‘Haven’t got an effing clue,’ Boholt said, sounding worried. ‘Hey, sorcerers! Anything in the fables about golden dragons, about how to kill them?’

‘How do you kill them? The usual way!’ Sheepbagger suddenly shouted. ‘No point pondering, give us an animal. We’ll stuff it full of something poisonous and feed it to the reptile, and good riddance.’

Dorregaray looked askance at the cobbler, Boholt spat, and Dandelion turned his head away with a grimace of disgust. Yarpen Zigrin smiled repulsively, hands on hips.

‘Wha’ you looking at?’ Sheepbagger asked. ‘Let’s get to work, we have to decide what to stuff the carcass with so the reptile quickly perishes. It ‘as to be something which is extremely toxic, poisonous or rotten.’

‘Aha,’ the dwarf spoke, still smiling. ‘Well, what’s poisonous, foul and stinks? Do you know what, Sheepbagger? Looks like it’s you.’

‘What?’

‘You bloody heard. Get lost, bodger, out of my sight.’

‘Lord Dorregaray,’ Boholt said, walking over to the sorcerer. ‘Make yourself useful. Call to mind some fables and tales. What do you know about golden dragons?’

The sorcerer smiled, straightening up self-importantly.

‘What do I know about golden dragons, you ask? Not much, but enough.’

‘We’re listening.’

‘Then listen and listen attentively. Over there, before us, sits a golden dragon. A living legend, possibly the last and only creature of its kind to have survived your murderous frenzy. One doesn’t kill legends. I, Dorregaray, will not allow you to touch that dragon. Is that understood? You can get packed, fasten your saddlebags and go home.’

Geralt was convinced an uproar would ensue. He was mistaken.

‘Noble sorcerer, sir,’ Gyllenstiern’s voice interrupted the silence. ‘Heed what and to whom you speak. King Niedamir may order you, Dorregaray, to fasten your saddlebags and go to hell. But not the other way around. Is that clear?’

‘No,’ the sorcerer said proudly, ‘it is not. For I am Master Dorregaray, and will not be ordered around by someone whose kingdom encompasses an area visible from the height of the palisade on a mangy, filthy, stinking stronghold. Do you know, Lord Gyllenstiern, that were I to speak a charm and wave my hand, you would change into a cowpat, and your underage king into something ineffably worse? Is that clear?’

Gyllenstiern did not manage to answer, for Boholt walked up to Dorregaray, caught him by the shoulder and pulled him around to face him. Gar and Beanpole, silent and grim, appeared from behind Boholt.

‘Just listen, magician, sir,’ the enormous Reaver said. ‘Before you wave that hand, listen to me. I could spend a long time explaining what I would do with your prohibitions, your fables and your foolish chatter. But I have no wish to. Let this suffice as my answer.’

Boholt placed a finger against his nose and from a short distance ejected the contents onto the toes of the sorcerer’s boots.

Dorregaray blanched, but did not move. He saw–as everyone did–the morning star mace on a cubit-long shaft hanging low at Gar’s side. He knew–as everyone did–that the time he needed to cast a spell was incomparably longer than the time Gar needed to smash his head to pieces.