Stephen Hulin

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘The rats are fleeing Palmyra and the port,’ decided Dandelion, ‘because they are afraid! I know what has happened! Perhaps the ship moored to the bank is full of rat-catchers.’

  No one bothered to answer. Geralt wiped the sweat from his eyes, the heat was terrible, the hot air made it difficult to breathe. He looked at the sky, clear and cloudless.

  ‘There is a storm,’ Lytta expressed what she was thinking aloud. ‘A heavy storm. The rats feel it. I can also feel it. I feel it in the air.’

  And I, too, thought the witcher.

  ‘A storm,’ repeated Coral. ‘A storm is coming from the sea.’

  ‘What sort of storm?’ Dandelion said busily dusting his hat. ‘Where from? The sky is clear and there is no wind. Sorry, but in this heat it would be nice if there was a breeze. A sea breeze…’

  But before he could finish the sentence, a wind blew. A light breeze carrying the smell of the sea, giving a pleasant relief and refreshing. It quickly gained momentum. The flags on the masts, which a moment ago had hung down sad and still, started to flap and stir.

  The sky on the horizon darkened. The wind grew stronger. The gentle silence was replaced by a rustling noise; the rustling noise was then replaced by a whistle.

  The flags on the masts rustled and flapped furiously. Rooster shaped wind vanes on top of rooftops and towers, rattled and spun. Shutters slammed. And clouds of dust flew.

  Dandelion at the last minute grabbed his hat with both hands, or it would have flown away in the wind.

  Mozaïk held her dress, a sharp gust of wind lifted the chiffon high, almost to her hips. Before she managed to handle the wind tossed cloth, Geralt saw a pleasing amount of her legs. She noticed his gaze. But did not lower her eyes.

  ‘Storm...’ Coral, in order to speak, had to turn away, the wind was already so strong it drowned out words. “The Storm! The storm is here!’

  ‘Gods!’ Yelled Dandelion, who did not believe in any gods. ‘Gods! What is happening? Is this the end of the world?’

  The sky quickly darkened. The horizon had gone from dark blue to black.

  The wind was rising, whistling terribly.

  On the road to the port the sea surged with breakers, waves hit the breakwater, spraying white foam. The noise from the sea grew louder. It became as dark as night.

  Among the vessels standing at anchor there was a commotion. Some including the clipper “Echo” and the Novigrad schooner “Pandora Parvis” hurriedly set sail, ready to escape into the open sea. The rest of the ships had removed their sails and remained at anchor. Geralt remember some of them, he had watched them from the terrace of Coral’s villa. The “Albatross” out of Redania. The “Fuchsia”, he could not remember from where. And the galleons “Pride of Cintra“, under a flag with a blue cross. And the three masted “Vertigo” from Lan Exeter. And several others. Including the frigate “Acheron” under black sails.

  The wind was not whistling. It howled. Geralt saw in Palmyra the first roof break and fling tiles into the air. The second did not wait long. Then a third and a fourth. The wind was still intensifying. Flags flapped, shutters banged, tiles and gutter fell, chimneys toppled and broke planters on the pavement. Under the pressure of the vortex the bell at the temple began to beat a staccato, frightenly sinister ringing.

  The wind blew stronger. It drove huge waves to the shore. The noise of the sea grew louder and louder. Soon it was not a noise. It was a monotonous and dull roar, like the roar of some diabolical machine. The waves grew, topped with white foam. The earth rumbled under their feet. The wind howled.

  “Echo” and “Pandora Parvis” were unable to leave. They returned to the pier and dropped anchor. Crowds gathered on the terraces and the cries of people grew louder, filled with wonder and horror. People pointed to the sea.

  From the sea, there appeared a huge wave. A colossal wall of water. Its surge seemed as high as the galleons mast.

  Coral grabbed the witcher’s hand. She said something, or rather, tried to speak, the wind completely plugged her mouth.

  ‘…run! Geralt! We have to get out of here!’

