‘Know ye, sir,’ said Nettly, ‘it be nae only a matter of the deovel. Lille does nae let us harm anything. Any creature.’
‘Of course,’ Dandilion butted in, ‘country prophetesses grow from the same tree as druids. And a druid will go so far as to wish the gadfly sucking his blood to enjoy its meal.’
‘Ye hits it on the head,’ Nettly faintly smiled. ‘Ye hits the nail right on the head. ’Twas the same with us and the wild boars that dug up our vegetable beds. Look out the window: beds as pretty as a picture. We have found a way, Lille doesnae even know. What the eyes do nay see, the heart will nae miss. Understand?’
‘I understand,’ muttered Geralt. ‘And how. But we can’t move forward. Lille or no Lille, your devil is a sylvan. An exceptionally rare but intelligent creature. I won’t kill him, my code doesn’t allow it.’
‘If he be intelligent,’ said Dhun, ‘go speak reason to him.’
‘Just so,’ Nettly joined in. ‘If the deovel has brains that will mean he steals grain according to reason. So ye, witcher, find out what he wants. He does nae eat that grain, after all – not so much, at least. So what does he want grain for? To spite us? What does he want? Find out and chase him off in some witcher way. Will ye do that?’
‘I’ll try,’ decided Geralt. ‘But…’
‘But what?’
‘Your book, my friends, is out of date. Do you see what I’m getting at?’
‘Well, forsooth,’ grunted Dhun, ‘not really.’
‘I’ll explain. Honourable Dhun, honourable Nettly, if you’re counting on my help costing you a silver penny or three halves, then you are bloody well mistaken.’
V
‘Hey!’
A rustle, an angry Uk! Uk! and the snapping of stakes, reached them from the thicket.
‘Hey!’ repeated the witcher, prudently remaining hidden. ‘Show yourself, willower.’
‘Willower yourself.’
‘So what is it? Devil?’
‘Devil yourself.’ The sylvan poked his head out from the hemp, baring his teeth. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk.’
‘Are you making fun of me or what? Do you think I don’t know who you are? The peasants hired you to throw me out of here, eh?’
‘That’s right,’ admitted Geralt indifferently. ‘And that’s precisely what I wanted to chat to you about. What if we were to come to an understanding?’
‘That’s where it hurts,’ bleated the sylvan. ‘You’d like to get off lightly, wouldn’t you? Without making an effort, eh? Pull the other one! Life, my good man, means competition. The best man wins. If you want to win with me, prove you’re the best. Instead of coming to an understanding, we’ll have competitions. The winner dictates the conditions. I propose a race from here to the old willow on the dyke.’
‘I don’t know where the dyke is, or the old willow.’
‘I wouldn’t suggest the race if you knew. I like competitions but I don’t like losing.’
‘I’ve noticed. No, we won’t race each other. It’s very hot today.’
‘Pity. So maybe we’ll pit ourselves against each other in a different way?’ The sylvan bared his yellow teeth and picked up a large stone from the ground. ‘Do you know the game “Who shouts loudest?” I shout first. Close your eyes.’
‘I have a different proposition.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘You leave here without any competitions, races or shouting. Of your own accord, without being forced.’
‘You can shove such a proposition a d’yeabl aep arse.’ The devil demonstrated his knowledge of the Old Language. ‘I won’t leave here. I like it here.’
‘But you’ve made too much of a nuisance of yourself here. Your pranks have gone too far.’
‘Duvvelsheyss to you with my pranks.’ The sylvan, as it turned out, also knew the dwarves’ tongue. ‘And your proposition is also worth as much as a duvvelsheyss. I’m not going anywhere unless you beat me at some game. Shall I give you a chance? We’ll play at riddles if you don’t like physical games. I’ll give you a riddle in a minute and if you guess it, you win and I leave. If you don’t, I stay and you leave. Rack your brains because the riddle isn’t easy.’
Before Geralt could protest the sylvan bleated, stamped his hooves, whipped the ground with his tail and recited:
Little pink leaves, pods small and full,
It grows in soft clay, not far from the stream,
On a long stalk, its flower is moist,
But to a cat, please show it not,
’Cos if you do, he’ll eat the lot.
Well, what is it? Guess.’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ the witcher said, not even trying to think it over. ‘Sweet pea, perhaps?’
