The Time of Contempt

by Andrzej Sapkowski

‘You will not escape me now, young lion of Cintra.’ Through the visor of the helmet his eyes burned mercilessly. ‘Not this time. This time you have no escape, my wild lady.’

  ‘Do not touch me,’ she repeated, her voice choked with horror, her back pressed against the stone wall.

  ‘I have to. I’m following orders.’

  When he reached out, fear suddenly disappeared; in its place was a wild rage. Tense muscles that had been paralysed with fear, sprang into action, all the moves she had learned in Kaer Morhen performed by themselves, smoothly and seamlessly. Ciri jumped, the knight rushed at her, but was not prepared for a pirouette, that without effort, took her out of reach of his hands. Her sword howled and bit, hitting safely on his plate armour. The knight staggered and fell to one knee, from under his pauldron a trickle of bright red blood appeared. Screaming with rage, Ciri circled him again with a pirouette, she struck again, this time directly to the top of his helmet, the knight fell on his other knee. Rage and fury blinded her completely; she could see nothing but hateful wings. A shower of black feathers, a wing fell off, the other hung on the bloody pauldron. The knight, still vainly trying to rise from his knees, tried to stop the sword with his armoured glove, he groaned painfully, when the witcher’s blade cut the mesh and hand. For her next blow to the helmet, Ciri jumped to gain momentum for the last murderous blow.

  She did not strike.

  There was no black helmet, no wings of a bird of prey, whose sound had pursued her in her nightmares. He was no longer the Black Knight of Cintra. Instead there was a pale dark-haired young man writhing in a pool of blood, a young man with blue eyes and his mouth twisted into a grimace of terror. The Black Knight of Cintra had fallen under the blows of her sword, had ceased to exist, the wings that caused her to be afraid were no more than limp feathers. The frightened boy, bent over, vomiting blood, was nothing. She did not know him, had never seen him before. She did not care. She as not afraid of him, did not hate him. She did not want to kill him.

  She threw her sword on the ground.

  She turned around, hearing the screams from the Scoia’tael running from Garstang. She realised that in a moment they would surround the courtyard. She realised that they would catch her on the road. She had to be faster than them. She ran to the black horse, who was stamping its hooves on the flagstones and galloped off with a cry, leaping into the saddle as she ran.

  * * *

  ‘Leave me alone…’ Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach groaned to the elves trying to lift him, pushing himself up with his good hand. ‘I’m all right! It’s a small wound… after her. After the girl…’

  One of the elves cried, splattering blood across Cahir’s face. Another Scoia’tael staggered and fell to his knees, holding both of his hands to his belly, were it had been torn open. The others fell back, dispersing across the courtyard with swords drawn.

  A white-haired monster attacked them. He jumped from the wall. From a height it was impossible to jump without breaking a leg. It was impossible to land softly, turning a pirouette that blurred to the eye and killing a split second later. But the white-haired monster did it. And he began to kill.

  The Scoia’tael fought fiercely. They had the advantage. But they had no chance. Cahir gaped in horror at the sight of the massacre that was carried out. The gray-haired girl who had struck him a moment ago was fast, was incredible agile as a cat who was protecting her kittens. But the white-haired monster who jumped upon the Scoia’tael was like a Zerrikanian tiger. The gray-haired girl from Cintra, who, for unknown reason, had not killed him, had seemed to be crazy. The white-haired monster was not crazy. He was calm and cold. And calmly and coldly killed.

  The Scoia’tael had no chance. Their bodies collapsed on after another on the flagstones of the courtyard. But none yielded. Even when there were only two, they did not flee, again they attacked the monster with white hair. Before Cahir’s eyes, the monster cut one of their arms above the elbow, the next blow that was dealt was seemingly weak and awkward, however, it threw the elf back, threw him back into the pond of water. Water spilled over the edge of the pond in crimson waves.

  The severed arm elf cursed in the fountain, staring, watching his blood gush from the stump. The white-haired monster grabbed him by the hair and with a quick slash of his sword, but his throat.

  When Cahir opened his eyes, the monster was right before him.

  ‘Don’t kill me…’ he whispered, abandoning his attempts to rise on the floor slippery with blood. The hand that had been wounded by the gray-haired girl had stopped hurting and was numb.

