‘Your escape is illusory, Geralt.’
‘My escape from destiny?’
The witcher tightened the straps of a recovered horse.
‘No,’ the druid responded, watching the little girl: ‘from her.’
The witcher nodded and then vaulted into the saddle. Mousesack remained seated, motionless, using a stick to stir the dying fire.
Geralt went slowly through the heather that reached his stirrups, in the main slope of the valley, toward the black forest.
‘Geralt!’
He turned. Ciri stood at the top of the hill, the little figure with ashen hair looking defeated.
‘Don't go!’
He waved his hand.
‘Don't go!’ she screamed with less strength. ‘Don't go!’
I must, he thought. I must, Ciri. Because… I'm leaving forever.
‘Don't think that you'll get away so easily!’ she cried. ‘Don't even think it! You can't run away! I am part of your destiny, you hear?’
There is no destiny, he thought. It doesn't exist. The only thing that is predestined for us all is death. The second side of the sword with two edges is death. The first is me. The second is the death that follows me step by step. I cannot, I have no right to expose you to it, Ciri.
‘I am your destiny!’
He heard more cries from the top of the hill, but with less strength and more desperation.
With a kick, he urged his horse on and plunged into the damp forest, black and cold as the abyss, in the familiar shadow and benevolent unending darkness.
Something More
I
Upon hearing the sound of hooves striking against the bridge planks, Yurga did not even raise his head. He stifled a scream, let go the wheel that he was holding, and crawled underneath the cart as quickly as he could. Lying flat on the ground, with his back brushing against the rough layer of manure and mud covering the bottom of the cart, he gasped and trembled with fear
The horse slowly approached the cart. Yurga noticed how cautiously and delicately the hooves moved on the rotten, moldy planks. ‘Get out of there,’ said the unseen rider.
Yurga's teeth chattered and he put his head in his arms. The horse snorted and stamped its hoof.
‘Easy, Roach,’ said the rider. Yurga heard the man patting the neck of his horse. ‘Come out, good man. I won't do you any harm.’
The merchant did not believe the stranger. But there was something reassuring and intriguing about his voice, even though it was by no means a pleasant voice. Muttering prayers to several gods at once, Yurga at last stuck his head cautiously out from under the carriage.
The rider has milk-white hair, held back by a black leather band, and he wore a black wool woolen mantle that fell on the chestnut mare's rump. He was not looking at Yurga. Leaning on the saddle, the rider looked at the wheel of the cart that was stuck between the broken planks of the bridge. Suddenly he lifted his head, glanced at the merchant briefly, and turned his face towards the bushes on either side of the ravine.
Yurga extricated himself with difficulty, grumbling. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, smearing his face with wood tar from the cart. The rider darted him a somber and attentive look, sharp and cutting as a harpoon. Yurga remained silent.
‘The two of us won't be able to pull the cart free,’ the stranger finally said, indicating the stuck wheel. ‘Are you traveling alone?’
‘There were three of us, sir,’ Yurga stammered. ‘My servants have fled, those reptiles…’
‘I'm not surprised,’ responded the rider, looking down at the bottom of the ravine beneath the bridge. ‘I don't blame them. I think you should do the same. There is still time.’
Yurga's eyes did not follow the stranger's gaze. He did not want to see the pile of skulls, ribs, and shinbones scattered among the stones, visible through the burdock and nettles growing on the dry riverbed. The merchant feared that one more glance at those hollow eyesockets, bared teeth, and the broken bones would cause him to break down completely, and what remained of his courage would burst like a fish's swim bladder. Then he would flee along the road, stifling his screams, just as the driver and the valet had done less than an hour before.
‘What are you waiting for?’ asked the rider in a low voice, turning his horse. ‘Nightfall? It will be too late. They will take you as soon as it gets dark. Perhaps even earlier. Go, mount your horse, come with me. Get out of here as fast as possible.’