‘Wrong. You lose.’
‘And what is the correct answer? What has… hmm… moist pods?’
‘Cabbage.’
‘Listen,’ growled Geralt. ‘You’re starting to get on my nerves.’
‘I warned you,’ chuckled the sylvan, ‘that the riddle wasn’t easy. Tough. I won, I stay. And you leave. I wish you, sir, a cold farewell.’
‘Just a moment.’ The witcher surreptitiously slipped a hand into his pocket. ‘And my riddle? I have the right to a revenge match, haven’t I?’
‘No!’ protested the devil. ‘I might not guess it, after all. Do you take me for a fool?’
‘No,’ Geralt shook his head. ‘I take you for a spiteful, arrogant dope. We’re going to play quite a new game shortly, one which you don’t know.’
‘Ha! After all! What game?’
‘The game is called,’ said the witcher slowly, ‘don’t do unto, others what you would not have them do to you”. You don’t have to close your eyes.’
Geralt stooped in a lightning throw; the one-inch iron ball whizzed sharply through the air and thwacked the sylvan straight between the horns. The creature collapsed onto his back as if hit by a thunderbolt. Geralt dived between the poles and grabbed him by one shaggy leg. The sylvan bleated and kicked. The witcher sheltered his head with his arm, but to little effect. The sylvan, despite his mean posture, kicked with the strength of an enraged mule. The witcher tried and failed to catch a kicking hoof. The sylvan flapped, thrashed his hands on the ground and kicked him again in the forehead. The witcher cursed, feeling the sylvan’s leg slip from his fingers. Both, having parted, rolled in opposite directions, kicked the poles with a crash and tangled themselves up in the creeping hemp.
The sylvan was the first to jump up, and, lowering his horned head, charged. But Geralt was already on his feet and effortlessly dodged the attack, grabbed the creature by a horn, tugged hard, threw him to the ground and crushed him with his knees. The sylvan bleated and spat straight into the witcher’s eyes like a camel suffering from excess saliva. The witcher instinctively stepped back without releasing the devil’s horns. The sylvan, trying to toss his head, kicked with both hooves at once and – strangely – hit the mark with both. Geralt swore nastily, but didn’t release his grip. He pulled the sylvan up, pinned him to the creaking poles and kicked him in a shaggy knee with all his might, then he leant over and spat right into his ear. The sylvan howled and snapped his blunt teeth.
‘Don’t do unto others…’ panted the witcher, ‘… what you would not have them do to you. Shall we play on?’ The sylvan gurgled, howled and spat fiercely, but Geralt held him firmly by the horns and pressed his head down hard, making the spittle hit the sylvan’s own hooves, which tore at the ground, sending up clouds of dust and weeds.
The next few minutes passed in an intense skirmish and exchange of insults and kicks. If Geralt was pleased about anything, it was only that nobody could see him – for it was a truly ridiculous sight.
The force of the next kick tore the combatants apart and threw them in opposite directions, into the hemp thicket. The sylvan got up before the witcher and rushed to escape, limping heavily. Geralt, panting and wiping his brow, rushed in pursuit. They forced their way through
the hemp and ran into the hops. The witcher heard the pounding of a galloping horse, the sound he’d been waiting for.
‘Here, Dandilion! Here!’ he yelled. ‘In the hops!’
He saw the mount breast right in front of him and was knocked over. He bounced off the horse as though it were a rock and tumbled onto his back. The world darkened. He managed to roll to the side, behind the hop poles, to avoid the hooves. He sprung up nimbly but another rider rode into him, knocking him down again. Then suddenly, someone threw themselves at him and pinned him to the ground.
Then there was a flash, and a piercing pain in the back of his head.
And darkness.
VI
There was sand on his lips. When he tried to spit it out he realised he was lying face-down on the ground. And he was tied up. He raised his head a little and heard voices.
He was lying on the forest floor, by a pine tree. Some twenty paces away stood unsaddled horses. They were obscured behind the feathery fronds of ferns, but one of those horses was, without a doubt, Dandilion’s chestnut.
‘Three sacks of corn,’ he heard. ‘Good, Torque. Very good. You’ve done well.’
‘That’s not all,’ said the bleating voice, which could only be the sylvan devil. ‘Look at this, Galarr. It looks like beans but it’s completely white. And the size of it! And this, this is called oilseed. They make oil from it.’
Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. No, it wasn’t a dream. The devil and Galarr, whoever he was, were using the Old Language, the language of elves. But the words corn, beans, and oilseed were in the common tongue.
‘And this? What’s this?’ asked Galarr.
‘Flaxseed. Flax, you know? You make shirts from flax. It’s much cheaper than silk, and more hardwearing. It’s quite a complicated process as far as I know but I’ll find out the ins and outs.’
‘As long as it takes root, this flax of yours; as long as it doesn’t go to waste like the turnip,’ grumbled Galarr, in the same strange Volapuk. ‘Try to get some new turnip seedlings, Torque.’
‘Have no fear,’ bleated the sylvan. ‘There’s no problem with that here. Everything grows like hell. I’ll get you some, don’t worry.’
‘And one more thing,’ said Galarr. ‘Finally find out what that three-field system of theirs is all about.’
The witcher carefully raised his head and tried to turn round.
‘Geralt…’ he heard a whisper. ‘Are you awake?’
‘Dandilion…’ he whispered back. ‘Where are we…? What’s happening?’
Dandilion only grunted quietly. Geralt had had enough. He cursed, tensed himself and turned on to his side.
In the middle of the glade stood the sylvan devil with – as he now knew – the sweet name of Torque. He was busy loading sacks, bags and packs on to the horses. He was being helped by a slim, tall man who could only be Galarr. The latter, hearing the witcher move, turned around. His hair was black with a distinct hint of dark blue. He had sharp features, big, bright eyes and pointed ears.
Galarr was an elf. An elf from the mountains. A pure-blooded Aen Seidhe, a representative of the Old People.
Galarr wasn’t alone. Six more sat at the edge of the glade. One was busy emptying Dandilion’s packs, another strummed the troubadour’s lute. The remainder, gathered around an untied sack, were greedily devouring turnips and raw carrots.
‘Vanadain, Toruviel,’ said Galarr, indicating the prisoners with a nod of his head. ‘Vedrai! Enn’le!’
Torque jumped up and bleated. ‘No, Galarr ! No! Filavandrel has forbidden it! Have you forgotten?’
‘No, I haven’t forgotten.’ Galarr threw two tied sacks across the horse’s back. ‘But we have to check if they haven’t loosened the knots.’
‘What do you want from us?’ the troubadour moaned as one of the elves knocked him to the ground with his knee and checked the knots. ‘Why are you holding us prisoners? What do you want? I’m Dandilion, a poe—’
Geralt heard the sound of a blow. He turned round, twisted his head.
The elf standing over Dandilion had black eyes and raven hair, which fell luxuriantly over her shoulders, except for two thin plaits braided at her temples. She was wearing a short leather camisole over a loose shirt of green satin, and tight woollen leggings tucked into riding boots. Her hips were wrapped around with a coloured shawl which reached halfway down her thighs.
‘Que glosse?’ she asked, looking at the witcher and playing with the hilt of the long dagger in her belt. ‘Que l’en pavienn, ell’ea?’
‘Nell’ea,’ he contested. ‘T’en pavienn, Aen Seidhe.’
‘Did you hear?’ The elf turned to her companion, the tall Seidhe who, not bothering to check Geralt’s knots, was strumming away at Dandilion’s lute with an expression of indifference on his long face. ‘Did you hear, Vanadain? The ape-man can talk! He can even be impertinent!’
Seidhe shrugged, making the feathers decorating his jacket rustle. ‘All the more reason to gag him, Toruviel.’
The elf leant over Geralt. She had long lashes, an unnaturally pale complexion and parched, cracked lips. She wore a necklace of carved golden birch pieces on a thong, wrapped around her neck several times.
‘Well, say something else, ape-man,’ she hissed. ‘We’ll see what your throat, so used to barking, is capable of.’
‘What’s this? Do you need an excuse to hit a bound man?’ The witcher turned over on his back with an effort and spat out the sand. ‘Hit me without any excuses. I’ve seen how you like it. Let off some steam.’
The elf straightened. ‘I’ve already let off some steam on you, while your hands were free,’ she said. ‘I rode you down and swiped you on the head. And I’ll also finish you off when the time comes.’
He didn’t answer.
