The Last Wish: Introducing The Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “Beau Berrant, Chireadan, Errdil, Dandilion. You really are heading for your goal as straight as you can. But me, Yennefer, you're not going to use me.”

  “Oh I am, I am.” The sorceress got up from the bed and approached him, carefully avoiding the signs and symbols marked out on the floor. “After all, I did say that you owe me something for curing the poet. It's a matter of a trifle, a small favor. After what I’ve done, what I intend to do here in a moment, I’m leaving Rinde and I’ve still got unpaid accounts in this town. I’ve promised several people here something, and I always keep my promises. Since I won't have time to do so myself, you'll keep those promises for me.”

  He wrestled with all his might. In vain.

  “Don't struggle, my little witcher.” She smiled spitefully. “It's pointless. You've got a strong will and quite a bit of resistance to magic but you can't contend with me and my spell. And don't act out a farce for me; don't try to charm me with your hard and insolent masculinity. You are the only one to think you're insolent and hard. You'd do anything for me in order to save your friend, even without spells at that. You'd pay any price. You'd lick my boots. And maybe something else, too, if I unexpectedly wished to amuse myself.”

  He remained silent. Yennefer was standing in front of him, smiling and fiddling with the obsidian star sparkling with diamonds pinned to her velvet ribbon.

  “I already knew what you were like,” she continued, “after exchanging a few words with you in Beau's bedroom. And I knew what form of payment I’d demand from you. My accounts in Rinde could be settled by anyone, including Chireadan. But you're the one who's going to do it because you have to pay me. For your insolence, for the cold way you look at me, for the eyes which fish for every detail, for your stony face and sarcastic tone of voice. For thinking that you could stand face-to-face with Yennefer of Vergerberg and believe her to be full of self-admiration and arrogance, a calculating witch, while staring at her soapy tits. Pay up, Geralt of Rivia!”

  She grabbed his hair with both hands and kissed him violently on the lips, sinking her teeth into them like a vampire. The medallion on his neck quivered and it felt to Geralt as if the chain was shrinking and strangling him. Something blazed in his head while a terrible humming filled his ears. He stopped seeing the sorceress's violet eyes and fell into darkness.

  He was kneeling. Yennefer was talking to him in a gentle, soft voice.

  “You remember?”

  “Yes, my lady.” It was his own voice.

  “So go and carry out my instructions.”

  “At your command, my lady.”

  “You may kiss my hand.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  He felt himself approach her on his knees. Ten thousand bees buzzed in his head. Her hand smelt of lilac and gooseberries. Lilac and gooseberries…Lilac and gooseberries…A flash. Darkness.

  A balustrade, stairs. Chireadan's face.

  “Geralt! What's the matter with you? Geralt, where are you going?”

  “I have to…” His own voice. “I have to go—”

  “Oh, gods! Look at his eyes!”

  Vratimir's face, contorted with horror. Errdil's face. And Chireadan's voice.

  “No! Errdil! Don't touch him! Don't try to stop him! Out of his way—get out of his way!”

  The scent of lilac and gooseberries. Lilac and gooseberries…

  A door. The explosion of sunlight. It's hot. Humid. The scent of lilac and gooseberries. There's going to be a storm, he thought.

  And that was his last thought.

  VI

  Darkness. The scent…

  Scent? No, smell. Stench of urine, rotten straw and wet rags. The stink of a smoldering torch stuck into an iron grip set in a wall of uneven stone blocks. A shadow thrown by the light of the torch, a shadow on the dirt floor—the shadow of a grille.

  The witcher cursed.

  “At last.” He felt someone lift him up, rest his back against the damp wall. “I was beginning to worry, you didn't regain consciousness for so long.”

  “Chireadan? Where—dammit, my head's splitting—where are we?”

  “Where do you think?”

  Geralt wiped his face and looked around. Three rogues were sitting by the opposite wall. He couldn't see them clearly; they were sitting as far from the torch light as possible, in near complete darkness. Something which looked like a heap of rags crouched under the grille which separated them from the lit corridor. It was, in fact, a thin old man with a nose like a stork's beak. The length of his matted stringy hair and the state of his clothes showed that he hadn't arrived yesterday.

