The Witcher

THE LIMITS OF THE POSSIBLE III

There was a barricade on the bridge. A long and solid beam positioned on trestles barred access to the other bank of the river. Halberdiers in buttoned leather jackets and mail were gathered there, standing guard on both sides. Aloft, a crimson pennant bearing a silver griffin flapped in the wind.

 "What the devil?" exclaimed Three Jackdaws as they approached the barricade. "We can't pass?"

 "Do you have a pass?" asked the nearest halberdier, without removing from his mouth the straw he was chewing to stave off hunger or quite simply to kill time.

 "What pass? What's going on? An epidemic of cattle plague? War? In whose name do you block the road?"

 "On the order of King Niedamir, Lord of Caingorn." the guard moved the straw to the other corner of his mouth and indicated to the pennant. "Without safe conduct, you cannot pass."

"How stupid," interrupted Geralt in a tired voice. "We are not, however, in Caingorn but in the county of Holopole. It's just as well that Holopole and not Caingorn collects the toll on the bridges of the Braa. What's it got to do with Niedamir?"

 "Don't ask me," replied the guard, spitting out his straw. "I'm only here to check the passes, if you want, you can ask our commanding officer."

 "Where is he?"

 "Over there, making the most of the sun behind the toll collector's booth," replied the guard, looking not at Geralt but at the n***d thighs of the Zerricanians which lay nonchalantly across their saddles.

 A guard was sitting on a pile of dry straw behind the hut of the toll collector. He was drawing in the sand, with the end of his halberd, a picture of a woman; a rather detailed view from an unusual perspective. Next to him there was a thin man, half dozing, delicately strumming chords on a lute. An eccentric plum coloured hat decorated with a silver buckle and a long egret feather drooped over his eyes. Geralt recognized the hat and the feather so famous in Buina and Iaruga and known in all the manors, castles, guesthouses, inns and brothels.

 Especially in the brothels.

 "Jaskier!"

 "Witcher Geralt!" merry blue eyes appeared from under the hat. "What a surprise! Is it really you? You wouldn't happen to have a pass, by chance?

 "What's all this business about passes? What's going on here, Jaskier? I'm travelling with the knight Borch of the Three Jackdaws and his escort and we want to cross the river."

 "I'm also stuck here." Jaskier rose and lifted his hat before bowing to the Zerricanians with a courtly flourish. "They won't let me pass either, me, Jaskier, the most celebrated of minstrels and poets for a thousand miles around. It was the lieutenant who refused; and he's also an artist, as you can see."

 "I can't let anyone cross without a pass," stated the lieutenant with a disconsolate air before adding the finishing touches to his sand picture with the tip of his weapon.

 "We'll take a detour along the bank. It will take longer to get to Hengfors, but we don't have much choice," said the witcher.

 "To Hengfors?" the bard looked surprised, "You mean you're not here to see Niedamir?

 You're not hunting the dragon?"

 "What dragon?" asked Three Jackdaws, looking intrigued.

 "You don't know? You really don't know? In that case, I shall tell you all about it, my lords.

 As I am obliged to wait here in the hope that somebody with a pass accepts my company, we have lots of time. Sit down."

 "Wait," interrupted Three Jackdaws, "It's nearly midday and I'm thirsty, plague on it! We can't discuss such matters with dry throats. Tea and Vea, hurry back to town and buy a keg."

 "I like the way you think, lord..."

"Borch, also called Three Jackdaws."

 "Jaskier, nicknamed The Unrivalled... by certain young ladies."

 "Get on with it, Jaskier," interrupted the witcher, impatient. "We haven't got all day."

 The bard seized the neck of his lute and violently strummed some chords.

 "What would you prefer? In verse or in prose?"

 "Normally."

 "As you like." Jaskier did not lay down his lute. "Listen well, noble sirs, the events took place one week ago, not far from a free city named Holopole. Ah yes, in the small hours of the morning, dawn tinting red the veil of mist in the meadows..."

 "It was supposed to be normally," the witcher pointed out.

 "That is normally, isn't it? Okay, okay, I understand. Briefly, without metaphors. Near the town of Holopole, a dragon alit."

 "Oh really?" exclaimed the witcher, "That seems incredible - nobody has seen a dragon in these parts for years. Isn't it just a dracolizard? Some of them can be quite big..."

 "Don't insult me, witcher, I know what it is. I've seen it. By chance I just came to Holopole for the market and I saw it with my own eyes. My ballad was already prepared, but you didn't want..."

 "Carry on. Is it big?"

