The Tower of Swallows

by Andrzej Sapkowski

‘We cut off the Witcher’s right hand,’ Angoulême replied impassively. ‘But later a raccoon took it and devoured it.’

  ‘So we have only this.’ Geralt slowly unbuttoned his shirt and drew out his medallion with the wolf’s head. ‘The Witcher wore it around his neck.’

  ‘May I?’

  Geralt didn’t hesitate for long. The half-elf hefted the medallion in his palm.

  ‘Now I believe,’ he said slowly. ‘The gewgaw emanates powerful magic. Only a witcher could have had something like this.’

  ‘And a witcher,’ Angoulême continued, ‘wouldn’t have let it be taken from him while he was still breathing. It’s rock-solid evidence. So slap the cash on the table, mester.’

  Schirrú carefully put the medallion away, took a wad of papers from his bosom, put them down on the table and spread them out with a hand.

  ‘Over here, please.’

  Angoulême hopped off the crate and walked over, mocking him and swinging her hips. She leaned over the table. As quick as a flash, Schirrú grabbed her hair, slammed her down on the table and shoved a knife to her throat. The girl didn’t even have time to cry out.

  Geralt and Cahir already had their swords in their hands. But it was too late.

  The half-elf’s assistants–the musclemen with low foreheads–were holding iron hooks. But they were in no hurry to come closer.

  ‘Drop your swords,’ Schirrú snarled. ‘Both of you; swords on the floor. Or I’ll widen the slut’s smile.’

  ‘Don’t listen—’ Angoulême began–and ended with a shriek as the half-elf ground his fist into her hair. And scored her skin with a dagger; a glistening red wavy line trickled down the girl’s neck.

  ‘Swords on the ground! I’m serious!’

  ‘Perhaps we could talk this out?’ Geralt, heedless of the rage seething inside him, decided to stall for time. ‘Like civilised folk?’

  The half-elf laughed venomously.

  ‘Talk it out? With you, Witcher? I was sent here to finish you off, not talk. Yes, yes, freak. You were lying, putting on a song and dance, but I recognised you the moment I saw you. You’d been described precisely to me. Can you guess who described you so precisely? Who gave me precise instructions about where and in what company I’d find you? Oh, I’m certain you’ve guessed.’

  ‘Release the girl.’

  ‘But I don’t just know you from the description,’ Schirrú continued, with no intention of releasing Angoulême. ‘I’ve seen you before. I even tracked you once. In Temeria. In July. I followed you on horseback to the town of Dorian and to the chambers of the jurists Codringher and Fenn. Ring any bells?’

  Geralt twisted his sword so that the blade flashed in the half-elf’s eyes.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said icily, ‘how you mean to get out of this stalemate, Schirrú? I see two solutions. The first: you let go of the girl right away. The second: you kill the girl… And a second later your blood paints the walls and ceiling a pretty red.’

  ‘Your weapons,’ Schirrú brutally yanked Angoulême’s hair, ‘will be lying on the ground before I count to three. Then I start butchering the slut.’

  ‘We’ll see how much you manage to cut off. Not much, I reckon.’

  ‘One!’

  ‘Two!’ Geralt had begun his own reckoning, whirling the sihill in a hissing moulinet.

  The thudding of hooves, the neighing and snorting of horses and yelling reached them from outside.

  ‘And what now?’ Schirrú laughed. ‘That’s what I was waiting for. It’s not stalemate but checkmate! My friends have arrived.’

  ‘Really?’ said Cahir, looking through the window. ‘I see the uniforms of the imperial light horse.’

  ‘Checkmate indeed, but against you,’ said Geralt. ‘You lose, Schirrú. Release the girl.’

  ‘Like hell.’

  The barrack doors yielded to kicks and about a dozen men entered, most of them in identical black uniforms. They were led by a fair-haired, bearded man with a silver bear on his spaulder.

  ‘Que aen suecc’s?’ he asked menacingly. ‘What’s going on here? Who answers for this brawl? For the bodies in the yard? Speak up this minute!’

  ‘Commander—’

  ‘Glaeddyvan vort! Drop your swords!’

  They obeyed, for crossbows and arbalests were being aimed at them. Released by Schirrú, Angoulême meant to spring up from the table, but suddenly found herself in the grasp of a stocky, colourfully dressed bruiser with bulging frog eyes. She tried to cry out, but the bruiser clamped a gloved fist over her mouth.

