‘Skin heals.’ Dennis Cranmer fixed his steel eyes on the witcher and bared his teeth. ‘And the scar? For a knight, a scar is a commendable reminder, a reason for fame and glory, which the Chapter so desired for him. A knight without a scar is a prick, not a knight. Ask him, Count, and you’ll see that he’s pleased.’
Tailles was writhing on the ground, spitting blood, whimpering and wailing; he didn’t look pleased in the least.
‘Cranmer!’ roared Falwick, tearing his sword from the ground, ‘you’ll be sorry for this, I swear!’
The dwarf turned around, slowly pulled the axe from his belt, coughed and spat into his palm. ‘Oh, Count, sir,’ he rasped. ‘Don’t perjure yourself. I can’t stand perjurers and Prince Hereward has given me the right to punish them. I’ll turn a deaf ear to your stupid words. But don’t repeat them, if you please.’
‘Witcher,’ Falwick, puffing with rage, turned to Geralt. ‘Get yourself out of Ellander. Immediately. Without a moment’s delay!’
‘I rarely agree with him,’ muttered Dennis, approaching the witcher and returning his sword, ‘but in this case he’s right. I’d ride out pretty quick.’
‘We’ll do as you advise.’ Geralt slung the belt across his back. ‘But before that I have words for the count. Falwick!’
The Knight of the White Rose blinked nervously and wiped his palms on his coat.
‘Let’s just go back to your Chapter’s code for a minute,’ continued the witcher, trying not to smile. ‘One thing really interests me. If I, let us say, felt disgusted and insulted by your attitude in this whole affair, if I challenged you to the sword right now, what would you do? Would you consider me sufficiently worthy to cross blades with? Or would you refuse, even though you knew that by doing so I would take you to be unworthy even to be spat on, punched in the face and kicked in the arse under the eyes of the foot soldiers? Count Falwick, be so gracious as to satisfy my curiosity.’
Falwick grew pale, took a step back, looked around. The soldiers avoided his eyes. Dennis Cranmer grimaced, stuck his tongue out and sent a jet of saliva a fair distance.
‘Even though you’re not saying anything,’ continued Geralt, ‘I can hear the voice of reason in your silence, Falwick, sir. You’ve satisfied my curiosity, now I’ll satisfy yours. If the Order bothers Mother Nenneke or the priestesses in any way, or unduly intrudes upon Captain Cranmer, then may you know, Count, that I’ll find you and, not caring about any code, will bleed you like a pig.’
The knight grew even paler.
‘Don’t forget my promise, Count. Come on, Dandilion. It’s time for us to leave. Take care, Dennis.’
‘Good luck, Geralt.’ The dwarf gave a broad smile. ‘Take care. I’m very pleased to have met you, and hope we’ll meet again.’
‘The feeling’s mutual, Dennis.’
They rode away with ostensible slowness, not looking back. They began to canter only once they were hidden by the forest.
‘Geralt,’ the poet said suddenly, ‘surely we won’t head straight south? We’ll have to make a detour to avoid Ellander and Hereward’s lands, won’t we? Or do you intend to continue with this show?’
‘No, Dandilion, I don’t. We’ll go through the forests and then join the Traders’ Trail. Remember, not a word in Nenneke’s presence about this quarrel. Not a word.’
‘We are riding out without any delay, I hope?’
‘Immediately.’
II
Geralt leant over, checked the repaired hoop of his stirrup and fitted the stirrup leather, still stiff, smelling of new skins and hard to buckle. He adjusted the saddle-girth, the travel bags, the horse-blanket rolled up behind the saddle and the silver sword strapped to it. Nenneke was motionless next to him, her arms folded.
Dandilion approached, leading his bay gelding.
‘Thank you for the hospitality, Venerable One,’ he said seriously. ‘And don’t be angry with me anymore. I know that, deep down, you like me.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Nenneke without smiling. ‘I do, you dolt, although I don’t know why myself. Take care.’
‘So long, Nenneke.’
‘So long, Geralt. Look after yourself.’
The witcher’s smile was surly.
‘I prefer to look after others. It turns out better in the long run.’