  The wave struck the port, People were screaming. Under the pressure of the water, beams and planks turned to splinters. It came to the dock, breaking the jib cranes and pylons. Boats and barges docked at the port were tossed around like children’s toys made of bark. Houses standing close to the beach were simply washed away, no trace was left of them. The wave broke into the mouth of the river, immediately turning it into a hellish cauldron. From the flooded Palmyra, crowds rushed, headed to the upper town, towards the watchtower. These survived. Some chose the river as a path to salvation. Geralt saw them swallowed by water.

  ‘There’s a second wave!’ Yelled Dandelion. ‘A second wave!’

  Yes, there was a second. And then a third. Fourth. Fifth. And sixth. Walls of water hit the road and port.

  With terrible force the waves struck the ships at anchor. Geralt was people falling from the deck.

  Some turned their noses upwind and fought bravely. For a while. Masts were lost, one after another. Then the waves began to cover them. They disappeared in the foam, reappeared, disappeared and reappeared.

  The first to cease appearing was the clipper “Echo”. It just disappeared. Sometime later the same fate befell the “Fuchsia”. In the blink of an eye the “Albatross” disappeared into the abyss. The anchor on “Vertigo” broke, the galleon danced on the crest of a wave, turned and crashed into the breakwater.

  “Acheron”, Pride of Cintra”, “Pandora Parvis” and two other galleons unknown to Geralt, lifted anchor and the waves carried them to shore. The maneuver was desperately suicidal. The captains could either choose certain death at anchorage or risk moving into the mouth of the river.

  The unknown galleons were out of luck. None of them could head in the right direction. Both of them crashed into the pier.

  The “Pride of Cintra” and “Acheron” also were not obeying their helm. They faced each other, locked together and then were pinned to the quay and smashed to pieces. Then consumed by the water.

  “Pandora Parvis” danced and jumped over the waves like a dolphin. But it held course and was carried into the mouth of the Adalatte. Geralt could hear the cries of people cheering for the captain.

  Coral shouted, pointing.

  It was a seventh wave.

  The previous height had been as high as the masts of the ships, Geralt assessed about five – six fathoms, that is thirty or forty feet. The one that came from the sea now that covered the entire sky was twice as high.

  The crowd fleeing from Palmyra crowded around the watchtower, and began to cry. The wind knocked them to the ground, and pulled at the stockade.

  The wave struck Palmyra. And like a broom, swept away the earth. The water in a blink of an eye reached the palisade, flooding the people pressed against it. The wave hit the timber stockade, knocking it down. The unstoppable water rammed the rock. The cliff began to shake so that Dandelion and Mozaïk dropped, and Geralt with great difficulty kept his balance.

  ‘We must run!’ Coral cried, clutching the balustrade. ‘Geralt! Run! There is another wave!’

  The wave hit them. People on the terraces, those who had not run away before, ran now. They ran amidst shouts high up the mountain as possible, to the royal palace. Few people remain. Geralt recognised among them Ravenga and Antea Derris.

  People were shouting and wailing. The waves eroded a section the cliff to the right of them, under a set of villas. The first villa, slide like a house of cards, down the slope and right into the surf. Then went the second, third and fourth.

  ‘The city is falling apart!’ Yelled Dandelion. ‘Crubling!’

  Lytta Neyd raised her hand. Shouted a spell. And disappeared. Mozaïk clutched Geralt’s hand. Dandelion shouted.

  The water was already under them, under the terrace. And there were people in the water. From above people, where throwing down ropes. Next
to them, a powerfully built man jumped into the maelstrom, swimming quickly to rescue a drowning woman.

  Mozaïk screamed.

  The witcher saw waves sweeping over the roof of a house. And clinging to the roof were children. Three children. He pulled his sword from his back.

  ‘Hold this, Dandelion.’

  He shrugged off his jacket. And jumped into the water.

  It was not the usual swimming, a swimmer with ordinary skills would have been little use. Waves swept up, down, and sideways, throwing him spinning into a vortex of beams, boards and furniture, and pushing him up against a tree which threatened to squash him like a pancake. When he finally swam over and grabbed the roof, he was beaten severely. The roof jumped and spun on the waves like a top.

  The kids bellowed.

  Three, he thought. I can’t take all three.

  Next to his shoulder he felt someone.

  ‘Two!’ Antea Derris spat water, and grabbed one of the children. ‘Take two!’

