‘Take your foul face away from this table, Herbolth.’ Geralt said. ‘And stick your one hundred marks up your arse. Go now, because your face is making me sick and if I have to look at it for much longer, I'm going to puke on you - from your hat to your boots.’
The alderman put away the purse and laid both hands on the table.
‘No, I won't,’ he said. ‘I wanted to do the right thing, but if it's not to be, it's not to be. Fight, flay, burn, hack each other to pieces for this whore who will spread her legs for anyone who wants her. I think that Istredd will be able to finish you off, you cutthroat for hire, and that only your boots will remain, but if not, I'll get you, even before his corpse cools, and break every bone in your body under torture. Not a single part of your body will be left intact, you…’
He didn't have enough time to remove his hands from the table; the witcher's movement was too fast as his hand flew out from under the table, blurred before the alderman's eyes; a dagger struck between his fingers with a dull thud.
‘Maybe.’ the witcher hissed, gripping the hilt of the dagger, staring into Herbolth's face, from which the blood had drained. ‘Maybe Istredd will kill me. But if not… I'm getting out of here and you, you little shit, don't try to stop me unless you want the filthy streets of this city to fill with blood. Get out of here.’
‘Mr. Alderman! What's going on here? Hey, you…’
‘Easy, Cicada,’ Herbolth said, slowly moving his hands across the table, as far away from the blade of the dagger as possible. ‘Nothing's going on. Nothing.’
The Cicada re-sheathed his half-drawn sword. Geralt didn't look at him. He didn't look at the alderman as he exited the tavern, under the protection of The Cicada who shielded him from staggering bargemen and coach drivers. He gazed at the little man with a rat-like race and black, piercing eyes sitting a few tables away.
I'm on edge, he thought, alarmed, My hands are shaking. My hands are actually shaking. This is impossible, what's happening to me… Does this mean that…
Yes, he thought, looking at the rat-faced man. I think so.
It's so cold…
He stood up.
He looked at the little man and smiled. Then he parted the flaps of his coat, and withdrew two gold coins from a pouch, tossing them onto the table. They clinked, one spinning and striking the blade of the dagger still stuck in the polished wood.
VIII
The blow fell unexpectedly, the club whistling softly through the dark, so fast that the witcher very nearly didn't have enough time to protect his head as he instinctively raised his arm to block the blow, deflecting it with a nimble twist of his body. He jumped back, dropped to one knee, rolled forwards and got to his feet. He felt a movement of air as the club fell again, evading the blow with a graceful pirouette, spinning between the two dark silhouettes that closed in on him in the darkness, reaching over his right shoulder for his sword.
He had no sword.
Nothing can take away my reflexes, he thought as he lightly leapt back, Routine? Cellular memory? I'm a mutant and I react like a mutant, he thought, again falling to one knee to dodge another blow, reaching towards his boot for his dagger. He had no dagger.
He gave a wry smile and was promptly struck on the head with the club. He saw stars as the pain shot right down to his fingertips. He fell to the ground, limp and still smiling.
Someone fell upon him, pressing him into the ground. Somebody else tore his pouch from his belt. His eye caught the flash of a blade and someone knelt on his chest, tearing the neck of his shirt and pulling out his medallion. They immediately let it fall from their fingers.
‘By Beelzebub,’ Geralt heard a gasp, ‘It's a witcher…’
The other cursed, wheezing.
‘He doesn't have a sword… By the gods… It's cursed… Stay away from it, Radgast! Don't touch it!’
The moon momentarily shone through the thinning cloud. Geralt glimpsed an emaciated face above him; male, rat-like, with shining black eyes. He heard footsteps disappearing down the alley that reeked of cats and burnt cooking oil.
The man with the rat face slowly withdrew his knee from Geralt's chest.
‘Next time…’ Geralt heard the clear whisper, ‘Next time, when you want to kill yourself, witcher, don't try to get others to do it for you. Just hang yourself by your reins in the stables.’
IX
It had rained during the night.