From the temple, from between columns entwined with ivy, Iola emerged in the company of two younger pupils. She was carrying the witcher’s small chest. She avoided his eyes awkwardly and her troubled smile combined with the blush on her freckled, chubby face made a charming picture. The pupils accompanying her didn’t hide their meaningful glances and barely stopped themselves from giggling.
‘For Great Melitele’s sake,’ sighed Nenneke, ‘an entire parting procession. Take the chest, Geralt. I’ve replenished your elixirs. You’ve got everything that was in short supply. And that medicine, you know the one. Take it regularly for two weeks. Don’t forget. It’s important.’
‘I won’t. Thanks, Iola.’
The girl lowered her head and handed him the chest. She so wanted to say something. She had no idea what ought to be said, what words ought to be used. She didn’t know what she’d say, even if she could. She didn’t know. And yet she so much wanted to.
Their hands touched.
Blood. Blood. Blood. Bones like broken white sticks. Tendons like whitish cords exploding from beneath cracking skin cut by enormous paws bristling with thorns, and sharp teeth. The hideous sound of torn flesh, and shouting – shameless and horrifying in its shamelessness. The shamelessness of the end. Of death. Blood and shouting. Shouting. Blood. Shouting—
‘Iola!’
Nenneke, with extraordinary speed considering her girth, rushed to the girl lying on the ground, shaken by convulsions, and held her down by her shoulders and hair. One of the pupils stood as if paralysed, the other, more clear-headed, knelt on Iola’s legs. Iola arched her back, opened her mouth in a soundless, mute cry.
‘Iola!’ Nenneke shouted. ‘Iola! Speak! Speak, child! Speak!’
The girl stiffened even more, clenched her jaws, and a thin trickle of blood ran down her cheek. Nenneke, growing red with the effort, shouted something which the witcher didn’t understand, but his medallion tugged at his neck so hard that he was forced to bend under the pressure of its invisible weight.
Iola stilled.
Dandilion, pale as a sheet, sighed deeply. Nenneke raised herself to her knees and stood with an effort.
‘Take her away,’ she said to the pupils. There were more of them now; they’d gathered, grave and silent.
‘Take her,’ repeated the priestess, ‘carefully. And don’t leave her alone. I’ll be there in a minute.’
She turned to Geralt. The witcher was standing motionless, fiddling with the reins in his sweaty hands.
‘Geralt . . . Iola—’
‘Don’t say anything, Nenneke.’
‘I saw it, too . . . for a moment. Geralt, don’t go.’
‘I’ve got to.’
‘Did you see . . . did you see that?’
‘Yes. And not for the first time.’
‘And?’
‘There’s no point in looking over your shoulder.’
‘Don’t go, please.’
‘I’ve got to. See to Iola. So long, Nenneke.’
The priestess slowly shook her head, sniffed and, in an abrupt move, wiped a tear away with her wrist.
‘Farewell,’ she whispered, not looking him in the eye.
Sword of Destiny
THE BOUNDS OF REASON
I
‘He won’t get out of there, I’m telling you,’ the pockmarked man said, shaking his head with conviction. ‘It’s been an hour and a quarter since he went down. That’s the end of ’im.’
The townspeople, crammed among the ruins, stared in silence at the black hole gaping in the debris, at the rubble-strewn opening. A fat man in a yellow jerkin shifted from one foot to the other, cleared his throat and took off his crumpled bir
etta.
‘Let’s wait a little longer,’ he said, wiping the sweat from his thinning eyebrows.
‘For what?’ the spotty-faced man snarled. ‘Have you forgotten, Alderman, that a basilisk is lurking in that there dungeon? No one who goes in there comes out. Haven’t enough people perished? Why wait?’
‘But we struck a deal,’ the fat man muttered hesitantly. ‘This just isn’t right.’
‘We made a deal with a living man, Alderman,’ said the spotty-faced man’s companion, a giant in a leather butcher’s apron. ‘And now he’s dead, sure as eggs is eggs. It was plain from the start he was heading to his doom, just like the others. Why, he even went in without a looking glass, taking only a sword. And you can’t kill a basilisk without a looking glass, everyone knows that.’
‘You’ve saved yourself a shilling, Alderman,’ the spotty-faced man added. ‘For there’s no one to pay for the basilisk. So get off home nice and easy. And we’ll take the sorcerer’s horse and chattels. Shame to let goods go to waste.’
