The Last Wish, Introducing The Witcher by Andrzej Sapkowski Page B

rumbled.
    “I invite you in,” he repeated.
    Geralt didn't move, scrutinizing him.
    “Do you live alone?”
    “What's that to do with you?” said the monster angrily, opening his jaws, then croaked loudly, “Oh, I see. No doubt you'd like to know whether I’ve got forty servants all as beautiful as me. I don't. Well, pox, are you going to make use of my generous invitation? If not, the gate's over there.”
    Geralt bowed stiffly. “I accept your invitation,” he said formally. “I won't slight the right of hospitality.”
    “My house is your house,” the monster said in return, just as formally, although a little offhandedly. “This way please, dear guest. And leave the horse here, by the well.”
    The interior was in need of extensive repair, although it was reasonably clean and tidy. The furniture had been made by skilled craftsmen, if a very long time ago. A pungent smell of dust hung in the dark rooms.
    “Light!” growled the monster, and the torch in its iron bracket burst into flames and sooty smoke.
    “Not bad,” remarked the witcher.
    The monster cackled. “That's it? I see you won't be amazed by any old trick. I told you this house obeys my commands. This way, please. Careful, the stairs are steep. Light!”
    On the stairs, the monster turned. “What's that around your neck, dear guest?”
    “Have a look.”
    The creature took the medallion in his paw, lifted it up to his eyes, tightening the chain around Geralt's neck a little.
    “The animal has an unpleasant expression. What is it?”
    “My guild's badge.”
    “Ah, you make muzzles, no doubt. This way, please. Light!”
    The center of the large room, completely devoid of windows, was taken up by a huge oak table, empty apart from an enormous brass candlestick, slowly turning green and covered with trickles of hardened wax. At the monster's command, the candles lit and flickered, brightening the interior a little.
    One wall was hung with weapons, compositions of round shields, crossed partisans, javelins and guisarmes, heavy sabers and axes. Half of the adjacent wall was taken up by an enormous fireplace, above which hung rows of flaking and peeling portraits. The wall facing the entrance was filled with hunting trophies—elks and stag antlers whose branching racks threw long shadows across the grinning mounted heads of wild boar, bear and lynx, over the ruffled and frayed wings of eagles and hawks. The place of honor was filled by a rock dragon's head, tainted brown, damaged and leaking stuffing. Geralt examined it more closely.
    “My grandpa killed it,” said the monster, throwing a huge log into the depths of the fireplace. “It was probably the last one in the vicinity when it got itself killed. Sit, my dear guest. You're hungry?”
    “I won't deny it, dear host.”
    The monster sat at the table, lowered his head, clasped his hairy paws over his stomach, muttered something while twiddling his enormous thumbs, then suddenly roared, thumping the table with his paw. Dishes and platters rattled like pewter and silver, chalices jingled like crystal. There was a smell of roast meat, garlic, marjoram and nutmeg. Geralt did not show any surprise.
    “Yes.” The monster rubbed his hands. “This is better than servants, isn't it? Help yourself, dear guest. Here is some fowl, here some boar ham, here terrine of…I don't know what. Something. Here we have some hazel grouse. Pox, no, it's partridge. I got the spells muddled up. Eat up, eat up. This is proper, real food, don't worry.”
    “I’m not worried.” Geralt tore the fowl in two.
    “I forgot,” snorted the monster, “that you're not timid. What shall I call you?”
    “Geralt. And your name, dear host?”
    “Nivellen. But they call me Degen or Fanger around here. And they use me to frighten children.”
    The monster poured the contents of an enormous chalice down his throat, after which he sank his fingers in the terrine, tearing half of it from the bowl in one go.
    “Frighten