‘I’d much rather stab you from close-up, looking you in the eyes,’ continued the elf. ‘But you stink most hideously, human, so I’ll shoot you.’
‘As you wish.’ The witcher shrugged, as far as the knots let him. ‘Do as you like, noble Aen Seidhe. You shouldn’t miss a tied-up, motionless target.’
The elf stood over him, legs spread, and leant down, flashing her teeth.
‘No, I shouldn’t,’ she hissed. ‘I hit whatever I want. But you can be sure you won’t die from the first arrow. Or the second. I’ll try to make sure you can feel yourself dying.’
‘Don’t come so close,’ he grimaced, pretending to be repulsed. ‘You stink most hideously, Aen Seidhe.’
The elf jumped back, rocked on her narrow hips and forcefully kicked him in the thigh. Geralt drew his legs in and curled up, knowing where she was aiming next. He succeeded, and got her boot in the hip, so hard his teeth rattled.
The tall elf standing next to her echoed each kick with a sharp chord on the lute.
‘Leave him, Toruviel!’ bleated the sylvan. ‘Have you gone mad? Galarr, tell her to stop!’
‘Thaesse!’ shrieked Toruviel, and kicked the witcher again. The tall Seidhe tore so violently at the strings that one snapped with a protracted whine.
‘Enough of that! Enough, for gods’ sake!’ Dandilion yelled fretfully, wriggling and tumbling in the ropes. ‘Why are you bullying him, you stupid whore? Leave us alone! And you leave my lute alone, all right?’
Toruviel turned to him with an angry grimace on her cracked lips. ‘Musician!’ she growled. ‘A human, yet a musician! A lutenist!’
Without a word, she pulled the instrument from the tall elf’s hand, forcefully smashed the lute against the pine and threw the remains, tangled in the strings, on Dandilion’s chest.
‘Play on a cow’s horn, you savage, not a lute.’
The poet turned as white as death, his lips quivered. Geralt, feeling cold fury rising up somewhere within him, drew Toruviel’s eyes with his own.
‘What are you staring at?’ hissed the elf, leaning over. ‘Filthy ape-man! Do you want me to gouge out those insect eyes of yours?’
Her necklace hung down just
above him. The witcher tensed, lunged, and caught the necklace in his teeth, tugging powerfully, curling his legs in and turning on his side.
Toruviel lost her balance and fell on top of him.
Geralt wriggled in the ropes like a fish, crushed the elf beneath him, tossed his head back with such force that the vertebrae in his neck cracked and, with all his might, butted her in the face with his forehead. Toruviel howled and struggled.
They pulled him off her brutally and, tugging at his clothes and hair, lifted him. One of them struck him; he felt rings cut the skin over his cheekbone and the forest danced and swam in front of his eyes. He saw Toruviel lurch to her knees, blood pouring from her nose and mouth. The elf wrenched the dagger from its sheath but gave a sob, hunched over, grasped her face and dropped her head between her knees.
The tall elf in the jacket adorned with colourful feathers took the dagger from her hand and approached the witcher. He smiled as he raised the blade. Geralt saw him through a red haze; blood from his forehead, which he’d cut against Toruviel’s teeth, poured into his eye-sockets.
‘No!’ bleated Torque, running up to the elf and hanging on to his arm. ‘Don’t kill him! No!’
‘Voe’rle, Vanadain,’ a sonorous voice suddenly commanded. ‘Quess aen? Caelm, evellienn! Galarr!’
Geralt turned his head as far as the fist clutching his hair permitted.
The horse which had just reached the glade was as white as snow, its mane long, soft and silky as a woman’s hair. The hair of the rider sitting in the sumptuous saddle was identical in colour, pulled back at the forehead by a bandana studded with sapphires.
Torque, bleating now and then, ran up to the horse, caught hold of the stirrup and showered the white-haired elf with a torrent of words. The Seidhe interrupted him with an authoritative gesture and jumped down from his saddle. He approached Toruviel, who was being supported by two elves, and carefully removed the bloodied handkerchief from her face. Toruviel gave a heartrending groan. The Seidhe shook his head and approached the witcher. His burning black eyes, shining like stars in his pale face, had dark rings beneath them, as if he had not slept for several nights in a row.
The Malady and Other Stories: An Andrzej Sapkowski Sampler Page 11