stepped back quickly, throwing down their guisarmes, while those approaching from the entrance backed away from the remnants of chair brandished by Eist like the magic sword Balmur in the hand of the legendary Zatreta Voruta.

Pavetta's cries reached a peak and suddenly broke off. Geralt, sensing what was about to happen, fell to the floor watching for a greenish flash. He felt an excruciating pain in his ears, heard a terrible crash and a horrifying wail ripped from numerous throats. And then the princess's even, monotonous and vibrating cry.

The table, scattering dishes and food all around, was rising and spinning; heavy chairs were flying around the hall and shattering against the walls; tapestries and hangings were flapping, raising clouds of dust. Cries and the dry c***k of guisarme shafts snapping like sticks came from the entrance.

The throne, with Calanthe sitting on it, sprang up and flew across the hall like an arrow, smashing into the wall with a crash and falling apart. The queen slid to the floor like a ragged puppet. Eist Tuirseach, barely on his feet, threw himself towards her, took her in his arms and sheltered her from the hail pelting against the walls and floor with his body.

Geralt, grasping the medallion in his hand, slithered as quickly as he could towards Mousesack, miraculously still on his knees, who was lifting a short hawthorn wand with a rat's skull affixed to the tip. On the wall behind the druid a tapestry depicting the siege and fire of Fortress Ortagar was burning with very real flames.

Pavetta wailed. Turning round and round, she lashed everything and everybody with her cries as if with a whip. Anyone who tried to stand tumbled to the ground or was flattened against the wall. An enormous silver sauce-boat in the shape of a many-oared vessel with an upturned bow came whistling through the air in front of Geralt's eyes and knocked down the voivode with the hard-to-remember name just as he was trying to dodge it. Plaster rained down silently as the table rotated beneath the ceiling, with Crach an Graite flattened on it and throwing down vile curses.

Geralt crawled to Mousesack and they hid behind the heap formed by Fodcat of Strept, a barrel of beer, Drogodar, a chair and Drogodar's lute.

'It's pure, primordial Force!' the druid yelled over the racket and clatter. 'She's got no control over it!'

'I know!' Geralt yelled back. A roast pheasant with a few striped feathers still stuck in its rump, fell from nowhere and thumped him in the back.

'She has to be restrained! The walls are starting to c***k!'

'I can see!'

'Ready?'

'Yes!'

'One! Two! Now!'

They both hit her simultaneously, Geralt with the Sign of Aard and Mousesack with a terrible, three-staged curse powerful enough to make the floor melt. The chair on which the princess was standing disintegrated into splinters. Pavetta barely noticed - she hung in the air within a transparent green sphere.

Without ceasing to shout, she turned her head towards them and her petite face shrunk into a sinister grimace.

'By all the demons—!' roared Mousesack.

'Careful!' shouted the witcher, curling up. 'Block her, Mousesack! Block her or it's the end of us!'

The table thudded heavily to the ground, shattering its trestle and everything beneath it. Crach an Craite, who was lying on the table, was thrown into the air. A heavy rain of plates and remnants of food fell; crystal carafes exploded as they hit the ground. The cornice broke away from the wall, rumbling like thunder, making the floors of the castle quake.

'Everything's letting go!' Mousesack shouted, aiming his wand at the princess. 'The whole Force is going to fall on us!'

Geralt, with a blow of his sword, deflected a huge double-pronged fork which was flying straight at the druid.

'Block it, Mousesack!'

Emerald eyes sent two flashes of green lightning at them. They coiled into blinding, whirling funnels from the centres of which the Force - like a battering ram which exploded the skull, put out the eyes and paralysed the breath — descended on them. Together with the Force, glass, majolica, platters, candlesticks, bones, nibbled loaves of bread, planks, slats and smouldering firewood from the hearth poured over them. Crying wildly like a great capercaillie, Castellan Haxo flew over their heads. The enormous head of a boiled carp splattered against Geralt's chest, on the bear passant sable and damsel of Fourhorn.

Through Mousesack's wall-shattering curses, through his own shouting and the wailing of the wounded, the din, clatter and racket, through Pavetta's wailing, the witcher suddenly heard the most terrible sound.