  ‘Let’s abstain from violence,’ Geralt suggested coolly to the commander with the bear. ‘We aren’t criminals.’

  ‘Well I never.’

  ‘We’re acting with the knowledge and permission of Mr Fulko Artevelde, the Prefect of Riedbrune.’

  ‘Well I never,’ repeated the Bear, signalling for Geralt and Cahir’s swords to be picked up and confiscated. ‘With the knowledge and permission. Of Mr Fulko Artevelde. The esteemed Mr Artevelde. Hear that, lads?’

  His men–those dressed in the black and colourful clothes–cackled in unison.

  Angoulême struggled in the grip of Frog-Eyes, vainly trying to scream. Needlessly. Geralt already knew. Even before the smiling Schirrú began to shake the hand proffered to him. Even before the four black-uniformed Nilfgaardians seized Cahir and three others aimed their crossbows straight at his face.

  Frog-Eyes pushed Angoulême into the arms of his comrades. The girl sagged in their grasp like a ragdoll. She didn’t even try to offer any resistance.

  The Bear walked slowly over to Geralt and suddenly slammed him in the crotch with his armoured-gloved fist. Geralt bent over but didn’t fall. Cold fury kept him on his feet.

  ‘Then the news that you aren’t the first asses to be used by One-Eyed Fulko for his own purposes may console you.’ said the Bear, ‘Profitable business deals–like the one I’m carrying out here with Mr Homer Straggen, known by some as “Nightingale”–are a thorn in his side. It pisses Fulko off that I’ve recruited Homer Straggen into the imperial service and appointed him commander of the volunteer mines defence company to expedite those deals. Unable, thus, to avenge himself officially, he hires a variety of rogues.’

  ‘And witchers,’ a smiling Schirrú interjected scathingly.

  ‘Outside,’ said the Bear loudly, ‘five bodies are getting soaked in the rain. You murdered men in the Imperial service! You disrupted the work of this mine! I have no doubt about it: you’re spies, saboteurs and terrorists. Martial Law applies here. I hereby summarily sentence you to death.’

  Frog-Eyes cackled. He walked over to Angoulême, who was being held up by the bandits, grasped one of her breasts, and squeezed it hard.

  ‘Well then, Flaxenhair?’ he croaked, and it transpired that his voice was more froglike than his eyes. His bandit soubriquet–assuming he’d christened himself with it–showed a sense of humour. But if it was an alias intended to disguise it was extremely effective.

  ‘We meet again, then!’ the froglike Nightingale croaked, pinching Angoulême in the breast. ‘Happy?’

  The girl groaned in pain.

  ‘Where are the pearls and stones you stole from me, you whore?’

  ‘One-Eyed Fulko took them for safe keeping!’ Angoulême yelled, ineffectually pretending that she wasn’t afraid. ‘Go and claim them back!’

  Nightingale croaked and goggled his eyes–now he looked like a genuine frog, which any moment would start catching flies with its tongue. He pinched Angoulême even harder. She struggled and groaned even more pathetically. Through the red fog of fury covering Geralt’s eyes the girl had once again begun to resemble Ciri.

  ‘Take them,’ the Bear ordered impatiently. ‘To the yard with them.’

  ‘He’s a witcher,’ said one of the bandits from Nightingale’s mines defence company, hesitantly. ‘He’s a hard case! How can we take him with our bare hands? He’s liable to cast a charm on us, or summat else…’

  ‘No fea
r.’ A smiling Schirrú patted his pocket. ‘Without his witcher’s amulet he’s unable to work magic, and I have it. Take him.’

  There were more armed Nilfgaardians in black cloaks in the yard, and more of Nightingale’s colourful hassa. A clutch of miners had also gathered. The ubiquitous children and dogs were also milling around.

  Nightingale suddenly lost control of himself, quite as though a devil had possessed him. Croaking furiously, he punched Angoulême, and when she fell, kicked her repeatedly. Geralt strained in the grip of the bandits and was hit on the back of the neck with something hard for his pains.

  ‘They said,’ croaked Nightingale, hopping over Angoulême like a frantic toad, ‘that you’d had a stake shoved up your backside in Riedbrune, you little strumpet! You were destined for the stake then and you’ll expire on the stake today! Boys, find a post and sharpen it to a spike. Look lively!’

