‘What?’
‘You cant aim as good in the fog. If you have luck, a nymph could miss you. But their bows, dear sir, only miss rarely.’
‘I said…’
‘You said, you said, I heard you. You are travelling with a message. But I say, message or not, they don‘t care. They will release and arrow and thats it.
‘You decided that you will scare me?‘ asked the poet. `Who do you think I am? A city bookworm? I, dear soldiers, saw more battlefields than all of you together. I also know something about dryads, for example, that they dont shoot without a warning.
‘That was long ago’ said the commander bitterly. ‘Those times are gone. Long ago they shot at trees or at the ground. It meant, here is the arrow, here is the border – and not a step further. If a man then immediately returned, he could have saved himself. But that changed, now they only shoot to kill.’
‘Since when is it like that?’
‘You know it is like this.’ explained the soldier. ‘When the kings signed the peace treaty with Nilfgaard, they attacked the elven groups without mercy. They attack them from all sides, there is not a night when some of them don‘t run through Brugge to search for safety in Brokilon. And when our people hunt the elves, they almost always run into the nymphs that are going to help the elves. Sometimes our soldiers cant control themselves… do you understand?’
‘I understand’ Dandelion looked at the commanders face and nodded. ‘While hunting the Scoia’teal you went through the Ribbon and killed dryads. And they are paying you back right now. War?’
‘Exactly. War. Now it is a war to the death, no one survives anymore. The hatred between us can‘t be forgotten anymore. I advise you for the last time: if you don‘t have to, don‘t go there.’
Dandelion swallowed hard.
‘The problem is’ he said with a fighting voice and posture, which took a lot of effort, ‘that I have to go. And I will. Evening or not, fog or not, I have to go, when duty calls.’
‘The years of training showed their worth, the bards trained voice sounded resonant and powerful, firm and confident, like steel. The soldiers looked at him with honest admiration.
‘Before you go’ said the commander and pulled out a wooded field flask ‘drink some spirit, sir singer. Have a swig….’
‘Dying will feel better,’ added the grim second rider.
The poet drank.
‘A coward, before he dies’ he said once he coughed and got his breath back, ‘dies a hundred times, a brave man tastes death only once. The Lucky Lady likes fearless man, she despises cowards.’
The riders looked at him with the highest admiration. They could not have known that Dandelion recited the words of a rich epos. Written by someone else even.
‘Before I forget’ the poet took out a leather pouch. ‘ I will reward you for your escort. Before you return to the outpost, before the stern mother duty calls you again, stop in an inn on the way and drink on my health.’
‘Thank you sir,’ the comander flushed ‘You are generous, even when we…… Forgive us that we abandon you but..’
‘It is nothing. Good luck’
The bard adjusted his hat over his left ear, kicked the horse with his heel and went down to the river. On the way the whistled the melody of ‘Weddings in Bullerlyn’, well known and quite rude drinking songs.
‘In the outpost, they told us’ he heard the words of the grim one, ‘that he is a waste of food, braggart and coward. But he is a brave and valiant man.’
‘You are right’ agreed the commander. ‘He is not afraid, we must give him that. He didnt even look back, I was looking at him. You hear that? He is even whistling. Ho, hoo. Did you hear what he said? That he is and ambaras. The king doesnt make anyone an ambaras. You have to be a special footman to be made an ambaras….’
Dandelion spurred his horse to get away as fast as possible. He didnt want to ruin the impression that he made with so much effort. But he knew that fear dried his throat and he couldnt whistle much longer.
The road was shady and damp, wet clay and a carpet of leaves muffled the hooves of the brown gelding, who the poet named Pegas. Pegas walked slowly and with a drooping head. He was one of the not so numerous horses, that didnt care about anything.
The forest ended, but on the way to the shore he had to go through a meadow. The poet stopped his horse. He looked carefully around, but did not see anything suspicous. He strained his ears, but heard only a concert of toads.
‘So horsie,’ he cleared his throat. ‘Onwards.’
Pegas lifted his head a little and slowly lifted his usually drooping ears.
