He pushed the door, but it did not budge. He was slightly started when his medallion did. The door was magical, protected by a spell. However, the twitching of his medallion, said that it was a powerful spell. He brought his face to the door.
‘Friend.’
The door opened silently on oiled hinges. He realised that the magical protection was protected by a standard factory password – luckily for him – someone had not wanted to install something more sophisticated. They were supposed to protect the cave system from beings who were unable to use even the simplest magic.
Behind the door ended the natural caves. There was a corridor that had been carved from the rocks with picks.
But despite all this, he was not full of confidence. He could see a light ahead. The flickering of a torch or candle. Then he heard a familiar sound. Laughter.
‘Bueeeeeh! Bueeh-heeh-heeh!’
Light and laughter, as it turned out, came from a large room illuminated by a torch stuck in an iron holder. Against the wall was piled boxes, barrels and crates. Behind one of the boxes, using the barrels as chairs sat Bue and Bang. They played dice. Bang laughed, apparently, winning more points.
Next to them sat a bottle of vodka. Beside that lay a snack.
Baked human foot.
The Witcher drew his sword from its scabbard.
‘Hi guys.’
Bue and Bang spent some time staring at him with their mouths open. Then they roared, sprang up, knocking over the barrels and grabbed their weapons. Bue grabbed a scythe, and Bang reached for a scimitar. Both rushed at the witcher.
They surprised him, although he did not expect that everything would be easy. He did not expect the clumsy giants to be so fast.
Bue waved his scythe down low, if Geralt hadn’t jumped he would have lost both legs. He narrowly avoided being hit by Bang, the scimitar kicking up sparks from the stone wall.
The witcher knew how to deal with fast things. And large things too. Fast or slow, big or small – everything had areas sensitive to pain.
And they had no idea how quick the witcher had become from drinking his elixirs.
Bue howled in shock when he hit his elbow. Bang howled even louder when hit in the knee. The witcher deceptively fast, jumped over the scythe, and slashed Bue with his blade on the ear. Bue roared, shaking his head and swung his scythe. Geralt crooked his fingers into the Sign of Aard. The spell knocked Bue over backwards onto the floor so hard his teeth clacked together.
Bang swung his scimitar widely. Geralt deftly ducked under the blade, and quickly slashed the giant on the other knee, turned around, jumped onto Bue who was still trying to get up and slashed him across the eyes. Bue, however, managed to turn his head, the blow fell across his eyebrow arches, the blood immediately flooded the giants face. Bue roared, leaped up blindly and dashed towards the witcher, who leaped out of the way. Bue ran and collided with Bang. Bang pushed him out of the way, growling furiously, he rushed the witcher, chopping backhanded with his scimitar. Geralt was gone, with a half turn, he slashed the giant with both elbows. Bang howled, but didn’t release the scimitar, he swung again and stuck boldly at random. Geralt dodge the tip. He found himself behind Bang, and did not fail to take advantage of the opportunity. He turned his blade and slashed from below, vertically between the buttock. Bang grabbed his ass, howled, screamed, moved his feet apart, bent his knees and pissed himself.
Bue, blinded, swung his scythe. He hit. But the witcher had pirouetted to the left. He had hit his comrade who was still bent. And knocked his head off. From a slit in the trachea there was a loud hiss of released air, and then blood burst from an artery like lava from the crater of a volcano, high, right up to the ceiling.
Bang was bleeding like a headless statue in a fountain, holding upright on his huge flat feet. But finally leaned over and fell like a log.
Bue rubbed his eyes covered with blood. He roared like a buffalo when he finally realized what had happened. He stamped his feet, waving his scythe. He spun on the pot, looking for the witcher. He didn’t find him. Because the witcher was behind him. The blow under his arm, dropped the scythe from his hands, he rushed at Geralt with bare hands, but again blood flooded into his eyes and he ran into a wall. Geralt jumped after him, slashing.
