The Sword of Destiny

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  Geralt felt calm. He could not be otherwise. Not now.

  ‘I have always been curious about how you look, madam.’

  ‘You don't have to give me such a title,’ she replied coldly. ‘We have known each other for years, haven't we?’

  ‘We know each other,’ he agreed. ‘They say that you follow in my steps.’

  ‘I do. But you had never looked back. Until today. Today you turned around for the first time.’

  Geralt remained silent. Tired, he had nothing to say.

  ‘How… How will this happen?’ he asked her at last, coldly and without emotion.

  ‘I will take you by the hand,’ she replied, looking him straight in the eye. ‘I will take you by the hand and lead you across the meadow, through a cold and wet fog.’

  ‘And after? What is there beyond the fog?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied, smiling. ‘After that, there is nothing.’

  ‘You have followed me step by step,’ he said, ‘cutting down those who crossed paths with me. Why? So that I would be alone, isn't that right? So that I would finally begin to fear? I'll tell you the truth. I have always been afraid of you. I didn't turn back for fear of seeing you behind me. I was always afraid. I have lived my life in fear, until today…’

  ‘Until today?’

  ‘Yes, until today. We stand face to face, but I don't feel any anxiety. In taking everything from me, you have also stripped me of fear.’

  ‘Why are your eyes filled with terror, Geralt of Rivia? Your hands shake. You are pale. Why? Are you afraid to read the fourteenth name engraved on the obelisk? If you like, I can read you the name.’

  ‘No, you don't need to. I know whose name it is. The circle is complete, the serpent sinks its teeth in its own tail. So be it. You and your name. And flowers. For her and for you. The fourteenth name engraved at the base, the name that I uttered in the middle of the night, in the sunshine, in the frost, in the heat, and in the rain. No, I’m not afraid to say it now.’

  ‘Say it then.’

  ‘Yennefer… Yennefer of Vengerberg.’

  ‘And the flowers are for me.’

  ‘Let’s end this,’ he managed to say. ‘Take… take my hand.’

  She stood up and approached him. Geralt felt a coldness radiating from her, sharp, penetrating coldness.

  ‘Not today,’ she replied. ‘Another day, yes. But not today.’

  ‘You've taken everything from me…’

  ‘No,’ she interrupted. ‘I did not take anything. I only take someone by the hand. So that no one would be alone. Alone in the fog… Farewell, Geralt of Rivia. Some other day.’

  The witcher did not answer. She turned slowly and then walked away. Suddenly a mist enveloped the summit of the hill, the mist in which everything had disappeared; the obelisk, the flowers placed at its base and the fourteen names engraved on its surface vanished in a white, wet fog. Soon there was nothing left but the fog and the grass wet with brilliant droplets under his feet. The grass smelled great, hard, sweet, and the pain in his temple, forgetfulness, fatigue…

  ‘Sir Geralt! What is it? Were you asleep? I told you, you are still weak. Yet you still climbed to the summit?’

  ‘I fell asleep,’ he groaned, wiping his face with his hand. ‘I fell asleep, damn… It's nothing, Yurga, it's because of this heat…’

  ‘Yes, you have one hell of a fever… We must go, sir. Come, I'll help you down the slope.’

  ‘It’s nothing…’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. I wonder what prompted you. The plagues, why did you climb the hill in this heat? You wanted to read all their names? I can tell you all of them. ’

  ‘Nothing… Yurga… do you really remember all of the names?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I'll test your memory… The last. The fourteenth. What’s the name?’

  ‘But you're a skeptic. You don’t believe in anything. You want to verify that I'm not lying? I told you that even children know the names. The last name, you say? Well, the last one is Yoel Grethen of Carreras. You know him, perhaps?’

  Geralt wiped his eyelids with his wrist, and looked at the menhir for all the names.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I don't know him.’

  VIII

  ‘Sir Geralt?’

  ‘Yes, Yurga?’

