Lady of the Lake

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘This is a gamble, Colonel,’ the commander of the scouts shouted over the thunder of hooves. ‘We could run into a company of elven scouts.’

  ‘Don’t talk! Lead!’

  They galloped through a valley, past a stream and then turned into some woods. They had to slow down as their riding was hindered by the undergrowth; also there was the threat of running into one of the Nilfgaardian reconnaissance patrols. Even though the condottieri scout approached from the flank of the enemy, not from the front, there was still a good chance the flank was protected. The actions they took were risky as hell. But Pretty Kitty was known for such frivolous things. And there was not in the whole of the Free Company any soldier who wouldn’t have followed her – even to hell.

  ‘It’s here,’ said the commander of the scouts. ‘This is the tower.’

  Julia Abatemarco shook her head. The tower was twisted, ruined, bristling with broken beams and a patchwork of holes that the west wind blew through whistling like a bagpipe. No one had any idea who or why the tower had been built in this secluded spot. But it was known that it had been built a long time ago.

  ‘It will not collapse?’

  ‘Certainly not, Colonel.’

  Among the Free Company, the condottieri did not use ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’. Only rank.

  Julia swiftly climbed to the top of the tower. The commander of the scouts joined her after some time, panting like a bull covering a cow. Pretty Kitty stood on the tilted battlements and watched the horizon through a spyglass, while putting her tongue between her teeth and sticking out her bottom. At the sight, the commander of the scouts felt a slight thrill. However, for his own safety, he quickly mastered it.

  ‘On my soul, Ard Feainn,’ Julia Abatemarco licked her lips. ‘I can see the Seventh Daerlan, the elves of the Vrihedd Brigade our friends from Maribor and Mayena… Aha! There are also the skullheads, the famous Nauzicaa Brigade… I can also see the flames of the armored Deithwen Division… And the white banner with the black Alerion of the Alba Division.’

  ‘You recognized them,’ muttered the commander, ‘like old acquaintances… How do you know them?’

  ‘I graduated from the military academy,’ said Pretty Kitty carelessly, as if it was nothing. ‘I am a career officer. Well, I saw what I wanted to see. Let’s go back to the banner.’

  ‘He has brought against us the Fourth Cavalry Army and the Third,’ Julia Abatemarco said. ‘I repeat, the whole of the Fourth Cavalry and the Third Army. Behind the vanguard I saw dust clouds reaching up to the sky. In those three columns, I estimate about forty thousand horses, maybe more. Maybe…’

  ‘Maybe Coehoorn divided his Center Group Army,’ finished Adam “Adieu” Pangratt, chosen to be the supreme commander of the Free Company. ‘Maybe he took only his Fourth Cavalry and the horses from the Third and no infantry so he could proceed as quickly as possible… Ha, you know what I’d do if I were coming up against King Foltest’s constable Natalis…’

  ‘I know,’ Pretty Kitty’s eyes flashed with amusement. ‘I know what you’d do, you’d send runners.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Natalis is a cunning fox. Maybe tomorrow…’

  ‘Maybe,’ Adieu said again. ‘I guess he thinks like me. Come with me, Julia, I want to show you something.’

  They moved ahead of the rest of the army. The sun was almost touching the hills to the west, the forest and grassland darkened and the valley was filled with a long shadow.

  However, it was still light enough for Pretty Kitty to immediately notice what Pangratt wanted to show her.

  ‘Here,’ Adieu said, confirming her guess. ‘If I was the commander of our forces, this is where I would pose the battle tomorrow.’

  ‘It is good terrain,’ Julia admitted. ‘Hard, straight and plain… We could marshal the forces there… on those plains. And that hill is an idea command post.’

  ‘You’re right. Look right in the middle of the valley, there is a lake and we can use that tactically as well, with the river, although they are shallow, they have marshy shores… What was the river called, Julia? The one we passed through yesterday. Do you remember?’

  ‘I forgot. The Scoop, I guess. Or something like that.’

  “Those who are familiar with the local surroundings can easily imagine the situation better than someone who has to rely solely on cartography to find the settlement of Brenna. It was to this settlement that the royal army arrived, in truth there was no settlement because during a battle the year before, Elven commandos burned it to the ground. It was there on the left flank that the Redanian contingent, commanded by Count de Ruyter took a position. He had eight thousand men, infantry and cavalry.