  It was not easy. The boy, he grabbed and tucked under his arm. The girl in a panic gripped the rafters so hard that he could not remove her hand. It helped when a wave crashed over them. Choking the girl released the rafter, and Geralt gripped her with his other arm. And then all three of them began to sink. The children gurgled and twitched. Geralt fought.

  Without knowing how, he emerged. A wave pressed him up against the wall of the terrace, knocking out his breath. He did not let go of the children. People shouted from above, trying to help, holding down things for him to hand onto. It didn’t work. The whirlpool lifted him and carried him away., He collided with someone, it was Antea Derris with the girl in her arms. She struggled, but it was evident that this was her last effort, with difficulty she was holding the child above the water and her head.

  Nearby there was a splash and panting. It was Mozaïk. She grabbed one of the children and swam. He saw her get hit by a beam. She screamed but did not release the child.

  The waves again threw them at the terrace wall. This time the people above were ready, they had brought a ladder, and hung from it with outstretched arms. They took the children. He watched as Dandelion help Mozaïk up to the terrace.

  Antea Derris looked at him. She had beautiful eyes. She smiled.

  Then the wave hit them with a bunch of beams. Large beams, from the palisade.

  One of the beams hit Antea Derris and pinned her to the terrace. Antea spat blood. A lot of blood. Then, with her head on her chest, she disappeared under the water.

  Great was struck by two beams, one in the shoulder, the other in the thigh. The strike paralyzed him, he became completely numb all over. He choked and sank to the bottom.

  Someone grabbed him in a painful iron grip and pulled him to the surface. He reached out and felt a solid as rock bicep. The strongman’s legs worked, churning up water like a newt, with his free hand he pushed away the floating debris in the whirling chaos. They emerged near the terrace. Above were screams and applause. And an outstretched hand.

  A minute later he was lying in a puddle of water, coughing, spitting, and burping on the stone slabs of the terrace. Kneeling close by was Dandelion, pale as paper. On his other side was Mozaïk.

  She was also pale. And her hands trembled. Geralt sat up with difficulty.

  ‘Antea?’

  Dandelion shook his head and turned away. Mozaïk dropped her head on her knees. He saw he shoulders shake.

  His saviour sat nearby. A strongman. More precisely, a strongwoman. A disorderly stubble on her shorn head. Her stomach muscles like rolls. Her shoulders, like a fighter. Calves, like a gymnast.

  ‘I owe you my life.’

  ‘There is…’ The guard-woman waved blithely, ‘nothing to talk about. Generally speaking, you’re an asshole, and me and the girls owe you for the fight. So it’s better not to get caught up in this owing stuff. Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘But I have to admit,’ the guard-woman spat vigorously, and shook water from her ear, ‘that for an asshole you are courageous. The courageous asshole, Geralt of Rivia.’

  ‘And you? What’s your name?’

  ‘Violetta,’ said the guard-woman suddenly darkening. ‘And her? What was…’

  ‘Antea Derris.’

  ‘Antea Derris,’ she said twisting her lips. ‘It’s a pity.’

  ‘It’s a pity.’

  On the terrace, it became crowded. It started to brighten, the wind stopped and flags drooped. The waves became smaller and started to recede. Leaving devastation and ruin. And corpses, which the crabs had already started to climb on.

  Geralt struggled to his feet. Every movement and every deep breath caused a dull pain in his side. His knee hurt badly. Both of his sleeves were cut off, he did not remember when he lost them. The skin on his left elbow and right shoulder were torn to living flesh. He had many small cuts and bruises. Overall, nothing serious, nothing that he should worry about.

  The sun broke through the clouds, and shone on the sea. It glittered off of the roof of the lighthouse at the edge of the cape, the lighthouse of white and red brick, a relic of the elves. A relic, which had already gone through more than one such storm. And it seemed, like it would survive another one.

  Having overcome the now calm though choked with debris river, the schooner “Pandora Parvis” emerged under full sail, as if on parade. The crowd greeted her.

  Geralt helped Mozaïk to stand. The girl, Had on very few clothes. Dandelion gave her his coat to cover herself. And coughed meaningfully.

  Before them stood Lytta Neyd. With a medical bag swung over her shoulder.