‘You heard right. Onwards!’
The gelding idly walked forward, mud clucking under its hooves. Toads jumped to escape its feet. A few steps ahead of them, a scared duck honked and flew off. The bard’s heart stopped for a moment, then it started to beat wildly somewhere in his neck. Pegas paid no attention.
‘A hero went on….’ muttered Dandelion, took out a scarf from his sleeve and wiped the cold sweat from his scruff. ‘Without fear, he walked through the dangerous swamp, and didnt get appaled by by the jumping reptiles nor by flying dragons… he went on and on… until he arrived near the immeasurable level of water…’
Pegas snorted and stopped. They were at the shore, standing in reed and cattail as high as the callipers. The bard wiped his sweaty forehead again, then tied the scarf around his neck. We looked at the thick alder on the opposite shore so long and intensely, that his eyes started to weep. But he did not see anything or anyone. Over the slow current of the river, he saw swarms of small insects. The surface was filled with spreading circles, caused by fish grabbing their prey. Around the shore, a cyan-orange kingfisher looped around.
Everywhere one could see the results of beaver work, nibbled branches, gnawed tree trunks washed by water. There are beavers here, he thought, an extraordinary lot. No surprise, there is no one to scare the hard working woodgnawers. No woodcutters, bandits or hunters that lay traps here. Those, who tried were hit by an arrow and the crayfish ate them as they fell into the muddy shore. And I, fool, am going here by my own choice. This is the Ribbon, the river above which a deathly stench hangs, one that not even the smell of calamus and mint can suppress…
He sighed.
Pegas entered the water with his front hooves, dipped his head and drank for a long time. Then he lifted it and looked at his rider. Water dripped from his mouth and nostrils. The poet nodded his head, sighed again and loudly sucked his nose.
‘The hero looked at the rough current,’ he said silently and tried not to chatter his teeth. ‘Then he ventured onwards, for his heart knew no fear’.
Pegas hung his head and ears.
‘Knew no fear I said!’
The horse shook his head, the steel rings on his bits and halter rang. Dandelion kicked him. The gelding walked into the water, with obvious indifference.
The river was shallow, but thicky overgrown. Until they reached the middle of the riverbed, Pegas dragged long offshoots with his feet. The animal walked slowly, and tried to shake the vegetation, that hindered his movement, off his hooves with every step.
The reed and alder of the opposite shore were close now. So close that Dandelion could feel his stomach descending down into his pants. He realized, that in the middle of the river, confined by the vegetation, he was a very easy target, one that could not be missed. In his mind, he already saw the curved arches of bows, the stretching strings, and the sharp tips pointing at his stomach, chest, throat.
He pushed the horses sides with his legs, but Pegas did not move. Instead of speeding up, he stopped and lifted his tail. The horse donuts loudly splashed into the water. Dandelion yelped, shocked.
‘The hero could not go through the roaring cascade,’ he yelped with closed eyes. ‘He died a brave death, hit by countless arrows. He was forever swallowed by the shadowy pool, dead in the embrace of weeds as green as nefrit, and all of his remains disappeared…. the current only c
arried horse shit to the sea.’
Pegas, who was obviously relieved, walked on without exhortation to the shore and on the shallow, without the annoying offroots, he even mischievously jumped so the poets boots and pants were completely wet. Dandelion didnt even notice, the vision of arrows pointing at his chest could not be banished and fear crawled up his spine like a big, cold , slimy leech. Because barely a hundred steps behind the alder, behind the green field of alloys, towered a black, innacessible, threatening forest wall.
Brokilon.
A few steps away from the shore, he encoutered a skeleton of a horse. Stalks of cattail grew through the ribcage.There were also a few, smaller bones. They did not look like horse bones. Dandelion shuddered and looked away.
The gelding walked through the muddy shore with a lot of squelching and smacking. The mud stank. The toads were silent for a while, the Ribbon grew silent. Dandelion closed his eyes. He did not say anything, did not improvize. Inspiration disappeared somewhere far away. Only the feeling of ice cold fear remained, a feeling very strong, but thoroughly non-creative.