  The center of the army was located under the hill, which was later called Gallows Hill. On this high ground stood King Foltest’s constable, John Natalis which gave him a perfect view of the battlefield. Below him were grouped the main strength of our troops – twelve thousand Temerian and Redanian infantry formed into four square units, beyond which were arrayed ten banners of heavy cavalry. In reserve were three thousand Maribor infantry under the command of Voivode Bronibor.

  From the southern shore of the lake, which the local residence called Gold, which meandered down to the Cholta, were deployed the units of our right flank – The Volunteer Army of Mahakam dwarves, eight squadrons of light cavalry and factions of the great condottieri, the Free Company. The right flank was under the command of Adam Pangratt and the dwarf Barclay Els.

  At a distance of nearly two miles across from the royal army, the army of Nilfgaard was mobilized under the command of Field Marshal Menno Coehoorn. It’s armed populous stood like an iron wall, regiment after regiment, company after company, squadron after squadron, as far as the eye could see. And through the forest of banners and halberds you could see that their position was not only wide, but also deep.

  Their army was about forty-six thousand strong at that time, however, only a few people knew this. Which was fortunate, because the determination of many of our soldiers did not waver at the sight of the immense power of Nilfgaard.

  But even the most bold of heart had theirs pounding faster under their armor, because it was obvious that a difficult and bloody battle was about to begin here soon and that many of those lined up here would not see the sunset.”

  Jarre pushed up his glasses, which had slipped down onto his nose, and re-read through the entire piece of text again, sighed, rubbed his bald head and erased the last sentence.

  The wind whispered through the linden trees and bees buzzed. Children, as children do, tried to out shout one another.

  A ball bounced off of a wall and stooped at the feet of the old man. Before he could awkwardly reach down, one of his grandsons passed him and grabbed the ball while running. As he passed he banged the table. Jarre, with his right hand, saved the inkwell from falling, and with the stump of his left hand held the ream of paper.

  Bees, yellow and heavy with pollen from the linden trees, buzzed loudly overhead.

  Jarre resumed writing.

  “The morning was cloudy, but the sun pierced the clouds to explicitly remind us of the passing hours. The wind picked up, the flags and banners fluttered like a flock of birds rising to depart. Before us the Nilfgaardians were still, and all began to wonder why Field Marshal Menno Coehoorn did not give the order to attack…”

  ‘When?’ Menno Coehoorn looked up from his map and planted his eyes on his commanders. ‘You want to know when I’ll give the order to attack?’

  No one answered. Menno watched his officers. Those who seemed the most tense and nervous where those who had to stay in the reserve. Elan Trahe, commander of the Seventh Daerlan and Kees van Lo of the Nauzicca brigade. Clearly nervous too was Ouder de Wyngalt, the aide-de-camp of Field Marshal Coehoorn, who had not even come close to a battle field.

  But those who personally commanded battle actions looked calm, even bored. Marcus Braibant yawned, Rhetz de Mellis-Stoke was picking at his ear with his little fing
er, Colonel Ramon Tyrconnel, the young commander of the Ard Feainn division softly whistled while his eyes wandered over the distant horizon. Another of the promising young officers, Colonel Liam aep Muir Moss of the Deithwen division flicked through a pocket volume of his favorite verses. The commander of the Alba division of Lancers, Tibor Eggebracht was scratching at his collar with the handle of a riding whip like a coachman.

  ‘The attack will start,’ Coehoorn said, ‘when the reconnaissance patrols return. I’m worried about the hills to the north. Before we strike, gentlemen, I must know who or what is behind them.’

  Lamarr Flaut was terribly afraid. Fear gripped his bowels, and it seemed to him that his intestines where coat with slimy eels that were doggedly searching for a way to get to freedom. An hour earlier, the patrol had received orders which had been put into motion. Flaut, in the depth of his mind, was hoping that the fear would be drowned out by the cold morning and routine, a ritual that he had exercised a hundred times, harsh, serve and military ceremonial. He was wrong. Now, after an hour and travelling about five miles, deep into the dangerous enemy territory, the fear still gnawed at him.