‘What about the cart, sir?’ Yurga yelled at the top of his lungs, surprising himself with the intensity of his shout, not knowing whether it was fear, despair, or anger that caused it. ‘What about my merchandise? A whole year's worth of work! I'd rather die! I won't leave it behind!’
‘It seems to me that you don't yet know where fate has led you, friend,’ the stranger said quietly, gesturing with his hand toward the horrible cemetery stretching beneath the bridge. ‘You don't want to leave the cart here, you say? I tell you that when twilight falls, not even the treasures of King Dezmod will be able to save you. Stop thinking about your damn cart. Hell, what made you take a shortcut through this wilderness? Don't you know what massacres have taken place here since the end of the war?’
Yurga shook his head, indicating ignorance.
‘You don't know,’ replied the stranger, shaking his head, ‘but have you not seen what lies below? It's difficult not to notice. These are what remained of those who took this shortcut. And yet you still to leave your cart behind. Tell me, what exactly is in this cart? I'm curious.’
Yurga did not answer straightaway. Instead he looked at the rider suspiciously, trying to decide between ‘tow’ and ‘old rags’.
The rider didn't seem particularly interested in his response. He calmed the chestnut mare who was tossing her head nervously.
‘Sir…’ the merchant stammered at last. ‘Help me. Save me. I would be grateful until the end of my days… Don't leave me… I'll give you what you want, anything you desire… Save me, sir!’
The stranger turned his head abruptly, keeping both hands on the pommel of the saddle.
‘What did you say?’
Yurga, mouth agape, was silent.
‘You will give me what I want? Repeat what you said.’
Yurga gulped audibly, shut his mouth and regretted not having a beard in which he could spit. His head spun from wild speculations concerning the price that the stranger could exact. Most of them, even the use of his young wife, Złotolitka, on a weekly basis did not seem so terrible compared with the loss of his cart, and no doubt much less macabre than becoming another white skeleton at the bottom of the ravine. Being a merchant that he is, he made quick calculations of his current situation. The rider did not look like a tramp, a vagabond, or a straggler, the likes of which were commonly seen on the road after the war. Yet he could not under any circumstances be of noble birth, nor was he one of those proud knights who find great pleasure in looting their neighbours down to the skin. Yurga estimated his worth at close to twenty gold coins. His mercantile habits nevertheless prevented him from offering a price.
Instead he muttered something along the lines of ‘eternal gratitude’.
‘I asked,’ the stranger repeated calmly, waiting for the silent merchant, ‘if you will give me whatever I demand of you.’
There was no way out of this. Yurga swallowed hard, nodding his head. Contrary to Yurga's expectations, the stranger did not laugh ominously, nor did he look pleased with the success of his negotiation. He leaned on his saddle, and spat into the ravine.
‘But what am I doing?’ he said grimly. ‘Is this for the best? Alright. I’ll try to pull you out of this, though I know not whether this will end badly for both of us. If we succeed then you, in return…’
Yurga tensed up, almost in tears.
‘… will give me,’ the rider in the black coat said quickly, ‘what you find at home yet do not expect. Do you promise this?’
Yurga groaned and nodded his head quickly.
‘Well,’ the stranger frowned. ‘Now move over. It's best if you hide under the cart again. The sun is setting.’
He got down from his horse and took off his coat. The merchant noticed that the stranger carried a sword on a shoulder strap with a harness slung diagonally across his chest. He had a vague impression of hearing about people who carried their weapons in such manner. The black leather jacket reaching to the waist and the long gauntlets studded with silver nails could indicate that the stranger comes from Novigrad or its surrounding area, but such clothing fashion for such garments had been popular lately, especially among young men. The stranger however was no youngster.
The rider unloaded the saddlebags from his horse and turned around, causing the round medallion on his chest, hung by a silver chain, to swing; he held in his arms a small casket and a long, leather-strapped bundle covered in skins.
‘Still not under the cart?’ he asked, approaching.
Yurga noticed that the medallion's design depicted a wolf with open jaws and bared fangs.
‘Are you… a witcher, sir?’
The stranger shrugged.
