Season of Storms

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  The door slammed open, spurs jangled and soldiers in fox fur hats and short black jerkins with silver braiding entered the chamber. Their leader was a man with a moustache and a scarlet sash.

  “Royal forces!” he announced, resting his fist on a mace stuck into his belt. “Sergeant Kovacs, Second Squadron of the First Company, the armed forces of graciously reigning King Foltest, the Lord of Temeria, Pontaria and Mahakam. In pursuit of a Redanian gang!”

  Fryga, Trent and Ligenza, on a bench in the corner, examined the tips of their boots.

  “The border was crossed by a lawless band of Redanian marauders, hired thugs and robbers,” Kovacs went on. “Those ne’er-do-wells are knocking over border posts, burning, pillaging, torturing and killing royal subjects. They would stand no chance in an engagement with the royal army, thus they are hiding in the forests, waiting for a chance to slip across the border. More such as them may appear in the locality. May you be warned that giving them help, information or any support will be construed as treason, and treason means the noose!

  “Have any strangers been seen here at the station? Any newcomers? I mean suspicious individuals? And I say further that for identifying a marauder or helping in his capture there is a reward. Of one hundred orens. Postmaster?”

  The postmaster shrugged, bowed his head, mumbled something and began wiping the counter, leaning very low over it.

  The sergeant looked around and walked over to Geralt, spurs clanking.

  “Who are you? Ha! I believe I’ve seen you before. In Maribor. I recognise you by your white hair. You are a witcher, aren’t you? A tracker and despatcher of divers monsters. Am I right?”

  “You are.”

  “Then I have no quarrel with you; and your profession, I must say, is an honest one,” pronounced the sergeant, simultaneously eying Addario Bach appraisingly. “Master Dwarf is also beyond suspicion, since no dwarves have been seen among the marauders. But for form’s sake I ask: what are you doing at the station?”

  “I came from Cidaris on a stagecoach and await a transfer. Time is dragging, so the honourable witcher and I are sitting together, conversing and converting beer into urine.”

  “A transfer, you say,” repeated the sergeant. “I understand. And you two men? Who might you be? Yes, you, I’m talking to you!”

  Trent opened his mouth. Blinked. And blurted something out.

  “What? Hey? Get up! Who are you, I ask?”

  “Leave him, officer,” Addario Bach said freely. “He’s my servant, employed by me. He’s a halfwit, an errant imbecile. It’s a family affliction. By great fortune his younger siblings are normal. Their mother finally understood she shouldn’t drink from the puddles outside a plague house when pregnant.”

  Trent opened his mouth even wider, lowered his head, grunted and groaned. Ligenza also grunted and made a movement as though to stand up. The dwarf laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t get up, lad. And keep quiet, keep quiet. I know the theory of evolution, I know what creature humans evolved from, you don’t have to keep reminding me. Let him off, too, commandant, sir. He’s also my servant.”

  “Hm, yes …” The sergeant continued to examine them suspiciously. “Servants, is it? If you say so … And she? That young woman in male attire? Hey! Get up, for I wish to look at you! Who be you? Answer when you’re asked!”

  “Ha, ha, commandant, sir,” the dwarf laughed. “She? She’s a harlot, I mean a wife of loose morals. I hired her in Cidaris in order to bed her. You don’t miss home if you journey with a supply of fanny, any philosopher will certify to that.”

  He gave Fryga a firm slap on the backside. Fryga blanched in fury and ground her teeth.

  “Indeed.” The sergeant grimaced. “How come I didn’t notice at once? Why, it’s obvious. A half-elf.”

  “You’ve got half a prick,” Fryga snapped. “Half the size of what’s considered normal.”

  “Quiet, quiet,” Addario Bach soothed her. “Don’t take umbrage, colonel. I simply landed an obstreperous whore.”

  A soldier rushed into the chamber and submitted a report. Sergeant Kovacs stood up straight.

  “The gang has been tracked down!” he declared. “We must give chase at all speed! Forgive the disturbance. At your service!”

  He exited with the soldiers. A moment later the thud of hooves reached them from the courtyard.

