The slab blocking the entrance to the crypt opened and fell to the floor with a thud. Geralt, prudently behind the staircase balustrade, saw the misshapen figure of the striga speeding swiftly and unerringly in the direction of Ostrit’s receeding footsteps. Not the slightest sound issued from the striga.
A terrible, quivering, frenzied scream tore the night, shook the old walls, continued rising and falling, vibrating. The witcher couldn’t make out exactly how far away it was – his sharpened hearing deceived him – but he knew that the striga had caught up with Ostrit quickly. Too quickly.
He stepped into the middle of the hall, stood right at the entrance to the crypt. He threw down his coat, twitched his shoulders, adjusted the position of his sword, pulled on his gauntlets. He still had some time. He knew that the striga, although well fed after the last full moon, would not readily abandon Ostrit’s corpse. The heart and liver were, for her, valuable reserves of nutrition for the long periods spent in lethargic sleep.
The witcher waited. By his count, there were about three hours left until dawn. The cock’s crow could only mislead him. Besides, there were probably no cocks in the neighbourhood.
He heard her. She was trudging slowly, shuffling along the floor. And then he saw her.
The description had been accurate. The disproportionately large head set on a short neck was surrounded by a tangled, curly halo of reddish hair. Her eyes shone in the darkness like an animal’s. The striga stood motionless, her gaze fixed on Geralt. Suddenly she opened her jaws – as if proud of her rows of pointed white teeth – then snapped them shut with a crack like a chest being closed. And leapt, slashing at the witcher with her bloodied claws.
Geralt jumped to the side, spun a swift pirouette. The striga rubbed against him, also spun around, slicing through the air with her talons. She didn’t lose her balance and attacked anew, mid-spin, gnashing her teeth fractions of an inch from Geralt’s chest. The Rivian jumped away, changing the direction of his spin with a fluttering pirouette to confuse the striga. As he leapt away he dealt a hard blow to the side of her head with the silver spikes studding the knuckles of his gauntlet.
The striga roared horribly, filling the palace with a booming echo, fell to the ground, froze and started to howl hollowly and furiously.
The witcher smiled maliciously. His first attempt, as he had hoped, had gone well. Silver was fatal to the striga, as it was for most monsters brought into existence through magic. So there was a chance: the beast was like the others, and that boded well for lifting the spell, while the silver sword would, as a last resort, assure his life.
The striga was in no hurry with her next attack. She approached slowly, baring her fangs, dribbling repulsively. Geralt backed away and, carefully placing his feet, traced a semi-circle. By slowing and quickening his movements he distracted the striga, making it difficult for her to leap. As he walked the witcher unwound a long, strong silver chain, weighted at the end.
The moment the striga tensed and leapt the chain whistled through the air and, coiling like a snake, twined itself around the monster’s shoulders, neck and head. The striga’s jump became a tumble, and she let out an ear-piercing whistle. She thrashed around on the floor, howling horribly with fury or from the burning pain inflicted by the despised metal. Geralt was content – if he wanted he could kill the striga without great difficulty. But the witcher did not draw his sword. Nothing in the striga’s behaviour had given him reason to think she might be an incurable case. Geralt moved to a safer distance and, without letting the writhing shape on the floor out of his sight, breathed deeply, focused himself.
The chain snapped. The silver links scattered like rain in all directions, ringing against the stone. The striga, blind with fury, tumbled to the attack, roaring. Geralt waited calmly and, with his raised right hand, traced the Sign of Aard in front of him.
The striga fell back as if hit by a mallet but kept her feet, extended her talons, bared her fangs. Her hair stood on end and fluttered as if she were walking against a fierce wind. With difficulty, one rasping step at a time, she slowly advanced. But she did advance.
Geralt grew uneasy. He did not expect such a simple Sign to paralyse the striga entirely but neither did he expect the beast to overcome it so easily. He could not hold the Sign for long, it was too exhausting, and the striga had no more than ten steps to go. He lowered the Sign suddenly, and sprung aside. The striga, taken by surprise, flew forward, lost her balance, fell, slid along the floor and tumbled down the stairs into the crypt’s entrance, yawning in the floor.
