‘What are you doing here, Dandelion? How did you get here?’
‘What am I doing?’ the bard yelled. ‘You want to know? I’m fleeing like everybody else, I was bumping along on that cart all day! Some whoreson stole my horse in the night! Geralt, I beg you, get me out of this hell! I tell you, the Nilfgaardians could be here any moment! Whoever doesn’t get the Yaruga behind them will be slaughtered. Slaughtered, do you understand?’
‘Don’t panic, Dandelion.’
Below on the jetty, the neighing of horses being pulled onto the ferry by force and the clattering of hooves on the planks. Uproar. A seething mass. The splash of water after a cart was pushed into the river, the lowing of oxen holding their muzzles above the surface. Geralt looked on as the bundles and crates from the cart turned around in the current, banged against the side of the ferry and drifted away. Screaming, curses. In the ravine a cloud of dust, hoof beats.
‘One at a time!’ yelled the bandaged soldier, driving his horse into the crowd. ‘Order, dammit! One at a time!’
‘Geralt,’ Dandelion groaned, seizing a stirrup. ‘Do you see what’s happening? We haven’t a chance of getting on that ferry. The soldiers will get as many across on it as they can, and then they’ll burn it so the Nilfgaardians won’t be able to use it. That’s how it’s normally done, isn’t it?’
‘Agreed,’ the Witcher nodded. ‘That’s how it’s normally done. I don’t understand, though, why the panic? What, is this the first war ever, have there never been any others? Just like usual, the kings’ forces beat each other up and then the kings reach agreement, sign treaties and get plastered to celebrate. Nothing will really change for those having their ribs crushed on the jetty now. So why all this brutality?’
Dandelion looked at him intently, without releasing the stirrup.
‘You must have lousy information, Geralt,’ he said. ‘Or you’re unable to understand its significance. This isn’t an ordinary war about succession to a throne or a small scrap of land. It’s not a skirmish between two feudal lords, which peasants watch while leaning on their pitchforks.’
‘What is it then? Enlighten me, because I really don’t know what it’s about. Just between you and I, it doesn’t actually interest me that much, but please explain.’
‘There’s never been a war like this,’ the bard said gravely. ‘The Nilfgaard army are leaving scorched earth and bodies behind them. Entire fields of corpses. This is a war of destruction, total destruction. Nilfgaard against everyone. Cruelty—’
‘There is and has never been a war without cruelty,’ the Witcher interrupted. ‘You’re exaggerating, Dandelion. It’s like it is by the ferry: that’s how it’s normally done. A kind of military tradition, I’d say. As long as the world has existed, armies marching through a country kill, plunder, burn and rape; though not necessarily in that order. As long as the world has existed, peasants have hidden in forests with their women and what they can carry, and when everything is over, return—’
‘Not in this war, Geralt. After this war there won’t be anybody or anything to return to. Nilfgaard is leaving smouldering embers behind it, the army is marching in a row and dragging everybody out. Scaffolds and stakes stretch for miles along the highways, smoke is rising into the sky across the entire horizon. You said there hasn’t been anything like this since the world has existed? Well, you were right. Since the world has existed. Our world. For it looks as though the Nilfgaardians have come from beyond the mountains to destroy our world.’
‘That makes no sense. Who would want to destroy the world? Wars aren’t waged to destroy. Wars are waged for two reasons. One is power and the other is money.’
‘Don’t philosophise, Geralt! You won’t change what’s happening with philosophy! Why won’t you listen? Why won’t you see? Why don’t you want to understand? Believe me, the Yaruga won’t stop the Nilfgaardians. In the winter, when the river freezes over, they’ll march on. I tell you, we must flee, flee to the North; they may not get that far. But even if they don’t, our world will never be what it was. Geralt, don’t leave me here! I’ll never survive by myself! Don’t leave me!’
‘You must be insane, Dandelion,’ the Witcher said, leaning over in the saddle. ‘You must be insane with fear, if you could think I’d leave you. Give me your hand and jump up on the horse. There’s nothing for you here, nor will you shove your way onto the ferry. I’ll take you upstream and then we’ll hunt for a boat or a ferry.’
