The Last Wish, Introducing The Witcher Read Free Page A

believes. Adda gave birth to a striga because she slept with her brother. That is the truth, and no spell will help. Now the striga devours people—as strigas do—she has to be killed, and that is that. Listen: two years ago peasants from some godforsaken hole near Mahakam were plagued by a dragon devouring their sheep. They set out together, battered the dragon to death with stanchions, and did not even think it worth boasting about. But we in Wyzim are waiting for a miracle and bolting our doors every full moon, or tying our criminals to a stake in front of the palace, praying the beast stuffs herself and returns to her sarcophagus.”
    “Not a bad method.” The witcher smiled. “Are there fewer criminals?”
    “Not a bit of it.”
    “Which way to the palace, the new one?”
    “I will take you myself. And what about the wise men's suggestion?”
    “Castellan,” said Geralt, “why act in haste? After all, I really could have an accident at work, irrespective of my intentions. Just in case, the wise men should be thinking about how to save me from the king's anger and get those fifteen hundred orens, of which rumor speaks, ready.”
    “It was to be a thousand.”
    “No, Lord Velerad,” the witcher said categorically. “The witcher who was offered a thousand ran at the mere sight of the striga, without bargaining. So the risk is greater than a thousand. Whether it is greater than one and a half remains to be seen. Of course, I will say goodbye beforehand.”
    “Geralt?” Velerad scratched his head. “One thousand two hundred?”
    “No. This isn't an easy task. The king is offering three, and sometimes it's easier to lift a spell than to kill. But one of my predecessors would have done so, or killed the striga, if this were simple. You think they let themselves be devoured out of fear of the king?”
    “Then, witcher”—Velerad nodded wistfully—“our agreement stands. But a word of advice—say nothing to the king about the danger of an accident at work.”
    III
    Foltest was slim and had a pretty—too pretty—face. He was under forty, the witcher thought. The king was sitting on a dwarf-armchair carved from black wood, his legs stretched out toward the hearth, where two dogs were warming themselves. Next to him on a chest sat an older, powerfully built man with a beard. Behind the king stood another man, richly dressed and with a proud look on his face. A magnate.
    “A witcher from Rivia,” said the king after the moment's silence which fell after Velerad's introduction.
    “Yes, your Majesty.” Geralt lowered his head.
    “What made your hair so gray? Magic? I can see that you are not old. That was a joke. Say nothing. You've had a fair amount of experience, I dare presume?”
    “Yes, your Majesty.”
    “I would love to hear about it.”
    Geralt bowed even lower. “Your Majesty, you know our code of practice forbids us to speak of our work.”
    “A convenient code, witcher, very convenient. But tell me, have you had anything to do with spriggans?”
    “Yes.”
    “Vampires, leshys?”
    “Those too.”
    Foltest hesitated. “Strigas?”
    Geralt raised his head, looking the king in the eyes. “Yes.”
    Foltest turned his eyes away. “Velerad!”
    “Yes, Gracious Majesty?”
    “Have you given him the details?”
    “Yes, your Gracious Majesty. He says the spell cast on the princess can be reversed.”
    “I have known that for a long time. How, witcher? Oh, of course, I forgot. Your code of practice. All right. I will make one small comment. Several witchers have been here already. Velerad, you have told him? Good. So I know that your speciality is to kill, rather than to reverse spells. This isn't an option. If one hair falls from my daughter's head, your head will be on the block. That is all. Ostrit, Lord Segelen, stay and give him all the information he requires. Witchers always ask a lot of questions. Feed him and let him stay in the palace. He is not to drift from tavern to