Her infernal scream reverberated from below.
To gain time Geralt jumped on to the stairs leading to the gallery. He had not even climbed halfway up when the striga ran out of the crypt, speeding along like an enormous black spider. The witcher waited until she had run up the stairs after him, then leapt over the balustrade. The striga turned on the stairs, sprang and flew at him in an amazing ten-metre leap. She did not let herself be deceived by his pirouettes this time; twice her talons left their mark on the Rivian’s leather tunic. But another desperately hard blow from the silver spiked gauntlet threw the striga aside, shook her. Geralt, feeling fury building inside him, swayed, bent backwards and, with a mighty kick, knocked the beast off her legs.
The roar she gave was louder than all the previous ones. Even the plaster crumbled from the ceiling.
The striga sprang up, shaking with uncontrolled anger and lust for murder. Geralt waited. He drew his sword, traced circles with it in the air, and skirted the striga, taking care that the movement of his sword was not in rhythm with his steps. The striga did not jump. She approached slowly, following the bright streak of the blade with her eyes.
Geralt stopped abruptly, froze with his sword raised. The striga, disconcerted, also stopped. The witcher traced a slow semi-circle with the blade, took a step in the striga’s direction. Then another. Then he leapt, feigning a whirling movement with his sword above her head.
The striga curled up, retreated in a zigzag. Geralt was close again, the blade shimmering in his hand. His eyes lit up with an ominous glow, a hoarse roar tore through his clenched teeth. The striga backed away, pushed by the power of concentrated hatred, anger and violence which emanated from the attacking man and struck her in waves, penetrating her mind and body. Terrified and pained by feelings unknown to her she let out a thin, shaking squeak, turned on the spot and ran off in a desperate, crazy escape down the dark tangle of the palace’s corridors.
Geralt stood quivering in the middle of the hall. Alone. It had taken a long time, he thought, before this dance on the edge of an abyss, this mad, macabre ballet of a fight, had achieved the desired effect, allowed him to psychically become one with his opponent, to reach the underlayers of concentrated will which permeated the striga. The evil, twisted will from which the striga was born. The witcher shivered at the memory of taking on that evil to redirect it, as if in a mirror, against the monster. Never before had he come across such a concentration of hatred and murderous frenzy, not even from basilisks, who enjoyed a ferocious reputation for it.
All the better, he thought as he walked toward the crypt entrance and the blackness that spread from it like an enormous puddle. All the better, all the stronger, was the blow received by the striga. This would give him a little more time until the beast recovered from the shock. The witcher doubted whether he could repeat such an effort. The elixirs were weakening and it was still a long time until dawn. But the striga could not return to her crypt before first light, or all his trouble would come to nothing.
He went down the stairs. The crypt was not large; there was room for three stone sarcophagi. The slab covering the first was half pushed aside. Geralt pulled the third vial from beneath his tunic, quickly drank its contents, climbed into the tomb and stretched out in it. As he had expected, it was a double tomb – for mother and daughter.
He had only just pulled the cover closed when he heard the striga’s roar again. He lay on his back next to Adda�
��s mummified corpse and traced the Sign of Yrden on the inside of the slab. He laid his sword on his chest, stood a tiny hourglass filled with phosphorescent sand next to it and crossed his arms. He no longer heard the striga’s screams as she searched the palace. He had gradually stopped hearing anything as the true-love and celandine began to work.
VII
When Geralt opened his eyes the sand had passed through the hourglass, which meant his sleep had been even longer than he had intended. He pricked up his ears, and heard nothing. His senses were now functioning normally.
He took hold of his sword and, murmuring an incantation, ran his hand across the lid of the sarcophagus. He then moved the slab slightly, a couple of inches.
Silence.
He pushed the lid further, sat, holding his weapon at the ready, and lifted his head above the tomb. The crypt was dark but the witcher knew that outside dawn was breaking. He struck a light, lit a miniature lamp and lifted it, throwing strange shadows across the walls of the crypt.
It was empty.
He scrambled from the sarcophagus, aching, numb, cold. And then he saw her. She was lying on her back next to the tomb, naked and unconscious.