Coodcoodak, on his knees, was strangling Draig Bon-Dhu's bagpipes with his hands, while, with his head thrown back, he shouted over the monstrous sounds emerging from the bag, wailed and roared, cackled and croaked, bawled and squawked in a cacophony of sounds made by all known, unknown, domestic, wild and mythical animals.

Pavetta fell silent, horrified, and looked at the baron with her mouth agape. The Force eased off abruptly.

'Now!' yelled Mousesack, waving his wand. 'Now, witcher!'

They hit her. The greenish sphere surrounding the princess burst under their blow like a soap bubble and the vacuum instantly sucked in the Force raging through the room. Pavetta flopped heavily to the ground and started to weep.

After the pandemonium a moment's silence rang in their ears; then, with difficulty, laboriously, voices started to break through the rubble and destruction, through the broken furniture and the inert bodies.

'Cuach op arse, ghoul y badraigh mal an cuach,' spat Crach an Craite, spraying blood from his bitten lip.

'Control yourself, Crach,' said Mousesack with effort, shaking buckwheat from his front.

'There are women present.'

'Calanthe. My beloved. My Calanthe!' Eist Tuirseach said in the pauses between kisses.

The queen opened her eyes but didn't try to free herself from his embrace.

'Eist. People are watching,' she said.

'Let them watch.'

'Would somebody care to explain what that was?' asked Marshal Vissegerd, crawling from beneath a fallen tapestry.

'No,' said the witcher.

'A doctor!' Windhalm of Attre, leaning over Rainfarn, shouted shrilly.

'Water!' Wieldhill, one of the brothers from Strept, called, stifling the smouldering tapestry with his jacket. 'Water, quickly!'

'And beer!' Coodcoodak croaked.

A few knights, still able to stand, were trying to lift Pavetta, but she pushed their hands aside, got up on her own and, unsteadily, walked towards the hearth. There, with his back resting against the wall, sat Urcheon, awkwardly trying to remove his blood-smeared armour.

'The youth of today,' snorted Mousesack, looking in their direction. 'They start early! They've only got one thing on their minds.'

'What's that?'

'Didn't you know, witcher, that a virgin, that is one who's untouched, wouldn't be able to use the Force?'

'To hell with her virginity,' muttered Geralt. 'Where did she get such a gift anyway? Neither Calanthe nor Roegner—'

'She inherited it, missing a generation, and no mistake,' said the druid. 'Her grandmother, Adalia, could raise a drawbridge with a twitch of her eyebrows. Hey, Geralt, look at that! She still hasn't had enough!'

Calanthe, supported by Eist Tuirseach's arm, indicated the wounded Urcheon to the guards.

Geralt and Mousesack approached quickly but unnecessarily. The guards recoiled from the semi-reclining figure and, whispering and muttering, backed away.

Urcheon's monstrous snout softened, blurred and was beginning to lose its contours. The spikes and bristles rippled and became black, shiny, wavy hair and a beard which bordered a pale, angular, masculine face, dominated by a prominent nose.

What . . .' stammered Eist Tuirseach. Who's that? Urcheon?'

'Duny,' said Pavetta softly.

Calanthe turned away with pursed lips.

'Cursed?' murmured Eist. 'But how—'

'Midnight has struck,' said the witcher. 'Just this minute. The bell we heard before was early.

The bell-ringer's mistake. Am I right, Calanthe?'

'Right, right,' groaned the man called Duny, answering instead of the queen, who had no intention of replying anyway. 'But maybe instead of standing there talking, someone could help me with this armour and call a doctor. That madman Rainfarn stabbed me under the ribs.'

What do we need a doctor for?' said Mousesack, taking out his wand.

'Enough.' Calanthe straightened and raised her head proudly. 'Enough of this. When all this is over, I want to see you in my chamber. All of you, as you stand. Eist, Pavetta, Mousesack, Geralt and you . . . Duny. Mousesack?'

'Yes, your Majesty.'

'That wand of yours . . . I've bruised my backbone. And thereabouts.'

'At your command, your Majesty.'

'. . . a curse,' continued Duny, rubbing his temple. 'Since birth. I never found a reason for it, or who did it to me. From midnight to dawn, an ordinary man, from dawn . . . you saw what.