Pegas walked calmly to the edge of the dryad forest, which was called by many the forest of death.
I crossed the border, the poet thought. Now everything will be decided. Until I walked out from the water, they could have been generous. Not anymore. Now I am an intruder. Like that one… My skeleton can remain here too – a warning to those who would dare follow me… If the dryads are here… If they are observing me…
He thought of all the archery competitions and tournaments that he saw, the straw targets and figurines pierced or torn to bits by arrows. What would a man hit by an arrow feel? The hit? Pain? Or… nothing?
The dryads were either not in the area, or did not decide what they should do against a lone rider, because the poet arrived to the forest, stiff with fear, but alive and healthy and in one piece. He could not get under the trees through the overgrown, with roots and branches ruffled barrier, he did not want to do enter the depths of the forest anyway. He forced himself to a risk – but not suicide.
He dismounted very slowly and bound his horse to a root sticking upwards. Usually he did not do it, for Pegas did not usually go away from his owner, but he did not know how the horse would react to the sounds of flying arrows. Until now, it never crossed his mind to subject himself or his mount to such sounds.
From his saddle, he took his lute – an unique, beautiful instrument, with a slim fingerboard. A gift from an elf, he though, as he stroked the inlaid wood. It could be that it would return the the Elder races…… If the dryads would not leave the lute at the corpse of its owner.
Close to him was a big uprooted tree trunk. The poet sat on it, leaned the lute on his leg, licked his lips and put his sweaty hands on his pants.
The sun was setting. Above the Ribbon rose haze, a whitish cover that spread as far as to the meadows near the shore. The air grew colder. Above his head he heard a flock of cranes fly, he heard their call. It disappeared into the distance, only the squawking of the toads remained.
Dandelion picked the strings. Once, then a second time, then a third. He twisted the pins, tuned the instrument and began to play. After a moment he began to sing too:
Yviss, m’evelienn vente cáelm en tell
Elaine Ettariel Aep cor me lode deith ess’viell
Yn blathque me darienn Aen minne vain tegen a me
Yn toin av muireánn que dis eveigh e aep llea…
The sun disappeared behind the forest. In the shadow of the old giants of Brokilon, it grew dark quickly.
L’eassan Lamm feainne renn, ess’ell
Elaine Ettariel
Aep cor…
He did not hear them. He felt their presence.
‘N’te mire daetre. Sh’aente vort.’
‘Dont shoot…’ he whispered and obeying, her order he did not turn around. ‘N’aen aespar a me… I come in peace…’
‘N’ess a tearth. Sh’aente.’
He obeyed, but his fingers stiffened on the strings and his voice came out from his throat only with difficulty. But in the voice of the dryad there was no animosity and he, for fuck‘s sake, was no amateur.
L’eassan Lamm feainne renn, ess’ell.
Ellaine Ettariel
Aep cor aen tedd teviel e gwen
Yn blath que me darienn
Ess yn e evellien a me
Que shaent te cáelm a’vean minne me striscea…
This time he dared look over his shoulder. That what crouched near the big trunk near him looked like ivy shrub. But it was no shrub – shrubs dont have large bright eyes.
Pegas silently snorted and Dandelion knew that somehere in the darkness behind him, someone is stroking his horse’s nostrils.
‘Sh’aente vort,’ asked the dryad, that was crouching behind him again. Her voice sounded like rain falling on leaves.
‘I..’ he bagan. ‘I am…. I am a friend of witcher Geralt. I know that Geralt.. That Gwynbleidd is with you, here in Brokilon. I come…’
‘N’te dice’en. Sh’aente va.’
‘Sh’aent.’ asked warmly the second dryad, one voice with the third. Perhaps with a fourth even, he was not sure.
‘Yea, sh’aente taedh,’ said with a silvery girly voice that, what he though a moment ago was a birch, rising a few steps away from him. ‘Ess’laine…. Taedh. Sing.. More about Ettariel…. Yes?
He obeyed:
Loving you is the goal of my life.