‘The Nilfgaardians will capture us! They’re close now. Did you see those horsemen? They are clearly coming straight from the fighting. Let’s ride downstream towards the mouth of the Ina.’
‘Stop looking on the dark side. We’ll slip through, you’ll see. Crowds of people are heading downstream, it’ll be the same at every ferry as it is here, they’re sure to have nabbed all the boats too. We’ll ride upstream, against the current. Don’t worry, I’ll get you across on a log if I have to.’
‘The far bank’s barely visible!’
‘Don’t whinge. I said I’d get you across.’
‘What about you?’
‘Hop up onto the horse. We’ll talk on the way. Hey, not with that bloody sack! Do you want to break Roach’s back?’
‘Is it Roach? Roach was a bay, and she’s a chestnut.’
‘All of my horses are called Roach. You know that perfectly well; don’t try to get round me. I said get rid of that sack. What’s in it, dammit? Gold?’
‘Manuscripts! Poems! And some vittles . . .’
‘Throw it into the river. You can write some new poems. And I’ll share my food with you.’
Dandelion made a forlorn face, but did not ponder long, and hurled the sack into the water. He jumped onto the horse and wriggled around, making a place for himself on the saddlebags, and grabbed the Witcher’s belt.
‘Time to go, time to go,’ he urged anxiously. ‘Let’s not waste time, Geralt, we’ll disappear into the forest, before—’
‘Stop it, Dandelion. That panic of yours is beginning to affect Roach.’
‘Don’t mock. If you’d seen what I—’
‘Shut up, dammit. Let’s ride, I’d like to get you across before dusk.’
‘Me? What about you?’
‘I have matters to deal with on this side of the river.’
‘You must be mad, Geralt. Do you have a death wish? What “matters”?’
‘None of your business. I’m going to Cintra.’
‘To Cintra? Cintra is no more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There is no Cintra. Just smouldering embers and piles of rubble. The Nilfgaardians—’
‘Dismount, Dandelion.’
‘What?’
‘Get off!’ The Witcher jerked around. The troubadour looked at his face and leaped from the horse onto the ground, took a step back and stumbled.
Geralt got off slowly. He threw the reins across the mare’s head, stood for a moment undecided, and then wiped his face with a gloved hand. He sat down on the edge of a tree hollow, beneath a spreading dogwood bush with blood-red branches.
‘Come here, Dandelion,’ he said. ‘Sit down. And tell me what’s happened to Cintra. Everything.’
The poet sat down.
‘The Nilfgaardians invaded across the passes,’ he began after a moment’s silence. ‘There were thousands of them. They surrounded the Cintran army in the Marnadal valley. A battle was joined lasting the whole day, from dawn till dusk. The forces of Cintra fought courageously, but were decimated. The king fell, and then their queen—’
‘Calanthe.’
‘Yes. She headed off a stampede, didn’t let them disperse, gathered anyone she was able to around herself and the standard. They fought their way through the encirclement and fell back across the river towards the city. Whoever was able to.’
‘And Calanthe?’
‘She defended the river crossing with a handful of knights, and shielded the retreat. They say she fought like a man, threw herself like a wo
man possessed into the greatest turmoil. They stabbed her with pikes as she charged the Nilfgaardian foot. She was transported to the city gravely wounded. What’s in that canteen, Geralt?’
‘Vodka. Want some?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Speak. Go on, Dandelion. Tell me everything.’
‘The city didn’t put up a fight. There was no siege, because there was no one to defend the walls. What was left of the knights and their families, the noblemen and the queen . . . They barricaded themselves in the castle. The Nilfgaardians captured the castle at once, their sorcerers pulverised the gate and some of the walls. Only the keep was being defended, clearly protected by spells, because it resisted the Nilfgaardian magic. In spite of that, the Nilfgaardians forced their way inside within four days. They didn’t find anyone alive. Not a soul. The women had killed the children, the men had killed the women and then fallen on their swords or . . . What’s the matter, Geralt?’
‘Speak, Dandelion.’
‘Or . . . like Calanthe . . . Headlong from the battlements, from the very top. They say she asked someone to . . . But no one would. So she crawled to the battlements and . . . Headfirst. They say dreadful things were done to her body. I don’t want to . . . What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Dandelion . . . In Cintra there was a . . . little girl. Calanthe’s granddaughter, she was around ten or eleven. Her name was Ciri. Did you hear anything about her?’