Geralt left the stables, rubbing his eyes and brushing the blades of straw from his hair. The rising sun shone on the wet roofs and glittered like gold in the puddles. The witcher had an unpleasant taste in his mouth and the bump on his head throbbed with a dull ache.
At the gate to the stables sat a black cat, fastidiously washing its paw.
‘Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,’ called the witcher.
The cat froze and glared at him angrily, folding back its ears and hissing, teeth bared.
‘I know,’ nodded Geralt, ‘I don't like you either. I'm just joking.’
He unhurriedly loosened the buckles and laces of his jacket, smoothing out the creases in his clothes and checking that nothing would hamper his freedom of movement. He sheathed his sword behind his back and straightened the hilt above his right shoulder, then he tied a leather bandana across his forehead, pushing his hair behind his ears. He pulled on long gauntlets, bristling with short silver studs.
Once again, he looked at the sun, pupils narrowed into vertical slits, and thought to himself, What a beautiful day. A beautiful day for a fight.
He sighed and spat, then walked slowly through the streets, lined with walls that emitted the sharp, piercing smell of wet plaster and lime.
‘Hey, freak!’
He looked around. The Cicada, accompanied by three suspicious-looking, armed individuals sat on a pile of logs arranged along the ditch. He got up, stretched, and went to stand in the middle of the street, carefully avoiding the puddles.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, placing his narrow hands on his weapons belt.
‘None of your business.’
‘Just to make things clear, I don't give a damn about the alderman, the magician or this whole shitty town,’ The Cicada said, slowly emphasising each word. ‘It's you I'm interested in, witcher. You're not going to reach the end of this street. Do you hear? I want to see how good you are in a fight. It's keeping me up at night. Halt, I say.’
‘Get out of my way.’
‘Stop!’ shouted The Cicada, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Didn't you understand what I said? We're going to fight! I challenged you! Soon we will see who's the best!’
Geralt shrugged his shoulders, not slowing his pace.
‘I challenge you to a fight! You hear me, weirdo?’ shouted The Cicada, again blocking his path. ‘What are you waiting for? Get out your iron! What's this, are you scared? Or maybe you're only bothered by those, like Istredd, who've screwed your sorceress?’
Geralt carried on walking, forcing The Cicada to awkwardly step backwards. The armed men accompanying The Cicada got up from the pile of logs and started to follow them, maintaining a certain distance. Geralt heard the mud squelching under their feet.
‘I challenge you!’ repeated The Cicada, reddening then going pallid in turn. ‘Do you hear, damned witcher? What more do you need? That I spit in your face?’
‘So spit.’
The Cicada stopped and took a deep breath, preparing to spit. He was staring into the witcher's eyes instead of paying attention to his hands. This was a mistake. Geralt, still not slowing down, swiftly punched him in the mouth with his studded fist. He struck without pausing, only using the momentum of his stride to follow through. The Cicada's lips cracked and burst like crushed cherries. The witcher hauled back and hit him again in the same place, this time stopping briefly, feeling his anger dissipate with the force and vigour the blow carried. The Cicada, spinning on one foot in the mud, the other in the air, vomited blood and fell backwards into a puddle. The witcher, hearing the
chink of a blade being drawn behind him, stopped and turned fluidly, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘Come on, then,’ he said, his voice trembling with rage, ‘Try me.’
The one who drew his sword looked into Geralt's eyes. One second. And then he looked away. The rest began to withdraw; slowly at first, then with greater urgency. Gauging the situation, the man with the sword also fell back, his lips moving silently. The man furthest back turned and ran, splashing through the mud. The others froze in place, not attempting to advance.
The Cicada rolled over in the mud and sat up, propping himself up on his elbows, babbling incoherently, spitting out something white with a large amount of red. Walking past him, Geralt casually kicked him in the face, breaking his cheekbone, the man floundered again in the puddles.
He walked on, not looking back.
Istredd was already at the well, standing there, leaning against the wooden shaft next to the moss encrusted winch. On his belt hung a sword. A beautiful, light sword with a swept hilt, the tip of the scabbard brushing against the cuff of his shiny riding boot. On the magician's shoulder sat a black bird.
