Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 03]

by The Time of Contempt (fan translation) (epub)

  Blue turned his dapple around again and attacked, raising his axe. He guided the horse with difficulty using his wounded hand. Winged noticed and skilfully went right, straightened in his stirrups and launched a terrible blow. Blue parried with his axe which pulled the sword from the hands of Winged. The horses crashed together again. Blue was a powerful man, the heavy axe in his hands rose and fell like a stick. It fell onto the armour of Winged with a loud crash and the bay was almost knocked to her haunches. Winged staggered, but held his place in the saddle. Before the axe could fall again, he dropped his reins and his left hand, grasping a heavy angular mace hanging from a leather sling, and struck a blow to the blue helmet. The helmet rang like a bell, now it was Blue who was rocking in the saddle. The horses groaned, trying to bite each other and did not want to separate.

  Blue, clearly stunned by the blow of the mace, still got a hit in with his axe to his opponent’s breastplate. The fact that both were still in their saddles seemed a miracle, but it was simply caused by the high pommel they were holding. Down the sides of both horse flowed blood, especially visible on the dapple. Ciri watched in horror. In Kaer Morhen they had taught her how to fight, but she could not imagine how she could face up against one of these strongmen. Or even stop one of those powerful blows.

  Blue grabbed with both hands the handle of the axe that was stuck deep into the chest of Winged, straightened and pulled, trying to knock his opponent out of the saddle. Winged hit him hard with his club, once, twice, thrice. The blood spurted from under his helmet onto the blue armour and grey collar. Winged jabbed at the bay with his spurs, the sudden jump of the horse pulled the sharp axe from his breastplate. Blue, who was leaning on his saddlebow, dropped the handle. Winged changed his mace to his right hand, threw it and struck a terrible blow to the head of Blue’s horse. Holding the reins of the horse in his free hand, the Nilfgaardian hit with the mace, the blue armour sounded like a smelting iron, blood flowed from under the shattered helmet. Yet another blow and Blue fell head first under the horse’s hooves. The dapple backed away, but the bay, obviously trained for it, kicked the fallen knight with a crash. Blue was still alive, as attesting to his desperate cries of pain. The bay continued to kick him with such force, that Winged, wounded could not sustain his seat and fell with a crash next to Blue.

  ‘They’ve both been killed.’ Groaned the Trapper who had hold of Ciri.

  ‘Sir Knights, to hell with them.’ Spat another.

  The pages of Blue watched from afar. One of them turned his horse.

  ‘Stop, Remiz!’ Skomlik screamed. ‘Where are you going? To Sarda? Do you hurry to the scaffold?’ The pages stopped, one looked, shading his eyes with his hand.

  ‘Is that you Skomlik?’

  ‘Yes! Come Remiz, fear not! Knightly feuds are none of our business!’

  Ciri suddenly had enough of indifference. Nimbly slipping from her captor, she started running, caught Blue’s dapple and with a jump was in the saddle with high anxiety.

  She would have gotten away, had the pages from Sarda not been in their saddles and not had fresh horses. They caught her easily, grabbing the reins. She jumped off and rushed towards the forest, but the horsemen caught up with her again. One grabbed her by her hair, pulled and started to drag her. Ciri screamed and clung to his hand. The riders threw her directly at the feet of Skomlik. He swung his stick, it whistled; Ciri screamed and curled up, covering her head with her hands. The stick whistled again and hit her on the hands. She rolled on the floor, but Skomlik approached, kicked her and put his boot on her back.

  ‘You want to flee, bitch?’

  The stick whistled. Ciri howled. Skomlik struck again and poked her in the back.

  ‘Do not hit me!’ She cried, shrinking back from him.

  ‘So you do speak, bitch! Maybe you’ll miss your tongue? I’ll do…’

  “Remember, Skomlik!’ Shouted one of the Trappers. ‘Do you want to slay her, or what? She’s worth too much to throw away!’

  ‘Lightning,’ Remiz said, dismounting. ‘Is this who Nilfgaard has been looking for, for a week?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Ha! All the garrisons seek her! You do not know how important this person is to Nilfgaard! They said that a powerful wizard was loose somewhere in the area. Such was spoken of in Sarda. Where did you catch her?’

  ‘In the Pan.’

  ‘You lie!’

