Baptism of Fire

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Those who feel like it can go.’ Zoltan took another cup. ‘I prefer freedom, and I cannot find that in Mahakam. You cannot imagine what it is like under the old government. They spoke recently about the regulation of affairs, what they call social relations. For example, if you can wear suspenders or not. Eat fish immediately or wait until the jelly is set. If you play the ocarina in accordance with our centuries-old traditions, or if played with the harmful influences and decadence of the rotten human culture. After many years of work, you can apply for a marriage permit. How far from the mine are you allowed to whistle. And other similar matters of great interest. No boys, I’m not going back to Mount Carbon. I have no desire to spend the rest of my years down the mine. Forty years on the bottom, breathing methane was enough. But we have other plans, right, Percival? We already have a secured future…’

  ‘Future, future…’ The gnome emptied the cup, blew his nose and looked at the dwarf with his bleary eyes. ‘Do not say a peep, Zoltan. Because we can still be caught, and then our future will be the noose… Or Drakenborg.’

  ‘Shut your mouth.’ Snarled the dwarf, looking at him menacingly. ‘You’ve said too much!’

  ‘Scopolamine.’ Regis muttered under his breath.

  The gnome talked nonsense. Milva frowned. Zoltan, forgetting that he already told everyone about the old fart, Hogg the Mahakam thane, started again. Geralt, forgetting he had already been told or this, listened. Regis also listened and even added comments, completely calm about being the only sober one among those present. Dandelion strummed his lute and sang.

  It is not unusual beautiful women are hard to see,

  The more proud the tree, the high you have to climb it.

  ‘Idiot.’ Milva commented. Dandelion continued unfazed.

  A girl can be a tree but a fool who is not, should get an ax and end the problem.

  ‘The grail…’ Percival Schuttenbach muttered. ‘The grail… Made from a single piece of milky opal… Oh, so great… I found it on top of Montsalvat. The edge was rimmed with jasper and the base was made of gold. A veritable wonder…’

  ‘Do not give him more spirits.’ Zoltan said.

  ‘What a minute,’ Dandelion said with interest, also mumbling. ‘What happened to this legendary grail?’

  ‘I traded it for a mule. I needed a mule to carry the load… Corundum and crystalline carbon. I had this… Eeep ... A bunch of… Eeep… Cargo, it was heavy, without a mule I couldn’t move it… What did I want with a grail?’

  ‘Corundum? Carbon?’

  ‘Well, to you they would be rubies and diamonds. Very… eeep… useful.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For drills and files. For bearings. I had a whole pile…’

  ‘Do you hear that, Geralt?’ Zoltan waved his arms in the air, almost knocking himself over on his back. ‘He dreams of a heap of diamonds. Beware, Percival, who you meet while asleep! He may take your diamonds.’

  ‘Dreams, dreams,’ Dandelion stammered again. ‘And you, Geralt? Have you dreamed of Ciri again? Because you must know, Regis, that Geralt has prophetic dream! Ciri is a Child Surprise, Geralt is tied to her by ties of destiny, and therefore he sees her in his dreams. Know that we are also headed to Nilfgaard to retrieve our Ciri, who has been kidnapped by the Emperor Emhyr. Whatever it takes to get her, the son of a bitch, we’ll get her before he realizes! I would say more to you, boys, but it is a secret. A terrible, deep, dark secret… No one can know about this, understand? Nobody!’

  ‘I have not heard anything,’ Zoltan said, looking boldly at the witcher. ‘It seems I have an earwig in my ear.’

  ‘These earwigs are a real pest,’ said Regis, pretending to poke in his ear.

  ‘We travel to Nilfgaard…’ Dandelion rested on the dwarf. It should have helped him maintain balance, but instead proved to be highly unstable. ‘But it as I said, a secret. A secret goal!’

  ‘Indeed, artfully concealed,’ nodded the surgeon, glancing at the pale with anger, Geralt. ‘Analyzing the direction of your journey, even the most suspicious person could never guess the purpose of your trip.’

  ‘Milva, what is it?’

  ‘Do not talk to me, you drunken fool.’

  ‘Hey, she’s crying! Hey, look…’

  ‘Go to hell, I say!’ The archer wiped her tears. ‘Because I’ll hit you between the eyes, little shit… Pass the cup, Zoltan…’

  ‘I don’t know where it is…’ muttered the dwarf. ‘Ah, here it is. Thanks, surgeon… And where the hell is Schuttenbach?’