  The merchant bowed his head and was quiet, wrapping his finger with the remains of a thin strap with which he had repaired the witcher's saddle. Finally, he rose and nudged the back of the valet who was driving the cart.

  ‘Let go of the reins, Profit. I'll drive. Sit on the seat next to me, sir Geralt. And you, Profit, what are you still doing here? Come on, jump to the front! We need to talk. No need for your ears here!’

  Roach, tied behind the wagon, whinnied, and pulled at her reins, appeared to be envious of the little mare that Profit rode at a trot along the highway.

  Yurga clicked his tongue, lightly striking the horse with the reins.

  ‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘this is the situation, sir. I promised you… then, on the bridge… I made a promise…’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ the witcher interrupted promptly. ‘You don’t have to, Yurga.’

  ‘I have to,’ the merchant responded bluntly, ‘my word is not the wind. That which I find at home yet don’t expect will be yours.’

  ‘Leave it be. I don't want anything from you. We’re even.’

  ‘No, sir. If I find such a thing at home, then it’s destiny. And if one mocks destiny, if one tries to deceive it, one will be severely punished.’

  I know, thought the witcher. I know.

  ‘But… master Geralt…’

  ‘What, Yurga?’

  ‘I won't find anything at home that I don't expect to see. Not a thing, certainly not the one you were hoping for. Listen, master witcher: Złotolitka, my wife, will bear me no more children after the last one. No matter what, there will not be a new child at home. It seems to me you were wrong.’

  Geralt did not respond.

  Yurga remained quiet also. Roach snorted again, tossing her head.

  ‘But I have two sons,’ Yurga said very quickly, looking at the road ahead of him. ‘Two healthy sons, strong and not stupid. After all, I have to send them into apprenticeships. One of them will, I think, learn the trade with me. But the other…’

  Geralt continued to be silent.

  ‘What say you?’ Yurga turned his head and looked at him. ‘You demanded an oath from me on the bridge. It was for you to find a child for a purpose none other than to become a witcher? Why does this child have to be unexpected? Can’t an expected child do? I have two sons: let one of them study under the witchers. And assume the profession. Not for the better. Not for the worse.’

  ‘You are sure,’ Geralt interrupted in a low voice, ‘that it’s not for the worse?’

  Yurg’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Defending people, saving their lives, in your opinion, is it a good or a bad thing? Those fourteen, on the hill? You, on the bridge? What you have done, is it good or bad?’

  ‘I don't know,’ Geralt responded with an effort. ‘I don't know, Yurga. Sometimes, I think that I know. But sometimes I have my doubts as well. Would you like for your son to have such scruples?’

  ‘And why not?’ the merchant replied seriously. ‘Let him have it. It's a human and good thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Scruples. Only the evil, master Geralt, do not have it. And no one can escape his destiny.’

  The witcher did not respond.

  The main road ran along a high promontory and slanted birches that mysteriously managed to hold onto the steep slope. The trees had yellow leaves. Autumn, thought Geralt, it's autumn again. Below, a river shimmered. Guarded with a white new stockade, one could see the roofs of houses and the hewn stilts of the wharf.

  A winch squeaked.

  A ferry was heading toward the shore, fighting against a wave, splitting the waters with its blunt prow, and pushing aside the straws and leaves float
ing on the surface which formed an unmoving carpet of dust. The ropes, pulled by the ferrymen, groaned. The crowd assembled on the banks was raising a commotion: women shouting, men cursing, children crying, cattle bellowing, cows neighing, sheep bleating. It was a uniform music of fear.

  ‘Down! Down, stand back, bloody dogs!’ shouted a horseman, his head wrapped in a bloody rag.

  His horse, submerged up to the abdomen, was annoyed, lifting its forelegs roughly and raising splashes. Screams and cries could be hear on the pier: Shieldbearers pushed the crowd back violently, striking wherever they could with the butt of their spears.

  ‘Stay away from the ferry!’ cried the horseman, brandishing his sword. ‘Just the army! Stay back, or I’ll be smashing heads!’

