Season of Storms
Page 35
I’m Nimue verch Wledyr ap Gwyn.
Vyrva, Guado, Sibell, Brugge, Casterfurt, Mortara, Ivalo, Dorian, Anchor, Gors Velen.
She looked back to see if anybody was approaching. It would be more pleasant to have company, she thought. But the highway, to make matters worse, had chosen not to be well-frequented. It was quite simply deserted.
There was no choice. Nimue cleared her throat, adjusted the bundle on her shoulder and gripped her stick tightly. And strode into the forest.
Oaks, elms and ancient hornbeams interwoven together predominated and there were also pines and larches. Lower down there was dense undergrowth, hawthorns, filberts, bird cherries and honeysuckle entangled together. You would have expected it to teem with bird life, but a malevolent silence reigned there. Nimue walked with her eyes fixed on the ground. She sighed with relief when all of a sudden, a woodpecker drummed somewhere deep in the forest. So, something does live here, she thought, I’m not completely alone.
She stopped and suddenly turned around. She didn’t see anybody or anything, but for a moment was certain that someone was following her. She sensed she was being watched. Secretly stalked. Fear constricted her throat and shivers ran down her back.
She speeded up. The forest, or so it seemed, had begun to thin out, had become lighter and greener, for birches began to predominate. One more bend, then two more, she thought feverishly, a little more and the forest will finish. I’ll put this forest behind me, along with whatever’s prowling there. And I’ll keep going.
Vyrva, Guado, Sibell, Brugge …
She didn’t even hear a rustle, but caught sight of a movement out of the corner of her eye. A grey, many-limbed and incredibly fast shape shot out of the thicket of ferns. Nimue screamed, seeing the snapping pincers as large as scythes. Legs covered in spines and bristles. Many eyes, surrounding the head like a crown.
She felt a sharp tug, which picked her up and threw her aside. She tumbled down on her back onto the springy branches of a filbert shrub, caught hold of them, ready to leap up and flee. She froze, looking at the wild dance taking place on the track.
The many-legged creature was hopping and whirling around incredibly quickly, brandishing its limbs and clanking its dreadful mandibles. And around it, even quicker, so quick that he was blurred, danced a man. Armed with two swords.
First one, then a second and finally a third limb was hacked off and flew into the air in front of Nimue, who was watching petrified with fear. The blows of the swords fell on the flat body, from which a green sticky substance was squirting. The monster struggled and flailed around, finally making a desperate leap and fleeing into the forest, bolting. It didn’t get far. The man with the swords caught up with it, stepped on it and pinned it to the ground with simultaneous, powerful thrusts of both blades. The creature threshed the ground with its limbs, then finally lay still.
Nimue pressed her hands to her chest, trying hard to calm her pounding heart. She saw her rescuer kneel over the dead monster and use a knife to lever something from its carapace. Saw him wipe the two blades and sheath the swords into the scabbards on his back.
“Everything in order?”
Some time passed before Nimue realised he was talking to her. But in any case, she couldn’t utter a word or get up from the hazel thicket. Her rescuer was in no hurry to pull her out of the bush, so she finally had to get out herself. Her legs were trembling so much she had difficulty standing. The dryness in her mouth persisted stubbornly.
“It was a rotten idea, trekking alone through the forest,” said her rescuer, coming over.
He pulled back his hood and his snow-white hair positively shone in the sylvan twilight. Nimue almost cried out, bringing her fists to her mouth in an involuntary movement. It’s impossible, she thought, it’s absolutely impossible. I must be dreaming.
“But from this moment,” continued the white-haired man, examining a blackened and tarnished metal plate in his hand. “From this moment, it will be possible to travel this way in safety. And what do we have here? IDR UL Ex IX 0008 BETA. Ha! This one was missing from my collection. Number eight. But now I’ve settled the score. How are you feeling, girl? Oh, forgive me. Parched mouth, eh? Tongue as dry as a board? I know it, I know it. Have a sip.”
She took the canteen he handed her in trembling hands.
“Where are we going?”
“To Do … To Dor …”
“Dor?”
“Dor … Dorian. What was that? That thing … over there?”
“A work of art. Masterpiece number eight. It’s actually not important what it was. What’s important is that it’s no more. But who are you? Where are you making for?”
She nodded her head and swallowed. And spoke. Astonished by her own courage.
“I am … I’m Nimue verch Wledyr ap Gwyn. From Dorian I’m going to Anchor and from there to Gors Velen. And Aretuza, the school of sorceresses on the Isle of Thanedd.”
“Oho. And where did you come from?”
“From the village of Vyrva. Via Guado, Sibell, Brugge, Casterfurt—”
“I know that route,” he interrupted her. “You’ve truly trekked through half the world, O Nimue, daughter of Wledyr. They ought to give you credit for that during the entry examination in Aretuza. But they’re unlikely to. You’ve set yourself an ambitious route, O girl from the village of Vyrva. Very ambitious. Come with me.”
“Very well …” Nimue was still walking stiffly. “Good sir …?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for saving me.”
“The thanks are due to you. For a good few days I’ve been looking out for someone like you. For any travellers coming this way were in large groups, proud and armed, and our work-of-art number eight didn’t dare to attack anyone like that, it didn’t venture from its hideout. You lured it out. It was able to spot some easy meat, even at a great distance. Somebody travelling alone. And not very big. No offence meant.”
The edge of the forest was, as it turned out, just around the corner. The white-haired man’s horse—a bay mare—was waiting a little way further, beside a lone clump of trees.
“It’s some forty miles from here to Dorian,” said the white-haired man. “Three days’ march for you. Three and a half, including the rest of today. Are you aware of that?”