  ‘He went out. Some time ago. Dandelion, I recall you promised to tell me a story about a child surprise.’

  ‘Right away. Now, now, Regis. Just a little drink… And I’ll tell you everything… About Ciri and the witcher… In detail…’

  ‘For fuck’s sake bastards!’

  ‘Keep you voice down, dwarf! You are going to wake the children sleeping outside the hut!’

  ‘Don’t be angry, archer. Here, have a drink.’

  ‘Eeeech.’ Dandelion surveyed the hut with blurred vision. ‘I just saw the Countess de Lettenhove…’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Whatever. Damn, this moonshine really loosens the tongue… Geralt, can I pour you another? Geralt!’

  ‘Leave him alone.’ Milva said. ‘Let him dream.’

  Standing on the edge of the village the barn rumbled with music, the music caught up to them before they had even rode up, filled with excitement. Unconsciously they began to sway in their saddles walking the horses at a trot, first in rhythm to the beating of the drum, then in accordance with the melody and flutes. The night was cold, the moon shone bright. In the light, the barn looked like an enchanted castle from the stories.

  In the light falling from the door was the flickering shadows of men and women dancing.

  When they entered, the music immediately stopped, dying in mid note. The villagers sweaty and tired from dancing away, huddled along the walls and posts. Ciri, walking beside Mistle, saw the startled eyes of the girls and women, hard, unfriendly looks from the younger boys and men. She heard whispering and muttering, in a short time it became as loud as the bleating of bagpipes, and the hum of a violin. They whispered: ‘Rats, Rats… Bandits…’

  ‘Do not worry,’ Giselher said aloud, and threw a money pouch to the silent musicians. ‘We came to have fun. A feast is for everyone, right?’

  ‘Where is the beer?’ Kayleigh shook his pouch. ‘Where is your hospitality?’

  ‘And why is everyone so silent?’ Spark looked around. ‘We came from the mountains for fun. Not a funeral.’

  Finally one of the villagers ventured forth and went to Giselher with an earthen pitcher, with foam dripping over the edge. Giselher bowed and took a deep drink, and politely thanked them. Several of those present raised their pints in toast. But the other remained silent.

  ‘Hey, neighbors,’ said Spark, ‘I want to join the dance, but as you can see, you’ll first need to start moving!’

  Along one wall of the barn was a long table, full of heavy earthenware. The elf clapped her hands and jumped nimbly onto the oak table. The villagers picked up the dishes as quickly as possible, those that were not managed to be taken away, were viscously kicked by Spark.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ Spark said with her fists on her hips, shaking her hair. ‘Show me what you know. Music!’

  She did a quick step with her heels. The drum and dulcimer repeated it. The flutes and fiddles picked up the melody, making it more complicated, challenging Spark to change pace and rhythm. The elf, light and colorful as a butterfly, easily adjusted. The villagers began to clap.

  ‘Falka!’ Spark shouted, squinting her eyes. ‘You’re quick with the sword! What about dancing? Can you follow the steps?’

  Ciri, released herself from Mistle’s arms, unwound the scarf from her neck and took off her beret and jacket. She jumped onto the table next to the elf. The villagers cheered, the drums boomed and the bagpipes whined.

  ‘Play, Musician
s!’ Spark cried. ‘Keep your ear! And with spirit!’

  Leaning to one side and throwing her head far back the elf tapped her feet, danced, beating her heels in a rhythmic and rapid staccato. Ciri, captivated by the rhythm, repeated the steps. The elf laughed, jumped and changed the rhythm. Ciri with a violent jerk of her head, shook her hair off her forehead, she repeated the steps perfectly. Dancing both at the same time, they were mirror images of each other. The villagers shouted and applauded. The melody raised above the deep bass growl of the drums and the bleating of the bagpipes.

  Both danced, as straight as a cane, touching elbows, with their hands supported on hips. The plates and table shook with the rhythm of their heels, in the light of tallow candle and oil lights, the dust stirred.

  ‘Faster!’ Spark urged the musicians. ‘With more vigor!’

  It was not dancing, it was an obsession.

  ‘Dance, Falka! Forget about everything!’