"It's as long as three horses, to the withers no bigger than a horse, but much fatter. Gray as sand."

 "Green, then."

 "Yes. It swooped down without warning on a herd of sheep. The shepherds ran away and it killed a dozen animals and ate four of them before taking flight."

 "It flew away..." Geralt nodded his head. "That's it?"

 "No, it returned the next morning, nearer to the city this time. It dived down onto a group of women who were washing their linen at the edge of the Braa. And did they run, my friend! I have never laughed so much in my life. Then the dragon executed two turns above Holopole before attacking some ewes in a nearby pasture. What a lot of panic and confusion it started!

 The day before, well, nobody had believed the shepherds... the burgrave then started to mobilise a militia and the guilds, but before he had time to organize them, the people had taken matters into their own hands and sorted it out themselves."

 "How?"

 "With a very popular method. The master shoe-maker, a certain Kozojed, conceived of a means to finish off the reptile. They killed a sheep then stuffed it full of hellebore, belladonna, hemlock, sulphur and shoemaker's pitch. To be on the safe side, the local pharmacist added two quarts of boil remedy and had the priest of the Temple of Kreve bless the offering. Then they staked the stuffed sheep in the middle of the herd. To tell you the truth, nobody believed that the dragon would be attracted by one stinking piece of s**t surrounded by a thousand others. But reality exceeded our expectations. Forsaking the sheep that were alive and bleating, the reptile swallowed the bait along with the stake."

 "What then? Tell me more, Jaskier."

 "What else can I do? I'm not going to stop now. Listen to the rest: barely enough time had passed for a skilful man to untie the corset of a lady when the dragon started roaring and emitting smoke from both front and behind. Next it did a somersault, tried to fly away and then fell down motionless. Two volunteers approached it to check if it still breathed. They were the local grave-digger and the village i***t, conceived by the lumberjack's daughter, a deranged girl who had been knocked up by a company of pikemen passing through Holopole during the rebellion of the Voivod Tracasse."

 "What lies you speak, Jaskier."

 "I do not lie; I do nothing but colour gray reality. There's a difference."

 "Not really. Carry on, we're wasting time."

 "As I was saying, a grave-digger and a courageous simpleton went as scouts. We then raised for them a nice burial mound, small but pleasing to the eye."

 "Ah, good," said Borch. "That means that the dragon still lived."

 "And how," replied Jaskier merrily. "It lived, but it was too weak to eat the gravedigger and the i***t; it only sucked their blood. It then flew off... to the great anxiety of all, even though it found it difficult to take off. The dragon crashed with a roar every cubit and a half then took off again. Sometimes it crawled, dragging its hind legs behind it. The more courageous followed it at a distance without losing sight of it. And you know what?"

 "Speak, Jaskier."

 "The dragon plunged into a ravine up in Big Kestrel Mountain, not far from the source of the Braa. It remains hidden in the caves."

 "Now it all becomes clear," announced Geralt. "The dragon lived in these caves in state of lethargy for centuries; I've heard of similar cases. Its treasure must also be there. I know now why soldiers are blocking the bridge. Somebody wants to lay their hands on the treasure and that somebody is called Niedamir of Caingorn."

 "Exactly," confirmed the troubadour. "The whole city of Holopole boils for this reason, because the people consider that the dragon's treasure belongs to them. But they fear to oppose to Niedamir. The king is a young featherbrain who has not yet started to shave, but he knew how to show that it was dangerous to take him on. Niedamir wants this dragon more than anything. That's why his reaction was so prompt."

 "He wants the treasure, you mean."

"I'm convinced that the dragon interests him more than the treasure. Because, you see, the principality of Malleore has aroused the appetite of Niedamir for a long time. After the strange death of the prince, there remained a princess of marriageable age. The powers of Malleore did not see Niedamir and the other suitors in a good light because they knew that any new power would want to keep a tight rein on them; a situation that a gullible, young princess would not know how to deal with. They therefore dug out a dusty old prophecy that assured that the crown and the hand of the girl would belong to the one who conquers a dragon. They believed that this would keep the peace, knowing that no one had seen dragons in the region in such a long time. Niedamir didn't care about the legend. He tried every possible means to take Malleore by force but when the news of the appearance of the dragon of Holopole reached his ears, he understood that he could consequently conquer the noblemen of Malleore with their own weapon. If he returns to Malleore triumphantly brandishing the head of the dragon, they will welcome him as a monarch sent by the Gods, and the powers that be will not dare say a word. Don't be surprised that he seeks this dragon like a cat stalks a mouse. All the more so as this dragon crawls along with difficulty. For Niedamir it's a pure godsend, a smile of destiny, damn it."