  “They've thrown us in the dungeon,” he said gloomily.

  “I’m glad you've regained your ability to draw logical conclusions,” said the elf.

  “Bloody hell…And Dandilion? How long have we been here? How much time has gone by since—?”

  “I don't know. I was unconscious, just like you, when I was thrown in here.” Chireadan raked up the straw to sit more comfortably. “Is it important?”

  “And how, dammit! Yennefer—And Dandilion—Dandilion's there, with her, and she's planning—Hey, you! How long have we been in here?”

  The other prisoners whispered among themselves. None replied.

  “Have you gone deaf?” Geralt spat, still unable to get rid of the metallic taste in his mouth. “I’m asking you, what time of day is it? Or night? Surely you know what time they feed you?”

  They muttered again, cleared their throats. “Sirs,” said one of them at last. “Leave us in peace and don't talk to us. We be decent thieves, not some politicals. We didn't try to attack the authorities. We was only stealing.”

  “That be it,” said another. “You've your corner, we've ours. And let each look after his own.”

  Chireadan snorted. The witcher spat.

  “That's the way it goes,” mumbled the hairy old man with a long nose. “Everyone in the clink guards his own corner and holds with his own.”

  “And you, old man,” asked the elf sneeringly, “are you with them or with us? Which camp do you count yourself in?”

  “None,” he answered proudly, “because I’m innocent.”

  Geralt spat again. “Chireadan?” he asked, rubbing his temple. “This attempt on the authorities…Is it true?”

  “Absolutely. You don't remember?”

  “I walked out into the street…People were looking at me…Then…Then there was a shop—”

  “A pawnbroker's.” The elf lowered his voice. “You went into the pawnbroker's. As soon as you walked in, you punched the owner in the teeth. Hard. Very hard.”

  The witcher ground his teeth and cursed.

  “The pawnbroker fell,” Chireadan continued quietly. “And you kicked him several times in delicate places. The assistant ran to help his master and you threw him out of the window, into the street.”

  “I fear,” muttered Geralt, “that wasn't the end of it.”

  “Your fears are well founded. You left the pawnbroker's and marched down the center of the street, jostling passersby and shouting some nonsense about a lady's honor. There was quite a crowd following you, Errdil, Vratimir and I among them. Then you stopped in front of Laurelnose the apothecary's house, went in, and were back in the street a moment later, dragging Laurelnose by the leg. And you made something of a speech to the crowd.”

  “What sort of a speech?”

  “To put it simply, you stated that a self-respecting man shouldn't ever call a professional harlot a whore because it's base and repugnant, while using the word whore to describe a woman one has never knocked off or paid any money for doing so, is childish and punishable. The punishment, you announced, would be dealt there and then, and it would be fitting for a spoilt child. You thrust the apothecary's head between his knees, pulled down his pants and thrashed his arse with a belt.”

  “Go on, Chireadan. Go on. Don't spare me.”

  “You beat Laurelnose on the backside and the apothecary howled and sobbed, called t
o gods and men alike for help, begged for mercy—he even promised to be better in the future, but you clearly didn't believe him. Then several armed bandits, who in Rinde go by the name of guards, came running up.”

  “And”—Geralt nodded—“that's when I made a hit at the authorities?”

  “Not at all. You made a hit at them much earlier. Both the pawnbroker and Laurelnose are on the town council. Both had called for Yennefer to be thrown out of town. Not only did they vote for it at the council but they bad-mouthed her in taverns and spread vulgar gossip.”

  “I guessed that. Carry on. You stopped when the guards appeared. They threw me in here?”

  “They wanted to. Oh, Geralt, what a sight it was. What you did to them, it's hard to describe. They had swords, whips, clubs, hatchets, and you only had an ash cane with a pommel, which you'd snatched from some dandy. And when they were all lying on the ground, you walked on. Most of us knew where you were going.”

  “I’d be happy to know too.”

  “You were going to the temple. Because the priest Krepp, who's also a member of the council, dedicated a lot of time to Yennefer in his sermons. You promised him a lesson in respect for the fair sex. When you spoke of him, you omitted his title and threw in other descriptions, to the delight of the children trailing after you.”