‘Aye,’ the butcher said. ‘A sturdy mare, and saddlebags nicely stuffed. Let’s take a peek at what’s inside.’
‘This isn’t right. What are you doing?’
‘Quiet, Alderman, and stay out of this, or you’re in for a hiding,’ the spotty-faced man warned.
‘Sturdy mare,’ the butcher repeated.
‘Leave that horse alone, comrade.’
The butcher turned slowly towards the newcomer, who had appeared from a recess in the wall, and the people gathered around the entrance to the dungeon.
The stranger had thick, curly, chestnut hair. He was wearing a dark brown tunic over a padded coat and high riding boots. And he was not carrying a weapon.
‘Move away from the horse,’ he repeated, smiling venomously. ‘What is this? Another man’s horse, saddlebags and property, and you can’t take your watery little eyes off them, can’t wait to get your scabby mitts on them? Is that fitting behaviour?’
The spotty-faced man, slowly sliding a hand under his coat, glanced at the butcher. The butcher nodded, and beckoned towards a part of the crowd, from which stepped two stocky men with close-cropped hair. They were holding clubs of the kind used to stun animals in a slaughterhouse.
‘Who are you,’ the spotty-faced man asked, still holding his hand inside his coat, ‘to tell us what is right and what is not?’
‘That is not your concern, comrade.’
‘You carry no weapon.’
‘’Tis true.’ The stranger smiled even more venomously. ‘I do not.’
‘That’s too bad.’ The spotty-faced man removed his hand – and with it a long knife – from inside his coat. ‘It is very unfortunate that you do not.’
The butcher also drew a knife, as long as a cutlass. The other two men stepped forward, raising their clubs.
‘I have no need,’ the stranger said, remaining where he stood. ‘My weapons follow me.’
Two young women came out from behind the ruins, treading with soft, sure steps. The crowd immediately parted, then stepped back and thinned out.
The two women grinned, flashing their teeth and narrowing their eyes, from whose corners broad, tattooed stripes ran towards their ears. The muscles of their powerful thighs were visible beneath lynx skins wrapped around their hips, and on their sinuous arms, naked above their mail gloves. Sabre hilts stuck up behind their shoulders, which were also protected by chainmail.
Slowly, very slowly, the spotty-faced man bent his knees and dropped his knife on the ground.
A rattle of stones and a scraping sound echoed from the hole in the rubble, and then two hands, clinging to the jagged edge of the wall, emerged from the darkness. After the hands then appeared, in turn, a head of white hair streaked with brick dust, a pale face, and a sword hilt projecting above the shoulders. The crowd murmured.
The white-haired man reached down to haul a grotesque shape from the hole; a bizarre bulk smeared in blood-soaked dust. Holding the creature by its long, reptilian tail, he threw it without a word at the fat Alderman’s feet. He sprang back, tripping against a collapsed fragment of wall, and looked at the curved, birdlike beak, webbed wings and the hooked talons on the scaly feet. At the swollen dewlap, once crimson, now a dirty russet. And at the glazed, sunken eyes.
‘There’s your basilisk,’ the white-haired man said, brushing the dust from his trousers, ‘as agreed. Now my two hundred lintars, if you please. Honest lintars, not too clipped. I’ll check them, you can count on it.’
The Alderman drew out a pouch with trembling hands. The white-haired man looked around, and then fixed his gaze for a moment on the spotty-faced man and the knife lying by his foot. He looked at the man in the dark brown tunic and at the young women in the lynx skins.
‘As usual,’ he said, taking the pouch from the Alderman’s trembling hands, ‘I risk my neck for you for a paltry sum, and in the meantime you go after my things. You never change; a pox on the lot of you.’
‘Haven’t been touched,’ the butcher muttered, moving back. The men with the clubs had melted into the crowd long before. ‘Your things haven’t been touched, sir.’
‘That pleases me greatly,’ the white-haired man smiled. At the sight of the smile burgeoning on his pale face, like a wound bursting, the small crowd began to quickly disperse. ‘And for that reason, friend, you shall also remain untouched. Go in peace. But make haste.’
The spotty-faced man was also retreating. The spots on his white face were unpleasantly conspicuous.