‘You guessed right. A witcher. Now go. Hide under the other side of the cart. Don't come out and keep your mouth shut. I need to be alone for a moment.’
Yurga complied. He crouched near the wheel, hiding underneath the tarp. He did not want to see what the stranger was doing on the other side of the cart, much less the bones lying at the bottom of the ravine. Instead he looked at his shoes and the star-shaped specks of green moss covering the rotten planks of the bridge.
A witcher.
The sun disappeared.
He heard footsteps.
The stranger came out slowly, very slowly, from behind the cart and walked to the center of the bridge with his back facing Yurga. He noticed that the sword on his back was not the same one he had before. It was a beautiful weapon: the hilt, the guard, and the iron embellishments on the scabbard shone like stars. Even in the fading light of dusk, they glowed.
The golden-purple hue lingering over the forest faded.
‘Sir…’
The stranger turned. Yurga barely managed to suppress a scream.
The stranger's face was white, white and porous as fresh cheese that has been squeezed and drained through cloth. And his eyes… By the gods… Something screamed inside Yurga. His eyes…
‘Behind the cart, quickly,’ the stranger croaked.
It was not the same voice that he had heard earlier. The merchant suddenly felt the pressure of a full bladder.
The stranger turned and walked over the bridge.
A witcher.
The horse tethered to the cart groaned and neighed, striking the planks with its hooves.
A mosquito hummed over Yurga's ear. The merchant did not even dare to raise his hand to swat it. More humming. A whole swarm of mosquitoes can be heard humming in the bushes on the opposite side of the ravine.
Then there was howling.
Yurga clenched his teeth so hard that it hurt. He realized that those were not from the mosquitoes.
In the deepening gloom of the twilight, small grotesque figures - no more than four cubits, frighteningly thin as skeletons - emerged from the other side of the ravine. They moved onto the bridge with a bizarre gait - lifting their swollen knees high in sudden movements - like that of a heron. Yellow eyes shone on their flat and wrinkled faces and white warts gleamed on their frog-like jaws. They approached, seeking their victim.
The stranger, still as a statue in the center of the bridge, suddenly lifted his right hand making strange gestures. The monstrous dwarves retreated momentarily, hissing loudly, before quickly resuming their forward movement, faster and faster, while raising their spindly, clawed limbs.
As another monster suddenly jumped out from under the bridge, grinding its claws, the others pounced forward in stupefying leaps. The stranger turned. With a flash of the new sword, the head of the creature that climbed from under the bridge flew six feet into the air, leaving a trail of blood behind. The white-haired man leapt among the rest of the creatures, spun around, and slashed rapidly to the left and right. The monsters hurled themselves at him from all sides, howling and flailing their limbs, oblivious to the bright, razor-like blade. Yurga huddled up against the cart.
Something fell at his feet, covered in blood. It was a long bony limb with four claws, scaled like a hen's.
The merchant screamed.
He felt something sneaked past him. He flinched and tried to dive further under the carriage. At that very moment, something fell upon his back: the large clawed limb gripped him by his temple and his cheek. Yurga covered his eyes; he screamed and tossed his head; he sprang up and staggered onto the center of the bridge, stumbling over corpses lying on the planks. The battle was in full swing on the bridge. The merchant saw nothing but a raging tumult and whirling movements from which an arc of silver light from the blade emerged from time to time.
‘Helpppp!’ he yelled, as he felt sharp fangs piercing through his hood and stabbing him in the back of his head.
‘Duck your head!’
He pressed his chin against his chest, a flash of the blade caught his eye. The sword whistled through the air, brushing against his hood. Yurga heard a wet and horrible crunch. Warm liquid spilled onto his back as if it came from a bucket. The dead weight around his neck forced him down to his knees.