  ‘She was, she was’ said Skomlik angrily. ‘We have her and the reward is ours! Why are you standing around like mummies? Tie this bitch to the saddle! We are getting out of here, fellows!’

  ‘The noble Sweers’ said one of the Traps, ‘is still breathing…’

  ‘Not for long. Slit his throat! We go straight to Amarillo, fellows, to see the governor. We grabbed the girl and now the reward.’

  ‘To Amarillo?’ said Remiz scratching his forehead, looking at the recent field of battle. ‘There we will be greeted by the executioner! What will you tell the governor? The Knights were defeated but you are okay? When the whole thing is revealed, the governor will send you to hang, and we will be sent to Sarda… And there the Varnhagens will skin us in strips. You can go to Amarillo, but I’m staying in the forests…’

  ‘You are my family, Remiz.’ Skomlik said. ‘Even though you are a whoreson because you gave one to my sister, you’re still a relative. So I’ll save your skin. We will go to Amarillo, I say. The governor knows that between Sweers and Varnhagen there were matters of family. They met; they fought each other, the usual thing with them. And what did we do? The girl ran, and we found her later. We are Trappers. And now you to are a Trapper, Remiz. The governor will have no fucking idea what went on with Sweers. We are not going to tell…’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Skomlik?’ Remiz asked while eyeing the other page from Sarda.

  Skomlik slowly turned and suddenly pulled out a knife and plunged it into the throat of the page. The page gurgled and collapsed to the ground.

  ‘I did not forget.’ Said the Trapper coldly. ‘Well, now it is you and us. There are no witnesses, and now there are less heads for the reward. To the horses, fellows to Amarillo! It is still a long way between us and the reward. There is no time to waste!’

  * * *

  When they emerged from the dark and humid forest, they saw a village at the foot of the mountain, a few thatched roofs within a circle formed by a low stockade which separated them from a small meandering river.

  The wind brought the smell of smoke. Ciri moved her numb hands, which were tied with ropes to the pommel of the saddle. She was completely numb, her buttocks ached unbearably, and a full bladder teased her. She had been in the saddle since sunrise. At night she could not rest because she was forced to sleep with her hands tied to the wrists of two separate Trappers lying on either side of her. With each of her movements, the Trappers reacted with profanities and threats to her life.

  ‘A farmhouse,’ said one.

  ‘I see,’ replied Skomlik.

  Coming out from the forest the hooves of the horses were surrounded by tall, sunburnt grass. They soon found themselves on a bumpy road leading down to the village, towards a bridge and a wooden gate in the palisade.

  Skomlik stopped his horse and stood in the stirrups.

  ‘What is this village? We have never stopped here. Remiz, do you know this area?’

  ‘Before’ Remiz said ‘this town was called White River. But a revolt began; some of those here joined the rebels, then Varnhagen of Sarda raised the village and put people to death or took them as servants. Now only Nilfgaardian farmers inhabit here, all peasants. And they now call the village Glyswen. The farmers are believed to be bad people. I say we do not halt here. Let us go further.’

  ‘We must give the horses a break,’ said one of the Trappers. ‘And fodder. And it sounds to me like musicians are playing inside. If they give us trouble, these peasants, I’ll wave the order from the governor before their noses, the governor is a Nilfgaardian as they are. It will qui
ckly bring them to their knees.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ growled Skomlik ‘I’ve not seen any Nilfgaardian who kneel. Remiz, is there an inn in Glyswen?’

  ‘There is, Varnhagen did not burn it.’

  Skomlik turned in his saddle and looked at Ciri.

  ‘We’ll have to disguise her. Lest anyone recognise her… Give me a cloak. And put the hood up over her head… Go! Are you ready, slut?’

  ‘I have to go behind the bushes…’

  ‘I’ll give you bushes, bitch! Crouch on the road! And do not forget: in the village or in the open, do not think you are clever! One peep and I’ll cut your throat. If I don’t get the reward for you, not one will.’

  The rode up at a walk, the horse’s hooves echoed on the bridge. At once from behind the stockade figures emerged armed with spears.

  ‘They guard the gate,’ whispered Remiz. ‘I’m curious to know why…’

  ‘Me too,’ Skomlik replied, rising up in his stirrups. ‘They guard the gate and the by the mill the barrier has fallen and once could drive a cart through there…’

  They approached and then reined in their horses.

