“Then listen. The thing occurred over a hundred years ago, I think not long after the date carved on that boulder. Today, as you well know, one almost never sees dragons, unless it’s somewhere in the wild mountains, in the badlands. In those times, they occurred more often and could be vexing. They learned that pastures full of cattle were great eating places where they could stuff themselves without undue effort. Fortunately for the farmers, even a great reptile would limit itself to one or two feasts every quarter, but devoured enough to threaten the farm, particularly when it had it in for some region. One huge dragon became fixated on a certain village in Kaedwen. It would fly in, eat a few sheep, two or three cows, and then catch a few carp from the fishponds for dessert. Finally, it would breathe fire, set alight a barn or hayrick and then fly off.”

The dwarf sipped his beer and belched.

“The villagers tried hard to frighten the dragon away, using various traps and trickery, but all to no avail. As luck would have it, Lebioda had just arrived in nearby Ban Ard with his acolytes. At that time, he was already celebrated, was called a prophet, and had masses of followers. The peasants asked him for help, and he, astonishingly, didn’t decline. When the dragon arrived, Lebioda went to the pasture and began to exorcise it. The dragon started by singeing him, as you would a duck. And then swallowed him. Simply swallowed him. And flew off into the mountains.”

“Is that the end?”

“No. Keep listening. The acolytes wept over the prophet, despaired and then hired some hunters. Our boys, dwarven hunters, well-versed in draconian matters. They stalked the dragon for a month. Conventionally following the droppings the reptile was dumping. And the acolytes fell on their knees beside every turd and rummaged around in it, weeping bitterly, fishing out their master’s remains. They finally put the whole thing together, or rather what they considered to be the whole thing, but what was actually a collection of none-too-clean human, bovine and ovine bones. Today it’s all kept in the Novigrad temple in a sarcophagus. As a miraculous relic.”

“Own up, Addario. You made up that story. Or greatly embellished it.”

“Why the suspicion?”

“Because I often keep company with a certain poet. And he, when he has to choose between the real version of an event and a more attractive one, always chooses the latter, which he moreover embroiders. Regarding that, he laughs off all accusations using sophistry, saying that if something isn’t truthful it doesn’t mean at all that it’s a lie.”

“Let me guess who the poet is. It’s Dandelion, of course. And a story has its own rules.”

“ ‘A story is a largely false account, of largely trivial events, fed to us by historians who are largely idiots,’ ” smiled the Witcher.