As they approached the counter, the men looked over their hosts and sized them up. They walked slowly causing their spurs and weapons to jingle.
‘Welcome, gentlemen’. The innkeeper cleared his throat and spoke. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Hooch’, said one of the men, short and squat, with long arms like a monkey. He wore two crossed Zerrikanian sabres on his back. ‘Want some, Professor?’
‘Gladly’, acquiesced the second man as he adjusted his spectacles -- made of polished crystal, with bluish reflections and gold frames -- which were planted on his hooked nose. ‘As long as the alcohol is unadulterated.’
The innkeeper served them. Aplegatt noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. The men stood with their backs to the counter; they sipped the contents of their clay mugs unhurriedly.
‘My dear innkeeper’, said the man with the glasses suddenly, ‘it has come to my attention that two ladies passed by this establishment, not very long ago; they were heading with alacrity towards Gors Velen.’
‘Lots of people pass through here’, stammered the innkeeper.
‘You could not have failed to notice the ladies in question’, said the man in the glasses, slowly. ‘One of them has black hair, and is of exceptional beauty. She rides a raven stallion. The second, younger, with light hair and green eyes, rides a speckled mare. Did they pass through here?’
‘No.’ Aplegatt, who felt a sudden chill up his spine, beat the innkeeper. ‘They didn't come through here’.
He remembered the words of the young girl: danger with grey feathers; warm sand…
‘Messenger?’
Aplegatt nodded.
‘Where did you come from and where are you going?’
‘Wherever the royal will takes me.’
‘The young ladies I mentioned, you wouldn't have met them, by chance?’
‘No.’
‘You're awfully quick to deny it’, growled the third man, tall and pole thin. His hair was black and shiny, as if it was greased back. ‘And I don't get the impression that you searched your memory very thoroughly.’
‘Leave it, Heim.’ The man with the glasses gestured. ‘He's a royal messenger. Not a troublemaker. What is the name of this establishment, innkeeper?’
‘Anchor.’
‘And how far to Gors Velen?’
‘What?’
‘How many miles?’
‘Me, I never measured it in miles. But it must be three days travel…’
‘By horse?’
‘By cart.’
‘Hey!’ Shorty exclaimed suddenly. He stood and looked out through the mostly open door. ‘Have a look, Professor. Who's that one? Isn't that…’
The man with the glasses also looked outside and his face fell at once.
‘Yes’, he whistled. ‘It's him, positively. We're in luck, it's all falling into place.’
‘We wait for him to come in?’
‘He won't come in. He's seen our horses.’
‘Shut-up, Yaxa. He's saying something.’
‘You have a choice.’ (Coming from outside, a voice, slightly hoarse but resonant, which Aplegatt recognized immediately, rang out.) ‘Either one of you comes out here and tells me who hired you, and you leave here without any fuss. Or the three of you come out. I'm waiting.’
‘Bastard…’ snarled the man with the black hair. ‘He knows. What do we do?’
Slowly, the man with the glasses put his mug back on the counter.
‘What we were paid to do.’
He spit into his hand, shook his hands and drew his sword. Immediately, the other two also drew their weapons. The innkeeper opened his mouth as if to scream, but quickly closed it again upon seeing the cold, piercing look cast by the man in the blue glasses.
‘Everybody sit down, mouths shut’, said the man. ‘Heim, when the battle starts, try to surprise him from behind. We're off, friends, the shits gonna fly! Let's go!
As soon as they were outside, the fight began: groaning, stamping and the clanging of swords could be heard. And then a cry rang out. A cry to make your hair stand on end.
The innkeeper paled, the woman with the circles under her eyes let a muffled scream as she clutched her nursling to her bosom. The cat on the bench stood, arched its back and raised its tail. Aplegatt, still seated, slid quickly into a corner. His knife was on his lap, but he had not yet removed it from its scabbard.
Outside, again there was the sound friction on a plank, a whistling and the clanging of blades.