  ‘Greetings, gentlemen!’ Skomlik shouted jovially, if somewhat unnatural. ‘Good morning!’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the taller of the farmers.

  ‘We, my friend, are the military,’ lied Skomlik leaning over his saddle. ‘in the service of our master, the governor of Amarillo.’

  The farmer ran his hand along the shaft of his spear, looked askance at Skomlik. Doubtlessly not knowing he was addressing a Trapper.

  ‘His lordship the governor of Amarillo sent us here.’ Skomlik continued his lie. ‘To see how faired his countrymen, the good people of Glyswen.’

  ‘We are doing fine.’ The farmer said. Ciri noted that he spoke common like Winged, with the same accent and style of speaking, although he tried to imitate Skomlik’s jargon. ‘We are used to coping alone.’

  ‘The governor will be content, when we recount this to him. Is the inn open? We have dry throats…’

  ‘It’s open.’ The farmer said darkly. ‘At the moment, it is open.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For now. Soon the inn will be stripped of its rafters and planks to put onto the granary. We get no benefit from the inn. We are too busy working, to go to the inn. Only strangers come to the inn, and people who we are not happy with. Those are the ones who stay there.’

  ‘Who?’ Remiz paled slightly. ‘People from the fortress of Sarda? Could they be the noble lords of Varnhagen?’

  ‘The farmer frowned and his lips moved as if from a desire to spit.

  ‘No, unfortunately. It is the militia of the Baron. The Nissir.’

  ‘Who are the Nissir?’ Skomlik frowned. “And where are they? And under whose command?’

  ‘There is one older than them all, tall, dark, moustachioed like a catfish.’

  ‘Heh!’ Skomlik turned to his comrades. ‘Excellent. This one sounds familiar, no? It sounds like our old friend Vercta “Trust me”, remember him? And what is this man and the Nissir doing in your town?’

  ‘The Nissir,’ the farmer said darkly, ‘are bound for Tyffi. We are honoured by the visit. They carry a prisoner. He belongs to the gang of Rats.’

  ‘Sure!’ Remiz snorted. ‘And what would you have the militia of the Emperor do?’

  The farmer frowned; his hands shook on the haft of the spear. His companions murmured softly.

  ‘Ride to the inn, gentlemen.’ The muscles in the farmer’s jaw shook vigorously. ‘And talk to the Nissir, your companions. You are in the service of the governor. Ask, then why are they taking the bandit to Tyffi, rather than nailing him to a pole with the oxen, here in town, just as the governor charges. And remind your Nissir friends that the power here is not the Baron of Tyffi. We already have the oxen yoke and the sharpened stakes. If the Nissir refuse, we will do what is necessary. Tell them.’

  ‘I’ll tell them.’ Skomlik winked to his comrades. ‘Farewell, gentlemen.’

  They set off at a walk between the huts. The village appeared deserted, there was not a soul. Under one of the fences a gaunt pig rolled in the mud. A large black cat dash across the path of the riders.

  ‘Pah, fuckin cat!’ Remiz leaned to one side of his saddle and spat, then cross his fingers in a sign of protection against the evil eye. ‘Bloody thing crossed in front of us!’

  ‘I hope it chokes on the mouse in its gullet.’

  ‘What?’ Skomlik looked around.

  ‘A cat. Black as pitch. It crossed the road.’

  ‘The devil with it.’ Skomlik looked around again. ‘Look around, it seems deserted. But I have seen glances that people were home. And I saw at another door a man with a spear.’

  ‘Caring for the females,’ laughed the one who wished mouse problems upon the cat. ‘The Nissir are in town! Did you hear what the farmer said? He doesn’t like the Nissir.’

  ‘And no wonder. “Trust me” and his company do not forgive. Eh, the Nissir are not looking or anything. The Barons appoint them “Guardians of Order”, so they are charged to keep it and to keep the roads. Shout in a peasant’s ear: “Nissir!” and he’ll be scared with shit running down his legs. However from time to time. Just as a calf goes to slaughter, they’ll find a back bone and then it’s more than farmers that are nailed in the winter, you’ll see. You saw those at the gate, they had fierce mouths? These are settlers from Nilfgaard. No joking with them… Ha, here is the inn…’

  They spurred their horses.