Graceful Ettariel
Allow me to keep the treasure of my memories
And the magic flower
The pledge and symbol of your love
Most with dew like silver tears…
This time he heard steps.
‘Dandelion.’
‘Geralt!’
‘Yes, it is me. You can stop that noise now.’
* * *
‘How did you find me?’ Where did you learn that I am in Brokilon?’
‘From Triss Merigold… Dammit!’ Dandelion tripped and would have fallen if the dryad walking next to him would not catch him skilfully. She was surprisingly strong, despite her small body.
‘Gar’ean táedh,’ she warned him. ‘Va cáelm.’
‘Thank you. It is terribly dark… Geralt? Where are you?’
‘Here. Dont fall behind.’
Dandelion sped up, tripped again and hit the witcher, who stopped in the darkness in front of him. The dryads walked past them without even a slightest sound.
‘Damn this darkness. How much longer will we walk?’
‘Not much. The camp is a bit farther. Who except Triss knows I am here? Did you tell anyone?’
‘I had to tell King Venzlav. I needed his letter of safe-passage to travel through Brugge. Nowadays it is – a waste of words…. I needed permission to travel to Brokilon. But Venzlav knows you and he is in your debt. He names me, just imagine, his ambassador. Im sure he will keep it secret, I begged him. Dont be angry Geralt.’
The witcher leaned closer to him. Dandelion did not recognize his face, in the darkness he saw only white hair and the whitish effect of not having shaved for a few days.
‘Im not angry.’ The bard felt a hand on his shoulder and he had the feeling that the cold voice until now, had changed a bit. ‘Im glad you came..’
* * *
‘Im cold’ shuddered Dandelion so much that the branches on which they were resting nearly broke. ‘We could light a…’
‘Dont even think about it.’ snapped the witcher. ‘Did you forget where we are?’
‘They never….’ the startled poet looked around. ‘No fire?’
‘Trees hate fire. They do too.’
‘Bloody hell. We have to endure the cold? And sit in this darkness? If I stretch my hand I cant even see my own fingers…’
‘Then dont stretch your hand.’
Dandelion sighed and rubbed his stiff hands. He heard, how the witcher sitting next to him was breaking off dry branches.
Suddenly a greenish
light appeared in the darkness, at first dull, but slowly getting brighter. After the first, many more started to glow, on many places: they moved like dancers or fireflies or wisps. The forest awakened with lights and shadows. Dandelion also recognized the silhouettes of the dryads. One of them came nearer and put something that looked like a glowing wreath of grass and wicker near them. The bard stretched his hand and carefully approached the green fire. It was cold.
‘What is it Geralt?’
‘Rotten wood and some type of moss, that grows only here in Brokilon. And only they know how to bind it so it glows. Thank you Fauve.’
The dryad did not answer but did not go away either. She sat down a bit farther from them. She wore a wreath on her head, her long hair fell on her shoulders. They were green, it could have been due to the light, or it might really have been green. Dandelion heard, that the hair of dryads had all kinds of colors.
‘Taedh,’ said the dryad and looked at the bard with her big eyes, glowing in her face that was split by two stripes of camouflage paint. Ess’ve vort sh’aente aen Ettariel? Sh’aente a’vean vort?’
‘No… Perhaps I will sing a bit later,’ he answered warmly, carefully choosing words from the Elder speech. The dryad stretched herself and gently stroked the lute laying next to her, then she flexibly stood up. Dandelion looked at her as she was leaving to join the others, whose shadows were mocing in the flexous light of the moss lamps.
‘I hope I did not offend her,’ he said silently. ‘She speaks with their own dialect , I dont know the courtesy phrases…’
‘Look if you have a knife in your ribs’ according to the tone of voice the witcher was not joking. ‘To an insult, they answer with a knife. But dont be afraid Dandelion, I think they would be willing to forgive more than some language mistakes. They really liked your concert under the forest. Now you are Ard Táedh for them – The Great Singer. They wait for you to finish singing ‘Flower Ettariel’. Do you know the rest? Because it is not your ballad.’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 03] Page 21