Akerspaark, my father, wanted to hide it. People are superstitious in Maecht; spells and curses in the royal family could prove fatal for the dynasty. One of my father's knights took me away from court and brought me up. The two of us wandered around the world - the knight errant and his squire, and later, when he died, I journeyed alone. I can't remember who told me that a child-surprise could free me from the curse. Not long after that I met Roegner. The rest you know.'

'The rest we know, or can guess,' nodded Calanthe. 'Especially that you didn't wait the fifteen years agreed upon with Roegner but turned my daughter's head before that. Pavetta! Since when?'

The princess lowered her head and raised a finger.

'There. You little sorceress. Right under my nose! Let me just find out who let him into the castle at night! Let me at the ladies-in-waiting you went gathering primroses with. Primroses, dammit! Well, what am I to do with you now?'

'Calanthe—' began Eist.

'Hold on, Tuirseach. I haven't finished yet. Duny, the matter's become very complicated.

You've been with Pavetta for a year now, and what? And nothing. So you negotiated the oath from the

wrong father. Destiny has made a fool of you. What irony, as Geralt of Rivia, present here, is wont to say.'

'To hell with destiny, oaths and irony,' grimaced Duny. 'I love Pavetta and she loves me, that's all that counts. You can't stand in the way of our happiness.'

'I can, Duny, I can, and how.' Calanthe smiled one of her unfailing smiles. 'You're lucky I don't want to. I have a certain debt towards you, Duny. I'd made up my mind... I ought to ask your forgiveness, but I hate doing that. So I'm giving you Pavetta and we'll be quits. Pavetta?

You haven't changed your mind, have you?'

The princess shook her head eagerly.

'Thank you, your Majesty. Thank you,' smiled Duny. 'You're a wise and generous queen.'

'Of course I am. And beautiful.'

'And beautiful.'

'You can both stay in Cintra if you wish. The people here are less superstitious than the inhabitants of Maecht and adjust to things quicker. Besides, even as Urcheon you were quite pleasant. But you can't count on having the throne just yet. I intend to reign a little longer beside the new king of Cintra. The noble Eist Tuirseach of Skellige has made me a very interesting proposition.'

'Calanthe—'

'Yes, Eist, I accept. I've never before listened to a confession of love while lying on the floor amidst fragments of my own throne but . . . How did you put it, Duny? This is all that counts and I don't advise anyone to stand in the way of my happiness. And you, what are you staring at? I'm not as old as you think.'

'Today's youth,' muttered Mousesack. 'The apple doesn't fall far—'

'What are you muttering, sorcerer?'

'Nothing, ma'am.'

'Good. While we're at it, I've got a proposition for you, Mouse-sack. Pavetta's going to need a teacher. She ought to learn how to use her gift. I like this castle, and I'd prefer it to remain standing.

It might fall apart at my talented daughter's next attack of hysteria. How about it, Druid?'

'I'm honoured.'

'I think,' the queen turned her head towards the window. 'It's dawn. Time to—V

She suddenly turned to where Pavetta and Duny were whispering to each other, holding hands, their foreheads all but touching.

'Duny!'

'Yes, your Majesty?'

'Do you hear? It's dawn! It's already light. And you . . .'

Geralt glanced at Mousesack and both started laughing.

'And why are you so happy, sorcerers? Can't you see—?'

'We can, we can,' Geralt assured her.

'We were waiting until you saw for yourself,' snorted Mouse-sack. 'I was wondering when you'd catch on.'

'To what?'

'That you've lifted the curse. It's you who's lifted it,' said the witcher. 'The moment you said

'I'm giving you Pavetta' destiny was fulfilled.'

'Exactly,' confirmed the druid.

'Oh gods,' said Duny slowly. 'So, finally. Damn, I thought I'd be happier, that some sort of trumpets would play or . . . Force of habit. Your Majesty! Thank you. Pavetta, do you hear?'

'Mhm,' said the princess without raising her eyes.

'And so,' sighed Calanthe, looking at Geralt with tired eyes, 'all's well that ends well. Don't you agree, witcher? The curse has been lifted, two weddings are on their way, it'll take about a month to repair the throne-room, there are four dead, countless wounded and Rainfarn of Attre is half-dead. Let's celebrate. Do you know, witcher, that there was a moment when I wanted to have you—'

'I know.'

'But now I have to do you justice. I demanded a result and got one. Cintra is allied to Skellige.

