Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05]

by The Tower of the Swallow (fan translation) (epub)

  The guard was changed on the walls of the citadel. The Scarra sisters were a snoring duet. Kohout pisses noisily into an empty bucket.

  Kenna pulled the blanket up to her chin.

  * * *

  They did not find the girl. She had disappeared. She had just disappeared. Boreas Mun – incredibly – lost track of the mare after three miles. Suddenly, without warning, it grew dark; the wind bent the trees nearly to the ground. It burst into rain, the thunder roared and the lightning flashed.

  Bonhart did not give up. They returned to Unicorn. They screamed at each other – Bonhart, The Owl, Rience and the fourth mysterious, scratchy, inhuman voice. They had the whole gang in the saddle; the only people who remained were those unable to ride – like me. They took with them peasants with torches, who knew the surrounding forests. They returned at dawn.

  They came back with nothing. Discounting the horror they had in their eyes.

  The rumours, Kenna remembered, only started a few days later. At first everyone was afraid of The Owl and Bonhart. They were so mad that it was better to stay out of their way. Even a careless word from Bert Brigden, an officer, earned him a blow from Skellen’s whip. But then he talked about what happened during the chase. The small straw unicorn suddenly grew to the size of a dragon and frightened the horses so that the riders fell to the ground, it was only by a miracle that they did not break their necks. Across the sky galloped a fiery cavalcade of skeletal ghosts mounted on skeletal horses and at their head rode the terrible king who ordered his servants to erase the traces of the hooves of the black mare with their ragged cloaks. A macabre choir of nightjars cried a blood chilling song. And they heard the terrifying howls of a ghostly Beann’shie, the messenger of death…

  The wind, rain, clouds, trees and bushes in the darkness and the mysterious events, Boreas Mun spoke of, who was also there, with fear in his eyes. That was the whole story. And the nightjars? The nightjars, he added were always screaming.

  And the trail, the trail of hoof prints that suddenly disappeared, as if the horse had taken flight?

  The face of Boreas Mun, a tracker, who could trace a fish through water, stiffened at this question. The wind was responsible; the wind blew away all traces in the sand and leaves. There is no other explanation.

  Some even believed him, Kenna recalled.

  Some even believed that it was all a natural phenomenon or delusions. And even I laughed at them.

  But I stopped laughing. After Dun Dare. After Dun Dare no one laughed again.

  * * *

  When he saw her, he drew back in fright and inhaled sharply.

  She had mixed with goose fat, soot from the fire place, making a thick mass which see used to blacken her eye sockets and eyelids, extending the lines out across her temples and to her ears.

  She looked like a demon.

  ‘From the fourth island along the banks go into the swamp forest,’ he repeated the instructions. ‘Then follow the river to the three dead trees, thence by the willow trees directly to the west. When the pines appear, along their edge is a river. You turn at the ninth fork and follow until it doesn’t twist anymore. After that you will be at village of Dun Dare, to the north there are cottages. Right behind them, at the crossroads, is a tavern.’

  ‘I remember. I’ll find it, don’t worry.’

  ‘Especially be careful at the bends in the river. Beware the places where the reeds are less frequent. Or places overgrown with knotweed. And if you are caught out there at dusk before the pine trees, stop and camp until dawn. You must not at any cost ride through the swamp at night. It’s almost the new moon and in addition there are clouds…’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘When you come to lake country… head north through the hills. Avoid the main roads, they be full of traffic from the armies. You will then arrive at a river, a large river, which is called the Sylte, you’ll be halfway there.’

  ‘I know, you drew me a map.’

  ‘Oh, you’re right. I forgot.’

  Ciri checked her saddlebags several times. Mechanically. She did not know what to say, in order to delay what had to be said.

  ‘I am glad that I met you,’ he said before she could. ‘Truly. Goodbye, witcheress’

  ‘Goodbye, hermit. Thank you for everything.’

  She was sitting in her saddle and about to spur Kelpie, when he came over and grabbed her hand.

  ‘Ciri. Stay. Wait for winter to pass…’

  ‘I’ll get to the lake before the frost. And then, if you were right, I do not have to worry about winter. I’ll be teleported to Thanedd. To the school of Aretuza to Lady Rita… Vysogota… How much time does it…’

  ‘The Tower of the Swallow is a legend. Remember. Only a legend.’