  “Aha,” muttered Geralt. “So blasphemy came into it, too. What else? Desecration of the temple?”

  “No. You didn't manage to get in there. An entire unit of municipal guards, armed—it seemed to me—with absolutely everything they could lay their hands on in the armory apart from a catapult, was waiting in front of the temple. It looked as if they were going to slaughter you, but you didn't reach them. You suddenly grasped your head with both hands and fainted.”

  “You don't have to finish. So, Chireadan, how were you imprisoned?”

  “Several guards ran to attack you when you fell. I got into a dispute with them. I got a blow over the head with a mace and came to here, in this hole. No doubt they'll accuse me of taking part in an anti-human conspiracy.”

  “Since we're talking about accusations”—the witcher ground his teeth again—“what's in store for us, do you think?”

  “If Neville, the mayor, gets back from the capital on time,” muttered Chireadan, “who knows…he's a friend. But if he doesn't, then sentence will be passed by the councilors, including Laurelnose and the pawnbroker, of course. And that means—”

  The elf made a brief gesture across his neck. Despite the darkness, the gesture left little doubt as to Chireadan's meaning. The witcher didn't reply. The thieves mumbled to each other and the tiny old man, locked up for his innocence, seemed to be asleep.

  “Great,” said Geralt finally, and cursed vilely. “Not only will I hang, but I’ll do so with the knowledge that I’m the cause of your death, Chireadan. And Dandilion's, too, no doubt. No, don't interrupt. I know it's Yennefer's prank, but I’m the guilty one. It's my foolishness. She deceived me, took the piss out of me, as the dwarves say.”

  “Hmm…” muttered the elf. “Nothing to add, nothing to take away. I warned you against her. Dammit, I warned you, and I turned out to be just as big an—pardon the word—idiot. You're worried that I’m here because of you, but it's quite the opposite. You're locked up because of me. I could have stopped you in the street, overpowered you, not allowed—But I didn't. Because I was afraid that when the spell she'd cast on you had dispelled, you'd go back and…harm her. Forgive me.”

  “I forgive you, because you've no idea how strong that spell was. My dear elf, I can break an ordinary spell within a few minutes and I don't faint while doing it. You wouldn't have managed to break Yennefer's spell and you would have had difficulty overpowering me. Remember the guards.”

  “I wasn't thinking about you. I repeat: I was thinking about her.”

  “Chireadan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you…Do you—”

  “I don't like grand words,” interrupted the elf, smiling sadly. “I’m greatly, shall we say, fascinated by her. No doubt you're surprised that anyone could be fascinated by her?”

  Geralt closed his eyes to recall an image which, without using grand words, fascinated him inexplicably.

  “No, Chireadan,” he said. “I’m not surprised.”

  Heavy steps sounded in the corridor, and a clang of metal. The dungeon was filled with the shadows of four guards. A key grated. The innocent old man leapt away from the bars like a lynx and hid among the criminals.

  “So soon?” the elf, surprised, half-whispered. “I thought it would take longer to build the scaffold…”

  One of the guards, a tall, strapping fellow, bald as a knee, his mug covered with bristles like a boar, pointed at the witcher.

  “That one,” he said briefly.

  Two others grabbed Geralt, hauled him up and pressed him against the wall. The thieves squeezed into their corner; the long-nosed granddad buried himself in the straw. Chireadan wanted to jump up, but he fell to the dirt floor, retreating from the short sword pointed at his chest.

  The bald guard stood in front of the witcher, pulled his sleeves up and rubbed his fist.

  “Councilor Laurelnose,” he said, “told me to ask if you're enjoying our little dungeon. Perhaps there's something you need? Perhaps the chill is getting to you? Eh?”

  Geralt did not answer. Nor could he kick the bald man, as the guards who restrained him were standing on his feet in their heavy boots.

  The bald man took a short swing and punched the witcher in the stomach. It didn't help to tense his muscles in defense. Geralt, catching his breath with an effort, looked at the buckle of his own belt for a while; then the guards “hauled him up again.

