Boholt
Chest: They tracked down the monster in three days. First, they found a gnawed horse skeleton in a shadowy arroyo. From there it was easy. The dragon was sitting in a cave, and they smoked him out of there by throwing in burning cow pies. The fumed beast sprang out of the den, mad with rage. It tried to take flight, but Boholt consciously plunged into its wing a butcher’s hook with a rope tied to it. The fight was fierce, crazy and long. Gar was probably never so afraid in his life. The dragon recoiled like a viper, its grey body flashing like a ribbon, its teeth-laden maw terrifying. It jerked. Its body was torn. Gar tried to survive. Kennet swung his sword almost blindly but he never wavered or stopped. But Boholt didn’t lose his head, he struck methodically and tried to hit where it hurt. And he finally did it. The beast jerked one last time. Then it relaxed. And died. ‘Next time,’ Boholt groaned, ‘we need to put fewer holes in such a son of a bitch. This skin is worth a fortune.’ Gar sat down hard on the ground. Beanpole flopped down beside him. He was laughing like a madman. ‘We’re not just anybodies anymore, guys.’ Boholt looked at them from under his eyebrows flecked with dragon’s blood. ‘Now we are Killers… No. Reavers. Reavers from… where are you from, Gar?’ ‘From Dog Holes. It’s a village near Crinfrid.’
Scroll 1: Gar stretched and stood up, pushing the oak bench away from the table. A wandering merchant, seated at the other end of the bench, noticeably twitched. The soup he had just scooped up on a spoon spilled on his trousers and kaftan. The merchant looked at Gar and Kennet, who just finished a beer. And quickly lowered his gaze. ‘Fie, it’s getting late. Fie, we’ll have to hurry if we want to get to Stanchion before nightfall.’ Kennet tilted the clay pot and drank the rest of the beer. ‘Fee fie foe fum,’ Gar teased. ‘Don’t you worry about anything, Jack Beanpole. Stanchion will still be there.’ ‘My name is Kennet,’ the boy sulked. Gar poked his tight chest with his finger. ‘Beanpole,’ he repeated emphatically. ‘Where’s Boholt?’ Kennet belched loudly and wiped the foam from his moustache. ‘It’s been a quarter hour since he went to take a piss. Maybe he was bored with the camaraderie.’ Beanpole gloomed. ‘Maybe he left us here and went back to town.’ Gar did not answer. Boholt wasn’t the type of guy who would run off without giving notice.
Scroll 2: After the smoky half-light of the inn, the landscape outside seemed all too colourful. A spring breeze swept flocks of fluffy clouds across the sky, while fields of rapeseed in full bloom hurt the eyes. You’d think it was King Dezmod’s golden treasure. Gar spat near his feet. ‘Gentlemen, could you both come here?’ Boholt stood near the hitching post, staring at the board to which announcements of various sorts and content were customarily nailed. They both obeyed. Boholt was, after all, the oldest. And his ideas made the most sense. ‘Oh,’ said Boholt succinctly, sticking his thick finger into the very centre of the parchment, into which he had been staring for a long time. ‘An order for a dragon,’ Kennet said. 'A message from the chancellery of Baroness de Ferra. A reward. Only serious offers… what are you thinking, Boholt? Do you want to make witchers out of us?’
Scroll 3: Baroness de Ferra’s chancellery reeked of incaust and layers of dust so that it tickled the nose. Beanpole sneezed loudly, covering himself in snot. Boholt gave him a murderous look. ‘A dragon or some other reptile.’ The ancient clerk looked at them from over the pile of papers. ‘Steals cattle and swine. The peasants complain and not a day goes by in which one of them doesn’t drag their dirty boots in here. But recently, the beast went too far, much too far.’ ‘It killed a man?’ guessed Gar. ‘It ate two of the baroness’s favourite mares. And took a third. Grabbed it with its claws and carried it somewhere beyond Lean Ravines. There are witnesses.’ ‘In the announcement, there was something about a reward,’ Boholt broke the heavy silence that had fallen after the clerk’s speech. ‘Two thousand Orens,’ said the woman with such a voice as if saying ‘two barrels of cabbage’. ‘Payable after the job. On presentation of evidence.’ Gar was sure that this was the end of the strange visit. He was wrong. ‘Equipment is needed for such a monster.’ Boholt stared at the woman. ‘Crossbows. Hooks. Two-handed swords. Armor. And provisions. We will need an advance.’ The clerk raised her head. For a long moment, she looked from one to the other to the third. ‘Five hundred,’ she said at last and reached into the drawer for a sachet.
Scroll 4: ‘Well, how about it?’ Beanpole grinned as soon as they closed the heavy chancellery door behind them, which carried unpleasant associations with a tomb. ‘Are we going to town? To that brothel, you know, that has elves and dwarfs? And first—to the tailor! Five hundred fucking Orens...’ ‘We’re going to town,’ nodded Boholt. ‘I know a blacksmith there. A true artist. We’ll buy equipment. And we’ll kill the monster.’ ‘You… you’re thinking seriously…’ Gar wondered. ‘I’ve had enough,’ said Boholt with a rasp of steel in his voice. ‘Of scheming. Theft. Wandering around. Scoundrelism. Two thousand Orens.. and after this order will come others. You’ll see... We’ll no longer be fucking thugs, goons, nobodies. We’ll be professional dragon slayers.’ ‘It’s very nice what you are saying,’ began Gar cautiously. ‘There’s one problem. This reptile must first be found. And then… you have to survive.’Boholt looked at him inquiringly. He placed his hand as big as a loaf of bread on his shoulder. This whole dragon is just an overgrown worm’, he said gently. ‘What do you want to tell me, friend? That you’re scared of a worm?’