  The patrol stopped on the hillside below the fir forest. The riders were carefully concealed in a growth of tall junipers. Before them stretched a wide valley. Fog spun around the top of the grass.

  ‘Nobody,’ said Flaut. ‘Not a soul. Let’s go back. We’ve travelled too far.’

  The sergeant looked at him in askance. Far? They had barely gone a few miles and moved like lame turtles.

  ‘We should,’ he said, ‘go out there to the opposite hill, Lieutenant. We will have a better view. Especially of both valleys. From there we can see if anyone is in the other valley. What do you think, sir? It is only a few yards.’

  A few yards, Flaut thought. In open terrain, which is as flat as a pan. The eels writhed and sought a way out of his guts. Flaut felt that at least one of them was on the right track.

  I heard the jingle of spurs. A horse snorting. There, among those pines, on that sandy slope. Is something moving there? A silhouette? Are we being surrounded?

  A rumor ran through the camp a few days ago that the condottieri Free Company had caught in an ambush a party from the Vrihedd brigade and managed to capture an elf alive. It was said that he had been castrated; his tongue had been torn out, all of his fingers cut off of his hand… And finally they put out his eyes.

  Then they joked, saying he would not be able to have fun with his elven whores. And he wouldn’t be able to watch others having fun.

  ‘Well, sir?’ the sergeant spoke hoarsely. ‘Do we approach the hill?’

  Lamarr Flaut swallowed.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let’s not waste time. We have found nothing; there are no enemies here. We have to go back and give our report to the commander. Let’s go back!’

  Menno Coehoorn listened to the report and raised his head from the map.

  ‘To the banners,’ he ordered shortly. ‘Mister Braibant, Mister Mellis-Stoke. Attack!’

  ‘Long live the Emperor!’ yelled Tyrconnel and Eggebracht. Menno looked at the strangely.

  ‘To the banners,’ he repeated. ‘May the Great Sun shine on your glory.’

  Milo Vanderbeck, a Halfling and a field surgeon who was better known by his nickname, Rusty, sucked through his nostrils the familiar mix of smells of iodine, ammonia, alcohol and magical elixirs that floated around the tent. He wanted to savor the fragrance of this now, while it was still healthy, pure and clinically sterile. He knew that it would not stay this way for long.

  He looked at the operation table, still as white as driven snow and his instruments, the dozens of tools engendered respect and trust with the impassive and menacing dignity of it’s cold steel, pristine cleanliness, order placement and aesthetics.

  Gathered around the instruments was his bustling staff – three women. No, Rusty mental corrected himself. A woman and two girls. No. One old, yet beautiful and young-looking woman. And two children.

  The sorceress and healer named Marti Södergren. And two volunteers. Shani, a student from Oxenfurt. And Iola, a priestess from the Temple of Melitele in Ellander.

  Marti Södergren I know, Rusty thought, I’ve already worked with this beauty, more than once. A little nymphomaniac, she also has a tendency towards hysteria, but so long as she works her magic. Her spells for anesthetics, disinfectants and to stop hemorrhages.

  Iola, is a priestess, or rather an adept. A girl of ordinary beauty like a linen cloth and big, strong peasant hands. The temple prevented her hands from being stained with dirt in a silt field. But she could not disguise her origin. No, Rusty thought, in principle, I have nothing to fear from her. These hands are peasant hands, trustworthy hands. In addition, the girls at the temple rarely fail, and in moments of stress do not crack, but look back on their religion, in their mystical faith. Interestingly; it helps.

  He looked at the red-haired Shani, deftly threading curved suture needles.

  Shani. A child from the meager neighborhood that received her education at the University due to her infinite desire for knowledge and unimaginable sacrifice of poor parents. A student. What can she do? Threading needles? Tightening a tourniquet? Holding hooks? The question is whether the red-head will faint, drop the hooks and go nose first into the open abdomen of the patient being operated on?

  Humans are not very resilient, he thought. I asked them to give me an elf. Or someone of my own race. But they did not. They do not trust us. Or me, anyway. I’m a halfling. Not human. Alien.

  ‘Shani!’