My daughter's marrying the right man. For a moment I thought all this would have been fulfilled according to destiny anyway, even if I hadn't had you brought in for the feast and sat you next to me. But I was wrong. Rainfam's dagger could have changed destiny. And Rainfarn was stopped by a sword held by a witcher. You've done an honest job, Geralt. Now it's a question of price. Tell me what you want.'

'Hold on,' said Duny, fingering his bandaged side. 'A question of price, you say. It is I who am in debt, it's up to me—'

'Don't interrupt.' Calanthe narrowed her eyes. 'Your mother-in-law hates being interrupted.

Remember that. And you should know that you're not in any debt. It so happens that you were the subject of my agreement with Geralt. I said we're quits and I don't see the sense of my having to endlessly apologise to you for it. But the agreement still binds me. Well, Geralt.

Your price.'

'Very well,' said the witcher. 'I ask for your green sash, Calanthe. May it always remind me of the colour of the eyes of the most beautiful queen I have ever known.'

Calanthe laughed, and unfastened her emerald necklace.

'This trinket,' she said, 'has stones of the right hue. Keep it, and the memory.'

'May I speak?' asked Duny modestly.

'But of course, Son-in-law, please do, please do.'

'I still say I am in your debt, witcher. It is my life that Rainfam's dagger endangered. I would have been beaten to death by the guards without you. If there's talk of a price then I should be the one to pay. I assure you I can afford it. What do you ask, Geralt?'

'Duny,' said Geralt slowly, 'a witcher who is asked such a question has to ask to have it repeated.'

'I repeat, therefore. Because, you see, I am in your debt for still another reason. When I found out who you were, there in the hall, I hated you and thought very badly of you. I took you for a blind, bloodthirsty tool, for someone who kills coldly and without question, who wipes his blade clean of blood and counts the cash. But I've become convinced that the witcher's profession is worthy of respect. You protect us not only from the evil lurking in the darkness, but also from that which lies within ourselves. It's a shame there are so few of you.'

Calanthe smiled.

For the first time that night Geralt was inclined to believe it was genuine.

'My son-in-law has spoken well. I have to add two words to what he said. Precisely two. Forgive, Geralt.'

'And I,' said Duny, 'ask again. What do you ask for?'

'Duny,' said Geralt seriously, 'Calanthe, Pavetta. And you, righteous knight Tuirseach, future king of Cintra. In order to become a witcher, you have to be born in the shadow of destiny, and very few are born like that. That's why there are so few of us. We're growing old, dying, without anyone to pass our knowledge, our gifts, on to. We lack successors. And this world is full of Evil which waits for the day none of us are left.'

'Geralt,' whispered Calanthe.

'Yes, you're not wrong, queen. Duny! You will give me that which you already have but do not know. I'll return to Cintra in six years to see if destiny has been kind to me.'

'Pavetta,' Duny opened his eyes wide. 'Surely you're not—'

'Pavetta!' exclaimed Calanthe. 'Are you . . . are you—?'

The princess lowered her eyes and blushed. Then replied.

THE VOICE OF REASON 5

'Geralt! Hey! Are you there?'

He raised his head from the coarse, yellowed pages of The History of the World by Roderick de Novembre, an interesting if controversial work which he had been studying since the previous day.

'Yes, I am. What's happened, Nenneke? Do you need me?'

'You've got a guest.'

'Again? Who's it this time? Duke Hereward himself?'

'No. It's Dandilion this time, your fellow. That idler, parasite and good-for-nothing, that priest of art, the bright-shining star of the ballad and love poem. As usual he's radiant with fame, puffed up like a pig's bladder and stinking of beer. Do you want to see him?'

'Of course. He's my friend, after all.'

Nenneke, peeved, shrugged her shoulders. 'I can't understand that friendship. He's your absolute opposite.'

'Opposites attract.'

'Obviously. There, he's coming,' she indicated with her head. 'Your famous poet.'

'He really is a famous poet, Nenneke. Surely you're not going to claim you've never heard his ballads.'

'I've heard them.' The priestess winced. 'Yes, indeed. Well, I don't know much about it, but maybe the ability to jump from touching lyricism to obscenities so easily is a talent. Never mind. Forgive me, but I won't keep you company. I'm not in the mood for either his poetry or his vulgar jokes.'

