Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05]

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

  The door creaked.

  The old man leaned over the table top, his eyes narrowed. He saw badly. His eyes were tired, ruined by glaucoma and chronic conjunctivitis. In addition, the tavern was dark and smoky. Therefore, he didn’t see the slim figure that came into to the room from the porch, wearing a leather jacket trimmed in musk, with a hood and scarf hiding her face. Instead the old man had a good ear. He heard the muffled cry of one of the serving girls, the clatter of boots and the innkeeper cursing in a low voice, He could hear the clinking of swords in their sheaths. And the quiet, scathing voice of Cyprian Fripp.

  ‘We have you now, Falka! You were not expecting us here, huh?’

  ‘I was expecting you,’ the old man heard. He trembled at the sound of that voice.

  He saw the movement of the slender figure. He heard a gasp of horror. The muffled cry of one of the serving girls. He could not see that the girl called Falka had removed the hood and scarf. He could not see that her face was terribly maimed. And her eyes painted with paste of fat and soot made it seem like she had the eyes of a demon.

  ‘I’m not Falka,’ said the girl. The old man saw her move again, fast and blurred. He saw something glint in the light of the oil lamps. ‘I’m Ciri from Kaer Morhen. I’m a witcher. I came here to kill.’

  The old man, who in his life had experience more than one tavern brawl, had developed a method to avoid injury; by diving under the table, shrink down as much as you can and hold onto the table legs. From that position, obviously you could not see anything. Nor did he want to. He held tightly to the table, even when the table was thrown across the room along with other bits of furniture. All around him clattered heavy boots and echoing command, shouts, insults and the blows of heavy steel.

  A serving girl screamed shrilly, incessantly, without stopping.

  Someone rolled onto the table, moving the piece of furniture along with the old man clinging to it, and fell down beside him. The old man shouted to feel warm blood splash him. Dede Vargas, the man who at first wanted to kick him out, the old man recognised him by the brass buttons on his jacket, screamed gruesomely, thrashing about, spurting blood, and banging his hands around him. One of the random blows caught the old man straight in the eye. The old man ceased to see anything. The serving girl, who was screaming gasped, fell silent, took a breath and began to scream again, in an even higher pitch.

  Someone fell heavily onto the ground, again splashing blood on the newly scrubbed pine floorboards. The old man did not know that the man who had died now, was Rispat la Pointe, Ciri had cut him in the side of the neck. He could not see as Ciri a pirouette right in front of Jannowitz and Fripp, and was ripping through their guard like a shadow or grey smoke. Jannowitz jumped after her like a quick cat. He was a skilled swordsman. Securely standing on his right foot, he attacked with his long reach, directly for the girl’s face, right at the ugly scar. He had to hit.

  He missed.

  He failed to protect himself. She slashed at him closely, with both hands across the chest and abdomen. She jumped back, turned and all the while evaded the slashes of Fripp, she slashed at Jannowitz neck. Jannowitz collapsed with his head falling back. Fripp stepped over the dead man, and launched a quick slash. Ciri blocked it, make a half pirouette and gave him a short cut on his thigh. Fripp staggered and stumble into the table, losing his balance he instinctively held out his hand. When his hand was on the table, Ciri, with a quick blow, cut it off.

  Fripp raised the bloody stump, looked at it carefully, and then looked at the hand that was on the table, and collapsed suddenly, violently and landed hard on him bottom on the ground, just as if he had slipped on soap. Once seated he began to howl, a sharp, piercing howl like a wild wolf.

  Crouched under the table, covered with blood, the old man listened for a moment to the ghostly duet – the screaming serving girl and Fripp howling uncontrollably.

  The girl was silent first, finishing her inhuman screams with a shriek. Fripp merely fell silent.

  ‘Mother,’ he said suddenly, very clearly and fully conscious. ‘Mama… What is… what … what happened to me? What I… is?’

  ‘You’re dying,’ said the girl with the maimed face.

  The old man’s hair stood on end, the little that was left. To stop his trembling he clenched his teeth on his sleeve.

  Cyprian Fripp the Younger uttered a sound as if swallowing with difficult. Then he made no more noise. None.