  ‘Mr Straggen.’ The Bear grimaced. ‘I see no reason to indulge in such a time-consuming and bestial execution. The prisoners ought simply to be hanged…’

  He fell silent under the evil gaze of the froglike eyes.

  ‘Be quiet, captain,’ croaked the bandit. ‘I pay you too much for you to make improper remarks. I promised Angoulême a foul death and now I’m going to deliver it. Hang those two if you must. I’m not bothered about them—’

  ‘But I am,’ Schirrú interrupted. ‘I need them both. Especially the Witcher. Especially him. And since skewering the girl will take some time, I shall make use of it.’

  He walked over and fixed his feline eyes on Geralt.

  ‘You ought to know, freak,’ he said, ‘that it was I that dispatched your comrade, Codringher, in Dorian. I did it on the orders of my lord, Master Vilgefortz, whom I’ve served for many years. But I did it with immense pleasure.

  ‘The old rogue Codringher,’ the half-elf continued, without getting a reaction, ‘had the audacity to stick his nose into Master Vilgefortz’s affairs. I gutted him with a knife. And I torched that loathsome monstrosity Fenn among his papers and roasted him alive. I could have simply stabbed him, but I devoted a little time and effort to listen to his howling and squealing. And howl and squeal he did, I swear, like a stuck piglet. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, human in that howling.

  ‘Do you know why I’m telling you all this? Because I could also simply knife you or order you stabbed to death. But I shall put in a little time and effort. And listen as you howl. You said death is always the same? You’ll soon see it isn’t. Hey boys, heat up some pitch in a tar kettle. And fetch a chain.’

  Something smashed against the corner of the barracks and exploded with a red flash and a frightful crash. A second vessel containing petroleum–Geralt recognised it by the smell–landed plumb in the tar kettle, and a third shattered just beside the men restraining the horses. It boomed and belched fire and the horses fell into a frenzy. There was a turmoil and from it rushed a howling dog in flames. One of Nightingale’s bandits suddenly spread his arms and keeled over in the mud with an arrow in his back.

  ‘Long live the Free Slopes!’

  Figures in grey mantles and fur hats loomed at the top of the hill, on the scaffoldings and the catwalks. More missiles, trailing wakes of flames and smoke behind them like fireworks fell onto the people, horses and mine buildings. Two flew into the workshop; onto the floor strewn with shavings and sawdust.

  ‘Long live the Free Slopes! Death to the Nilfgaardian invaders!’

  Arrow fletchings and crossbow bolts sang.

  One of the black-uniformed Nilfgaardians tumbled down under his horse, one of Nightingale’s bandits fell with his throat pierced, and one of the close-cropped musclemen dropped with a bolt in his nape. The Bear sprawled with a ghastly groan. An arrow had hit him in the chest, under the sternum, beneath the gorget. The arrow had been stolen–though no one could have known that–from a military convoy and was standard issue of the imperial army, slightly adapted. The wide, two-bladed arrowhead had been filed in several places with the aim of fragmentation.

  The arrowhead fragmented beautifully in the Bear’s guts.

  ‘Down with the tyrant Emhyr! The Free Slopes!’

  Nightingale croaked, grabbing his arm, grazed by a bolt.

  One of the children rolled over in the mud, pierced through by an arrow from one of the less accurate freedom fighters. One of the men holding Geralt dropped. One of the men holding Angoulême fell over. The girl wrested herself free of the second, drew a knife from her boot in an instant, swung hard and slashed. In her frenzy she missed Nightingale’s throat, but mutilated his cheek splendidly, almost down to the teeth. Nightingale croaked more gratingly than usual, and his eyes bulged more bulgingly. He slumped to his knees, blood spurting between hands clutching his face. Angoulême gave an unearthly scream and leaped forward to finish the job, but couldn’t, for another bomb exploded between her and Nightingale, belching fire and clouds of foul-smelling smoke.

  Fire roared all around and a fiery pandemonium raged. Horses thrashed, whinnied and kicked. The bandits and Nilfgaardians yelled. The miners ran in a panic–some fled and others tried to put out the blazing buildings.

  Geralt had managed to pick up his sihill, which the Bear had released. He jabbed it into the forehead of a tall woman in a chain mail vest, who was aiming a blow at Angoulême with a morning star as she rose to her feet. He sliced open the thigh of a black-uniformed Nilfgaardian running at him with a half-pike. He then slashed the throat of the next one who simply happened to be in the way.

