Sword of Destiny (The Witcher, #0.7)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

“And so, Geralt,” he said. “You don’t hunt dragons; neither green nor any other colour. I’ve made a note of it. And why, may I ask, only those three colours?” “Four, to be precise.” “You mentioned three.” “Dragons interest you, Borch. For any particular reason?” “No. Pure curiosity.” “Aha. Well, about those colours: it’s customary to define true dragons like that, although they are not precise terms. Green dragons, the most common, are actually greyish, like ordinary dracolizards. Red dragons are in fact reddish or brick-red. It’s customary to call the large dark brown ones ‘black.’ White dragons are the rarest. I’ve never seen one. They occur in the distant North. Reputedly.” “Interesting. And do you know what other dragons I’ve also heard about?” “I do,” Geralt sipped his beer. “The same ones I’ve heard about. Golden dragons. There are no such creatures.” “On what grounds do you claim that? Because you’ve never seen one? Apparently, you haven’t seen a white one either.” “That’s not the point. Beyond the seas, in Ofir and Zangvebar, there are white horses with black stripes. I haven’t seen them, but I know they exist. But golden dragons are mythical creatures. Fabled. Like the phoenix, let’s say. There are no phoenixes or golden dragons.” Véa, leaning on her elbows, looked at him curiously. “You must know what you’re talking about, you’re a witcher,” Borch ladled beer from the keg, “but I think that every myth, every fable, must have some roots. Something lies among those...