  Geralt pulled on the reins to stop his horse, which danced on the edge of the ravine.

  At the bottom of the ravine, in the clatter of weapons and armor, heavily armored riders galloped, raising a cloud of dust that obscured the shieldbearers running behind.

  ‘Geraaaalt!’

  The witcher looked down. A thin man with a cherry-colored doublet and a hat with an egret-feather plume jumped up and waved at him from a cart loaded with wooden cages that had been abandoned at the side of the road. Hens and geese flapped and cackled in the cages.

  ‘Geraaaalt, it's me!’

  ‘Dandelion! Come join me!’

  ‘Stay away from the ferry,’ the horseman with the bandaged head continued to screamed at the pier, ‘The ferry is only for the army! If you want to get to the other side, you pack of dogs, take your hatchets and get to work in the forest! Make yourselves a raft! The ferry is only for the army!’

  ‘By the gods, Geralt,’ panted the poet, climbing the side of the ravine. His cherry-colored doublet was covered with bird feathers like snow. ‘You see what's happening? Sodden must have lost the battle: they are beginning to retreat. What am I saying, what retreat? It's more of an escape… a panic-stricken flight! We need to get out of here, Geralt. To the other side of the Yaruga river…’

  ‘What are you doing here, Dandelion? Where did you come from?’

  ‘What am I doing here?’ shouted the bard. ‘You ask me that? I am running away like everyone else, bouncing all day on this cart! Some bastard stole my horse at night! Geralt, I beg you, pull me out of this hell! I tell you, those Nilfgaardians could be here anytime now! Anyone who doesn’t have the Yaruga river between himself and them will be go under the knife. Under the knife, you understand?’

  ‘Don't panic, Dandelion.’

  Below, they heard the neighing of horses forced aboard the ferry and the clamor of their hooves striking the boards; Yelling. Chaos. With a splash, a cart stumbled into the water, the oxen bellowed, their snout appearing above the water. Geralt saw the crates and bundles from the cart turned in the river, hit against the hull of the ferry, and floated away. Yelling, cursing. A cloud of dust rose from the valley, sound of hooves could be heard.

  ‘Each in turn!’ yelled the horseman with the bandaged head, plunging with his horse into the crowd. ‘In order, you sons of bitches! One after the other!’

  ‘Geralt,’ moaned Dandelion, clinging to the stirrup, ‘You see what's happening? We'll never get aboard the ferry. They will carry as many soldiers as they can, then burn the ferry afterward so it can't be used by the Nilfgaardians. That's what they usually do, no?’

  ‘You're right,’ agreed the witcher. ‘They usually do that. I still don't understand why all these people are in such a panic! Is this the first war they've ever seen? As usual, the army of kings fight each other, then the kings come to an agreement, sign a treaty and take advantage of the occasion. These events shouldn't concern all these people stampeding on the pier! So why all this outburst of violence?’

  Dandelion looked intently at the witcher's face without releasing the stirrup.

  ‘You clearly are poorly informed, Geralt. Or you don't understand the gravity of the situation. This is not an ordinary war of succession or a dispute over the a piece of land; this is not a skirmish between two feudal lords, which the peasants watch without interrupting their haymaking.’

  ‘What is it then? Enlighten me, because I don't know what's going on. Just between you and me, it doesn't really interest me, but explain it anyway, please.’

  ‘This war is different,’ the bard explained seriously. ‘The Nilfgaardian army leave nothing behind but scorched earth and dead corpses. Entire fields of corpses. It's a war of annihilation, of complete destruction. Nilfgaard against everything. The cruelty…’

  ‘There is no war without cruelty,’ the witcher interrupted. ‘You're exaggerating, Dandelion. It's like burning the ferry: this is the norm… It is, I would say, a military tradition. Since the beginning of the world, throughout the land armies have been killing, plundering, burning and attacking, not necessarily in that order. Since the beginning of the world, when a war breaks out, the farmers hide in the woods with their woman and what few possessions that they can carry by hand, and return home when everything ends…’

  ‘Not this war, Geralt. After this war, no one returns and there’s nothing to return to. Nilfgaard leaves only rubbles behind; its armies advance like lava and casting everything out. The roads are strewn, for miles, with gallows and pyres; smoke filled the sky across the horizon. You said, since the beginning of the world there hasn’t been such a thing? Well, you’re right. Since the beginning of the world. Our world. Because it seems that the Nilfgaardians have come from behind the mountains to destroy this world.’

