The dragon, having finally torn the nets to shreds, leaped up, flapped its wings, roared and hurtled, as straight as a ramrod, after the unharmed and fleeing Sheepbagger. Sheepbagger was dashing like a stag, but the dragon was faster. Geralt, seeing the gaping jaws and razor-sharp flashing teeth, turned his head away. He heard a gruesome scream and a revolting crunching sound. Dandelion gave a stifled shout. Yennefer, her face as white as a sheet, bent over double, turned to one side and vomited under the wagon.

A silence fell, interrupted only by the occasional gaggling, croaking and squealing of the remains of the Barefield constabulary.

Véa, smiling unpleasantly, stood over Yennefer, legs wide apart. The Zerrikanian raised her sabre. Yennefer, pale, raised a leg.

‘No,’ said Borch, also known as Three Jackdaws, who was sitting on a stone. In his lap he was holding the dragonling, peaceful and content.

‘We aren’t going to kill Madam Yennefer,’ the dragon Villentretenmerth repeated. ‘It is over. What is more, we are grateful to Madam Yennefer for her invaluable assistance. Release them, Véa.’

‘Do you understand, Geralt?’ Dandelion whispered, chafing feeling into his numb arms. ‘Do you understand? There’s an ancient ballad about a golden dragon. A golden dragon can…’

‘Can assume any form it wishes,’ Geralt muttered, ‘even that of a human. I’ve heard that too. But I didn’t believe it.’

‘Yarpen Zigrin, sir!’ Villentretenmerth called to the dwarf, who was hanging onto a vertical rock twenty ells above the ground. ‘What are you looking for there? Marmots? Not your favourite dish, if memory serves me. Climb down and busy yourself with the Reavers. They need help. There won’t be any more killing. Of anybody.’

Dandelion, casting anxious glances at the Zerrikanians, who were vigilantly patrolling the battlefield, was still trying to revive the unconscious Dorregaray. Geralt was dressing Yennefer’s scorched ankles and rubbing ointment into them. The sorceress was hissing with pain and mumbling spells.

Having completed his task, the Witcher stood up.

‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I have to talk to him.’

Yennefer stood up, wincing.

‘I’m going with you, Geralt,’ she said, linking her arm in his. ‘May I? Please, Geralt.’

‘With me, Yen? I thought…’

‘Don’t think,’ she pressed herself against his arm.

‘Yen?’

‘It’s alright, Geralt.’

He looked into her eyes, which were warm. As they used to be. He lowered his head and kissed her lips; hot, soft and willing. As they used to be.

They walked over. Yennefer, held up by Geralt, curtsied low, as though before a king, holding her dress in her fingertips.

‘Three Jack… Villentretenmerth…’ the Witcher said.

‘My name, when freely translated into your language, means Three Black Birds,’ the dragon said. The dragonling, little claws digging into his forearm, arched its back to be stroked.

‘Chaos and Order,’ Villentretenmerth smiled. ‘Do you remember, Geralt? Chaos is aggression, Order is protection against it. It’s worth rushing to the ends of the world, to oppose aggression and evil, isn’t it, Witcher? Particularly, as you said, when the pay is fair. And this time it was. It was the treasure hoard of the she-dragon Myrgtabrakke, the one poisoned outside Barefield. She summoned me to help her, to stop the evil threatening her. Myrgtabrakke flew away soon after Eyck of Denesle was removed from the battlefield. She had sufficient time, while you were talking and quarrelling. But she left me her treasure as my payment.’