Bue, apparently did not know that he had a dissected artery. And that he did not have long to live. He growled, spun on the spot, waving his arms. Yet his knees buckled under him and he splashed down in a pool of blood. While on his knees, he continued to growl, but it grew slower and weaker. Geralt moved forward to finish him, poking him under the edge of his sternum. It was a mistake. The giant groaned and grabbed the blade. His eyes were already clouded, but he did not weaken his grip. Geralt put his boot on his chest and pulled. Although Bue’s hand was bleeding, he did not let go.
‘You stupid son of a bitch,’ hissed the hunchback entering the cavern, aiming a crossbow at the witcher. ‘You’ve crawled here to your death, so it turned out, you bloody bastard. Hold him, Bue!’
Geralt tugged. Bue groaned, but did not let go. The hunchback grinned and pulled the trigger. Geralt, crouched, and avoided the heavy bolt, which flew past his side and hit a wall. Bue let go of the sword, then lying on his stomach, grabbed the witcher’s legs, immobilizing him. The hunchback roared and raised the crossbow.
But he did not get time to shoot.
Into the cavern, like a grey arrow, burst a huge wolf. He hit the hunchback in the legs and back, tearing ligaments and arteries. The hunchback cried out and fell. The fallen crossbow’s bowstring clicked. Bue wheezed. A bolt went into his ear. The tip of it poking out of the other ear.
The hunchback howled. The wolf opened its terrible maw and grabbed his head. The howl turned into a croak.
Geralt, his feet finally freed from the deceased giant, stood up. Dussart, in human form, stood over the corpse of the hunchback, wiping his lips and chin.
‘Forty-two years as a werewolf,’ he said, meeting the eyes of the witcher, ‘and this is the first opportunity, to finally bite someone to death.’
***
‘I had to come,’ Dussart explained. ‘I realised that I must warn you, Geralt.’
‘About them?’ Geralt said wiping his blade on the motionless body.
‘Not just them.’
The witcher entered the next room, following by the werewolf. Who then involuntarily retreated.
The stone floor was black with dried blood. In the middle of the room was a gaping black hole surrounded by a fence. Nearby stood a pile of corpses. Naked and mutilated, cut up, quartered, some flayed. It was difficult to estimate how many there were.
From the hole, from the depths, they could clearly hear crunching sounds, the sounds of bones breaking.
‘Before, I couldn’t smell it.’ Dussart muttered, his voice full of disgust. ‘Only when you opened the door, I sensed that down there… Let’s run. Away from all this death.’
‘I’m here to finish something. But you go. Thank you for the rescue.’
‘Don’t thank me. I was in your debt. And I’m happy to be able to repay you.’
***
Near the back of the room was a spiral staircase, steps carved into the rock and winding upwards like a cylindrical barrel. Similarly, it was difficult to guess how many, but Geralt figured that if it was a standard tower stairway, it would go up two, maybe three floors. He counted sixty-two steps when he finally stopped at a door. Like the one at the bottom, this one also had a sawed out passage for a cat. Like the one at the bottom it was also closed, but without magic, and opened by lightly turning the handle.
Inside the room, there were no windows and it was poorly lit. Under the ceiling hung a few magic globes, but only one of them was active. There was an awful chemical stink, and all kinds of nasty things. At first glance, it was clear what the place was. Banks, bottles, retorts, glass jars, tubes, steel tools and accessories, in a word, a laboratory, without a doubt.
On a shelf
near the entrance was a number of large glass jars. The nearest was filled with human eyes, floating in a yellow liquid, like plums in compote. The jar held a homunculus, tiny, no more than two fist put together. In the third…
In the third jar, floating in liquid, was a human head. The facial features were distorted due to the cuts, swelling and discoloured skin, it was difficult to recognise, moreover, it was hard to see through the thick, streaked glass. But the head was completely bald. Only one sorcerer shaved his head bald.
Harlan Tzara, it seemed, never made it to Kovir.
In other jars, other things floated, blue, pale abominations. But no other heads were in them.
The centre of the room held a table. A corrugated steel table with drainage. On the table lay a naked corpse. The corpse was a child’s body. A blonde girl.