She was rather ugly. Slim with small pointed breasts, and dirty. Her hair – flaxen-red – reached almost to her waist. Standing the lamp on the slab he knelt beside her and leant over. Her lips were pale and her face was bloody where he had hit her cheekbone. Geralt removed his gloves, put his sword aside and, without any fuss, drew up her top lip with his finger. Her teeth were normal. He reached for her hand which was buried in her tangled hair. Before he took it he saw her open eyes. Too late.
She swiped him across the neck with her talons, cutting him deeply. Blood splashed on to her face. She howled, striking him in the eyes with her other hand. He fell on her, grabbing her by the wrists, nailing her to the floor. She gnashed her teeth – which were now too short – in front of his face. He butted her in the face with his forehead and pinned her down harder. She had lost her former strength; she could only writhe beneath him, howling, spitting out blood – his blood – which was pouring over her mouth. His blood was draining away quickly. There was no time. The witcher cursed and bit her hard on the neck, just below the ear. He dug his teeth in and clenched them until her inhuman howling became a thin, despairing scream and then a choking sob – the cry of a hurt fourteen-year-old girl.
He let her go when she stopped moving, got to his knees, tore a piece of canvas from his sleeve pocket and pressed it to his neck. He felt for his sword, held the blade to the unconscious girl’s throat, and leant over her hand. The nails were dirty, broken, bloodied but… normal. Completely normal.
The witcher got up with difficulty. The sticky-wet greyness of early morning was flooding in through the crypt’s entrance. He made a move towards the stairs but staggered and sat down heavily on the floor. Blood was pouring through the drenched canvas onto his hands, running down his sleeve. He unfastened his tunic, slit his shirt, tore and ripped rags from it and tied them around his neck, knowing that he didn’t have much time, that he would soon faint…
He succeeded. And fainted.
In Wyzim, beyond the lake, a cock, ruffling his feathers in the cold damp, crowed hoarsely for the third time.
VIII
He saw the whitened walls and beamed ceiling of the small chamber above the guardroom. He moved his head, grimacing with pain, and moaned. His neck was bandaged, thickly, thoroughly, professionally.
‘Lie still, witcher,’ said Velerad. ‘Lie, do not move.’
‘My… sword…’
‘Yes, yes. Of course, what is most important is your witcher’s silver sword. It’s here, don’t worry. Both the sword and your little trunk. And the three thousand orens. Yes, yes, don’t utter a word. It is I who am an old fool and you the wise witcher. Foltest has been repeating it over and over for the last two days.’
‘Two—’
‘Oh yes, two. She slit your neck open quite thoroughly. One could see everything you have inside there. You lost a great deal of blood. Fortunately we hurried to the palace straight after the third crowing of the cock. Nobody slept in Wyzim that night. It was impossible, you made a terrible noise. Does my talking tire you?’
‘The prin… cess?’
‘The princess is like a princess. Thin. And somewhat dull-witted. She weeps incessantly and wets her bed. But Foltest says this will change. I don’t think it’ll change for the worse, do you, Geralt?’
The witcher closed his eyes.
‘Good. I take my leave now. Rest.’ Velerad got up. ‘Geralt? Before I go, tell me: why did you try to bite her to death? Eh? Geralt?’
The witcher was asleep.
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
I
Dandilion came down the steps of the inn carefully, carrying two tankards dripping with froth. Cursing under his breath he squeezed through a group of curious children and crossed the yard at a diagonal, avoiding the cowpats.
A number of villagers had already gathered round the table in the courtyard where the witcher was talking to the alderman. The poet set the tankards down and found a seat. He realised straight away that the conversation hadn’t advanced a jot during his short absence.
‘I’m a witcher, sir,’ Geralt repeated for the umpteenth time, wiping beer froth from his lips. ‘I don’t sell anything. I don’t go around enlisting men for the army and I don’t know how to treat glanders. I’m a witcher.’
‘It’s a profession,’ explained Dandilion yet again. ‘A witcher, do you understand ? He kills strigas and spectres. He exterminates all sorts of vermin. Professionally, for money. Do you get it, alderman?’
