Stephen Hulin

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  In the corner on the bench a very focused Spintop, Trent and Ligenza looked at the tips of their shoes.

  ‘The border was crossed by a wanton group of Redanian plunderers, mercenary scum and robbers,’ continued corporal Kovacs. ‘These rogues felled border poles, burned, sacked, tortured and murdered royal subjects. In skirmish with royal soldiers they were beaten and now they raise their heads, they hide in forests, they wait for an opportunity to cross the border. Such may have shown up in the region. I warn that aiding them, providing them with information or any kind of support will be treated as an act of treason, and punished with the noose.’

  ‘Have there been seen any strangers here? Newcomers? That means, suspects. And I tell you that for indicating a bandit there is reward. One hundred orens. Postmaster?’

  The Postmaster shrugged, hunched, mumbled something, and began cleaning the bar leaning very low over it.

  The Corporal looked around, and his clanking spurs approached Geralt.

  ‘You are... Whoa! I know you, it seems I saw you. In Maribor. I recognize you by the white hair. You are a witcher, aren't you? A Hunter and killer of various monsters? Right?’

  ‘Exactly that.’

  ‘Then I have nothing against you, and your profession is a noble one,’ said the corporal, the looked at Addario Bach. ‘The Master dwarf is above suspicion too, among the bandits there were no dwarves. But too keep things in order I'll ask: What do you do at the station?’

  ‘I came by a coach from Cidaris and I’m waiting for a change. The time passes slowly so I sit here with Master Witcher, we talk and we make beer into urine.’

  ‘A change then,’ repeated the corporal. ‘I understand. And you two? Who are you? Yes, I’m speaking to you!’

  Trent opened his mouth. And blinked. And mumbled something.

  ‘What? What? Stand up! Who are you?’

  ‘Leave him officer,’ said Addario Bach. ‘He's my servant, hired by me. He is a fool, a complete idiot. It runs in his family. By great luck his younger siblings are normal. His mother understood finally that while pregnant she should not drink water from a puddle in front of the infectious diseases ward.’

  Trent opened his mouth even wider, nodded his head and moaned. Ligenza made a move as if to stand up. The dwarf put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Sit, boy. And be silent, be silent. I know the theory of evolution, I know from what creature humans descended you don't have to remind me of this all the time. Forgive him too, commandant. He is also my servant.’

  ‘Alright...’ the corporal still looked around suspiciously. ‘Servants that is it. If you say so... And who is she? The young girl in a man's clothes? Hey! Stand up, I want to take a look at you. Who are you? Answer when you are asked!’

  ‘Heh, heh, Master Commandant,’ laughed the dwarf. ‘She? She's a harlot, a scarlet woman that is. I hired her in Cidaris to fuck her. With some ass a journey is easier on the soul, every philosopher will confirm it.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ the corporal smirked. ‘And I had not recognized her at a glance. It's obvious. She's a half-elf.’

  ‘Your dick is half.’ snarled Spintop. ‘A half of what is considered standard.’

  ‘Silence, silence,’ Addario Bach mitigated her. ‘Don't be mad colonel. It just happened that I’ve got such a quarrelsome whore.’

  Into the room ran a soldier to give a report. Corporal Kovacs straightened up.

  ‘The band was spotted!’ he announced. ‘We must go in pursuit on the double! Forgive the inconvenience. Men!’

  He left and the soldiers followed. After a while, hoof beats could be heard.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Addario Bach said to Spintop, Trent and Ligenza after a moment of silence, ‘this show, forgive my spontaneous words, and simple-minded gestures. In fact, I don't know you, I don't care about you, and I rather don't like you, but I don't like hangings even more. The sight of hanged men with dangling feet depresses me greatly. Thus mine dwarven frivolities.’

  ‘To those dwarven frivolities you owe your lives,’ added Geralt. ‘It would be fitting to thank the dwarf. I saw you there at the farmer’s abode, I know what kind of birds you are. I would not wave a finger in your defence, and I would not be able, or willing to make such a show like the Master dwarf here. And you would be hanging, all three of you. So go away. I would advise you to choose a direction opposite to that chosen by the corporal and his riders.’