  ‘I’m back,’ she said looking at the witcher.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You left.’

  She looked at him. With cold, alien eyes. And then focused on something very far away, located right behind the witcher’s right shoulder.

  ‘So you want to play this out here,’ she said coldly. ‘Make new memories. Well, your will, your cholice. Although the style you chose could have been less pathetic. Goodbye then. I’m going to help the wounded and those in need. You obviously don’t need my help. Or I yours. Mozaïk!’

  Mozaïk shook her head. She took Geralt’s arm. Coral sniffed.

  ‘Even so? You want to do it? In this way? Well’ your will. Your choice. Farewell.’

  She turned and walked away.

  ***

  In the crowd, which had begun to gather on the terrace, appeared Febus Ravenga. He apparently had taken part in the rescue, because wet clothes hung on him in shreds. A helpful man approached him and handed him his hat. Or rather, what was left of it.

  ‘What now?’ someone in the crowd asked. ‘What do we do now?’

  Ravenga looked at them. For a long time. Then he straightened up and squeezed his hat and put it on his head.

  ‘We bury the dead,’ he said. ‘And take care of the living. And begin to build anew.’

  ***

  The bell in the temple sounded. As if it wanted to point out that it persevered. That thought much had changed, some things remain unshakable.

  ‘Let’s leave,’ Geralt took a piece of wet seaweed out of his collar. “Dandelion? Where’s my sword?’

  Dandelion gasped, pointing to an empty space under the wall.

  ‘A moment ago… A moment ago it was right there! Your sword and jacket! Stolen! Curse their mothers! Stolen! Hey, people! There was a sword! Please return it! People! Oh, you sons of bitches! Go to hell!’

  The witcher suddenly felt sick. Mozaïk supported him. Poor thing, he thought. Poor thing, if she has to support me.

  ‘I’m sick of this town,’ he said. ‘And all that goes with it. And what it represents. Let’s go. As soon as possible. As far as possible.’

  Interlude

  Twelve days later

  The fountain glittered quietly, the fountain bowl smelled of wet stone. The air smelled of flowers and of ivy crawling on the walls of the patio. It smelled of app
les, standing in a bowl on a marble table. Two glasses steamed up with chilled wine.

  At the table sat two women. Two sorceresses. If they happened to be near any artistically gifted person, full of picturesque imagination and capable of lyrical allegories, it would not have been difficult to imagine the two. Flame-haired Lytta Neyd in a cinnabar green dress was like a sunset in September. Yennefer of Vengerberg, black-haired, dressed in a combination of black and white, suggested a December morning.

  ‘Most of the neighbouring villas,’ Yennefer broke the silence, ‘lie in ruins at the foot of the cliff. And yet yours is unharmed. Not even a single tile has fallen. Lucky you, Coral. I’d advise you to think about buying a lottery ticket.’

  ‘Priests,’ smiled Lytta Neyd, ‘would not call it luck. They would say that it was the protection of the gods and celestial forces. The Gods extend their protection over the righteous and virtuous. And they are rewarded fair and decent.’

  ‘Of course. Rewarded. If they want, and are nearby. Your health, my friend.’

  ‘Your health, my friend. Mozaïk! Pour for Madame Yennefer. Her glass is empty.’

  ‘As for the villa,’ Lytta watched Mozaïk, ‘it can be purchased. Purchased because… Because I need to leave. The aura around Kerack has ceased to serve me.’

  Yennefer raised her eyebrows. Lytta was not long in coming forth.

  ‘King Viraxas,’ she said with a faintly mocking voice, ‘began his reign with new royal decrees. First – on the day of his coronation he declared in the kingdom of Kerack a public holiday and non-work. Second, he announced an amnesty for… criminals, and politicians continue to sit, though without the right to appointments and correspondence. Third, he raised the port charges by one hundred percent. Forth, within two weeks all non-citizens of Kerack must leave, so as not to harm the country’s economy and deprive the pure blooded citizen of work. Fifth, in Kerack it is forbidden to perform any magic without the permission of the king, and mages are not allowed to own land or property. Sorcerers living in Kerack need to get rid of property and get a license. Or leave the kingdom.’