  The inn has a thatched roof, slightly sunken and heavily covered in moss. It was some distance from the huts and utilitarian buildings; it however marked the central point of the entire land surrounded by the broken palisade, where the two paths crossed through the village. In the shadow of the only large tree around, lay a corral, for livestock and horses. Of the latter there were five or six horses unsaddled. In front of the doors, on the stairs, sat two men dressed in leather doublets and pointed leather hats. Both of them hugged to their chests a few jars of clay and they had a bowl full of gnawed bones.

  ‘Who are you?’ Shouted one of the men at the sight of Skomlik and his company, as they dismounted. ‘What do you seek? You’d better be on your way! The inn has been occupied on behalf of the law!’

  ‘Do not shout, Nissir, do not shout.’ Skomlik said, pulling Ciri down from the saddle. ‘The gates were open and we entered. Your commander, Vercta is our friend.’

  ‘I don’t know you!’

  ‘Because you are a fledgling! “Trust me”, and I even served together in the old days, before he came here to Nilfgaard.’

  ‘Well, if so…’ Said the man hesitantly, dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword. ‘Go in. I don’t give a shit…’

  Skomlik pushed Ciri, another trapper grabbed her collar. They went inside.

  Inside it was dark and stuffy and smelled of smoke and burning things. The inn appeared almost empty; only one table was occupied standing directly in the streak of light that came through the window of fish membranes. Sitting at it were several men. In the background, near the fireplace, the innkeeper was busy, rattling pots.

  ‘Honour to the lords of Nissir!’ Skomlik boomed.

  ‘We do not honour any ox.’ Snapped one of the company sitting by the window, spitting on the floor. Another stopped him with a gesture.

  ‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘These are our fellows, do you not recognise them? Skomlik and his Trappers. Welcome, welcome!’

  Skomlik beamed and walked towards the table, but stopped when his eyes fixed on the pole that supported the beam. Next to the pole sitting on a stool was a thin, blond boy of less than twenty years, strangely bent and twisted. Ciri realized that the unnatural position stemmed from the fact that the boy’s hands were twisted back and tied, and his neck was attached to the pole by a leather belt.

  ‘May I be showered with pustules!’ One of the trappers that had seized Ciri’s neck, snorted loudly. ‘Look, Skomlik! It’s Kayleigh!�
��

  ‘Kayleigh? It can’t be!’

  One of the Nissir sitting at the table, a fat man with hair cut into a picturesque forelock, bust out in a loud guttural laugh.

  ‘It can be.’ He said, licking a spoon. ‘It’s Kayleigh, in his filthy person. It paid off to get up at dawn. He shall fetch me at least thirty florins in good imperial coin.’

  ‘Kayleigh, well, well.’ Skomlik frowned. ‘That means the Nilfgaardian yokel spoke the truth…’

  ‘Thirty florins, damn.’ Remiz sighed. ‘That is something… Lutz, Baron of Tyffi pays it?’

  ‘Yes’ confirmed another Nissir with brown hair and a moustache. ‘Lutz of Tyffi, our lord and benefactor, is a powerful baron. The Rats robbed his governor on the highway, he is burning with rage and has put up a reward. And we, Skomlik, will take this reward, trust me. Ha, just look at the men here, like puffed up owls. It was not to their taste that we captured the Rat, we also have been ordered to track down the leader of the gang!’

  ‘Trapper Skomlik,’ the fat man with the pointed forelock, indicated Ciri with his spoon ‘you also caught something. A little girl. Do you see, Vercta?’

  ‘I see,’ a man with black whiskers flashed his teeth. ‘Skomlik are you so pressed by poverty, that you are stealing children for ransom? Who is this slut?’

  ‘Never you mind!’

  ‘Wow that was fierce.’ Laughed, the man with the forelock. ‘We just want to make sure she is not your daughter.’

  ‘He’s daughter?’ Vercta, the man with the black moustache laughed. ‘I say, to have a daughter means he’d have to have balls.’

  The Nissir roared with laughter.

  ‘Ah, look mutton heads!’ Skomlik yelled. ‘To you Vercta, I’ll say no more, but before Sunday, you’ll be amazed who will be most famous, you and your Rat or me and what I do. And we’ll see who is more generous: your Baron or the imperial governor of Amarillo!’