The body was dissected with Y-shaped cuts. The internal organs were laid out on both sides of the body, smooth, orderly, neat. It looked just like the drawings in an anatomy class. The only thing missing was designations: Fig.1, Fig. 2 and so on.
He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. A big black cat slipped along the wall, looking at him, then hissed and ran through the open door. Geralt followed.
‘Mister…’
He stopped. And turned around.
In the corner stood a cell, low and similar to a pen for chickens. He saw delicate fingers clenching the iron bars. And then her eyes.
‘Mister, save…’
A boy, no older than ten years. Huddled and shivered.
‘Save me…’
‘Quiet. You aren’t in danger anymore, just a little patience. I’ll come back for you.’
‘Mister. Don’t leave me!’
‘Quiet, I said.’
First he came across a dusty library. Then, a living room. And then a bedroom. It was occupied by a large bed with a black canopy on poles made of ebony.
The witcher heard a rustle. He turned.
In the doorway stood Sorel Degerlund. Neatly combed, in a mantle embroidered with gold stars. Near Degerlund stood something incredibly large, completely grey and armed with a zerrikainian sabre.
‘I’m standing at the ready with a jar of formalin,’ said the magician. ‘For your head, you bastard. Kill him, Beta!’
Degerlund did not have time to finish the sentence, before the grey creature attacked. The incredibly fast grey ghost, moved as light and quietly as a rat, it’s sabre whistling. Geralt escaped two attacks carried out classically – crosswise. After the first, he felt movement next to his ear and heard the air whistle, after the second – a light touch on his sleeve. The third blow he parried with his sword, and for a moment they were close. He saw the face of the grey creature, large yellow eyes with vertical pupils, narrow slits instead of a nose, and pointed ears. The creature did not have a mouth.
They parted. The creature was swift, attacking immediately, volatile, dancing and again cutting crosswise. Again predictably. It was inhumanly agile, incredibly dexterous, devilishly fast. But stupid.
It had no idea how quickly the witcher had become by drinking his elixirs.
Geralt allowed him one more blow with the same maneuver. Then he attacked. His skill and movement were hundredfold. He moved around the grey creature with a quick half-turn, feinted and slashed it on the collarbone. The blood did not even have time to splash before he turned his sword and cut the monster under the arm. He jumped away, ready for more. But more was not needed.
The creation, as it turned out, had a mouth. On its grey face, a laceration, wide, from ear to ear appeared. But no voice, nor sound issued from it. It fell to its knees, then onto its side. For a moment it twitched, moving its arms and legs like a dog, which was dreaming. Then it died. Quietly.
Degerlund made a mistake. Instead of running, he raised both hands and began to shout a spell, mad, barking, filled with anger and hatred in his voice. Around his hands appeared swirling flames, the formation of a fireball. It looked like the production of cotton candy. And even smelled similar.
Degerlund did not have time to finish the ball. He had no idea how fast the witcher had become by drinking his elixirs.
Geralt jumped, slashing with his sword over the top of the ball and hands of the magician. The ball thundered and sparked like an inflamed oven. Degerlund, squealing, released the fiery sphere from his bleeding hands. The fireball went out, filling the room with the smell of burnt caramel.
Geralt sheathed his sword. He hit Degerlund in the face with a widely swung open palm. The wizard shouted, curled up and turned his back. The witcher grabbed him, took him by the throat, holding him at arm’s length. Degerlund yelled and began to kick.
‘You cannot!’ he howled. ‘You cannot kill me! Because I’m… a human!’
Geralt clenched his fingers around his throat. Not too hard to start with.
‘It wasn’t me!’ howled the magician. ‘It was Ortolan! Ortolan ordered me! He made me! Birtua Icarti knew everything! She did! It was her idea, this medallion! It was she who told me to do it.’
The witcher increased the pressure.
‘We were saving the people! Saving!’
Geralt increased the pressure.
