The Last Wish, Introducing The Witcher by Andrzej Sapkowski

interrupted Geralt, smiling nastily. “Halt your uncontrolled little tongue. You speak to a lady who deserves respect, especially from a Knight of the White Rose. Admittedly, to become one it's enough, lately, to pay a thousand Novigrad crowns into the Chapter's treasury, so the Order's full of sons of moneylenders and tailors—but surely some manners have survived? But maybe I’m mistaken?”
    Tailles grew pale and reached to his side.
    “Sir Falwick,” said Geralt, not ceasing to smile. “If he draws his sword, I’ll take it from him and beat the snotty-nosed little brat's arse with the flat of his blade. And then I’ll batter the door down with him.”
    Tailles, his hands shaking, pulled an iron gauntlet from his belt and, with a crash, threw it to the ground at the witcher's feet.
    “I’ll wash away the insult to the Order with your blood, mutant!” he yelled. “On beaten ground! Go into the yard!”
    “You've dropped something, son,” Nenneke said calmly. “So pick it up; we don't leave rubbish here. This is a temple. Falwick, take that fool from here or this will end in grief. You know what you're to tell Hereward. And I’ll write a personal letter to him; you don't look like trustworthy messengers to me. Get out of here. You can find your way out, I hope?”
    Falwick, restraining the enraged Tailles with an iron grip, bowed, his armor clattering. Then he looked the witcher in the eyes. The witcher didn't smile. Falwick threw his crimson cloak over his shoulders.
    “This wasn't our last visit, venerable Nenneke,” he said. “We'll be back.”
    “That's just what I’m afraid of,” replied the priestess coldly. “The displeasure's mine.”

THE LESSER EVIL
    I
    As usual, cats and children noticed him first. A striped tomcat sleeping on a sun-warmed stack of wood, shuddered, raised his round head, pulled back his ears, hissed and bolted off into the nettles. Three-year-old Dragomir, fisherman Trigla's son, who was sitting on the hut's threshold doing his best to make dirtier an already dirty shirt, started to scream as he fixed his tearful eyes on the passing rider.
    The witcher rode slowly, without trying to overtake the hay-cart obstructing the road. A laden donkey trotted behind him, stretching its neck and constantly pulling the cord tied to the witcher's pommel tight. In addition to the usual bags, the long-eared animal was lugging a large shape, wrapped in a saddlecloth, on its back. The gray-white flanks of the ass were covered with black streaks of dried blood.
    The cart finally turned down a side street leading to a granary and harbor from which a sea breeze blew, carrying the stink of tar and ox's urine. Geralt picked up his pace. He didn't react to the muffled cry of the woman selling vegetables who was staring at the bony, taloned paw sticking out beneath the horse blanket, bobbing up and down in time with the donkey's trot. He didn't look round at the crowd gathering behind him and rippling with excitement.
    There were, as usual, many carts in front of the alderman's house. Geralt jumped from the saddle, adjusted the sword on his back and threw the reins over the wooden barrier. The crowd following him formed a semi-circle around the donkey.
    Even outside, the alderman's shouts were audible.
    “It's forbidden, I tell you! Forbidden, goddammit! Can't you understand what I say, you scoundrel?”
    Geralt entered. In front of the alderman, small, podgy and red with rage, stood a villager holding a struggling goose by the neck.
    “What—By all the gods! Is that you, Geralt? Do my eyes deceive me?” And turning to the peasant again: “Take it away, you boor! Are you deaf?”
    “They said,” mumbled the villager, squinting at the goose, “that a wee something must be given to his lordship, otherways—”
    “Who said?” yelled the alderman. “Who? That I supposedly take bribes? I won't allow it, I say! Away with you! Greetings, Geralt.”
    “Greetings, Caldemeyn.”
    The alderman