Eyck, already in the field, saluted the dragon with his upraised lance, slammed down his visor and struck his horse with his spurs.

‘Well, well,’ the dwarf said. ‘He may be stupid, but he knows how to charge. Look at him go!’

Eyck, lent forward, braced in the saddle, lowered his lance at full gallop. The dragon, contrary to Geralt’s expectations, did not leap aside, did not move in a semicircle, but, flattened to the ground, rushed straight at the attacking knight.

‘Hit him! Hit him, Eyck!’ Yarpen yelled.

Eyck, although in full gallop, did not strike headlong, straight ahead. At the last moment he nimbly changed direction, shifting the lance over his horse’s head. Flashing past the dragon, he thrust with all his might, standing up in the stirrups. Everybody shouted in unison. Geralt did not join in with the choir.

The dragon evaded the blow with a delicate, agile, graceful turn and, coiling like a living, golden ribbon, as quick as lightning, but softly, catlike, reached a foot beneath the horse’s belly. The horse squealed, jerking its croup high up, and the knight rocked in the saddle, but did not release his lance. Just as the horse was about to hit the ground snout first, the dragon swept Eyck from the saddle with a fierce swipe of his clawed foot. Everybody saw his breastplate spinning upwards and everybody heard the clanking and thudding with which the knight fell onto the ground.

The dragon, sitting on its haunches, pinned the horse with a foot, and lowered its toothy jaws. The horse squealed shrilly, struggled and then was quiet.

In the silence that fell everybody heard the deep voice of the dragon Villentretenmerth.

‘The doughty Eyck of Denesle may now be taken from the battlefield, for he is incapable of fighting any longer. Next, please.’

‘Oh, fuck,’ Yarpen Zigrin said in the silence that followed.

VIII

‘Both legs,’ Yennefer said wiping her hands on a linen cloth, ‘and probably something with his spine. The armour on his back is dented as though he’d been hit by a pile driver. He injured his legs with his own lance. He won’t be mounting a horse for some time. If he ever mounts one again.’

‘Professional hazard,’ Geralt muttered. The sorceress frowned.

‘Is that all you have to say?’

‘And what else would you like to hear, Yennefer?’

‘That dragon is unbelievably fast, Geralt. Too fast for a man to fight it.’

‘I understand. No, Yen. Not me.’

‘Principles,’ the sorceress smiled spitefully, ‘or ordinary, commonplace fear? The only human feeling that wasn’t eradicated in you?’

‘One and the other,’ the Witcher agreed dispassionately. ‘What difference does it make?’

‘Precisely,’ Yennefer came closer. ‘None. Principles may be broken, fear can be overcome. Kill that dragon, Geralt. For me.’

‘For you?’

‘For me. I want that dragon, Geralt. In one piece. I want to have him all for myself.’

‘So cast a spell and kill it.’

‘No. You kill it. And I’ll use my spells to hold back the Reavers and the others so they don’t interfere.’