A peal of laughter and the strumming of a lute resounded in the corridor and there, on the threshold of the library, stood Dandilion in a lilac jerkin with lace cuffs, his hat askew. The troubadour bowed exaggeratedly at the sight of Nenneke, the heron feather pinned to his hat sweeping the floor.

'My deepest respects, venerable mother,' he whined stupidly. 'Praise be the Great Melitele and her priestesses, the springs of virtue and wisdom—'

'Stop talking bullshit,' snorted Nenneke. 'And don't call me mother. The very idea that you could be my son fills me with horror.'

She turned on her heel and left, her trailing robe rustling. Dandilion, aping her, sketched a parody bow.

'She hasn't changed a bit,' he said cheerfully. 'She still can't take a joke. She's furious because I chatted a bit to the gate-keeper when I got here, a pretty blonde with long lashes and a virgin's plait reaching down to her cute little bottom, which it would be a sin not to pinch. So I did and Nenneke, who had just arrived . . . Ah, what the deuce. Greetings, Geralt.'

'Greetings, Dandilion. How did you know I was here?'

The poet straightened himself and yanked his trousers up. 'I was in Wyzim,' he said. 'I heard about the striga, and that you were wounded. I guessed where you would come to recuperate.

I see you're well now, are you?'

'You see correctly, but try explaining that to Nenneke. Sit, let's talk.'

Dandilion sat and peeped into the book lying on the lectern. 'History?' he smiled. 'Roderick de Novembre? I've read him, I have. History was second on my list of. favourite subjects when I was studying at the Academy in Oxenfurt.'

'What was first?'

'Geography,' said the poet seriously. 'The atlas was bigger and it was easier to hide a demijohn of vodka behind it.'

Geralt laughed dryly, got up, removed Lunin and Tyrss's The Arcane Mysteries of Magic and Alchemy from the shelf and pulled a round-bellied vessel wrapped in straw from behind the bulky volume and into the light of day.

'Oho.' The bard visibly cheered up. 'Wisdom and inspiration, I see, are still to be found in libraries. Oooh! I like this! Plum,

isn't it? Yes, this is true alchemy. This is a philosopher's stone well worth studying. Your health, brother. Ooooh, it's strong as the plague!'

'What brings you here?' Geralt took the demijohn over from the poet, took a sip and started to cough, fingering his bandaged neck. 'Where are you going?'

'Nowhere. That is, I could go where you're going. I could keep you company. Do you intend staying here long?'

'Not long. The local duke let it be known I'm,not welcome.'

'Hereward?' Dandilion knew all the kings, princes, lords and feudal lords from Jaruga to the Dragon Mountains. 'Don't you give a damn. He won't dare fall foul of Nenneke, or Melitele.

The people would set fire to his castle.'

'I don't want any trouble. And I've been sitting here for too long anyway. I'm going south, Dandilion. Far south. I won't find any work here. Civilisation. What the hell do they need a witcher here for? When I ask after employment, they look at me as if I'm a freak.'

'What are you talking about? What civilisation? I crossed Buina a week ago and heard all sorts of stories as I rode through the country. Apparently there are water sprites here, myriapodans, chimerea, flying drakes, every possible filth. You should be up to your ears in work.'

'Stories, well, I've heard them too. Half of them are either made up or exaggerated. No, Dandilion. The world is changing. Something's coming to an end.'

The poet took a long pull at the demijohn, narrowed his eyes and sighed heavily. 'Are you crying over your sad fate as a witcher again? And philosophising on top of that? I perceive the disastrous effects of inappropriate literature, because the fact that the world is changing occurred even to that old fart Roderick de Novembre. The changeability of the world is, as it happens, the only thesis in this treatise you can agree with. But it's not so innovative you have to ply me with it and put on the face of a great thinker -which doesn't suit you in the least.'

Instead of answering Geralt took a sip from the demijohn.

'Yes, yes,' sighed Dandilion anew. 'The world is changing, the sun sets, and the vodka is coming to an end. What else, in your opinion, is coming to an end? You mentioned something about endings, philosopher.'

