Season of Storms (The Witcher, #6)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

‘It has reached our ears,’ he puffed angrily, ‘that the Honourable Madam Neyd makes magical concoctions available to womenfolk who don’t want children. And helps those who are already pregnant to abort the foetus. We, here in Kerack, consider such a practice immoral.’ ‘What a woman has a natural right to,’ replied Coral, dryly, ‘cannot – ipso facto – be immoral.’

‘Here we go,’ snapped the commandant. ‘They’re off now, the sluts.

The sign above the old dear read: Come to me for joy and happiness. Gherkin complimentary.

Gonschorek was dead. He was, quite simply, deceased.

‘Witcher sword?’ snorted Sperry. ‘Cuts through like noodles? You’re the fucking noodle.’

‘And what now?’ ‘Now,’ the dwarf told him bluntly, ‘we’re well and truly fucked.’

‘You bastard! You fucking whoreson!’

‘Lot number seven: a bell with a handle, brass, dwarven work, the age of the item is difficult to ascertain, but it is without doubt antique. There is an engraving on the rim in dwarven runes, reading: “Why are you ringing it, you twat?” Starting price . . .

‘But I do, from time to time. Sharpens up the mind like no one’s bloody business. Increases longevity. And improves the looks. Just look at me.’ He did.