‘You!’ shouted someone savagely, and this shout, while followed by a rather salty curse, was nonetheless a desperate cry of rage. ‘You!’
The clashing blades whistled through the air. Then suddenly, a very loud piercing noise which seemed to tear the air around it rang out. It was as if a huge sack of grain crashed onto the planks. From one of the hitching posts, the sound of horseshoes was heard, as well as the neighing of the frightened horses.
Again, something heavy crashed loudly onto the planks, the fast, heavy footsteps of someone running echoed in the yard. The woman with the nursling pressed closer to her husband, the innkeeper tried to back further into the wall. Aplegatt took out his knife, still keeping his weapon hidden under the table. The running man was coming towards the inn; it was clear that at any moment he would be at the door. But before he appeared, there was the whistling of a blade.
The man screamed and, immediately after, he staggered into the common room. He nearly fell on the threshold, but managed to stay upright. He took a few steps forward, slowly, wavered and only then collapsed in the very centre of the room, sending up a cloud of the accumulated dust between the floorboards. He fell face first, hands at his sides, legs bent. His crystal glasses crashed to the floor and shattered in a million bluish pieces. A dark, shining puddle began to spread beneath his now immobile body.
No one moved. There wasn't even a scream.
The man with the white hair entered the room.
He slipped the sword he held easily into its scabbard on his shoulders. He approached the counter, not even bothering to look at the corpse spread on the floor. The innkeeper shrank back.
‘They were bad people’, said the man with the white hair hoarsely. ‘And now they are dead. When the bailiff comes, he might mention a reward for their heads. Let the bailiff do as he pleases with it.’
The innkeeper nodded fervently.
‘Maybe’, continued the man with the white hair after a moment, ‘some colleagues or friends of these bad people might wonder what happened to them. To them, innkeeper, simply say that the Wolf ate them. The White Wolf. And tell them that they should look behind them often as well. One day, they'll see the Wolf at their heels.’
* * *
It was past midnight when Aplegatt reached the gates of Tretogor, three days later. He was angry because he had been forced to loiter by the moat, he had nearly ripped out his throat shouting to wake the guards: these guards slept with the angels and were none too quick to open the gate. Aplegatt didn’t fail to curse them generously, going back at least three generations. Later, he was pleased to hear their commander, once wakened, roundly complete the list of insults he had himself muttered about the mothers, grandmothers and great-grandmothers of these no-goods. Naturally, there was no question of seeing king Vizimir in the middle of the night. Anyway, he had given up the idea. He hoped to rest until the morning bells. He was kidding himself. Rather than being shown somewhere to rest, he was taken post haste to the guard house. It wasn’t the City Guard that awaited him inside, but the other one, the big one, the gigantic one. Aplegatt knew him, it was Dijkstra, the king of Redania’s intelligence man. Dijkstra – the messenger knew – was used to hearing news destined exclusively for royal ears. Aplegatt gave him his letters.
‘You have oral messages?’
‘I do, milord.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘From Demavend to Vizimir’, Aplegatt recited with his eyes closed. ‘First, the Masqueraders are ready
for the second night after the full moon in July. Second, I will not be gracing the assembly of the Crafty on Thanedd Island with my presence, and I advise you to do the same. Third, the Lion Cub is dead.’
Dijkstra winced slightly and drummed his fingers on the table…
‘Here are the letters for king Demavend. And for the oral message… listen carefully and use that memory of yours. You will relay it to your king, word for word. To him alone, and no one else. Nobody, got it?’
‘Got it, milord.’
‘The information is as follows: ‘From Vizimir to Demavend. Contain absolutely the Masqueraders. There has been a betrayal. The Flame has gathered an army in Dol Angra and is waiting for any excuse.’ Repeat.’
Aplegatt did so.
‘Good.’ Dijkstra nodded. ‘You will leave at sun up.’
‘I’ve been on the road five days, milord.’ The messenger rubbed his buttocks. ‘If I could only sleep until at least mid-morning… Would you allow me?’