  There was absolute silence.

  ‘What have you done…’ groaned the innkeeper in the silence that followed. ‘What did you do, girl…’

  ‘I’m a witcher. I kill monsters’

  ‘We’ll hang… They’ll burn down the town and the inn!’

  ‘I kill monsters,’ she repeated, her voice suddenly changing to something like amazement.

  The innkeeper groaned, and sobbed. The old man slowly got out from under his hiding place under the table. He moved to avoid the body of Dede Vargas with the horrible slashed face.

  ‘You ride a black mare…’ he muttered. ‘At night in pitch dark… removing the tracks behind you…’

  The girl turned to look at him. She had had time to cover her face with her scarf, and her eyes, surrounded by glossy black circles watched him.

  ‘Those you see,’ stammered the old man, ‘will not escape death… Because you are death itself.’

  The girl looked at him. For a long time. And quite indifferent.

  ‘You’re right,’ she finally said.

  * * *

  Somewhere in the swamps, far away, buy much closer than before, sounded the plaintive howl of a Beann’shie.

  Vysogota lay on the ground, on which he had fallen while getting out of bed. He confirmed with horror that he could not get up. His heart beat up in his throat, strangling him.

  He knew who’s death the cry of the elven spirit announced. Life was beautiful, he thought. In spite of everything.

  ‘Gods…’ he whispered. ‘I know I don’t believe in you… But, if you exist…’

  A monstrous pain suddenly exploded in his chest under his breastbone.

  Back in the swamps, far away, but much closer that before; the Beann’shie screamed a third time.

  ‘If you exist, protect the witcheress on her journey!’

  ‘I have such big eyes the better to see you,’ growled the Wolf resolutely. ‘I have such big hands to better grab you and embrace you! With me everything is big, I will thoroughly convince you of that soon. Why are you looking at me so strangely, little girl? Why do not you answer?’

  The sorceress smiled. ‘I have a surprise for you.’

  Flourens Delannoy, ‘The Surprise’ from Fairy Tales and Folk Stories

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The initiates stood motionless before the High Priestess, straight, tense, silent, and a little pale. They were ready for the road, prepared to the smallest details. Grey, men’s clothing for travel, warm, but not constricting jackets, comfortable elven boots. Their hair was cut short or styled so that it would not interfere with their work and they could easily keep marching in order. Their small knapsacks were packed only with food and the necessary equipment for the journey. The Army would supply everything else. The army for which they had volunteered.

  The faces of the girls were calm. Seemingly. Triss Merigold noticed the two girls’ slightly trembling hands and lips.

  The wind blew through the bare branches of trees in the Temple Park. Rotted leaves drifted over the boards of the courtyard. The sky was indigo blue. There was snow in the air. You could smell it.

  Nenneke broke the silence. ‘Have you been assigned?’

  ‘Not me,’ murmured Eurneid. ‘For now I'm to spend the winter in a camp near Vizima. The Advertising Commissioner said the mercenary units from the north will be situated there until spring… I am to be a field surgeon’s assistant for these units.’

  ‘But I’ – Iola the Second smiled palely – ‘I have already been assigned. To the field surgeon Mr. Milo Vanderbeck.�
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  ‘I trust that you will not bring any disgrace to me.’ Nenneke fixed both initiates with a stern, thoughtful look. ‘To me, to the temple, or to the name of the Great Melitele.’

  ‘Certainly not, Mother.’

  ‘And make sure you get enough sleep.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘You'll be up ‘til you drop, working with the wounded, unable to sleep. You're going to doubt, going to be afraid of looking on pain and death. And then you find it easy to cope by using a narcotic or a stimulant. Be careful.’

  ‘We know, Mother.’

  ‘War, fear, murder, and blood’ – the High Priestess pierced both of them with her eyes – ‘mean moral decline, and on top of that, it is a strong aphrodisiac for some. How it will affect you, you brats, you cannot currently know. Please tell me you will be careful. And if it does come to something, you should take a contraceptive. Nevertheless, if one of you gets into trouble, then make a wide detour of the quacks and village women! Seek a temple, and most preferably a sorceress.’