  ‘No way,’ he cut off, seeing their eyes going up in the direction of the swords stuck into the rafters. ‘You will not get those. You will be less tempted by sacking and extortion. Go!’

  ‘I was nervous,’ sighed Addario Bach, after the door closed behind the three. ‘Damn it, my hands are still shaking. Aren’t yours?’

  ‘No,’ Geralt smiled at the memories. ‘I'm slightly... deficient in that regard.’

  ‘Some have it good,’ the dwarf grinned. ‘They even get nice deficiencies. Another beer?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Geralt shook his head. ‘Time to go. I find myself - how to express it - in a situation in which haste is advisable. And it is rather unwise to stay too long in one place.’

  ‘Yeah I saw that. And I don't ask questions. But you know what, witcher? I somehow lost all will to stay at this station and wait two whole days for a coach. First - boredom would kill me. Second - this girl you overwhelmed with a broom gave me a weird stare while leaving. It seems that she is not one to be clapped on the ass and called a whore without punishment. She might return. And I prefer to not be here when that happens. So maybe we will go on our way together?’

  ‘Gladly,’ Geralt smiled again. ‘With a good companion travel is easier on the soul, every philosopher will attest that. Only if the direction is good for both of us. I need to get to Novigrad. I have to be there before the fifteenth of July. Necessarily before the fifteenth.’

  He had to be in Novigrad at the latest on the fifteenth of July. He made it a point when the wizards hired him, buying two weeks of his time. No problem, Tzara and Pinety said looking at him with superiority. No problem, witcher. You will be in Novigrad before you can look around. We will teleport you straight into the main street.

  ‘Before the fifteenth, eh?’ the dwarf tugged at his beard. ‘Today is the ninth. It's not much time, as it is quite a travel. But there may be way for you to make it.’

  He stood up, took from a peg and put on a pointy hat with a broad rim. He threw a bag over his shoulder.

  ‘I will explain on the road. We should set off to the trail, Geralt of Rivia. Because that direction is best for me.’

  ***

  They marched briskly, maybe even too much so. Dwarves, although in need and for comfort could use any vehicle or mount any animal, decidedly preferred marching, they were unbested walkers. A dwarf could walk thirty miles a day, a distance travelled by a man on horse, and at that carrying a load that a human wouldn't be even able to lift. It was beyond human abilities to keep up in a march with a dwarf without any load. Witchers too. Geralt forgot that, and after some time he was forced to ask Addario to slow down.

  They marched through forest roads, and sometimes through wasteland. Addario knew the way, his orientation in this terrain was fine. In Cidaris, he explained, lives his family, so numerous as to make family parties common, those being weddings, christenings, funerals or wakes. According to dwarven custom the only excuse for not showing up was being dead, and a confirmed death certificate was needed, living family members could not avoid parties. Thus Addario knew the road to Cidaris and back perfectly.

  ‘Our goal,’ he explained, marching, ‘is the village of Windley, lying on the shore of the Pontar. In Windley there is a wharf, barges and boats moor there frequently. If we are lucky we will find a vessel. I need to get to Tretogor so I will get off at Crane Islet, you will have to stay on deck longer and after three or four days you will be in Novigrad. Believe me this is the fastest way.’

  ’I believe you. Slow down Addario, please.
Do you work in a profession related to walking? Are you a chapman?’

  ‘I'm a miner. In a copper mine.’

  ‘Sure. Every dwarf is a miner. And works in a mine in Mahakam. And stays at the front with a pickaxe.’

  ‘You fall victim to stereotypes. You will say that every dwarf curses foully. And after few a drinks jumps at every man with an axe.’

  ‘No, I will not say that.’

  ‘My mine is not in Mahakam, but in Copper, near Tretogor. And I don't stand there and extract, but play the horn in a miners' concert band.’

  ‘Curious.’

  ‘Curious,’ the dwarf laughed, ‘is something completely different. One of our best pieces is called "March of the Witchers". It goes like this: Tara-rara boom, boom, oomta-oomta, rim-tim-tim, paparara-tara-rara, tara-rara, boom, boom, boom...’