‘Is your king, Demavend, sleeping right now? And me, I am sleeping? For even asking, boy, I should punch you in the face. You’ll be fed, and you can stretch your legs a bit on the grass. After that, you’ll hit the road before sunrise. I’ve asked that you be given a little thoroughbred stallion. You’ll see, he runs like a hurricane. And stop moping. There’s still this small purse for you, it’s a bonus, a little extra. So you don’t go saying Vizimir is stingy.’
‘Thanks to you, milord.’
‘When you reach the woods along the Pontar, be careful. Squirrels were seen there. Not to mention that those countries don’t lack for regular bandits.’
‘Oh yes! I’m aware of that, milord. Oh dear! When I think of what I saw three days ago!’
‘What did you see?’
Aplegatt quickly related the events in Anchor. Dijkstra listened, his powerful arms folded across his chest.
‘The Professor…’, he said thoughtfully. ‘Heimo Kantor and Little Yaxa. Slain by a witcher. At Anchor, on the road to Gors Velen, or Thanedd, Garstang… And the Lion Cub is dead?’
‘What are you saying, milord?’
‘It’s of no importance.’ Dijkstra looked up. ‘At least, not to you. Rest. And at dawn, go.’
Aplegatt ate what he was given, and stretched out a bit. He was so tired, he barely had time to blink. Before dawn he had already passed the city gates. His stallion was certainly frisky, but reluctant. Aplegatt didn’t like that kind of horse.
On his shoulders, between his left shoulder blade and his spine, something itched unbearably; no doubt, some flea had bitten him while he dozed in the barn. And no way to scratch it.
The stallion pranced and whinnied. The messenger spurred it and took off at a gallop. Time was of the essence.
* * *
‘Gar’ean’, whistled Cairbre. Hidden behind the branches of a tree, he watched the road. He leaned. ‘En Dh’oine aen evall a stráede!’
Toruviel leapt up, she grabbed her sword and adjusted it; with the tip of her boot, she kicked Yaevinn, who was sleeping near her in a clearing, in the thigh. The elf jumped, and cursed, burned on the hot sand where he placed his hand.
‘Que suecc’s?’
‘A horse on the road.’
‘A horse?’ Yaevinn grabbed his bow and quiver. ‘Cairbre? Just one?’
‘Yes. He’s getting closer.’
‘Well! Let’s fix him. That’ll make one less Dh’oine.’
‘Leave it.’ Toruviel grabbed him by the sleeve. ‘What’s the point? We’re supposed to be scouting, then it’s back to the commando. Must we really kill civilians on the road? Is this what the fight for liberty has come to?’
‘Exactly, yes. Move.’
‘If we leave a body on the road, the next patrol that passes will sound the alarm. The army will come after us. They’ll be watching the fords. We might have trouble crossing rivers.’
‘Hardly anyone comes this way. We’ll be long gone by the time they find the body.’
‘This rider is long gone too’, said Cairbre from his treetop perch. ‘Instead of chatting, you should have shot. Now you won’t be able to hit him. He’s at least two hundred yards away.’
‘With my sixty-six pounds?’ Yaevinn caressed his bow. ‘With my lovely thirty inch engine? Anyway, that’s not two hundred yards. One fifty, max. Mire, que spar aen’le.’
‘Yaevinn, leave it…’
‘Thaess aep, Toruviel.’
The elf spun his cap around so that the squirrel tail attached to it was out of his line of sight, drew his bow up to his ear with strength, aimed with precision and let go the string.
Aplegatt never heard the arrow. It was a silent arrow, specially fletched with long, narrow grey feathers. The arrow was equipped with a grooved shaft to make it lighter and more rigid. The point with its three razor sharp blades, quickly reached its target in the middle of the back, between his left shoulder blade and his spine. The blades were mounted such that they radiate from the centre; upon entering the body, the point turns like a screw and eviscerates the tissue, and shatters the bone. Aplegatt slumped forward onto his mount's neck, then slid to the ground, inert like dead weight.