‘No. But there was a terrible massacre in the city and the castle and almost no one got out alive. And nobody survived of those who defended the keep, I told you. And most of the women and children from the notable families were there.’
The Witcher said nothing.
‘That Calanthe,’ Dandelion asked. ‘Did you know her?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the little girl you were asking about? Ciri?’
‘I knew her too.’
The wind blew from the river, rippled the water, shook the trees and the leaves fell from the branches in a shimmering shower. Autumn, thought the Witcher, it’s autumn again.
He stood up.
‘Do you believe in destiny, Dandelion?’
The troubadour raised his head and looked at him with his eyes wide open.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Answer.’
‘Well . . . yes.’
‘But did you know that destiny alone is not enough? That something more is necessary?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You’re not the only one. But that’s how it is. Something more is needed. The problem is that . . . that I won’t ever find out what.’
‘What’s the matter, Geralt?’
‘Nothing, Dandelion. Come, get on. Let’s go, we’re wasting the day. Who knows how long it’ll take us to find a boat, and we’ll need a big one. I’m not leaving Roach, after all.’
‘Are we crossing the river today?’ the poet asked, happily.
‘Yes. There’s nothing for me on this side of the river.’
IX
‘Yurga!’
‘Darling!’
She ran from the gate – her hair escaping her headscarf, blowing around – stumbling and crying out. Yurga threw the halter to his servant, jumped down from the cart, ran to meet his wife, seized her around the waist, lifted her up and spun her, whirled her around.
‘I’m home, my darling! I’ve returned!’
‘Yurga!’
‘I’m back! Hey, throw open the gates! The man of the house has returned!’
She was wet, smelling of soap suds. She had clearly been doing the laundry. He stood her on the ground, but she still did not release him, and remained clinging, trembling, warm.
‘Lead me inside.’
‘By the Gods, you’ve returned . . . I couldn’t sleep at night . . . Yurga . . . I couldn’t sleep at night—’
‘I’ve returned. Oh, I’ve returned! And I’ve returned with riches! Do you see the cart? Hey, hurry, drive it in! Do you see the cart? I’m carrying enough goods to—’
‘Yurga, what are goods to me, or a cart . . . You’ve returned . . . Healthy . . . In one piece—’
‘I’ve returned wealthy, I tell you. You’ll see directly—’
‘Yurga? But who’s that? That man in black? By the Gods, and with a sword—’
The merchant looked around. The Witcher had dismounted and was standing with his back to them, pretending to be adjusting the girth and saddlebags. He did not look at them, did not approach.
‘I’ll tell you later. Oh, but if it weren’t for him . . . But where are the lads? Hale?’
‘Yes, Yurga, they’re hale. They went to the fields to shoot at crows, but the neighbours will tell them you’re back. They’ll soon rush home, the three of them—’
‘Three? What do you mean, Goldencheeks? Were you—’
‘No . . . But I must tell you something . . . You won’t be cross?’
‘Me? With you?’
‘I’ve taken a lassie in, Yurga. I took her from the druids, you know, the ones who rescued children after the war? They gathered homeless and stray children in the forests . . . Barely alive . . . Yurga? Are you cross?’
Yurga held a hand to his forehead and looked back. The Witcher was walking slowly behind the cart, leading his horse. He was not looking at them, his head turned away.
‘Yurga?’
‘O, Gods,’ the merchant groaned. ‘O, Gods! Something I wasn’t expecting! At home!’
‘Don’t take on, Yurga . . . You’ll see, you’ll like her. She’s a clever lassie, pleasing, hardworking . . . A mite odd. She won’t say where she’s from, she weeps at once if you ask. So I don’t. Yurga, you know I always wished for a daughter . . . What ails you?’
‘Nothing,’ he said softly. ‘Nothing. Destiny. The whole way he was raving in his sleep, delirious ravings, nothing but destiny and destiny . . . By the Gods . . . It’s not for the likes of us to understand. We can’t mark what people like him think. What they dream about. It’s not for us to understand . . .’