  ‘I know who you are, Nilfgaardian.’ The monster with the white hair kicked the helmet with the broken wing. You’ve stubbornly pursued her for a long time. But you couldn’t even hurt her.’

  ‘Don’t kill me.’

  ‘Give me a reason. Just one. Quickly.’

  ‘I..’ whispered Cahir ‘I was the one who took her from Cintra. The fire… I saved her. I saved her life…’

  When he opened his eyes the monster was gone, he was alone in the yard, alone with the bodies of the elves. The tinkling water from the fountain, poured over the edge of the pond, washing the blood from the floor.

  Cahir fainted.

  * * *

  At the foot of the tower was a building that was one large room or rather a kind of colonnade. The roof of the colonnade, probably illusionary, was full of holes. It was supported on carved columns and pilasters in the form of scantily clad caryatids of stunning beasts. They same caryatids maintained an arch portal, where Ciri had disappeared. Behind the portal, Geralt distinguished stairs leading upwards. To the tower.

  He cursed under his breath. He did not understand why Ciri had run towards it. Trailing behind her on the top of walls he had seen the horse fall. He had seen her nimbly rise, but instead of running forward along the path that wrapped around like a serpent to the summit, she ran down the mountain, towards the lonely tower. The elves did not see him or Ciri, as they were too busy with their bows trying to shoot humans who ran to the foot of the mountain. Reinforcements had come from Aretuza. He intended to follow Ciri down the stairs when he heard a murmur. From above. He turned quickly. It was not a bird.

  Vilgefortz, shaking his wide sleeves, flew through a hole in the roof and dropped slowly to the ground.

  Geralt stood before the entrance to the tower, drew his sword and sighed. He had sincerely hoped that the dramatic final battle would be fought between Vilgefortz and Philippa Eilhart. He had not the slightest desire to participate in such dramas.

  Vilgefortz brushed off his doublet, settling the sleeves, glanced at the witcher and read his thoughts.

  ‘Fucking drama.’ he sighed.

  Geralt made no comment.

  ‘She went into the tower?’

  He did not answer. The sorcerer nodded.

  ‘So here we have the epilogue,’ he said coldly. ‘It’s crowning work. Or is it destiny? You know where the stairs lead? To Tor Lara. To the Tower of Gulls. From there, there is no exit. Everything is over.’

  Geralt stepped back so that the caryatids that formed the portal protected his flank.

  ‘Of course.’ He drawled, watching the hands of the sorcerer. ‘Everything is over. Half of your accomplices are dead. The corpses of elves who were brought to Thanedd are lying one after the other all the way to Garstang. The rest have fled. From Aretuza reinforcements of sorcerers have arrived and Dijkstra’s men. The Nilfgaardian that was to take Ciri, has probably already bled to death. And Ciri is there in the tower. And from there, there is not exit? I glad to hear that. It means that there is only one entrance. And I’m guarding it.’

  Vilgefortz was angry.

  ‘You are wrong. You can still not properly assess the situation. The Chapter and the Council ceased to exist. The army of Emperor Emhyr is marching north: deprived of advice, magic and assistance the kings are helpless as children. Under pressure from Nilfgaard, their kingdoms will topple like sand castles. I suggested it to you yesterday ,
and today I say: join the winners. We will spit on the losers.’

  ‘You’re the loser. You Emhyr you are just an instrument. He needed Ciri, so he sent here the guy with the helmet with wings. It will be interesting to see what Emhyr does when you communicate the failure of your mission.’

  ‘You shoot at random, witcher. Of course, you did not hit. What if I told you that Emhyr is my tool?’

  ‘I don’t believe it/’

  ‘Geralt lets be reasonable. Do you really want to waste time with this theatre, is the final battle so trivial between Good and Evil? I renew the proposal from yesterday. It is not too late. You can still choose, you can come to the appropriate side…’

  ‘On the side, which today I thinned slightly?’

  ‘Do not smile, your demonic smiles do not impress me. A few elves made into mincemeat? Artaud Terranova? Small things, insignificant details. We can pass over them on the agenda.’

  ‘But of Course! I know your world view. Death does not count right? Especially someone else’s?’