  ‘We know, Mother.’

  ‘That's all. It’s time now for you to get your blessing.’

  One after the other, she put her hand on their heads, hugged them, and kissed them. Eurneid sniffed. Iola the Second started blubbering. Although her own eyes glistened a little more than usual, Nenneke snorted. ‘No scenes, no scenes,’ she said sharply and started to bristle. ‘You go into an ordinary war. And you will come back. Take your belongings, and farewell.’

  ‘Farewell, Mother.’

  They left the temple at a brisk pace, not looking back. They followed the two girls with their eyes – the High Priestess Nenneke, the sorceress Triss Merigold, and the scribe Jarre.

  The latter gave a strong, meaningful cough.

  ‘What?’ Nenneke looked sideways at him.

  ‘You allowed it!’ The young man muttered bitterly. ‘You allowed the girls to sign up! And I? Why can I not? Should I continue to turn over musty parchments, here within these walls? I am neither a cripple nor a coward! It is a shameful for me to sit in the temple, when even the girls’…’

  ‘Those girls,’ interrupted the High Priestess, ‘have spent their entire young lives learning to heal people and to care for the sick and wounded. They do not go to war out of patriotism or love of adventure, but because there will be countless wounded and sick to care for. A mountain of work, day and night! Eurneid and Iola, Myrrhe, Katje, Prune, Deborah, and the other girls are the Temple’s contribution to the war. The Temple, as part of this society, contributes to the society. It contributes trained specialists to the army and the war. Do you understand that, Jarre? Specialists! Not animals for the slaughter!’

  ‘Everyone joins the army! Only cowards stay at home!’

  ‘You're talking rubbish, Jarre,’ Triss said sharply. ‘You understand nothing.’

  ‘I want to go to war…’ The lad's voice broke. ‘I want to… save Ciri…’

  ‘Please,’ Nenneke said mockingly. ‘The knight wants to rush to the rescue of his. On a white horse…’

  They fell silent under the gaze of the enchantress.

  ‘And now, I’ve had enough of this Jarre,’ her look almost shattered the young man. ‘I have told you, I will not allow it! Back to the books! Learn. Your future is science. Come, Triss. Let’s not waste any time.’

  * * *

  A canvas was spread in front of the altar. On it laid a bone comb, a cheap little ring, a shabby book cover, and a faded blue sash. Iola the First, a priestess with the second sight, leaned over the object.

  ‘Hurry not, Iola,’ warned Nenneke, who was standing next to her. ‘Concentrate slowly. We do not want a flash of prophecy, not a puzzle with thousands of solutions. We want a picture. A clear picture. Take on the aura of these things, they have heard Ciri, Ciri has touched them. Take on the aura. Slowly. There is no hurry.’

  Outside the wind howled and snowflakes clumped together. The roof and courtyard of the temple were quickly covered the snow. It was the nineteenth day of November. The full moon.

  ‘I am ready, mother,’ said Iola the First with her melodic voice.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Triss rose from the bench like a spring and threw the chinchilla fur coat from her shoulders. ‘One moment, Nenneke. I want to go into a trance along with her.’

  ‘That is dangerous.’

  ‘I know. But I want to see. With my own eyes. I owe her. Ciri… I love this girl like a little sister. In Kaedwen she saved my life, while risking her own head…’ The voice of the enchantress suddenly broke.

  The High Priestess shook her head. ‘Just like Jarre. Rushing to the rescue, blindly, headlong, without knowing where or why. But Jarre is a naive lad. You're an adult and, supposedly, should be wise magician. You should know that you cannot help Ciri by going into a trance. What you can do is hurt yourself.’

  ‘I will go along with Iola in a trance,’ repeated Triss as she bit her lip. ‘Allow me to Nenneke. By the way, what do I risk it? An epileptic seizure? Even if that happened, you'd get me out.’

  ‘You risk,’ said Nenneke slowly, ‘seeing something that you must not see.’

  The thought of Sodden Hill filled Triss with horror. Where I am dead. Where I am buried and my name is carved into the obelisk monument. The hill and the grave that will someday memorialize me.

  I know that. It has been prophesized to me.