  “Forgive me that spectacle, forgive my spontaneous words and coarse gestures,” Addario Bach said to Fryga, Trent and Ligenza, after a moment’s silence. “In truth, I know you not, I care little for you and rather don’t like you, but I like scenes of hanging even less, the sight of hanged men kicking their feet depresses me deeply. Which explains my dwarven frivolity.”

  “You owe your lives to his dwarven frivolity,” added Geralt. “It would be polite to thank the dwarf. I saw you in action in the peasant homestead, and I know what kind of rogues you are. I wouldn’t lift a finger in your defence. I wouldn’t want or even know how to play such a scene as this noble dwarf did. And you’d already be hanging, all three of you. So be gone from here. I would advise the opposite direction to the one chosen by the sergeant and his cavalry.

  “Not a chance,” he cut them off on seeing their gaze directed towards the swords stuck into the rafters. “You won’t get them back. Without them you’ll be less inclined towards pillage and extortion. Begone.”

  “It was tense,” sighed Addario Bach, soon after the door closed on the three of them. “Damn it, my hands are still shaking a bit. Yours are not?”

  “No.” Geralt smiled at his recollections. “In that respect, I am … somewhat impaired.”

  “Lucky for some.” The dwarf grinned. “Even their impairments are nice. Another beer?”

  “No thank you.” Geralt shook his head. “Time I was going. I’ve found myself in a situation, so to say, where haste is rather advisable. And it would be rather unwise to stay in one place too long.”

  “I rather noticed. And won’t ask questions. But do you know what, Witcher? Somehow the urge to stay at this station and wait idly for the coach for two days has left me. Firstly, because the boredom would do for me. And secondly, because that maiden you defeated with a broom in that duel said goodbye to me with a strange expression. Why, in the fervour, I exaggerated a tiny bit. She probably isn’t one of those you can get away with slapping on the bottom and calling a whore. She’s liable to return, and I’d prefer not to be here when she does. Perhaps, then, we’ll set off together?”

  “Gladly.” Geralt smiled again. “It’s not so lonely on a journey with a good companion, any philosopher will certify to that. As long as the direction suits us both. I must to Novigrad. I must get there by the fifteenth of July. By the fifteenth without fail.”

  He had to be in Novigrad by the fifteenth of July at the latest. He stressed that when the sorcerers were hiring him, buying two weeks of his time. No problem. Pinety and Tzara had looked at him superciliously. No problem, Witcher. You’ll be in Novigrad before you know it. We’ll teleport you straight into the Main Street.

  “By the fifteenth, ha.” The dwarf ruffled up his beard. “Today is the ninth. There’s not much time left, for it’s a long road. But there’s a way for you to get there on time.”

  He stood up, took a wide-brimmed, pointed hat down from a peg and put it on. He slung a bag over his shoulder.

  “I’ll explain the matter to you on the road. Let’s be going, Geralt of Rivia. For this way suits me down to the ground.”

  They walked briskly, perhaps too briskly. Addario Bach turned out to be a typical dwarf. Although dwarves were, when in need or for reasons of comfort, capable of using every kind of vehicle or riding, pack or harness animal, they decidedly preferred walking. They were born walkers. A dwarf was able to cover a distance of thirty miles a day, as many as a man on horseback, and, what’s more, carrying luggage that a normal man couldn’t even lift. A human was incapable of keeping up with an unburdened marching dwarf. And neither was the Witcher.
Geralt had forgotten that, and after some time was forced to ask Addario to slow down a little.

  They walked along forest trails and even at times across rough ground. Addario knew the way, he was very knowledgeable about the area. He explained that in Cidaris lived his family, which was so large that some kind of festivity was forever being held, be it a wedding, christening, funeral or wake. In keeping with dwarven customs, failure to appear at such a gathering could only be excused with a death certificate signed by a notary, and living family members could not get out of them. Thus Addario knew the way to Cidaris and back perfectly.