  ‘How the hell you came up with title? Have you ever seen marching witchers? Where? When?’

  ‘To be honest,’ Addario saddened a bit, ‘that is a slightly re-arranged "Parade of the Strongmen". But all miners' bands play some "Strongmen Parades", "Athletes Entries" or "Marches of Old Companions". We wanted to be original. Tara-rara boom boom!’

  ‘Slow down or I will pass out!’

  ***

  In the middle of the forest it was lonely. Not so in mid-forest meadows and clearings. They were full of work. Hay was mowed, and put into stacks. The dwarf greeted the rippers with merry shouts, and they responded. Or not.

  ‘This reminds me,’ Addario pointed at the workers, ‘of another march played by our band. It is titled "Hayman king". It's frequently played, particularly in the summer time. Also sung. We have a poet in the group, he wrote nice rhymes, its possible even a Capella. It goes like this:

  Men are mowing the grasses

  Women carry the hay

  They look into the sky

  And are afraid of the rain

  On hillock we stand

  From rain we protect

  Our dicks we wave

  To make the clouds go away

  ‘And da capo! It's good for marching, isn't it?’

  ‘Slow down, Addario!’

  ‘It's impossible to slow down! It's a marching song! March with the rhythm and the tempo!’

  ***

  On a hill they could see the whitened remnants of wall, a ruin of a building and the characteristic of a tower could also be seen. From this tower Geralt was able to recognize the ruins as a temple - he could not recall to which deity but he hard things about it. A long time ago priests lived here. It was said that when nobody could stand their rapacity, debauchery and licentiousness any longer the villagers exiled the priests and drove them into deep forests where they tried to convert the forest leprechauns. With poor results reportedly.

  ‘The Old Hermitage,’ Addario said. ‘We are on the proper track, and our timing is good. By the evening we will be in Forest Dam.’

  ***

  The stream along which they walked uphill murmured on stones and rapids, here it spilled out broadly creating a large pond. A wooden dam crossing the stream helped in that. There was some work going on at the dam, a group of people busied themselves there.

  ‘We are in Forest Dam,’ Addario said. ‘The construction that you see down there is just the splash dam. It enables the wood from the cutting to float. The river - as you can see is not fit for floating on itself, it's too shallow. The water is dammed up, the wood is gather and then the dam is opened. A huge wave is created which enables floating. This way the raw materials for charcoal are transported. And charcoal...’

  ‘Is necessary to smelt iron,’ finished Geralt. ‘And smelting is the most important and most prospective branch of industry. I know. Recently a certain wizard explained this to me. The wizard was well versed in charcoal and smelting.’

  ‘Not a strange thing, that,’ snorted the dwarf. ‘The Chapter of Wizards holds a majority of shares in the industrial center near Gors Velen, and a few steel mills and smelters are owned by them exclusively. Wizards get large profits from smelting. From other branches too. Maybe they even deserve it, after all they were the ones to develop the technology. But they could end the hypocrisy and admit that magic is not charity, not society-serving philanthropy, but for industry and generating a profit. Come, there is a small inn here, we will rest. And probably we will have to stay the night too as sun is setting.’

  ***

  The inn did not deserve the name, but there was nothing strange in that. It served woodcutters and lightermen, who did not care where they drink as long as there was something to drink. A shack with thatch full of holes, a roof supported on poles, a few tables and benches made of barely planed boards, a stone fireplace; more luxuries local society neither needed nor expected. All that counted was the barrels standing behind the wall, from which the bartender poured beer, and sometimes the sausages which could be, for a charge baked over coals by the ale-wife, if she was in a proper mood.

  Geralt and Addario also didn't have heightened needs, particularly taking into account that the beer was fresh, from a recently opened barrel, and a few compliments convinced the ale-wife to roast them a pan of blood sausages with onions. After a whole day of travel through the deep forest Geralt thought this blood sausage nearly equal with a leg of calf with vegetables, boar's shoulder, turbot in ink and other masterpieces of the chef of the Natura Rerum.

  But, frankly saying, he did miss it.

  ‘I'm curious,’ Addario called the ale-wife with a gesture and ordered another round of beer. ‘If you know the fate of this prophet?’