‘Aha!’ The alderman’s brow, deeply furrowed in thought, grew smoother. ‘A witcher! You should have said so right away!’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Geralt. ‘So now I’ll ask you: is there any work to be found around here for me?’
‘Aaaa.’ The alderman quite visibly started to think again. ‘Work? Maybe those… Well… werethings? You’re asking are there any werethings hereabouts?’
The witcher smiled and nodded, rubbing an itching eyelid with his knuckles.
‘That there are,’ the alderman concluded after a fair while. ‘Only look ye yonder, see ye those mountains? There’s elves live there, that there is their kingdom. Their palaces, hear ye, are all of pure gold. Oh aye, sir! Elves, I tell ye. ’Tis awful. He who yonder goes, never returns.’
‘I thought so,’ said Geralt coldly. ‘Which is precisely why I don’t intend going there.’
Dandilion chuckled impudently.
The alderman pondered a long while, just as Geralt had expected.
‘Aha,’ he said at last. ‘Well, aye. But there be other werethings here too. From the land of elves they come, to be sure. Oh, sir, there be many, many. ‘Tis hard to count them all. But the worst, that be the Bane, am I right, my good men?’
The ‘good men’ came to life and besieged the table from all sides.
‘Bane!’ said one. ‘Aye, aye, ’tis true what the alderman says. A pale virgin, she walks the cottages at daybreak, and the children, they die!’
‘And imps,’ added another, a soldier from the watchtower. ‘They tangle up the horses’ manes in the stables!’
‘And bats! There be bats here!’
‘And myriapodans! You come up all in spots because of them!’
The next few minutes passed in a recital of the monsters which plagued the local peasants with their dishonourable doings, or their simple existence. Geralt and Dandilion learnt of misguids and mamunes, which prevent an honest peasant from finding his way home in a drunken stupour, of the flying drake which drinks milk from cows, of the head on spider’s legs which runs around in the forest, of hobolds which wear red hats and about a dangerous pike which tears linen from women’s hands as they wash it – and just you wait and it’ll be at the women themselves. They weren’t spared hearing that old Nan the Hag flies on a broom at night and performs abortions in the day,
that the miller tampers with the flour by mixing it with powdered acorns and that a certain Duda believed the royal steward to be a thief and scoundrel.
Geralt listened to all this calmly, nodding with feigned interest, and asked a few questions about the roads and layout of the land, after which he rose and nodded to Dandilion.
‘Well, take care, my good people,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back soon, then we’ll see what can be done.’
They rode away in silence alongside the cottages and fences, accompanied by yapping dogs and screaming children.
‘Geralt,’ said Dandilion, standing in the stirrups to pick a fine apple from a branch which stretched over the orchard fence, ‘all the way you’ve been complaining about it being harder and harder to find work. Yet from what I just heard, it looks as if you could work here without break until winter. You’d make a penny or two, and I’d have some beautiful subjects for my ballads. So explain why we’re riding on.’
‘I wouldn’t make a penny, Dandilion.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there wasn’t a word of truth in what they said.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘None of the creatures they mentioned exist.’
‘You’re joking!’ Dandilion spat out a pip and threw the apple core at a patched mongrel. ‘No, it’s impossible. I was watching them carefully, and I know people. They weren’t lying.’
‘No,’ the witcher agreed. ‘They weren’t lying. They firmly believed it all. Which doesn’t change the facts.’
The poet was silent for a while.
‘None of those monsters… None? It can’t be. Something of what they listed must be here. At least one! Admit it.’
‘All right. I admit it. One does exist for sure.’
‘Ha! What?’
‘A bat.’
They rode out beyond the last fences, on to a highway between beds yellow with oilseed and cornfields rolling in the wind. Loaded carts travelled past them in the opposite direction. The bard pulled his leg over the saddle-bow, rested his lute on his knee and strummed nostalgic tunes, waving from time to time at the giggling, scantily clad girls wandering along the sides of the road carrying rakes on their robust shoulders.
The Malady and Other Stories: An Andrzej Sapkowski Sampler Page 8