 "And it cuts out the competition."

 "Well, I guess so. It also cools the ardour of the inhabitants of Holopole. He must have given a pass to all of the horsemen in the vicinity who might be able to strike down the dragon, because Niedamir is not keen to enter the caves himself, sword in hand, to fight the dragon.

 In a flash he had the most celebrated dragon slayers gathered around him. You probably know most of them, Geralt."

 "It's possible. Who? "

 "Eyck of Denesle, for starters."

 "Son of a..." The witcher whistled softly, "The god-fearing and virtuous Eyck: the dauntless knight, beyond reproach, himself."

 "You know him then, Geralt?" Borch asked. "Is he really such a specialist in dragons?"

 "Not just dragons; Eyck knows how to deal with all monsters. He's even struck down manticores and griffins. He's also defeated a few dragons, or so I've heard. He's good, but the lunatic ruins business by refusing to take payment. Who else, Jaskier?"

 "The Crinfrid Reavers."

 "The dragon doesn't stand a chance, even if it recovers its health. Those three are a famous band of experienced hunters. They don't fight within the rules, but their efficiency is without question. They exterminated all the dracolizards and giant centipedes of Redania, killing three red and one black dragon along the way, and that really is something. Is that everyone?"

 "No. Six dwarfs also joined them: five bearded men commanded by Yarpen Zigrin."

 "I don't know him."

 "You've undoubtedly heard about the dragon Ocvista of Mount Quartz."

"I've heard of it. I've even seen stones that came from his treasure; sapphires in incredible shades and diamonds as big as cherries."

 "Know that it was Yarpen Zigrin and his dwarfs that slew Ocvista. I also composed a ballad about this adventure but it was quite boring and you lost nothing by not hearing it."

 "Is that everybody?"

 "Yes. Not counting you. You insisted that you knew nothing about the dragon. Who knows, maybe it's true. Anyway, you now know. Now what?"

 "Now nothing. I'm not interested in the dragon."

 "Ah! Very sneaky, Geralt. In any case, you don't have a pass."

 "I repeat: the dragon doesn't interest me. What about you, Jaskier? What brought you to these lands?"

 "The usual." The troubadour shrugged. "I have to be near events and stimulating situations.

 People will talk about this battle with the dragon for a long time. I could, of course, compose a ballad from the tales they'll tell, but it will be better if it's sung by somebody who saw the battle with their own eyes."

 "Battle?" asked Three Jackdaws. "It's more of an act reminiscent of an autopsy or the butchery of a pig. The more I listen to you, the more you astound me. A bunch of warriors stumbling over each other to finish off a half-dead dragon that's been poisoned by some yokel, I don't know whether to laugh or puke."

 "You're mistaken about the half-dead part," replied Geralt, "If the dragon didn't die straight after it swallowed the poison, it means that it will have recovered. It's of no great importance; the Crinfrid Reavers will kill it all the same, but the battle, if you must know, will not be quick."

 "Your money's on the Reavers then, Geralt?"

 "Definitely."

 "I wouldn't be so sure about that," the artistic guard who had kept silent until then interrupted.

 "The dragon is a magical living being that can only be killed by spells. If somebody helps the sorceress who crossed the bridge yesterday... "

 "Who?" Geralt's head tilted to look at him.

 "A sorceress," repeated the guard. "As I said."

 "What was her name?"

 "She gave it, but I've forgotten. She had a pass. Young, attractive in her own way, but those eyes... you know the type, lords... they send a shiver down your spine when they look at you."

 "Do you know who it might be, Jaskier?"

"No," replied the bard, grimacing. "Young, attractive and those eyes... it's not much to go on.

 They all answer this description. None of these girls who I know - and I know a lot - seem to look more than twenty-five, thirty years, but many of them remember the days when Novigrad was still a forest of conifers. But don't women make elixirs of mandrake? That can also make their eyes shine. It's definitely a woman, that's for sure."

 "Was she a redhead?" the witcher asked.

 "No, sir," answered the lieutenant. "She had black hair."

 "What was the colour of her horse? Chestnut with a white star?"

 "No, it was as dark as her hair. I'm telling you, lords, it is she who will exterminate the dragon. Dragons are magician's business. Human strength can do nothing against these monsters."