The merchant saw three other monsters running out from under the bridge. They leapt like locusts, and seized the stranger's legs. One of them took a quick blow in its frog-like mouth, staggered for a moment before falling onto the planks. A second, pierced by the tip of the sword, collapsed in a convulsion. The others surrounded the white-haired man like ants, driving him to the edge of the bridge. Another monster shot out from the swirling heap, splashing blood, convulsing and howling. At this moment, the stranger, along with the monsters, rolled over the edge of the bridge and fell into the ravine. Yurga fell to the ground, and covered his head with his hands.
Under the bridge, the merchant heard the triumphant clamor of the monsters give way to the whistling of the sword, howling and shrieks of pain. Then out of the darkness there came a clatter of stones followed by the crackle of crushed and trampled skeletons. Once again the sword whistled, to be interrupted by a final, desperate, blood-curdling screech.
Silence fell, broken only by a sudden cry of frightened bird among the trees deep in the woods. Then even the bird went silent.
Yurga swallowed hard, lifted his head, and got up with difficulty. The silence still reigned. Not even the rustling of leaves can be heard.
The forest seemed to have become mute with terror. Frayed clouds darkened the sky.
‘Hey!’
The merchant turned, instinctively protecting himself with his hands. The witcher was standing before him, motionless, black, with his shining sword held low. Yurga noticed that he did not stand up straight, and that he was leaning on one side.
‘Sir, are you alright?’
The witcher did not respond. He took a heavy and awkward step on a wobbly left hip, and reached out to hold on to the side of the cart. Yurga noticed black and shiny blood dripping onto the planks.
‘You're injured, sir!’
Again, the witcher did not respond. He clung to the side of the cart, looked straight into the merchant's eyes, and then slowly slumped onto the bridge.
II
‘Slowly, carefully… Under the head… Someone carry his head!’
‘Here, here, on the cart!’
‘By the gods, Mister Yurga, he's bleeding through the dressing…’
‘Stop jabbering! Come on, hurry up! Profit, look alive! Cover him with a sheepskin coat, Vell, don't you see that he's shaking?’
‘Perhaps he could be given some vodka?’
‘Wounded and unconscious? Are you mad, Vell? Pass me the vodka instead, I need a drink… Dogs, scoundrels, vile cowards! Running away like that and leaving me by myself!’
‘Master
Yurga! He said something!’
‘What? What did he say?’
‘I'm not sure… A name…’
‘What name?’
‘Yennefer…’
III
‘Where am I?’
‘Don't get up, sir, don't move, or wounds will open up again. Those horrible creatures must have bitten your thigh down to the bone. You lost a lot of blood… Don't you recognize me? I am Yurga! You saved me on the bridge, remember?’
‘Ah…’
‘Are you thirsty?’
‘Like hell I am…’
‘Drink, sir, drink. You're consumed by fever.’
‘Yurga… where are we?’
‘We're on the road, in my cart. Speak no more, sir, and don't move. We must cross the forests and find a healer in the human settlements. The bandage we have on your leg is of little help. The blood won't stop flowing…’
‘Yurga…’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘In my casket… a flask… sealed with green wax. Break the seal and give it to me… in a bowl. Wash the bowl well and let no one touch the flask… if you value your life… Hurry, Yurga… Damn, how this cart shakes… The flask, Yurga…’
‘Here… drink.’
‘Thank you… Now pay attention. Soon I'm going to fall asleep. I will be thrashing and raving, and then be still as a corpse. It's nothing to be afraid of…’
‘Lie down, lord, otherwise your wound will reopen and you'll lose more of your blood.’
He sank into the sheepskin. As his head reeled, he felt the merchant covering him with a sheepskin blanket that smelled of horse sweat. Each bump of the cart sent a jolt of pain down his thigh and hip. He gritted his teeth. Above him, he saw billions of stars. So close that it seemed within reach. Just above his head, just above the treetop.
He chose to stay away from the light, from the glow of fires, to stay under the cover of the swaying shadows. It was not easy: there were burning pyres of pine all around, casting a red glow in the sky interspersed with occasional sparks, marked the darkness with lighter pennants of smoke, crackling and shedding light in between the dancing silhouettes.
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher] Page 32