  Before them where they sat behind the table, they looked at the moss-covered stone standing near an old oak. Letters carved in the overgrown surface of the monolith informed them that in this exact place, on a day of the Birke holiday of the year 1133 post Resurrection, the Prophet Lebioda preached a sermon to his students, and the obelisk was founded to honor this event and erected in 1200 by Spirydon Apps, master of passmanterie from Rinde, a shop in the Small Market, quality high, prices low, we invite you.

  ‘Do you know,’ Addario scraped the rest of the blood sausage from the pan. ‘The history of this Lebioda, called a prophet? I mean the true history.’

  ‘I don't know any.’ The witcher cleaned his pan with a piece of bread. ‘Neither true, nor made-up. I was not interested.’

  ‘So listen. The thing happened about a hundred years ago, it seems not so long ago after the day carved in this stone. Now, as you surely know, dragons are seldom seen, unless in wild mountains among wastelands. But then they showed up more often and could be troublesome. They learned that pastures full of cattle are great eating houses, where you can eat to full satiety and without effort. Luckily for farmers, even large reptile feasted only once or twice per quarter, but it ate so much that he could threaten breeding, particularly when he became fond of a certain area. One huge dragon took a liking to a certain village in Kaedwen. He flew into the village, ate a few sheep, two or three cows, as a dessert he caught some fish from the ponds. To finish things he breathed fire, setting a barn or haystack on fire and flew off.’ The dwarf took a pull of his beer and belched.

  ‘The landowners tried to scare off the dragon, tried traps and various tricks, nothing worked. Fate decided that near Ban Ard came Lebioda, already famous, titled prophet, with his hordes of followers. The farmers asked for his help and too much surprise he didn't refuse. When the dragon came, Lebioda went to the pasture and began doing exorcisms over him. The dragon at first roasted him with flame, like a duck. And then just swallowed him. Simply swallowed. And flew off to the mountains.’

  ‘Is that the end?’

  ‘No. Listen further. The prophet's pupils cried, despaired. And then they hired trackers. Ours, dwarves that is, well versed in dragon lore. Those trackers went after that dragon for a month. Standard procedure; they followed piles of shit left by the dragon. And the pupils knelt before every heap and, crying intensely, searched for the remains of their master. At
last they completed their work, or they thought so, because what they gathered was chaotic mixture of not too clean human, bovine and sheep bones. All of this lies now in sarcophagus somewhere in Novigrad. As a miraculous relic.’

  ‘Admit it Addario. You made up this story. Or at least added some colour to it.’

  ‘Why do you suspect so?’

  ‘Because I know a certain poet well. This poet, when he has to choose between a true story and an attractive story, will always choose the second, spicing it up further. All accusations in this matter he rebukes stating that even if something is not true, it doesn't have to be a lie.’

  ‘I can guess the poet. Dandelion, obviously. And history has its laws.’

  ‘History,’ the witcher smiled. ‘Is a relation, mostly mendacious, of events mostly irrelevant, given by historians, mostly idiots.’

  ‘And this time, I too recognize the author of the quote,’ grinned Addario Bach. ‘Vysogota of Corvo. Philosopher and ethicist. Also historian. And when it comes to the prophet Lebioda... Well, as I said, history is history. But I've heard that priests sometimes take the prophet's remains out of sarcophagus and present them to believers for adoration. If I was there I would refrain from kissing.’

  ‘Refrain I will.’ Promised Geralt. ‘Since we are already talking about Novigrad...’

  ‘Easy.’ The dwarf anticipated his question. ‘You'll manage. We will rise early in the morning, and will soon be in Windley. We will catch some craft and you will be in Novigrad on time.’

  I hope so, thought the witcher, I hope so.

  Humans and beasts are different species, but foxes are between humans and beasts. The dead and the living walk different roads, but foxes are between the dead and the living. Transcendents and monsters travel different paths, but foxes are between transcendents and monsters. The paths of light and darkness never converge: fox-spirits stand somewhere between the two. Immortals and demons go different ways; fox-spirits stand somewhere between the two.