  ‘Do not be banal. I feel sorry for Artaud, but in the end what are you going to do. Call it… a reckoning. Lately I have tried to kill you myself twice. Emhyr was impatient, so I ordered some murders against you. Every time I did it with real reluctance. I, you see, I still have hope that one day we will be in that painting together.’

  ‘Throw away that hope, Vilgefortz.’

  ‘Sheath your sword. Let us enter Tor Lara together. Be reassured that the child of the Elder Blood is up there somewhere, probably dying from fear. And we will leave here together. You’ll be with her. You can watch as she fulfils her destiny. And Emperor Emhyr? Emperor Emhyr will get what he wanted. Because I forget to tell you that although Codringher and Fenn are dead, their work and ideas are still alive.’

  ‘You’re lying. Get away from here. Before I spit on you.’

  ‘Really, I have no desire to kill you. I hate killing.’

  ‘Really? What about Lydia van Bredevoort?’

  The sorcerer pursed his lips.

  ‘Do not say that name, witcher.’

  Geralt tighten his grip on the hilt of his sword and smiled mockingly.

  ‘Why did Lydia have to die, Vilgefortz? Why did you command her to die? She had to divert attention from you, right? You had to give yourself time to become resistant to demeterium , to send a telepathic signal to Rience? Poor Lydia, she of the wronged face. Everyone knew that she was a person of no importance. Everyone. Even her.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘You had Lydia murdered, sorcerer. You used her. And now you want to use Ciri? With my help? No. Do not enter Tor Lara.’

  The Sorcerer took a step back. Geralt tensed, ready to pounce and deliver a blow. But Vilgefortz did not raise his hand, he stretched it a little to one side. Suddenly, in his hand, materialized a thick staff, about six feet long.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘what bothers you in a reasonable assessment of a situation. I know it is complicated and difficult to predict the future, your right. This is your arrogance, Geralt. I’ll undo your arrogance. I’ll undo it with this wand here.’

  The witcher narrowed his eyes, lifting his blade slightly.

  ‘I tremble with anticipation.’

  Some weeks later, cured thanks to the efforts of the Dryads and the water of Brokilon forest, Geralt reflected on the mistakes made during the fight. He came to the conclusion that he had not made any. The only error he committed was before the fight. He should have fled before the fighting began.

  The Sorcerer was fast, the wand in his hand flashed like lightning. Greater was the astonishment of Geralt, when the wand rang against his sword. But there was no time to wonder. Vilgefortz attacked, the witcher had to dodge and squirm in evasion. He was afraid of parrying with his sword. The wand was made of iron and magic.

  Four times he found himself in a position to counter attack and strike. Four times he struck a blow. In the head, neck, arm and in the thigh. Each of the blows would be fatal. But each was parried.

  No man would be able to parry those blows. Geralt started to understand little by little. But it was too late.

  He saw the blow that the sorcerer struck him. The impact threw him against the wall. He pushed with his back, failed to make a jump, to make a feint, the stroke had deprived him of breath. He received a second hit in the shoulder, flew back again, hitting his head against the pillar, against the chest of a caryatid. Vilgefortz turned away in a deft leap, he waved his stick and punched him in the stomach, below the ribs. Hard. Geralt doubled over and was struck on the side of the head. His knees weakened below him suddenly and he fell. And that was the end of the fight. In essence.

  Clumsily he tried to shield himself with his sword. The blade pierced the wall and the pilaster, he erupted in a groan vibrant and clear. He protected his head with his right hand, the staff fell and broke his forearm. The pain blinded him completely.

  ‘I could ruin your brain through your ears.’ Vilgefortz said from far away. ‘But this is a lesson. You made a mistake, witcher. You have confused the surface of a pond as the sky with stars at night. Oh, did you vomit? Good. Brain injury. Do you bleed from the nose? Great. So, I’ll see you. Someday. Maybe.’

  He saw nothing and heard nothing. Sinking, sinking into something warm. He thought that Vilgefortz had gone. He was surprised, then, when his leg felt the vengeance of the iron wand, shattering his femur.

  Any following blows, even if they occurred, he could not remember.