'I'll give you a couple of examples,' said Geralt after a moment's silence, 'all from two months this side of the Buina. One day I ride up and what do I see? A bridge. And under that bridge sits a troll and demands every passerby pays him. Those who refuse have a leg injured, sometimes both. So I go to the alderman: 'How much will you give me for that troll?' He's amazed. 'What are you talking about?' he asks, 'Who will repair the bridge if the troll's not there? He repairs it regularly with the sweat of his brow, solid work, first rate. It's cheaper to pay his toll.' So I ride on, and what do I see? A forktail. Not very big, about four yards nose-tip to tail-tip. It's flying, carrying a sheep in its talons. I go to the village. 'How much?' I ask,

'will you pay me for the forktail?' The peasants fall on their knees. 'No!' they shout, 'it's our baron's youngest daughter's favourite dragon. If a scale falls from its back, the baron will burn our hamlet, and skin us.' I ride on, and I'm getting hungrier and hungrier. I ask around for work. Certainly it's there, but what work? To catch a rusalka for one man, a nymph for another, a dryad for a third . . . They've gone completely mad - the villages are teeming with girls but they want humanoids. Another asks me to kill a mecopteran and bring him a bone from its hand because, crushed and poured into a soup, it cures impotence—'

'That's rubbish,' interrupted Dandilion. 'I've tried it. It doesn't strengthen anything and it makes the soup taste of old socks. But if people believe it and are inclined to pay—'

'I'm not going to kill mecopterans. Nor any other harmless creatures.'

'Then you'll go hungry. Unless you change your line of work.'

'To what?'

'Whatever. Become a priest. You wouldn't be bad at it with all your scruples, your morality, your knowledge of people and of everything. The fact that you don't believe in any gods shouldn't

be a problem - I don't know many priests who do. Become a priest and stop feeling sorry for yourself.' .

'I'm not feeling sorry for myself. I'm stating the facts.'

Dandilion crossed his legs and examined his worn sole with interest. 'You remind me, Geralt, of an old fisherman who, towards the end of his life, discovers that fish stink and the breeze from the sea makes your bones ache. Be consistent. Talking and regretting won't get you anywhere. If I were to find that the demand for poetry had come to an end, I'd hang up my lute and become a gardener. I'd grow roses.'

'Nonsense. You're not capable of giving it up.'

'Well,' agreed the poet, still staring at his sole, 'maybe not. But our professions differ somewhat. The demand for poetry and the sound of lute strings will never decline. It's worse with your trade. You witchers, after all, deprive yourselves of work, slowly but surely. The better and the more conscientiously you work, the less work there is for you. After all, your goal is a world without monsters, a world which is peaceful and safe. A world where witchers are unnecessary. A paradox, isn't it?'

'True.'

'In the past, when unicorns still existed, there was quite a large group of girls who took care of their virtue in order to be able to hunt them. Do you remember? And the ratcatchers with pipes? Everybody was fighting over their services. But they were finished off by alchemists and their effective poisons and then domesticated ferrets and weasels. The little animals were cheaper, nicer and didn't guzzle so much beer. Notice the analogy?'

'I do.'

'So use other people's experiences. The unicorn virgins, when they lost their jobs, immediately popped their cherry. Some, eager to make up for the years of sacrifice, became famous far and wide for their technique and zeal. The ratcatchers . . . Well, you'd better not copy them, because they, to a man, took to drink and went to the dogs. Well, now it looks as if the time's come for witchers. You're reading Roderick de Novembre? As far as I remember, there are mentions of witchers there, of the first ones who started work some three hundred years ago. In the days when the peasants used to go to reap the harvest in armed bands, when villages were surrounded by a triple stockade, when merchant caravans looked like the march of regular troops, and loaded catapults stood on the ramparts of the few towns night and day. Because it was us, human beings, who were the intruders here. This land was ruled by dragons, manticores, griffins and amphisboenas, vampires and werewolves, striga, kikimoras, chimerae and flying drakes. And this land had to be taken from them bit by bit, every valley, every mountain pass, every forest and every meadow. And we didn't manage that without the invaluable help of witchers. But those times have gone, Geralt, irrevocably gone. The baron won't allow a forktail to be killed because it's the last draconid for a thousand miles and no longer gives rise to fear but rather to compassion and nostalgia for times passed. The troll under the bridge gets on with people. He's not a monster used to frighten children. He's a relic and a local attraction - and a useful one at that.