  ‘I've made up my mind,’ she said coolly and patiently, as she stood up and stroked her beautiful hair behind her neck with both hands. ‘Let us begin.’

  Nenneke knelt down and rested her forehead in her folded hands.

  ‘Let us begin,’ she said quietly. ‘Get ready, Iola. Kneel down beside me, Triss. Take Iola by the hand.

  Outside it was night. The wind howled, the snow fell.

  * * *

  In the south, beyond the Amell Mountains in Metinna, in the countryside called Hundred Lakes, a place that was five hundred miles away in a straight line from the city of Ellander and the Temple of Melitele, a nightmare frightened the fisherman Gosta. Awake, Gosta could not remember the content of the dream, but a strange restlessness left him unable to sleep.

  Any fisherman who knows his business, knows that you can only catch perch at first ice.

  This year's winter, although unexpectedly early, played pranks and was moody like a beautiful and successful woman. The first frost and snow had come like a thief in a treacherous ambush, in early November, just after Saovine, because no one had reckoned on snow and frost that early and there was still plenty of work to do. The lakes were covered with a thin layer of ice, and by mid-November it seemed that it could bear the weight of a man, but the moody winter suddenly backed away – it was autumn again and the rain softened the ice sheet as a warm south wind jumped over the shore and melted the drifts. What the hell, wondered the country people, it is now winter, or is not?

  It lasted for a mere three days, and then winter came back. This time it came without snow, but seized the frost like a blacksmith with his tongs. It cracked. The water dripping from the edges of the roofs became the sharp teeth of the icicles overnight, and the startled ducks were frozen by a hair in the duck ponds.

  And the lakes of Mil Trachta groaned and solidified into ice.

  Gosta waited a day for safety, then took the box from the attic with the fishing equipment that he would carry on a strap over his shoulder. He stuffed his boots properly with straw, put on his fur coat, took his ice pick, packed his bag, and hurried to the lake.

  As we know, you can only catch perch at first ice.

  The ice was strong. It bent a little as it bore the weight of the man, cracked a little, but it held. Gosta walked freely over the surface, struck a hole in the ice with his pick, sat on the box, wrapped the line made from horsehair around a short rod of larch wood, tied the fishing hook onto the line, and hung it in the water. The first perch, half a yard long, bit even before the hook had dropped and the line was clamped.

/>   After an hour had passed, a good half hundred green, striped fish with blood-red fins lay around the hole in the ice. Gosta had more perch than he needed, but the fishing fever did not leave him. In the end, he could distribute the fish to the neighbours.

  He heard a long snort.

  He looked up from the hole in the ice. A splendid black horse stood on the shore of the lake, hit steam shooting from its nostrils. Its rider was wearing muskrat fur and had covered his face with a scarf.

  Gosta swallowed. It was too late to escape. He secretly hoped, however, that the rider would not dare to walk on the thin ice with the horse.

  He was still mechanically moving the rod, and a perch jerked on the line. The fisherman pulled it out, removed the hook, and threw it onto the ice. From the corner of his eye he saw the rider jump out of the saddle, toss the reins over a barren bush, and cautiously approach the ice. The perch floundered on the ice, spreading its spiky tail and moving its gills. Gosta stood up and bent over for the pick, which could serve as a weapon if needed.

  ‘Do not worry.’

  It was a girl. Now that she took off the scarf, he saw her face disfigured by an ugly scar. She carried a sword on her back, he could see the beautifully carved handle that towered over her shoulder.

  ‘I will not harm you,’ she said softly. ‘I just want to ask for directions.’

  To where? Gosta thought. Now, in the winter. After the frost. Who travels in winter? Only a bandit. Or a necromancer.

  ‘Is this region the Mil Trachta?’

  ‘Yes…’ he muttered, his eyes directed to the hole in the ice, into the black water. ‘Mil Trachta. But here we say Hundred Lakes.’

  ‘And the lake Tarn Mira? Do you know of that?’

  ‘All know of it.’ He looked anxiously at the girl. ‘Only here we call it Bottomless. A cursed lake. A hideous shoal… It has fairies that drown people. And ghosts live in the accursed ancient ruins.’