A kestrel.
‘And here you are, witcher.’ Istredd, equipped with a falconer's glove, gently and carefully placed the bird on the roof of the well.
‘Here I am, Istredd.’
‘I didn't think you were coming. I thought you'd left.’
‘As you can see, I'm still here.’
The magician threw his head back and laughed long and loudly.
‘She wanted to save us…’ he said. ‘Both of us. But that's beside the point, Geralt. Draw your blade. There can be only one of us.’
‘You're going to fight with a sword?’
‘Does that surprise you? You also fight with a sword. Let's go.’
‘Why Istredd? Why a sword and not magic?’
The magician paled, his mouth twitched nervously.
‘En garde, I say!’ he shouted. ‘No time for questions, that moment has gone! Now is the time for action!’
‘I want to know,’ Geralt said slowly. ‘I want to know why you choose the sword. I want to know where you got that black kestrel. I have a right to know. A right to know the truth, Istredd.’
‘The truth?’ the magician replied bitterly. ‘Well, maybe you do. Yes, you do. We have equal rights. The kestrel, you ask? It arrived at dawn, wet from the rain. It brought a note; so short that I know it by heart: 'Goodbye, Val. Forgive me. I cannot accept your gift, as I have nothing to give you in return that will adequately express my gratitude. That's the truth, Val. The truth is a shard of ice.' Well, Geralt? Are you happy now? Are your rights satisfied?’
The witcher slowly nodded.
‘Well,’ replied Istredd. ‘Now I'm going to exercise my rights, because I cannot accept the news this letter brings me. I can't be without her… I'd rather… En garde, damn it!’
He twisted and drew his sword with a quick, graceful movement, exhibiting great skill. The kestrel squawked.
The witcher remained motionless, hands at his sides.
‘What are you waiting for?’ barked the magician.
Geralt slowly raised his head, looked at him for a moment, then turned on his heel.
‘No, Istredd,’ he said quietly. ‘Goodbye.’
‘What do you mean, damn it?’
Geralt stopped.
‘Istredd,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘Don't drag anyone else into this. If you want to do it, just hang yourself by your reins in the stables.’
‘Geralt!’ shouted the magician, his voice cracked suddenly with a note of hopelessness that grated on the ears, ‘I won't give up! I'll follow her to Vengerberg. I'll go to the ends of the earth to find her! I won't ever give up on her! Know this!’
‘Farewell, Istredd.’
He stepped into the street without looking back. He walked, paying no attention to the people who hurried out of his way, quickly slamming doors and shutters. He paid no heed to anyone or anything.
He thought about the letter which was waiting for him at the inn.
He accelerated his pace. He knew that at the beside, a black kestrel awaited, wet from the rain, holding a note in its curved beak. He wanted to read it as soon as possible.
Even though he already knew its contents.
The Eternal Fire
This is a fan translation of a French translation of the story from Andrzej Sapkowski's The Sword of Destiny (L'Épée de la Providence). I am not a native or even a strong French speaker but I hope that the result is sufficiently readable for my fellow Anglophones.
I
‘Scum! Worthless singer! Crook!’
Geralt, his curiosity piqued, led his mare to the corner of the alley. Before he had the time to locate the origin of the screams, he heard a crash of glass join the chorus of cries. A jar of cherry jam, he thought. That is the sound of a jar of cherry jam thrown by someone from a great height or with great force. He perfectly remembered Yennefer, during their time together, throwing in anger the jars like it that she received from her customers. Yennefer was ignorant of all the secrets of making jams: her magic in this area was still desperately incomplete.
A fairly large group of onlookers had amassed around the corner of the alley, at the foot of a narrow pink-painted house. A young woman with blonde hair was standing in her nightgown on a flowered balcony suspended just below the overhanging edge of the rooftop. Soft and rounded shoulders appeared beneath the frills of her bodice. She seized a flower pot with the intention of throwing it.
The thin man, wearing an olive-colored hat adorned with a feather, barely had time to leap back, like a goat, to avoid the impact of the pot that exploded on the ground just in front of him and scattered into a thousand pieces.
