The Witcher looked calmly at the tiny, grey-green creature, fluttering its bat-like wings beside the golden talons of the stooping dragon.

‘And what’s your opinion about all this, Dandelion? What do you think?’

‘What does it matter what I think? I’m a poet, Geralt. Does my opinion matter at all?’

‘Yes it does.’

‘Well I’ll tell you then. When I see a reptile, Geralt, a viper, let’s say, or some other serpent, it gives me the creeps, the vileness disgusts and terrifies me. But that dragon…’

‘Yeah?’

‘It… it’s pretty, Geralt.’

‘Thank you, Dandelion.’

‘What for?’

Geralt turned his head away, and with a slow movement reached for the buckle of his belt, which crossed his chest diagonally, and shortened it by two holes. He lifted his right hand to check if his sword hilt was positioned correctly. Dandelion looked on with eyes wide open.

‘Geralt! Do you plan to…?’

‘Yes,’ the Witcher said calmly, ‘there is a limit to what I can accept as possible. I’ve had enough of all this. Are you going with Niedamir or staying, Dandelion?’

The troubadour leaned over, placed his lute beneath a stone cautiously and with great care and then straightened up.

‘I’m staying. What did you say? The limits of possibility? I’m bagging that as the title of a ballad.’

‘It could be your last one, Dandelion.’

‘Geralt?’

‘Mm?’

‘Don’t kill it… Can you not?’

‘A sword is a sword, Dandelion. Once drawn…’

‘Please try.’

‘I will.’

Dorregaray chuckled, turned towards Yennefer and the Reavers, and pointed at the receding royal caravan.

‘Over there,’ he said, ‘King Niedamir is leaving. He no longer gives orders through Gyllenstiern’s mouth. He is departing, having demonstrated good sense. I’m glad you’re here, Dandelion. I suggest you begin composing a ballad.’

‘What about?’

‘About,’ the sorcerer drew his wand from his coat, ‘Master Dorregaray, sorcerer, chasing back home the rabble who wanted to use vulgar methods to kill the last golden dragon left in the world. Don’t move, Boholt! Yarpen, hands off your battle-axe! Don’t move a muscle, Yennefer! Off you go, good-for-nothings, follow the king, like good little boys. Be off, mount your horses or wagons. I warn you that if anybody makes a false move all that will remain of him will be a burning smell and a bit of fused sand. I am serious.’

‘Dorregaray!’ Yennefer hissed.

‘My lord sorcerer,’ Boholt said conciliatorily. ‘Is this any way to act—’

‘Be quiet, Boholt. I told you not to touch that dragon. Fables are not to be killed. About-turn and scram.’

Yennefer’s hand suddenly shot forward, and the ground around Dorregaray exploded in blue flame, seething in a dust cloud of torn turf and grit.

The sorcerer staggered, encircled by fire. Gar leaped forward and struck him in the face with the heel of his hand. Dorregaray fell to the ground, a bolt of red lightning shooting from his wand and harmlessly zapping out among the rocks. Beanpole sprang at him from the other side, kicked the sorcerer to the ground, and took a backswing to repeat the blow. Geralt fell among them, pushed Beanpole away, drew his sword and thrust flat, aiming between the breastplate and the spaulder. He was thwarted by Boholt, who parried the blow with the broad blade of his two-handed sword. Dandelion tried to trip Gar, but ineffectively; Gar clung to the bard’s rainbow-hued jerkin and thumped him between the eyes with his fist. Yarpen Zigrin, leaping from behind, tripped Dandelion, hitting him behind his knees with the haft of a hatchet.