  ‘I too am only a legend,’ she said bitterly. ‘From birth. Zireael, Swallow, child surprise. The chosen one. Child of destiny. Child of the Elder Blood. I have to go, Vysogota. Be in good health.’

  ‘Be in good health, Ciri.’

  * * *

  The tavern at the crossroads behind the village was empty. Cyprian Fripp the Younger and his three companions had refused access to the frightened locals and travellers. They, however, feasted and drank for days, sitting in the cold room full of smoke, which smelled like the usual stink that taverns got in winter when the windows and doors do not get opened – sweat, cats, mice, shoes, pine, birch, fat, ash, wet clothes and steaming vapour.

  ‘What shitty service,’ Yuz Jannowitz repeated for perhaps the hundredth time, making a sign to the servants to bring more vodka. ‘The plague on the Owl, leaving us in this shitty town! Better to be out on patrol in the woods!’

  ‘Come on you’re not stupid,’ Dede Vargas replied. ‘Out there it is cold as ice! I prefer the warmth. And the girls!’

  He patted a serving girl on the buttock with a vengeance. The girl shrieked, not too convincingly and with distinct apathy. The work at the inn had taught her that if they patted or pinched you, you had to shriek. The guests loved it.

  Since the second day of being there, Cyprian Fripp and his companions had grabbed the two serving girls. The innkeeper was too afraid to protest and the girls were too tired to think of protesting. Life had taught them that if a girl protests, then they beat her. Therefore it was wiser to wait until they grew bored.

  ‘It’s that fucking Falka,’ said Rispat la Pointe continuing another topic from their boring evening talks, ‘she is dead somewhere in the woods, I tell you. I saw Skellen’s Orion slice open her face and the blood spurted out like a fountain! She could not have survived that.’

  ‘The Owl failed,’ said Yuz Jannowitz. ‘He only grazed her with the Orion. True, he did her mug a little damage. But, does that hinder a girl who can jump over a palisade? Did she fall from the horse? Shit! When we measured the palisade it was seven feet and two inches high! And she jumped it! And between the saddle and her ass you could not have gotten the blade of a knife.’

  ‘Blood flowed from her like a stuck pig,’ protested Rispat la Pointe. ‘She rode and fell off and died in a ravine, wolves have eaten the meat and crows and ants have stripped the bones clean from what was left of the carcass. Finally, Deireádh. So here we are and rotting away waiting for our money. And it is because they cannot find that bitch!’

  ‘It cannot be because a corpse doesn’t not leave a trace or a mark,’ Dede Vargas said with conviction. ‘There is always something, a skull, pelvis. Rience, the sorcerer, will find the remains of Falka. Then that will be the end.’

  ‘And then we can leave this fucking dump,’ Cyprian Fripp the Younger said, his gaze boring into the wall of the tavern, which he knew every nail and stain, ‘and this fucking liquor. And both of these wenches, who reek of onions and when you fuck them they are as still as a rock, and stare at the ceiling and pick their teeth.’

  ‘Anything is better than boredom,’ Yuz Jannowitz decreed. ‘I want to howl! Shit, I want to do something! Anything! Let’s set fire to the village, at least there will be something
to do!’

  The door creaked. The sound was so unexpected that everyone jumped from their seats.

  ‘Out!’ roared Vargas, ‘Get out, old man! Stinking beggar! Go into the yard!’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Fripp waved his hand, bored. ‘Hey, he is dragging bagpipes with him. He’s probably an old veteran; old soldiers play it safe by playing and singing in taverns later in life. It’s cold out in the yard. Let him sit here in the warmth…’

  ‘But far from us,’ Jannowitz showed the old man where he could sit. ‘We are already besieged by lice. I can see them slowly crawling around all over the place. Anyone would think there are turtles not lice.’

  ‘Innkeeper!’ Fripp called out imperiously. ‘Bring the old man something to eat! And our spirits!’

  The old man removed his big fur hat and gracefully nodded his head.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘But today is the holiday of Saovine. The holiday does not lend with one being driven into the rain and freezing muck. The festival agrees to treat…’

  ‘It’s true,’ Rispat la Pointe slapped his forehead. ‘Today is indeed the holiday of Saovine! The end of October!’