  “Our destination,” he explained as he walked, “is the settlement of Wiaterna, which lies in the overflow area of the Pontar. There’s a port in Wiaterna where barques and boats often moor. With a bit of luck, we’ll soon happen upon some specimen or other and embark. I must to Tretogor, so I shall disembark in Crane Tussock, while you will sail further and be in Novigrad in some three or four days. Believe me, it’s the quickest way.”

  “I do. Slow down, Addario, please. I can barely keep up. Is your profession in some way connected to walking? Are you a hawker?”

  “I’m a miner. In a copper mine.”

  “Of course. Every dwarf is a miner. And works in the mine in Mahakam. Stands at the coalface with a pick and mines coal.”

  “You’re succumbing to stereotypes. Soon you’ll be saying that every dwarf uses coarse language. And after a few stiff drinks attacks people with a battleaxe.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “My mine isn’t in Mahakam, but in Coppertown, near Tretogor. I don’t stand up or mine, but I play the horn in the colliery brass band.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Actually, something else is interesting here,” laughed the dwarf. “An amusing coincidence. One of our brass band’s showpieces is called The March of the Witchers. It goes like this: Tara-rara, boom, boom, umpa-umpa, rim-sim-sim, paparara-tara-rara, tara-rara, boom-boom-boom …”

  “How the hell did you come up with that name? Have you ever seen a witcher marching? Where? When?”

  “In truth—” Addario Bach became a little disconcerted “—it’s only a slightly reworked version of The Parade of the Strongmen. But all colliery brass bands play either The Parade of the Strongmen, The Entrance of the Athletes or The Marches of the Old Comrades. We wanted to be original. Ta-ra-ra, boom-de-ay!”

  “Slow down or I’ll croak!”

  It was totally deserted in the forests. And quite the opposite in the meadows and forest clearings they often happened upon. Work was in full swing there. Hay was being mowed, raked and formed into ricks and stooks. The dwarf greeted the mowers with cheerful shouts, and they responded in kind. Or didn’t.

  “That reminds me of another of our band’s marches.” Addario pointed at the toiling labourers. “Entitled Haymaking. We often play it, especially in the summer season. And sing along to it, too. We have a poet at the pit, he composed some clever rhymes; you can even sing it a cappella. It goes like this:

  The men go forth to mow

  The women they follow

  They look up and they cower

  They fear a damp’ning shower

  We huddle to keep warm

  And hide from the fierce storm

  Our shafts we proudly vaunt

  And the tempest we taunt

  And from the beginning. It’s fine to march to, isn’t it?”

  “Slow down, Addario!”

  “You can’t slow down! It’s a marching song! With a marching rhythm and metre!”

  There were some remains of a wall showing white on a hillock, and the ruins of a building and a familiar-looking tower. Geralt recognised the temple from the tower; he couldn’t remember which deity was linked to it, but he’d heard various stories about it. Priests had lived there long ago. Rumour had it that when their rapacity, riotous debauchery and lasciviousness could no longer be tolerated, the local residents chased them away and drove them into a dense forest, where, as rumour had it, they occupied themselves converting the forest spirits. Apparently with miserable results.

  “It’s Old Erem,” pronounced Addario. “We’re sticking to our route and making good time. We should arrive in Sylvan Dam by evening.”

  Upstream, the brook they were walking beside had bubbled over boulders and races, and once downstream spread out wide, forming a large pool. This was helped by a wood and earth dam that arrested the current. Some work was going on by the dam, a group of people were busily toiling there.

  “We’re in Sylvan Dam,” said Addario. “The construction you can see down there is the dam itself. It’s used for floating timber from the clearing. The river, as you heed, is not navigable, being too shallow. So, the water level rises, the timber is gathered and then the dam is opened. That causes a large wave facilitating the rafting. The raw material for the production of charcoal is transported this way. Charcoal—”

  “—is indispensable for the smelting of iron,” Geralt finished his sentence. “And smelting is the most important and most promising branch of industry. I know. That was clarified for me quite recently by a certain sorcerer. One familiar with charcoal and smelting.”

