Sword of Destiny by Andrzej Sapkowski

of mandrake elixir on what I can see, Yennefer,’ the bard laughed. ‘Your skin’s like a sixteen-year-old’s, dammit.’
    ‘Shut your trap, whore’s son!’ the sorceress bellowed.
    ‘How old are you, actually, Yennefer?’ Dandelion asked, not giving up. ‘Two hundred? Well, a hundred and fifty, let’s say. And you’re behaving like…’
    Yennefer twisted her neck and spat at him, but was wide of the mark.
    ‘Yen,’ the Witcher said reproachfully, wiping his spit-covered ear on his shoulder.
    ‘I wish he would stop staring!’
    ‘Not on your life,’ Dandelion said, without taking his eyes off the bedraggled sorceress. ‘I’m here because of her. They may slit our throats, but at least I’ll die happy.’
    ‘Shut up, Dandelion,’ the Witcher said.
    ‘I have no intention of so doing. In fact I plan to compose the Ballad of the Two Tits. Please don’t interfere.’
    ‘Dandelion,’ Dorregaray sniffed through his bloody nose. ‘Be serious.’
    ‘I am being bloody serious.’
    The dwarves heaved Boholt up into the saddle. He was heavy and squat from the armour and the leather pads he was wearing. Gar and Beanpole were already mounted, holding huge, two-handed swords across their saddles.
    ‘Right,’ Boholt rasped, ‘let’s have at him.’
    ‘Oh, no,’ said a deep voice, sounding like a brass trumpet. ‘I have come to you!’
    From beyond the ring of boulders emerged a long snout shimmering with gold, a slender neck armed with a row of triangular, serrated projections and, behind, taloned feet. The evil, reptilian eyes, with their vertical pupils, peered from beneath horned eyelids.
    ‘I was tired of waiting in the open,’ the dragon Villentretenmerth said, looking around, ‘so I came myself. Fewer and fewer challengers, I see.’
    Boholt held the reins in his teeth and a longsword two-handed.
    ‘Thas nuff,’ he said indistinctly, holding the strap in his teeth. ‘Stah an fight, heptile!’
    ‘I am,’ the dragon said, arching its back and lifting its tail insultingly.
    Boholt looked around. Gar and Beanpole slowly, almost ostentatiously, calmly, flanked the dragon. Yarpen Zigrin and his boys waited behind, holding battle-axes.
    ‘Aaaargh!’ Boholt roared, striking his horse hard with his heels and lifting his sword.
    The dragon curled up, flattened itself to the ground and struck with its tail from above and behind, like a scorpion, hitting not Boholt, but Gar, who was attacking from the side. Gar fell over with his horse amid a clanking, screaming and neighing tumult. Boholt, charging at a gallop, struck with a terrible blow, but the dragon nimbly dodged the wide blade. The momentum of the gallop carried Boholt alongside the dragon’s body. The dragon twisted, standing on its hind legs, and clawed Beanpole, tearing open his horse’s belly and the rider’s thigh with a single slash. Boholt, leaning far out from the saddle, managed to steer his horse around, pulling the reins with his teeth, and attacked once more.
    The dragon lashed its tail over the dwarves rushing towards it, knocking them all over, and then lunged at Boholt, en route–seemingly in passing–stamping vigorously on Beanpole, who was trying to get up. Boholt, jerking his head around, tried to steer his galloping horse, but the dragon was infinitely quicker and more agile. Cunningly stealing up on Boholt from the left in order to obstruct his swing, it struck with a taloned foot. The horse reared up and lurched over to one side. Boholt flew from the saddle, losing his sword and helmet, tumbling backwards onto the ground, banging his head against a rock.
    ‘Run for it, lads! Up the hill!’ Yarpen Zigrin bellowed, outshouting the screams of Gar, who was pinned down by his horse. Beards fluttering, the dwarves dashed towards the rocks at a speed that belied their short legs. The dragon did not give chase. It sat calmly and looked around. Gar was thrashing and screaming beneath the horse. Boholt lay motionless. Beanpole