My name is Henry Cavill,

and I play Geralt of Rivia

in Netflix's new series, "The Witcher."

I'm here to take you back to where we first met the witcher,

this book, "The Last Wish."

Let's begin, shall we?

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 stranger was not old,

but his hair was almost entirely white.

Beneath his coat, he wore a worn leather jerkin

laced up at the neck and shoulders.

As he took off his coat,

those around him noticed that he carried a sword,

not something unusual in itself,

nearly every man in Wyzim carried a weapon,

but no one carried a sword strapped to his back

as if it were a bow or a quiver.

The stranger did not sit at the table

with the few other guests.

He remained standing at the counter,

piercing the innkeeper with his gaze.

He drew from the tankard.

"We'll give you a hand," the pockmarked man hissed.

He knocked the tankard from the stranger's hand

and simultaneously grabbing him by the shoulder,

dug his fingers into the leather strap

which ran diagonally across the outsider's chest.

One of the men behind him raised a fist to strike.

The outsider curled up on the spot,

throwing the pockmarked man off balance.

The sword hissed in its sheath

and glistened briefly in the dim light.

The place seethed.

There was a scream, and one of the few remaining customers

tumbled toward the exit.

A chair fell with a crash

and earthenware smacked hollowly against the floor.

The innkeeper, his lips trembling,

looked at the horribly slashed face of the pocked man,

who, clinging with his fingers to the edge of the counter,

was slowly sinking from sight.

The other two were lying on the floor, one motionless,

the other writhing and convulsing

in a dark, spreading puddle.

A woman's hysterical scream vibrated in the air,

piercing the ears as the innkeeper shuddered,

caught his breath, and vomited.

The stranger retreated toward the wall, tense and alert.

He held the sword in both hands,

sweeping the blade through the air.

No one moved.

Terror, like cold mud, was clear on their faces,

paralyzing limbs and blocking throats.

Three guards rushed into the tavern with thuds and clangs.

They must have been close by.

They had truncheons wound with leather straps at the ready,

but at the sight of the corpses, drew their swords.

The Rivian pressed his back against the wall

and, with his left hand, pulled a dagger from his boot.

"Throw that down!" one of the guards yelled

with a trembling voice.

"Throw that down, you thug!

"You're coming with us!"

The second guard kicked aside the table

between himself and the Rivian.

"Go get the men, Treska!" he shouted to the third guard,

who had stayed closer to the door.

"No need," said the stranger, lowering his sword.

"I'll come by myself."

"You'll go, you son of a bitch, on the end of a rope!"

yelled the trembling guard.

"Throw that sword down or I'll smash your head in!"

The Rivian straightened.

He quickly pinned his blade under his left arm

and with his right hand raised toward the guards,

swiftly drew a complicated sign in the air.

The clout-nails which studded his tunic

from his wrists to elbow flashed.

The guards drew back, shielding their faces with their arms.

One of the customers sprang up

while another darted to the door.

The woman screamed again, wild and earsplitting.

"I'll come by myself," repeated the stranger

in his resounding, metallic voice.

"And the three of you will go in front of me.

"Take me to the castellan.

"I don't know the way."

"Yes, sir," mumbled the guard, dropping his head.

He made toward the exit, looking around tentatively.

The other two guards followed him out backward, hastily.

The stranger followed in their tracks,

sheathing his sword and dagger.

As they passed the tables,

the remaining customers hid their faces

from the dangerous stranger.

And there you have it.

It's not easy being a witcher.

Trust me, I'd know.

You'd think people would be a little more grateful

when you save them from monsters.

Thank you for joining me for this reading,

but as you know, Geralt's adventure is just beginning.