  Heel, toe, heel, toe, step forward, step back, jump, strafe, move arms, toss her head, heel toe, heel toe. The table was shaking, the light quivered, the audience wavered, everything was spinning, the whole barn danced, danced… villagers cried, Giselher screamed, Asse screaming, Mistle laughing and clapping, all clapping and stomping, the barn shaking, the earth shaking, the world shaking on its foundations. World? What world? The world is no more, nothing, just the dance, dance… Heel, toe, heel… Spark’s elbow… Fever, fever… Just a fiddle playing, flutes, bagpipes, drums raising and lowering the tempo, there is no need, there is just the rhythm, Spark and Ciri, their heels, the table swaying, rumbling and sways the whole barn… The rhythm, the rhythm is them, the music is them, they are the music. Spark dances, her dark hair swaying around her forehead and shoulders. The strings of the fiddles song bears a fever, a hotness, which reaches to the highest registers. The blood pounds in her temples.

  Forget. Forget.

  ‘I am Falka. I was always Falka! Dance, Spark! Clap, Mistle!’

  The fiddle and the flute played a sharp closing note. Spark and Ciri end their dance by stomping their heels, their elbows continuing to touch. Breathless, shaky, sweaty, they dash to each other, to embrace, each covered in sweat, heat and happiness. The barn exploded with a loud cry and the applause of dozens of hands.

  ‘Falka, you devil,’ Spark gasped for breath. ‘When we get tired of robbery, we can head into the world to make money as dancers…’

  Ciri was also gasping for breath. She was incapable of speech and could only laugh breathlessly. Tears ran down her face.

  The crowd suddenly cried in agitation. Kayleigh violently pushed a villager, the villager pushed Kayleigh back, both struggled against each other, flailing with fists. Reef quickly approached them and in the light of the torches a dagger flashed.

  ‘No, Stop!’ Spark screamed shrilling ‘Don’t fight! This is a night of dance!’

  The elf took Ciri’s hand and they both jumped down from the table onto the trampled ground.

  ‘Musicians, play! Who wants to show us how to dance, who is brave?’

  The monotone humming of the bagpipes became a prolonged wail, followed by the sharp edge of the fiddle. The villagers laughed, overcoming their shyness. One of them, a tall blonde, proceed to Spark. The second, younger and slimmer, timidly bowed before Ciri. She proudly tossed her head, but soon smiled delightedly. The boy grabbed Ciri around the waist. She placed her hands on his shoulders. His touched pierced like a fiery blade, filled with hidden desire.

  ‘With vigor, musicians!’

  The barn shook with shouts, vibrating to the rhythm and the melody.

  Ciri danced.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Vampir: or vampire, one who is undead, revived by Chaos. After their first life is lost, their second life is lived in the dark of night. They leave their tombs, in the light of the moon and attack sleeping people, most likely young women and without waking them from their slumber, drink their sweet blood.

  Physiologus

  The villagers had eaten garlic in great abundance, and for greater certainty, placed garlands of garlic around their necks. Some, especially the women, placed the garlic everywhere. The whole village smelled horribly of garlic, the villagers then thought they were safe and that there was nothing the vampire could do to them. Great was their surprise when the vampire arrived at midnight, he was not frightened and began to laugh and started grinding his teeth in delight. “It is good,” he cried “that ye are seasoned, because I eat meat well-seasoned and it is more to my tastes. Also throw on some salt and pepper and do not forget the mustard.”

  Silvester Bugiardo

  Liber Tenebrarum or The Book of Scary but true tales that have never been explained by science.

  The moon shines, the dead flies, the dress flutters, flutters…

  Miss, are you not afraid?

  Folk song

  The birds, as usual, proceeded the sunrise by filling the gray, misty morning silence with a veritable explosion of chirping. As always, the first who were prepared to march were the women and children of Kernow. Equally fast and energetic was the surgeon Emiel Regis, with a walking stick and a leather bag on his shoulder. The rest of the company, who had enjoyed the evening with the distillery, where not so fresh. The cold morning woke up and energized the revelers, but was not completely able to eliminate the effects of the mandrake moonshine. Geralt woke up in a corner of the cabin with his head in Milva’s lap. Zoltan and Dandelion lay in a pile of roots, snoring so loudly that the bundles of herbs on the wall swayed. Percival was found behind the cabin, curled up next to a small tree covered with cherries, lying on a straw mat, Regis used to clean muddy boots. All five betrayed clear, although different symptoms of fatigue, as well as an intense desire to quench their thirst at the spring.