‘Hey, stop there,’ the man in the dark brown tunic said to him. ‘You’ve forgotten something.’
‘What is that . . . sir?’
‘You drew a knife on me.’
The taller of the women suddenly swayed, legs planted widely apart, and twisted her hips. Her sabre, which no one saw her draw, hissed sharply through the air. The spotty-faced man’s head flew upwards in an arc and fell into the gaping opening to the dungeon. His body toppled stiffly and heavily, like a tree being felled, among the crushed bricks. The crowd let out a scream. The second woman, hand on her sword hilt, whirled around nimbly, protecting her partner’s back. Needlessly. The crowd, stumbling and falling over on the rubble, fled towards the town as fast as they could. The Alderman loped at the front with impressive strides, outdistancing the huge butcher by only a few yards.
‘An excellent stroke,’ the white-haired man commented coldly, shielding his eyes from the sun with a black-gloved hand. ‘An excellent stroke from a Zerrikanian sabre. I bow before the skill and beauty of the free warriors. I’m Geralt of Rivia.’
‘And I,’ the stranger in the dark brown tunic pointed at the faded coat of arms on the front of his garment, depicting three black birds sitting in a row in the centre of a uniformly gold field, ‘am Borch, also known as Three Jackdaws. And these are my girls, Téa and Véa. That’s what I call them, because you’ll twist your tongue on their right names. They are both, as you correctly surmised, Zerrikanian.’
‘Thanks to them, it appears, I still have my horse and belongings. I thank you, warriors. My thanks to you too, sir.’
‘Three Jackdaws. And you can drop the “sir”. Does anything detain you in this little town, Geralt of Rivia?’
‘Quite the opposite.’
‘Excellent. I have a proposal. Not far from here, at the crossroads on the road to the river port, is an inn. It’s called the Pensive Dragon. The vittles there have no equal in these parts. I’m heading there with food and lodging in mind. It would be my honour should you choose to keep me company.’
‘Borch.’ The white-haired man turned around from his horse and looked into the stranger’s bright eyes. ‘I wouldn’t want anything left unclear between us. I’m a witcher.’
‘I guessed as much. But you said it as you might have said “I’m a leper”.’
‘There are those,’ Geralt said slowly, ‘who prefer the company of lepers to that of a witcher.’
‘There are also those,’ Three Jackdaws laughed,
‘who prefer sheep to girls. Ah, well, one can only sympathise with the former and the latter. I repeat my proposal.’
Geralt took off his glove and shook the hand being proffered.
‘I accept, glad to have made your acquaintance.’
‘Then let us go, for I hunger.’
II
The innkeeper wiped the rough table top with a cloth, bowed and smiled. Two of his front teeth were missing.
‘Right, then . . . ’ Three Jackdaws looked up for a while at the blackened ceiling and the spiders dancing about beneath it.
‘First . . . First, beer. To save your legs, an entire keg. And to go with the beer . . . What do you propose with the beer, comrade?’
‘Cheese?’ risked the innkeeper.
‘No,’ Borch grimaced. ‘We’ll have cheese for dessert. We want something sour and spicy with the beer.’
‘At your service,’ the innkeeper smiled even more broadly. His two front teeth were not the only ones he lacked. ‘Elvers with garlic in olive oil and green pepper pods in vinegar or marinated . . . ’
‘Very well. We’ll take both. And then that soup I once ate here, with diverse molluscs, little fish and other tasty morsels floating in it.’
‘Log drivers’ soup?’
‘The very same. And then roast lamb with onions. And then three-score crayfish. Throw as much dill into the pot as you can. After that, sheep’s cheese and lettuce. And then we’ll see.’
‘At your service. Is that for everyone? I mean, four times?’
The taller Zerrikanian shook her head, patting herself knowingly on her waist, which was now hugged by a tight, linen blouse.
‘I forgot.’ Three Jackdaws winked at Geralt. ‘The girls are watching their figures. Lamb just for the two of us, innkeeper. Serve the beer right now, with those elvers. No, wait a while, so they don’t go cold. We didn’t come here to stuff ourselves, but simply to spend some time in conversation.’
‘Very good.’ The innkeeper bowed once more.
‘Prudence is a matter of import in your profession. Give me your hand, comrade.’
Introducing the Witcher Page 30