  Right alongside him, a frantic, scorched horse rushing blindly knocked over and trampled another child.

  ‘Seize the horse! Seize the horse!’ Cahir was now right beside him, and created room for them both with great swings of his sword. Geralt wasn’t listening or looking. He slew another Nilfgaardian. He looked around for Schirrú. Angoulême, on bended knee, shot a crossbow she’d picked up, sending the bolt–at a distance of three paces–into the belly of a bandit from the mines defence company who was coming for her. Then she sprang to her feet and hung onto the bridle of a horse running by.

  ‘Grab one of them, Geralt!’ Cahir yelled. ‘And ride!’

  The Witcher slit open another Nilfgaardian from breastbone to hip with a downward stroke. He shook blood from his eyebrows and eyelashes with a sharp jerk of his head. ‘Schirrú! Where are you, you bastard?’

  A stroke. A cry. Warm drops on his face.

  ‘Mercy!’ howled a lad in a black uniform, kneeling in the mud. The Witcher hesitated.

  ‘Wake up!’ yelled Cahir, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him hard. ‘Control yourself! Are you in a frenzy?’

  Angoulême was returning at a gallop, dragging another horse by the reins. She was being followed by two riders. One of them fell–hit by the arrow of a fighter for the freedom of the Slopes. The other was hurled from the saddle by Cahir’s sword.

  Geralt leaped into the saddle. And then he saw Schirrú in the light of the blaze, summoning the panicked Nilfgaardians to himself. Beside the half-elf, Nightingale, croaking and bawling out curses with his bloody maw, looked like a veritable cannibal troll.

  Geralt roared furiously, reined his horse around and whirled his sword.

  Beside him, Cahir shouted and swore, wobbling in the saddle, blood from his forehead pouring over his eyes and face.

  ‘Geralt! Help me!’

  Schirrú had gathered a group around him, and was yelling and ordering them to shoot their crossbows. Geralt slapped his horse on the rump with the flat of his sword, ready for a suicidal charge. Schirrú had to die. Nothing else meant anything. Or mattered. Cahir meant nothing. Angoulême meant nothing…

  ‘Geralt!’ Angoulême yelled. ‘Help Cahir!’

  He came to his senses. And was ashamed.

  Geralt held Cahir up, supported him. Cahir wiped his eyes with a sleeve, and the blood instantly poured over them again.

  ‘It’s nothing–a scratch…’ His voice shook. ‘Ride, Witcher… follow Angoulême�
� Ride!’

  From the foot of the mountain came a great cry and a crowd armed with picks, crowbars and axes came rushing out. For miners from the neighbouring mines of Common Cause and Lucky Pit were hurrying to help their mates and comrades from the Rialto colliery. Or from some other. Who could possibly know?

  Geralt kicked his horse with his heels. They rode at a gallop, recklessly, ventre à terre.

  They pounded on, not looking back, hugging their horses’ necks. Angoulême had landed the best horse, a small but fleet and sturdy bandit steed. Geralt’s horse, a bay with Nilfgaardian trappings, was beginning to snort and wheeze and was having difficulty holding its head up. Cahir’s horse, also an army beast, was stronger and tougher, but what of that when its rider was causing problems, swaying in the saddle, mechanically clenching with his thighs and bleeding profusely onto his mount’s mane and neck.

  But they galloped on.

  Angoulême, who had pulled ahead, was waiting for them on a bend, in a place where the road went downhill, winding amongst rocks.

  ‘Our pursuers…’ she panted, smearing dirt on her face, ‘will come after us, they won’t give up… The miners saw which way we fled. We oughtn’t to stay on the highway… We have to head into the forests, get off the road… Lose them…’

  ‘No,’ the Witcher protested, anxiously listening to the sounds coming from the horse’s lungs. ‘We must stay on the highway… Take the straightest and shortest route to Sansretour.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s no time to talk. Let’s ride! Squeeze what you can from the horses…’

  They galloped on. The Witcher’s bay wheezed.

  The bay wasn’t fit to ride any further. It was barely walking, legs as stiff as boards, panting hard, the air escaping from it in a hoarse wheezing. It finally fell over on its side, kicked stiffly, looked at its rider; and there was reproach in its cloudy eye.

  Cahir’s horse was in somewhat better shape, but Cahir’s condition was worse. He simply fell from the saddle, raised himself, but only onto his hands and knees, and retched spasmodically, though his stomach was empty.