  However, when the mist had been dispelled and the red ball of the sun blazed on the crown of the pines and larches of Fen Carn, the company was on its way, marching swiftly among the tombs. Regis led, behind him followed Percival and Dandelion, singing a song about three sisters and an iron wolf. Behind them stomped Zoltan Chivay, leading his chestnut stallion by the bridle. The dwarf had found in the hut of the surgeon a gnarled piece of ash wood, which he was banging against the menhirs, as he passed he wished the long dead elves, eternal rest. For his part, Field Marshal Duda, who sat on his shoulder, shouted from time to time, but his curses somehow seemed tired and unconvincing.

  The least resistant to the effects of the mandrake proved to be Milva. She marched with great difficulty, she was sweaty, pale and irritated like a wasp. She did not respond to the chirpy girl with the braids she carried in her saddle. Geralt thought it best not to make conversation, the more so because he also was not in a good humor. The fog and the song being sung loudly about the iron wolf, masked the sounds of a group of peasants they came upon suddenly. The peasants, meanwhile, had heard the company coming from afar and were waiting, standing motionless among the tombs that rose from the earth, their gray sackcloth clothing camouflaged them perfectly. Zoltan almost stuck one with his stick, think they were a tombstone.

  ‘Uh oh!’ He shouted ‘Sorry, neighbor! I didn’t see you there. Good morning! Hello!’

  A chorus of voices from ten gloomy eyed peasants mumbled a greeting. The peasants wielded shovels, hoes and wooden pegs in their hands.

  ‘I said Good morning.’ repeated the dwarf. ‘I guess you are from the Chotla camp. Correct?’

  Instead of answering, one of the men pointed at Milva’s horse.

  ‘Black horse,’ he muttered. ‘Do you see?’

  ‘Black horse,’ said a second man, licking his lips. ‘It will be useful to us.’

  ‘Huh?’ Zoltan saw the looks and gestures. ‘A black horse, so what? It’s a horse, not a giraffe, there are no surprises there. What are you doing here, neighbors, in the cemetery?’

  ‘And you?’ the peasant cast a look of disgust at the company. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘We bought this land.’ The dwarf looked him straigh
t in the eye and tapped his stick on a menhir. ‘I am measuring the steps, to make sure we were not cheated on acres.’

  ‘And we are here hunting a vampire!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A vampire.’ The eldest of the peasant emphatically repeated, scratching his forehead under a dirty, stiff felt hat. ‘Somewhere here he must have a lair, the demon. We have ash stakes, which we’ll pierce his heart with so he will never rise again.’

  ‘I have holy water which has been blessed by a priest!’ Another peasant cried eagerly, shaking the jar lightly. ‘It will annihilate the bloodsucker forever!’

  ‘Ha, ha.’ Zoltan said with a smile. ‘Hunting I see and well prepared as well. A vampire, you say? Well you are in luck, we have a specialist in the company, of ghouls there...’

  He stopped in midsentence, because the witcher had strongly kicked him in the ankle.

  ‘Who has seen the vampire?’ Geralt asked, giving a stern look to his companions ordering them to be quiet. ‘How did you know that it could be sought here?’

  The peasants whispered among themselves.

  ‘No one has seen him,’ the man in the felt hat, finally admitted, ‘nor heard him. How do we see him when he flies at night in the dark? How are we going to hear him when her flies with the wings of a bat without making a sound?’

  ‘We have not seen the vampire,’ said another peasant, ‘but we have seen the traces of his work. During the full moon of the last two nights the vampire has killed two people. One female and one boy. It was terrible! The unfortunate ones had been torn to pieces and all the blood from their veins drank. So are we to wait idly for the third night?’

  ‘Who said that the perpetrator is a vampire and not some other monster or predator? Whose idea was it to search the cemetery?’

  ‘Our holy priest told us. He is a learned and pious man, thanks to the gods that he came to our camp. He immediately realized it was a vampire that assails us. As punishment for having neglected our prayers and temple donations. He is now at the camp praying and commanded us to seek the tomb where the dead one sleeps during the day.’