  “Is there nothing you need?” the guard continued, stinking of onions and rotting teeth. “The councilor will be pleased that you have no complaints.”

  Another blow, in the same place. The witcher choked and would have puked, but he had nothing to throw up.

  The bald guard turned sideways. He was changing hands.

  Wham! Geralt looked at the buckle of his belt again. Although it seemed strange, there was no hole above it through which the wall could be seen.

  “Well?” The guard backed away a little, no doubt planning to take a wider swing. “Don't you have any wishes? Mr. Laurelnose asked whether you have any. But why aren't you saying anything? Tongue-tied? I’ll get it straight for you!”

  Wham!

  Geralt didn't faint this time either. And he had to faint because he cared for his internal organs. In order to faint, he had to force the guard to—

  The guard spat, bared his teeth and rubbed his fist again.

  “Well? No wishes at all?”

  “Just one…” moaned the witcher, raising his head with difficulty. “That you burst, you son-of-a-whore.”

  The bald guard ground his teeth, stepped back and took a swing—this time, according to Geralt's plan, aiming for his head. But the blow never came. The guard suddenly gobbled like a turkey, grew red, grabbed his stomach with both hands, howled, roared with pain…

  And burst.

  VII

  And what am I to do with you?”

  A blindingly bright ribbon of lightning cut the darkened sky outside the window, followed by a sharp, drawn-out crash of thunder. The downpour was getting harder as the storm cloud passed over Rinde.

  Geralt and Chireadan, seated on a bench under a huge tapestry depicting the Prophet Lebiodus pasturing his sheep, remained silent, modestly hanging their heads. Mayor Neville was pacing the chamber, snorting and panting with anger.

  “You bloody, shitty sorcerers!” he yelled suddenly, standing still. “Are you persecuting my town, or what? Aren't there any other towns in the world?”

  The elf and witcher remained silent.

  “To do something like—” the mayor choked. “To turn the warder…Like a tomato! To pulp! To red pulp! It's inhuman!”

  “Inhuman and godless,” repeated the priest, also present
. “So inhuman that even a fool could guess who's behind it. Yes, mayor. We both know Chireadan and the man here, who calls himself a witcher, wouldn't have enough Force to do this. It is all the work of Yennefer, that witch cursed by the gods!” There was a clap of thunder outside, as if confirming the priest's words. “It's her and no one else,” continued Krepp. “There's no question about it. Who, if not Yennefer, would want revenge upon Laurelnose?”

  “Hehehe,” chuckled the mayor suddenly. “That's the thing I’m least angry about. Laurelnose has been scheming against me; he's been after my office. And now the people aren't going to respect him. When they remember how he got it in the arse—”

  “That's all it needs, Mr. Neville, you to applaud the crime.” Krepp frowned. “Let me remind you that had I not thrown an exorcism at the witcher, he would have raised his hand to strike me and the temple's majesty—”

  “And that's because you spoke vilely about her in your sermons, Krepp. Even Berrant complained about you. But what's true is true. Do you hear that, you scoundrels?” The mayor turned to Geralt and Chireadan again. “Nothing justifies what you've done! I don't intend to tolerate such things here! That's enough, now get on with it, tell me everything, tell me what you have for your defense, because if you don't, I swear by all the relics that I’ll lead you such a dance as you won't forget to your dying day! Tell me everything, right now, as you would in a confessional!”

  Chireadan sighed deeply and looked meaningfully and pleadingly at the witcher.

  Geralt also sighed, then cleared his throat. And he recounted everything. Well, almost everything.

  “So that's it,” said the priest after a moment's silence. “A fine kettle of fish. A genie released from captivity. And an enchantress who has her sights on the genie. Not a bad arrangement. This could end badly, very badly.”

  “What's a genie?” asked Neville. “And what does this Yennefer want?”

  “Enchanters,” explained Krepp, “draw their power from the forces of nature, or to put it more accurately, from the so-called Four Elements or Principles, commonly called the natural forces. Air, Water, Fire and Earth. Each of these elements has its own Dimension which is called a Plane in the jargon used by enchanters. There's a Water Plane, Fire Plane and so on. These Dimensions, which are beyond our reach, are inhabited by what are called genies—”