  ‘Yes, Mister Vanderbeck?’

  ‘Rusty. That is, for you “Mister Rusty”. What is this, Shani? What is it for?’

  ‘Are you examining me, Mister Rusty?’

  ‘Answer, girl!’

  ‘This is a scraper! To remove the periosteum during an amputation! In order for the periosteum not to burst under the serrated blade, you must saw cleanly! Are you satisfied? Have I gained your approval?’

  ‘Quiet, girl, quiet.’

  He ran his fingers through his hair.

  Interesting, He thought. Here we have four doctors. And all are redheads! Is this fate or what?

  ‘Please come out, ladies,’ he nodded to his assistants, ‘before the tent.’

  The obeyed. But each of the three muttered under their breath. Each in their own way.

  Before the tent sat a group of medics, enjoying the last minutes of sweat idleness. Rusty gave them a stern look, and sniffed to see if they were already drunk.

  The blacksmith, a muscular fellow, was busy rearranging tools on his bench that would be used to rescue the wounded from warped armor and helmets.

  ‘There,’ Rusty began without preamble, pointing towards the battlefield, ‘will soon begin a bloodbath. And right afterwards we will get our first wounded. You all know what to do, where your position is and what your responsibilities are. If you behave accordingly, you can no go wrong. Are we clear?’

  The girls listened to his speech without comment.

  ‘There,’ Rusty pointed in the same direction as before, ‘will soon begin hundreds of thousands of people trying to hurt and kill each other. In very sophisticated ways. In this and two other hospitals we have twelve doctors. There is no way in the world we’ll be able to help all those in need. Not even a fraction of those in need. And to tell you the truth, no one even expects that from us. But we will treat them. Because it is, sorry for the cliché, the reason for our existence. To those who need us.’

  His listeners remained silent. Rusty shrugged.

  ‘We cannot do more than we can,’ he said quieter and warmer. ‘But we will do our all, we can do no less than that.’

  ‘They’re charging,’ Constable John Natalis said while wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. ‘The Nilfgaardians are charging, Your Majesty, they are coming for us!’

  King Foltest, mastered his dancing horse, a white horse decorated with lilies on his saddle and turned his noble profile, worthy of decorat
ing coins towards the constable.

  ‘We must prepare an appropriate welcome, Lord Constable! Officers!’

  ‘Death to the Black ones!’ yelled the condottiere Adam “Adieu” Pangratt and Count de Ruyter. The Constable straightened in his saddle and took a deep breath.

  ‘To the banners!’

  Drums reverberated, cymbals crashed and horns sounded. The earth trembled under the tens of thousands of hooves.

  ‘Now,’ said the Halfling, Andy Biberveldt brushing the hair from his pointy ears. ‘It begins...’

  Tara Hildebrandt, Didi Hofmeier and the others who were gathered around the wagons nodded. They could hear the dull, monotonous thud of hooves coming from behind the hill and forest. They could feel the ground shaking.

  Then, beyond the forest arose cries. And the noise intensified.

  ‘The first volley from the archers,’ said Andy expertly who had already seen – or rather heard – many battles. ‘There will be another one.’

  He was right.

  ‘Now they’ll collide.’

  ‘Ma...ma..maybe we could... hide... under the... wagon,’ William Hardbottom proposed, stuttering and writhing uneasily.

  Biberveldt and the others looked at the Halfling with pity.

  ‘Under? The wagons? What for? We are separated from the battle by nearly a quarter of a mile. And even if a patrol came here to the rear, hiding under the wagon would not save our lives.’

  The noise from the fighting intensified.

  ‘Now,’ Andy Biberveldt estimated and was right again. From a distance of a quarter of a mile through the forest came the sound of the royal army colliding with iron and a horrible sound that bristled the hair.

  Terrible, desperate, wild squeals and whinnies from animals being mutilated.

  ‘The cavalry...’ Biberveldt licked his lips. ‘The cavalry impaled on pikes...’

  The old chronicler used the sponge and erased the next sentence, with whose wording he was not satisfied. He closed his eyes, reminding himself of that day. The moment when the two armies collided. Where both armies, as fierce as mastiffs, jumped at each other’s throats, tightening in a deadly embrace.