  * * *

  ‘Hold on, Geralt, do not give up.’ Triss Merigold repeated endlessly. ‘Hold on. Do not die. Please do not die…’

  ‘Ciri…’

  ‘Do not speak. We have to get you out of here. Hang on… By the gods, I have no strength…’

  ‘Yennefer… I have…’

  ‘You do not have to do anything! You cannot do anything! Hold on, don’t let go… Do not faint… Do not die, please…’

  She dragged him across a floor strewn with corpses. Geralt saw his chest and stomach bathed in blood that flowed from his nose. He saw his leg, It was twisted at an odd angle and appeared much shorter than his healthy one. He did not feel pain. He felt cold, his whole body was cold. He wanted to puke.

  ‘Hold on, Geralt. Aid comes from Aretuza. It is coming soon…’

  ‘Dijkstra. If Dijkstra gets me… if… it’s all over…’

  Triss cursed. Frantically.

  She dragged him down some stairs. His broken leg and arm bounced on the steps. The pain was revived, it bit into his bowels, into his temples, flashed in his eyes, ears, to the top of his head. But he did not scream. He knew that a shout would relieve him, but did not shout. He just opened his mouth, which also brought relief.

  He heard an explosion.

  At the top of the stairs stood Tissaia de Vries. Her hair was in disarray, her face covered with dust. She raised both hands, her fingers burned. She shouted an incantation, and the fire dancing on her fingers burst forth in a fireball which roared down the stairs, the flames crackling and blinding. The witcher heard the rumble from below, the walls crumbling, the shill screams of the burnt.

  ‘Tissaia, no!’ Triss yelled desperately. ‘Don’t do it!’

  ‘Do not enter here,’ said the great teacher without looking back. ‘This Garstang on the island of Thanedd. Nobody invited the royal servants carrying out the orders of their short-sighted rulers!’

  ‘You’re killing them!’

  ‘Be silent, Triss Merigold! The coup against the unity of the Brother hood was not successful, this island is governed by the Chapter! So keep the Kings away from the affairs of the Chapter! It is our conflict and we’ll solve it ourselves! We will resolve our issues and then put an end to this idiotic war! Because we, the sorcerers, we are responsible for the fate of the world!’

  Other fireballs shot forth from her hands, the echo of explosions was repeatedly heard between the columns and walls.

  ‘Get out!’ She screamed again. ‘Do not enter here! Get
out!’

  The screams from the bottom subsided. Geralt understood that the besiegers withdrew from the staircase. Tissaia’s silhouette blurred before his eyes. It was not magic. He had lost consciousness.

  ‘Get out of here, Triss Merigold.’ The sorceress’s voice sounded like it was coming from a distance, as if from behind a wall. ‘Philippa Eilhart has already fled, flying away on owl wings. You were an accomplice in this conspiracy, I should punish you. But enough of blood, death and disgrace! Go away! Go to Aretuza, with your allies! Teleport. The portal in the Tower of Gulls no longer exists. It collapsed together with the tower. You can teleport without fear. To where ever you want. Even to your King Foltest for who you have betrayed the Brotherhood!’

  ‘I will not leave Geralt…’ Triss moaned. ‘He can not fall into the hands of Redania… He is seriously wounded… Bleeding internally… And I no longer have the strength! I do not have the strength to open a portal! Tissaia! Help me, please!’

  Darkness. Biting cold. From a distance, from behind the stone wall, the voice of Tissaia de Vries.

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  Evertsen, Peter, n. 1234, confiendent of Emperor Emhyr Deithwen and one of the true creators behind the power of the Empire. A Constable in the army in the times of the Northern War (see) since 1290, High treasurer of the crown. At the end of the reign of Emhry, he was elevated to the dignity of the Empire. During the reign of Emperor Morvran Voohis, he was falsely accussed of embezzlement and convicted and imprisoned, f 1301 in Castle Winneburg. Posthumously, he was cleared by the Emperor Jan Calveit in the year 1328.

  Effenberg & Talbot, Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, Volume V

  Tremble, at the Destoryer of Nations. Who will trample your land and divide it with the noose. Your cities will be destroyed and their inhabitants deprived. The bat, the owl and the story will inhabit your homes, make them into the serpents nest.

  Aen Ithlnnespeath

  CHAPTER FIVE