  “No wonder he’s familiar,” snorted the dwarf. “The Sorcerers’ Chapter is the major shareholder of the companies of the industrial complex at Gors Velen and it owns several foundries and metalworks outright. The sorcerers derive substantial profits from smelting. From other branches as well. Deservedly too; after all, they largely created the technology. They might, however, give up their hypocrisy and admit that magic isn’t charity, isn’t altruistic philanthropy, but an industry calculated to make a profit. But why am I telling you this? You know yourself. Come with me, there’s a small tavern over there, let’s rest. And we can doubtless get a bed there, for look, it’s growing dark.”

  The small tavern was in no way worthy of the name, but neither could one be surprised. It served woodcutters and rafters from the dam, who didn’t mind where they drank as long as there was something to drink. A shack with a leaky thatched roof, an awning resting on poles, a few tables and benches made of rough planks, a stone fireplace—the local community didn’t require or expect greater luxuries; what counted was what was behind the partition: the barrels from which the innkeeper poured beer, and from where he occasionally served sausage, which the innkeeper’s wife—if she felt like it and was in the right mood—was willing to grill over the embers for a fee.

  Neither were Geralt and Addario’s expectations excessive, particularly since the beer was fresh, from a newly unbunged barrel, and not many compliments were needed for the innkeeper’s wife to agree to fry and serve them a skillet of blood pudding and onion. After a whole day’s wandering through forests Geralt could compare the blood pudding to veal shank in vegetables, shoulder of boar, turbot in ink and the other masterpieces offered by the chef of the Natura Rerum osteria. Although to tell the truth, he did miss the osteria a little.

  “Do you by any chance know the fate of that prophet?” said Addario, gesturing the innkeeper’s wife over and ordering another beer.

  Before they sat down to eat they had examined a moss-grown boulder standing beside a mighty oak. Carved into its surface were letters informing that in that precise place, on the day of the holiday of Birke in 1133 post Resurrectionem, the Prophet Lebioda gave a sermon to his acolytes, and the obelisk honouring the event was financed and erected in 1200 by Spyridon Apps, a master braid-maker from Rinde, based in the Minor Market Place, goods of excellent quality, affordable prices, please visit.

  “Do you know the story of that Lebioda, whom some called a prophet?” asked Addario, scraping the rest of the blood pudding from the skillet. “I mean the real story.”

  “I don’t know any stories,” replied the Witcher, running a piece of bread around the pan. “Neither real nor invented. I was never interested.”

  “Then listen. The thing occurred over a hundred years ago, I think not long after the date carved on that
boulder. Today, as you well know, one almost never sees dragons, unless it’s somewhere in the wild mountains, in the badlands. In those times, they occurred more often and could be vexing. They learned that pastures full of cattle were great eating places where they could stuff themselves without undue effort. Fortunately for the farmers, even a great reptile would limit itself to one or two feasts every quarter, but devoured enough to threaten the farm, particularly when it had it in for some region. One huge dragon became fixated on a certain village in Kaedwen. It would fly in, eat a few sheep, two or three cows, and then catch a few carp from the fishponds for dessert. Finally, it would breathe fire, set alight a barn or hayrick and then fly off.”

  The dwarf sipped his beer and belched.

  “The villagers tried hard to frighten the dragon away, using various traps and trickery, but all to no avail. As luck would have it, Lebioda had just arrived in nearby Ban Ard with his acolytes. At that time, he was already celebrated, was called a prophet, and had masses of followers. The peasants asked him for help, and he, astonishingly, didn’t decline. When the dragon arrived, Lebioda went to the pasture and began to exorcise it. The dragon started by singeing him, as you would a duck. And then swallowed him. Simply swallowed him. And flew off into the mountains.”

  “Is that the end?”

  “No. Keep listening. The acolytes wept over the prophet, despaired and then hired some hunters. Our boys, dwarven hunters, well-versed in draconian matters. They stalked the dragon for a month. Conventionally following the droppings the reptile was dumping. And the acolytes fell on their knees beside every turd and rummaged around in it, weeping bitterly, fishing out their master’s remains. They finally put the whole thing together, or rather what they considered to be the whole thing, but what was actually a collection of none-too-clean human, bovine and ovine bones. Today it’s all kept in the Novigrad temple in a sarcophagus. As a miraculous relic.”