  ‘This makes no sense. Who would benefit from the destruction of the world? Wars aren't fought for the sake of destruction. Wars are fought for two reasons: the first is power; the second is wealth.’

  ‘Don’t philosophize, Geralt! You can't change what's happening with philosophy! Why don't you listen? Why don’t you see? Why don’t you understand? Believe me, Yaruga will not stop the Nilfgaardians. In winter, when the river freezes over, they will push further. I’m telling you, we need to flee, flee up to the North, out of their reach. But even if they fail to reach there, our world will no longer be the same. Geralt, don't leave me here! I won’t survive this alone! Don't leave me!’

  ‘You've gone mad, Dandelion.’ The witcher leaned over his saddle. ‘You’ve gone mad with fear, if you think that I’d leave you? Give me your hand. Get on my horse. You won't find what you’re looking for on the ferry. Besides, they'll never let you on board. I'll take you up the river. We'll look for a boat or a raft.’

  ‘The Nilfgaardians will overtake us. They’re already there. Have you seen these horsemen? You can see that they come directly from the battlefield. Let's go downriver, toward the mouth of the Ina.

  ‘Stop being so ominous. We'll manage, you’ll see. Downriver, there are large crowds of people, each ferry will be the same as it is here. All the boats will surely have been requisitioned. We'll go upriver against the current. Don't be afraid. I'll get you across, on a tree trunk if necessary.’

  ‘You can hardly see the other bank!’

  ‘Stop complaining. I told you I would get you across.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Get on my horse. We'll discuss it on the way. Hey, the hell, not this sack! You want to break Roach's spine?’

  ‘It's Roach? Roach was a bay, this one is chestnut.’

  ‘All of my horses are named Roach. You know that very well and you still say this to me. I said, away with the sack. What the hell do you have in there? Gold?’

  ‘Manuscripts! Poems! And my rations…’

  ‘Throw it all in the river. You'll write new poems. As for food, I'll share mine with you.’

  Dandelion made a mournful face, but after a long hesitation he threw his bag into the water with a flourish. He jumped onto the horse, sitting on the saddlebags and clinging to the witcher's belt.

  ‘On the way, on the way,’ he repeated anxiously. ‘Let’s not waste time, Geralt, go into the woods before…’

  ‘Come on, Dandelion… You'
re making Roach nervous.’

  ‘Don't mock me. If you knew what I…’

  ‘Shut up, damn it. We're taking the road, and I can get you across before nightfall.’

  ‘Me? How about you?’

  ‘I have something to do on this side of the river.’

  ‘You have surely gone mad, Geralt. Has life been so unkind to you? What do you have to do?’

  ‘It's none of your concern. I'm going to Cintra.’

  ‘To Cintra? But Cintra doesn't exist anymore!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Cintra doesn't exist anymore. It's nothing but ruins and a heap of rubble now. The Nilfgaardians…’

  ‘Get down, Dandelion…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get down!’

  The witcher turned forcefully. At the sight of his face, the bard shot down from the horse like an arrow, took a step back, and tripped. Geralt dismounted calmly. He threw the rein over the mare’s head, and stood indecisively for a moment before running his gloved hand over his face. He sat on a stump, under a bush of blood-red dogwood shoots spread.

  ‘Come here, Dandelion,’ he said. ‘Sit down. Tell me what happened to Cintra. Tell me everything.’

  The poet sat down.