 "I'm curious to know what the shoemaker Kozojed thinks about it," said Jaskier, laughing. "If he had had something stronger to hand than hellebore and belladonna, the dragon's skin would be drying on a fence, my ballad would already be finished and I would not be drying out in the sun today... "

 "Why didn't Niedamir take you with him?" Geralt asked, giving the poet a dirty look. "You stayed in Holopole when he left. Doesn't the king like the company of artists? Why are you here drying out instead of playing for the king?"

 "It's because of a young widow," answered Jaskier with a despondent air. "Damn it! I romped about with her and when I awoke the following day Niedamir and the troops had already crossed the river. They even took this Kozojed and the scouts of the militia of Holopole, but had forgotten about me. I tried unsuccessfully to explain it to the lieutenant, but he..."

 "If you had a pass, there wouldn't have been a problem," explained the halberdier dispassionately, leaning against the wall of the toll collector's booth. "No pass, no debate. An order is an order..."

"Ah!" Three Jackdaws interrupted him. "The girls are back with the beer."

 "And not alone," added Jaskier getting up. "Look at that horse. It looks like a dragon."

 The Zerricanians emerged at a gallop from the birch wood flanked by a horseman riding a large nervous stallion, dressed for war.

 The witcher also rose.

 The rider wore a purple velvet tunic and a short jacket adorned with sable fur. He looked at them arrogantly from his saddle. Geralt knew this type of look and didn't much care for it.

 "Hello, gentlemen. I am Dorregaray," the horseman introduced himself as he dismounted slowly and with dignity. "Master Dorregaray. Magician."

 "Master Geralt. Witcher."

 "Master Jaskier. Poet."

"Borch, otherwise Three Jackdaws. The girls opening the barrel are with me. I believe you already know them, Lord Dorregaray."

 "Indeed," replied the magician without smiling. "The beautiful Zerricanian warriors and I have already exchanged greetings."

 "Oh well! To your health!" Jaskier distributed the leather goblets brought by Vea. "Drink with us, sir magician. Lord Borch, can the lieutenant also join us?"

 "Sure. Join us, good warrior."

 "I think" said the magician having taken a small sip in a distinguished fashion, "that you're waiting at the bridge for the same reason that I do."

 "If you're thinking of the dragon, Lord Dorregaray," replied Jaskier, "that is it exactly. I want to be present at the battle and to compose a ballad. Unfortunately, the lieutenant here, a man some might say is lacking in manners, refused me passage. He demands a pass."

 "I beg your pardon." the halberdier clucked his tongue and drank his beer. "I can let nobody through without permission. I have no choice in the matter. It seems that all of Holopole prepared wagons to hunt the dragon in the mountain, but I must comply with orders... "

 "Your orders, soldier," Dorregaray interrupted, frowning, "concern the unpleasant r****e, the prostitutes likely to spread immorality and riot, thieves, scoundrels and that type. But not me."

 "I let nobody through without permission, " retorted the lieutenant pointedly."I swear..."

 "Don't swear," Three Jackdaws interrupted him, rather coldly. "Tea, pour another one for the valiant warrior! Let us sit down, my lords. To drink standing up, quickly and without appreciating the merchandise, is not fitting for the nobility."

 They sat down on logs scattered around the keg. The halberdier, newly promoted to noble, became crimson with contentment.

 "Drink, brave captain," pressed Three Jackdaws.

 "I am only a lieutenant, not a captain," he answered, going red with renewed vigour.

 "But you will become a captain, it's obvious." Borch grinned. "Boys as clever as you get promoted in a jiffy."

 Dorregaray turned to Geralt having refused an additional glassful:

 "In town they're still talking about your basilisk, noble witcher, and you are already taking an interest in the dragon," he said in a low voice. "I'm curious to know if you intend to slay this endangered species for pleasure or for pay."

 "Such curiosity is unusual," replied Geralt, "when it comes from somebody who flocks double quick to the execution of a dragon to rip out his teeth. Aren't they precious for the making of your medicines and magical elixirs? Is it true, noble magician, that those ripped from still living dragons are the best?"

"Are you sure that's why I'm here?"

 "Yes, I'm sure about that. But somebody has beaten you to it, Dorregaray. One of your female colleagues crossed the bridge armed with the pass that you lack. A sorceress with black hair, if it interests you."

 "On a black horse?"

 "Yes, apparently."

 "Yennefer," said Dorregaray with a worried air.

 The witcher shuddered, unnoticed by anyone.

 A silence set in, that the future captain disrupted with a belch:

 "Nobody... without a pass."

 "Would 200 lintars be enough for you?" Geralt offered, retrieving the purse acquired from the fat burgrave from his pocket.

 "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, I 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! "