  ‘It is a night of monsters,’ the innkeeper had brought the old man some water soup. ‘A night of spirits and ghosts!’

  ‘Ha ha!’ Yuz Jannowitz said. ‘The old man will regale us with a tale of old!’

  ‘Let him,’ Dede Vargas yawned. ‘Anything is better than this boredom!’

  ‘Saovine,’ Cyprian Fripp said. ‘It’s been five weeks since Unicorn. And two weeks of us just sitting here. Two whole weeks! Saovine, ha!’

  ‘A night of monsters,’ the old man licked the spoon, he poke around in the bowl with his finger, then pulled it out and popped it in his mouth. ‘A night of ghosts and witchcraft!’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Yuz Jannowitz smiled. ‘We will have old wife’s tales!’

  The old man scratched and hiccupped.

  ‘The feast of Saovine,’ he began emphatically, ‘is the last night before the November new moon, and for the elves is the last night of the old year. When the new day dawns, it is New Year’s for the elves. So there is a custom among the elves that on Saovine night to light all the fires around the house and one pitch torch which they will save the remains of, and that same torch will be lit again at Belleteyn. And it is not just the elves that do this, but even some of ours, to keep them well and protect them from evil spirits…’

  ‘Spirits!’ Yuz snorted. ‘Listen to what this fool is saying!’

  ‘This is the night of Saovine!’ the old man said with a passionate voice. ‘On this night spirits walk the earth! The spirits of the dead knocking on the windows, ‘Let us in’, they moan! It is good to give them porridge with honey; you can also sprinkle it with vodka…’

  ‘Vodka you’d keep for yourself and sprinkle down your throat,’ chortled Rispat la Pointe. ‘And your spirits can kiss my ass!’

  ‘Oh, good sirs, please do not make fun of the spirits, because they have a keen sense of hearing and are vindictive! It is Saovine night! Listen, can you hear sounds and knocking? They are the dead who come from another world; they want to sneak in and warm themselves by the fire and eat their fill. There out in the bare woods, with the freezing wind, they will be pulled towards houses, where there is fire and heat. And do not forget to put food in a bowl on the threshold, or in the barn, because if they find nothing to eat, they can after midnight, enter the house…’

  ‘Oh, gods!’ one of the girls on duty whispered, then cried loudly because Fripp had pinched her on the bottom.

  ‘Not a bad story!’ Fripp said. ‘But still too far away to be good! Innkeeper, pour the old man a mug of mulled wine, maybe he can accomplish a better tale. A good fable about ghosts, boys, because the girls are listening to them and not serving!’

  The men laughed when they heard the shrieks of the girls, who were listening in. The old man took a sip of warm wine, making lots of noise and belching.

  ‘Do not over indulge and fall asleep!’ Vargas warned him menacingly. ‘You are here to entertain! Tell tales, sing and blow on the bagpipes! Be merry!’

  The old man opened his mouth, in which a single tooth appeared like a milestone in an open field.

  ‘But good sirs, today is Saovine! What would I play? The music of Saovine is the rustling of the wind on the window! The howling of werewolves and vampires, and the groaning of ghouls! Beann’shie call and moan and whoever hears it, is insured an early death. All evil spirits leave their dens, witches fly to the last conclave before winter! Saovine is a night for spirits, monsters and ghosts! Do not enter the forest, because it will devour you! Do not enter a cemetery, because the dead will walk! And it is best not to leave your home and to be sure, hang a new iron knife over the threshold, and evil will not dare cross it. Mother should keep children close on Saovine night because a human baby can easily be grabbed by a rusalka or they may turn them into a mutant. And a woman who is pregnant best not go outside lest the evil eye see her and will take the baby from the womb! Instead of a child she will bear a striga born with iron teeth…’

  ‘Oh gods!’

  ‘With iron teeth. First it eats the mother’s breast. Afterwards it eats her hands. Then it eats her face… Oh, I’m also hungry…’

  ‘Take this bone, there is still meat on it. You need to eat more in your old age or you’ll get unhealthy, ha, ha! And you girl, give us more vodka. Come on, old man; tell us more ghost stories!’