‘The people… need… help…’
Degerlund wheezed, from his mouth drool flowed copiously. Geralt looked away. Then increased the pressure.
Degerlund collapsed and sagged. Stronger. The hyoid bone cracked. Stronger. The larynx fractured. Stronger. Even stronger.
The cervical vertebrae cracked and shifted.
Geralt supported Degerlund for a moment. Then abruptly twisted the wizard’s head to one side, for greater certainty. Then he let go. The wizard collapsed onto the floor, silent as silk.
The witcher wiped off the drool on the black canopy.
The big black cat came out of nowhere. It walked to Degerlund’s body. Licked his hand. It mewed plaintively. It lay down next to the body and pressed himself to its side. It looked at the witcher with its wide golden eyes.
‘I had too,’ said the witcher. ‘I had too. You of all people, must understand.’
The cat closed his eyes. In a sign that said that it understood.
***
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;
William Shakespeare, Richard II (Translated by M. Donskoi)
Chapter Eighteen
The weather on the Day of the Royal Wedding in Kerack was clear, without a single cloud in the sky. The morning was very warm, the heat softened by the breath of the sea breeze.
From the early morn, excitement prevailed in the Upper Town. The streets and squares were carefully swept, facades were decorated with ribbons and garlands and flags were raised on poles. The road leading to the Royal Palace, in the morning was filled with a stream of suppliers – loaded wagons and carts alternated between full and empty, while porters, artisans, tradesmen, couriers and messengers ran uphill. A while later, the road was filled with sedan chairs, which travelled to the palace full of wedding guests. My wedding – allegedly announced King Belohun – should be remembered, the rumours ran that morning. Therefore, by order of the King, the celebrations should begin early and continue until late at night. During this time the guests will be privileged to unprecedented fun.
Kerack was a tiny kingdom, and, in general, was not important, so Geralt doubted that the world would be particularly impressed by Belohun’s wedding – even if he decided to celebrate it for at least a week, and the devil knows what he would think up for entertainment. To the people living further than a hundred miles, no news of these events would reach them. But to Belohun, it was known that the world was the centre of the city of Kerack and the world itself and its surroundings where no bigger than the size of Ke
rack.
He and Dandelion dressed up as elegantly as possible within their capabilities, Geralt had even acquired a brand new calfskin jacket that he had paid too much for. As for Dandelion, he announced from the beginning that he was at the royal wedding for one reason, and he would not take part in it. True, he was registered on the guest list, but as a relative of the Royal Instigator, and not as a world-famous poet and bard. But the fact that he was not invited to perform, Dandelion took it as disrespect and offense. As usual, his offense did not last long, only half a day.
All along the winding road along the slope leading up to the palace were set poles, they lazily fluttered in the breeze, hanging with yellow flags with the emblem of Kerack – a blue dolphin nageant with red fins and tail.
Before entering the territory of the palace, waiting before them was Dandelion’s relative Ferrant de Lettenhove, accompanied by several royal guards, dressed in the colours of the dolphin heraldic, blue and red. The Instigator greeted Dandelion and called a page that was supposed to help the poet and conduct him to the place of celebration.
‘And you, Master Geralt, follow me.’
They walked down a side alley, obviously having a partial economic purpose, because from there came the sounds of pots and kitchen utensils, as well as vile insults shouted at the cooks by the chef. In addition, there was the pleasant smell of delicious foods. Geralt was familiar with the menu, he knew what would regale the guests during the wedding feast. A few days ago he had visited with Dandelion the “Natura Rerum”. Febus Ravenga without hiding his pride, boasted that he, along with several other restaurants would organise the list of dishes and prepare them with other local elite chefs. For breakfast, he said, they will be served oysters, sea urchins, shrimp and crab. For brunch, jellied meats and a variety of pates, salmon smoked and pickled, jellied duck and sheep and goat cheeses. For lunch, would be served a broth of meat or fish, soup with quenelles of liver, monkfish, toasted with honey and grilled sea bass with saffron and cloves.
Stephen Hulin Page 26