‘I beg you, Vespula!’ he cried. ‘Don't believe them! I am faithful to you! May I die on the spot if it isn't true!’
‘Scoundrel! Demonspawn! Vagabond!’ the plump blonde yelled back before retreating into the depths of the house to search, no doubt, for new ammunition.
‘Hey, Dandelion!’ called the witcher, leading his recalcitrant mount onto the battlefield. ‘How are you? What's going on?’
‘Everything's fine,’ replied the troubadour, flashing his teeth in a smile. ‘The usual. Hello, Geralt. What are you doing here? By the plague, look out!’
A pewter cup whistled through the air and rebounded with a crash on the paving stones. Dandelion recovered it from the ground to examine its condition and then tossed it into the gutter.
‘Don't forget to take your clothes,’ shouted the blonde, the ruffles of her nightgown dancing on her buxom chest. ‘Get out of my sight! Don't set foot here again, you good-for-nothing musician!’
‘That's not mine,’ Dandelion said in surprise, retrieving the multicolored pants from the ground. ‘I have, in all my life, never worn a pair of pants like these.’
‘Go away! I don't want to see you anymore! You… You… You want to know what you're worth in bed? Nothing! Nothing, you hear? You hear, everyone?’
Another flower pot burst forth: the dried stalk of the plant hummed through the air. Dandelion had just enough time to dive. A copper pot of at least two and a half gallons followed the same course, whirling. The crowd of bystanders, standing out of the path of the projectiles, burst into laughter. Most of these clowns applauded, outrageously encouraging the young woman to continue.
‘Does she have a crossbow in the house?’ the witcher asked uneasily.
‘It's possible,’ replied the poet, craning his neck toward the balcony. ‘What bric-a-brac she has in there! Did you see these pants?’
‘It would be prudent not to stay here. You can come back when she calms down.’
‘By all the devils,’ Dandelion grimaced, ‘I do not return to a house where I've had slander and copper pots thrown in my face. Our brief liaison is finished. Wait a little longer for her to throw me… Oh, by the gods! No! Vespula! Not my lute!’
The troubadour lunged, holding out h
is arms, tripped and fell, grabbing the instrument at the last moment just above the ground. The lute uttered a groaned song.
‘Phew!’ he murmured, rising. ‘I have it. All is well, Geralt, we can go. I left with her, it's true, a coat with a marten-fur collar, but never mind, that will be the price I pay. Because I know she'll never throw the coat.’
‘Liar! Blackguard!’ the blonde bawled before spitting pointedly from the balcony. ‘Vagabond! Damned crook!’
‘Why is she so upset? Have you done something stupid, Dandelion?’
‘The usual,’ the troubadour replied with a shrug. ‘She requires that I be monogamous, but she herself doesn't hesitate to display another man's pants to the whole world. You heard her name-calling? By the gods, I personally have bedded better women, but I refrain from shouting as much in the middle of the street. Let's go.’
‘Where do you suggest we go?’
‘Where do you think? Certainly not the Temple of the Eternal Fire. Let's go to The Pike's Grotto. I need to settle my nerves.’
Without protest, the witcher led his mount behind Dandelion, who was already walking with a purposeful stride through the narrow alley. The troubadour tuned his instrument and plucked a few strings before playing a deep and vibrant chord:
Autumn's scents have pervaded the air,
the wind stole the word from our lips.
That's the way it must be, please don't shed
those diamonds that run down your cheeks.
Dandelion broke off. He waved happily to two girls who passed next to them, carrying baskets of vegetables. The girls giggled.
‘What brings you to Novigrad, Geralt?’
‘Supplies: a harness, equipment, and this new jacket.’ The witcher stroked the fresh, brand new leather of his jacket. ‘What do you think, Dandelion?’
‘You are certainly no fashion plate,’ the bard said, grimacing and stroking the chicken feathers on the puffed sleeve of his own bright blue doublet with the notched collar. ‘I'm happy to see you in Novigrad, the capital, the center and the cultural heart of the world. An enlightened man can breathe deeply here!’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher] Page 13