On the ground, the sand was warm, burning even in the beating sun. But the messenger never felt it. He was killed instantly.
To say that I knew her would be an exaggeration. I think that no one, save the Witcher and the Sorceress, had really come to know her. The first time I saw her, she didn’t make a big impression on me, even despite the unusual circumstances surrounding our meeting. I’ve known people who claimed that from the moment they’d seen her they could feel the breath of death following the girl. To me, however, she appeared perfectly ordinary even though I knew that she was anything but – which is why I earnestly tried to see, to discover, to feel the oddity in her. But I couldn’t see nor feel anything. Anything that would be a signal, an omen or a foreshadowing of the tragic events to come. Those that happened because of her. And those that she’d caused herself.
Dandelion, Half a century of poetry
CHAPTER TWO
Near the crossroads, right where the forest ended, nine poles were erected. A carriage wheel was attached to each. Above the wheels, a flock of ravens and crows picked and shredded corpses tied to the rims. The height of poles and the number of birds made it impossible to tell for sure who the remains belonged to, but they were undoubtedly dead. There was no other possibility.
Ciri turned her head away from the sight and wrinkled her nose. The wind was blowing from the direction of the poles, so the nauseating stench of the rotting corpses was sprawling over the crossroads.
‘Splendid decoration,’ Yennefer bent in the saddle and spit onto the ground, temporarily forgetting that not so long ago she had scolded Ciri for doing just that. ‘Colourful and smelling of roses. But why here, at the edge of the forest? Usually such things are placed right before the city walls. Am I not right, my good men?’
‘It’s the Squirrels, my lady,’ explained one of the travelling merchants, halting his horse. ‘Elves. Up there, on the poles. That’s why they’re placed here. As a warning for other Squirrels.’
‘Does this mean,’ the sorceress glanced at him, ‘that every Scoia’tael caught alive is brought here…’
‘Elves, my lady, rarely let themselves be captured alive,’ the merchant interrupted. ‘And even when warriors manage to catch one, they’re taken to a town, since that’s where resident non-humans dwell. But an elf struck in a battle is brought to the crossroads and strapped to a pole. Often, they’re brought from afar, all rotten and stinky…’
‘And to think,’ muttered Yennefer, ‘that we were forbidden from practicing necromancy on account of respect for the majesty of death and remains deserving reverence, peace, ceremonial burial…’
‘What do you mean, my lady?’
‘Never mind. Let us not waste time, Ciri; better to leave this place. Pfeh, I feel like I’ve already been contaminated by that stench.’
‘Me too, eueu
eee!’ said Ciri, overtaking merchant’s wagon. ‘Let’s ride at a gallop, okay?’
‘Fine… Ciri! I meant a gallop, not a frenzy!’
* * *
They soon approached a city: huge, surrounded by walls, bristling with spike-shaped towers. Sea could be seen behind it, blue-green, sparkling in the morning sun, dotted with white spots of sails. Ciri stopped her horse at the edge of the sandy cliff, stood on stirrups and greedily inhaled the wind and the smell.
‘Gors Velen,’ said Yennefer, riding up to her. ‘We've finally arrived. Let’s go back on the road.’
They took off at a gallop again, leaving behind few wagons and wood-carrying pedestrians. Once they were alone, the sorceress slowed down and nodded at Ciri to do the same.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Closer. Take the reins and lead my horse. I’ll need both hands.’
‘What for?’
‘Take the reins, I said.’
Yennefer took out a silvery mirror, wiped it and quietly murmured a spell. The mirror slipped out of her hands and floated above stallion’s neck, right across her face.
Ciri sighed in admiration; licked her lips.
The sorceress took off her bonnet and for a moment energetically combed her hair. Ciri was silent. She knew that Yennefer was not to be disturbed when making her hair. The beautiful and seemingly incidental disorder of her curly, lush locks needed a lot of work and attention.
The Time of Contempt Page 5