‘Dad!’
‘Nadbor! Sulik! How you’ve grown, a pair of young bulls! Well, come here, to me! Look alive . . .’
He broke off, seeing a small, very slim, mousy-haired creature walking slowly behind the boys. The little girl looked at him and he saw the huge eyes as green as spring grass, shining like two little stars. He saw the girl suddenly start, run . . . He heard her shrill, piercing cry.
‘Geralt!’
The Witcher turned away from his horse with a swift, agile movement and ran to meet her. Yurga stared open-mouthed. He had never thought a man could move so quickly.
They came together in the centre of the farmyard. The mousy-haired girl in a grey dress. And the white-haired Witcher with a sword on his back, all dressed in black leather, gleaming with silver. The Witcher bounding softly, the girl trotting, the Witcher on his knees, the girl’s thin hands around his neck, the mousy hair on his shoulders. Goldencheeks shrieked softly. Yurga hugged his rosy-cheeked wife when she cried out softly, pulling her towards him without a word, and gathered up and hugged both boys.
‘Geralt!’ the little girl repeated, clinging to the Witcher’s chest. ‘You found me! I knew you would! I always knew! I knew you’d find me!’
‘Ciri,’ said the Witcher.
Yurga could not see his face hidden among the mousy hair. He saw hands in black gloves squeezing the girl’s back and shoulders.
‘You found me! Oh, Geralt! I was waiting all the time! For so very long . . . We’ll be together now, won’t we? Now we’ll be together, won’t we? Say it, Geralt! Forever! Say it!’
‘Forever, Ciri.’
‘It’s like they said! Geralt! It’s like they said! Am I your destiny? Say it! Am I your destiny?’
Yurga saw the Witcher’s eyes. And was very astonished. He heard his wife’s soft weeping, felt the trembling of her shoulders. He looked at the Witcher and waited, tensed, for his answer. He knew he would not understand it,
but he waited for it. And heard it.
‘You’re more than that, Ciri. Much more.’
Blood of Elves
Verily I say unto you, the era of the sword and axe is nigh, the era of the wolf’s blizzard. The Time of the White Chill and the White Light is nigh, the Time of Madness and the Time of Contempt: Tedd Deireádh, the Time of End. The world will die amidst frost and be reborn with the new sun. It will be reborn of the Elder Blood, of Hen Ichaer, of the seed that has been sown. A seed which will not sprout but will burst into flame.
Ess’tuath esse! Thus it shall be! Watch for the signs! What signs these shall be, I say unto you: first the earth will flow with the blood of Aen Seidhe, the Blood of Elves ...
Aen Ithlinnespeath, Ithlinne Aegli aep Aevenien’s prophecy
CHAPTER ONE
The town was in flames.
The narrow streets leading to the moat and the first terrace belched smoke and embers, flames devouring the densely clustered thatched houses and licking at the castle walls. From the west, from the harbour gate, the screams and clamour of vicious battle and the dull blows of a battering ram smashing against the walls grew ever louder.
Their attackers had surrounded them unexpectedly, shattering the barricades which had been held by no more than a few soldiers, a handful of townsmen carrying halberds and some crossbowmen from the guild. Their horses, decked out in flowing black caparisons, flew over the barricades like spectres, their riders’ bright, glistening blades sowing death amongst the fleeing defenders.
Ciri felt the knight who carried her before him on his saddle abruptly spur his horse. She heard his cry. ‘Hold on,’ he shouted. ‘Hold on!’
Other knights wearing the colours of Cintra overtook them, sparring, even in full flight, with the Nilfgaardians. Ciri caught a glimpse of the skirmish from the corner of her eye – the crazed swirl of blue-gold and black cloaks amidst the clash of steel, the clatter of blades against shields, the neighing of horses—
Shouts. No, not shouts. Screams.
‘Hold on!’
Fear. With every jolt, every jerk, every leap of the horse pain shot through her hands as she clutched at the reins. Her legs contracted painfully, unable to find support, her eyes watered from the smoke. The arm around her suffocated her, choking her, the force compressing her ribs. All around her screaming such as she had never before heard grew louder. What must one do to a man to make him scream so?
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