Nimue felt a sudden euphoria, eliminating the torpor and the other effects of terror. It’s a dream, she thought. I must be dreaming. Because I can’t be awake.
“What’s the matter? Are you feeling well?”
Nimue plucked up her courage.
“That mare …” she said, so excited she was barely able to enunciate her words. “That mare is called Roach. Because all your horses bear that name. For you are Geralt of Rivia. The Witcher Geralt of Rivia.”
He looked long at her. And said nothing. Nimue also said nothing, eyes fixed on the ground.
“What year is it?”
“One thousand three hundred …” she said, raising her astonished eyes. “One thousand three hundred and seventy-three after the Revival.”
“If so—” the white-haired man wiped his face with his hand in his sleeve “—Geralt of Rivia has been dead for many years. He died a hundred and five years ago. But I think he would be happy, if … He’d be happy if people remembered him after all those hundred and five years. If they remembered who he was. Why, even if they remembered the name of his horse. Yes, I think, he would be happy … If he could know it. Come. I’ll see you off.”
They walked on. Nimue bit her lip. Embarrassed, she decided not to say anything more.
“Ahead of us is a crossroads and the highway,” the white-haired man said, breaking the tense silence. “The road to Dorian. You’ll get there safely—”
“The Witcher Geralt didn’t die!” Nimue blurted out. “He only went away, went away to the Land of the Apple Trees. But he’ll return … He’ll return, because the legend says he will.”
“Legends. Fables. Fairy tales. Stories and romances. I might have gues
sed, Nimue from the village of Vyrva, who’s going to the school for sorceresses on the Isle of Thanedd. You wouldn’t have dared undertake such an insane quest had it not been for the legends and fairy tales you grew up on. But they’re just fairy tales, Nimue. Just fairy tales. You’ve come too far from home not to understand that.”
“The Witcher will return from the beyond!” Nimue wasn’t giving up. “He’ll return to protect people, so that Evil will never hold sway again. As long as darkness exists, witchers will be necessary. And darkness still exists!”
He said nothing, looking away. He finally turned towards her. And smiled.
“Darkness still exists,” he agreed. “In spite of the progress being made which we’re told to believe will light up the gloom, eliminate threats and drive away fears. Until now, progress hasn’t achieved great success in that field. Until now, all progress has done is to persuade us that darkness is only a glimmering superstition, that there’s nothing to be afraid of. But it’s not true. There are things to be afraid of. Because darkness will always, always exist. And Evil will always rampage in the darkness, there will always be fangs and claws, killing and blood in the darkness. And witchers will always be necessary. And let’s hope they’ll always appear exactly where they’re needed. Answering the call for help. Rushing to where they are summoned. May they appear with sword in hand. A sword whose gleam will penetrate the darkness, a sword whose brightness disperses the gloom. A pretty fairy tale, isn’t it? And it ends well, as every fairy tale should.”
“But …” she stammered. “But it’s a hundred years … How is it possible for …? How is it possible—?”
“A future novice of Aretuza may not ask questions like that,” he interrupted, still smiling. “A novice of a school where they teach that nothing is impossible. Because everything that’s impossible today may become possible tomorrow. A slogan like that should hang above the entrance to the school. Which will soon become your school. Fare you well, Nimue. Farewell. Here we part.”
“But …” She felt sudden relief, and her words gushed forth. “But I’d like to know … Know more. About Yennefer. About Ciri. About how that story really ended. I’ve read it … I know the legend. I know everything. About witchers. About Kaer Morhen. I even know the names of all the witcher Signs! Please, tell me—”
“Here we part,” he interrupted her gently. “The road to your destiny is before you. A quite different road is before me. The story goes on, the tale never ends. As far as the Signs are concerned … There is one you don’t know. It’s called the Somne. Look at my hand.”
She looked.
“An illusion,” she heard from somewhere, far away. “Everything is an illusion.”
“I say, wench! Don’t sleep or you’ll be robbed!”
She jerked her head up. Rubbed her eyes. And sprang up from the ground.
“Did I fall asleep? Was I sleeping?”
“I should say!” laughed a stout woman from the driver’s box of a wagon. “Like a log! Like a baby! I hailed you twice—nothing. I was about to get off the cart … Are you alone? Why are you looking around? Are you looking for someone?”
“For a man … with white hair … He was here … Or maybe … I don’t know myself.”
“I didn’t see anyone,” replied the woman. The little heads of two children peered out from under the tarpaulin behind her.
“I heed that you’re travelling,” said the woman, indicating with her eyes Nimue’s bundle and stick. “I’m driving to Dorian. I’ll take you if you wish. If you’re going that way.”
“Thanks,” said Nimue, clambering up onto the box. “Thanks a hundredfold.”
“That’s the way!” The woman cracked the reins. “Then we’ll go! It’s more comfortable to ride than hoof it, isn’t? Oh, you must have been fair beat to doze off and lay down right beside the road. You were sleeping, I tell you—”
“—like a log,” Nimue sighed. “I know. I was weary and fell asleep. And what’s more, I had—”
“Yes? What did you have?”
She looked back. Behind her was the black forest. Before her was the road, running between an avenue of willows. A road towards destiny.
The story goes on, she thought. The story never ends.
“—a very strange dream.”
By Andrzej Sapkowski
The Last Wish
Sword of Destiny
Blood of Elves
The Time of Contempt
Baptism of Fire
The Tower of Swallows
The Lady of the Lake
Season of Storms
The Malady and Other Stories:
an Andrzej Sapkowski Sampler (e-only)
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