  ‘Saovine, good sirs, is the last night when ghosts can fly through our world and try and remove the cold from their bones… Later they descend into hell, into the ground, where it is always winter. Therefore, from Saovine until February, when Imbaelk is celebrated is the most convenient time to look in scary places for treasures. If, for example in the warm season someone began digging in a mound, they would awaken two or three wights, who would jump up and eat the treasure hunter. But between Saovine and Imbaelk it is safe to dig as much as you please, because the wights will sleep like an old bear.’

  ‘The things that the old fart invents!’

  ‘It is true, good sirs. Yes, Saovine night is terrible and yet it is magical and best for all sorts of predictions and prophecies. On such a night it is best to read from the palm or turn the cards or see omens like the white rooster, onion, cheese or rabbit intestines or a dead bat…’

  ‘Bah!’

  ‘On the night of Saovine, the night of terrors and phantoms… It is best to stay at home… around the fire. With the whole family…’

  ‘The whole family,’ Fripp the Younger repeated the last words and grinned at his companions. ‘The whole family, you heard? Along with list, that makes a week of knowing where people are cunningly concealing themselves!’

  ‘The blacksmith’s wife!’ Yuz guess immediately. ‘The local beauty! Beware you head, Fripp. Today you were almost caught in her house. So what, lads? Do we go to the blacksmith’s home?’

  ‘Maybe soon,’ Dede Vargas drawled. ‘Before my eyes, upon reaching the village, she was bouncing those tits and shaking that ass… I went for her, but that idiot Dacre Silifant got the jump on me… Well Silifant is far away and the blacksmith’s wife sits at home! What are we waiting for?’

  ‘We have already killed the mayor of this village,’ Rispat raised his eyebrows, ‘We beat the bastard who came to his defence. How many more deaths do we need? The blacksmith and his son are brawny as oaks. They do not fear us. We will have to…’

  ‘Hurt them,’ Fripp calmly finished. ‘Just hurt them a little, nothing more. We will finish our drinks and go into the village to celebrate Saovine! Let’s find a sheepskin and cover ourselves and go down there roaring. The yokels will think we are devils or wights!’

  ‘Do we bring the blacksmiths wife back to our rooms, or do we do as in my land, Gemmera, and do it before the eyes of the family?’

  ‘One does not forget that,’ said Fripp, the young man looked out through the window into the night. ‘Shit,
that is a strong wind. Even the poplars are bending!’

  ‘Oh, ho, ho!’ said the old man from behind a pitcher. ‘That is no ordinary wind, sir. Witches fly through the air on their broomsticks to coven meetings, seeding the air behind them with potions from their mortars to clean away tracks. There is no escape for a man who gets caught by them in the forest!’

  ‘Go frighten the children with our tales, old man!’

  ‘Do not mock me, sir, in this evil hour. Let me tell you that the worst witches, come from Countesses and Princesses, do not ride on broomsticks, no! Those ride on their black cats!’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha, ha!’

  ‘It is true! Because Saovine is the only night of the year when cats can become mares as black as pitch. And woe to him who in the night black as pitch hears the pounding of hooves and sees the witch on her black mare. Whoever the witch finds will not escape death. She spins around him like a leaf blowing in the wind and pulls him to hell!’

  ‘I’m beginning to like this story, finish it when we get back! When we return here we will party! We’ll dance here and fuck the blacksmith’s wife… What is it Rispat?’

  Rispat la Pointe, who had left to go into the yard to relieve his bladder, ran back inside, his face as white as snow. He was gesticulation wildly, pointing to the door. He failed to utter a word. And it was not necessary. From outside can the sound of a horse neighing.

  ‘A black mare,’ Fripp said, his face almost touching the window glass. ‘The same black mare. It’s her.’

  ‘The witch?’

  ‘Falka, you idiot.’

  ‘It’s her spirit!’ Rispat gasped. ‘A ghost! She could not have survived! She has died and come back as a ghost! On the night of Saovine.’

  ‘She will come in the night black as pitch,’ muttered the old man, clutching his empty glass to his stomach. ‘And those who she sees will not escape death…’

  ‘To arms, to arms!’ Fripp said feverishly. ‘Quickly! Cover the door, on both sides! Fortune smiles! Falka doesn’t know we are here and has come to warm up, the cold and hunger have driven her out of hiding! Right into our hands! The Owl and Rience will shower us in gold! Grab a weapon…’