The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

‘Hold on, Geralt. Help is coming from Aretuza. It’ll soon be here . . .’

  ‘Dijkstra . . . If Dijkstra gets his hands on me . . . I’m finished . . .’

  Triss swore. Desperately.

  She dragged him down the steps, his broken leg and arm bouncing down them. The pain returned. It bored into his guts and his temples, and it radiated all the way to his eyes, to his ears, to the top of his head. He didn’t scream. He knew screaming would bring him relief, but he didn’t scream. He just opened his mouth, which also brought him relief.

  He heard a roar.

  At the top of the stair stood Tissaia de Vries. Her hair was dishevelled, her face covered in dust. She raised both her hands, and her palms flamed. She screamed a spell and the flames dancing on her fingers hurtled downwards in the form of a blinding sphere, roaring with fire. The Witcher heard the clatter of walls crashing down below and the dreadful cries of people being burnt.

  ‘No, Tissaia!’ screamed Triss in desperation. ‘Don’t do it!’

  ‘They will not enter here,’ said the arch-mistress, without turning her head. ‘This is Garstang, on the Isle of Thanedd. No one invited those royalist lackeys, who carry out the orders of their short-sighted kings!’

  ‘You’re killing them!’

  ‘Be silent, Triss Merigold! The attack on the unity of the Brotherhood has failed. The island is still ruled by the Chapter! The kings should keep their hands off the Chapter’s business! This is our conflict and we shall resolve it ourselves! We will resolve our business and then put an end to this senseless war, for it is we, sorcerers, who bear the responsibility for the fate of the world!’

  A ball of lightning shot from her hands, and the redoubled echo of the explosion roared among the columns and stone walls.

  ‘Begone!’ she screamed again. ‘You will not enter this place! Begone!’

  The screaming from below subsided. Geralt understood that the attackers had withdrawn from the stairway, had beaten a retreat. Tissaia’s outline blurred in front of his eyes. It wasn’t magic. He was losing consciousness.

  ‘Run, Triss Merigold,’ the enchantress’s words came from far away, as if from behind a wall. ‘Philippa Eilhart has already fled; she flew away on owl’s wings. You were her accomplice in this wicked conspiracy and I ought to punish you. But there has been enough blood, death and misfortune! Begone! Go to Aretuza and join your allies! Teleport away. The portal in the Tower of Gulls no longer exists. It was destroyed along with the tower. You can teleport without fear. Wherever you wish. To your King Foltest, for instance, for whom you betrayed the Brotherhood!’

  ‘I will not leave Geralt . . .’ groaned Triss. ‘He cannot fall into the hands of the Redanians . . . He’s gravely injured . . . He has internal bleeding, and I have no more strength! I don’t have the strength to open the portal! Tissaia! Help me please!’

  Darkness. Bitter cold. From far away, from behind a stone wall, the voice of Tissaia de Vries:

  ‘I shall help you.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Evertsen Peter, b. 1234, confidant of Emperor Emhyr Deithwen and one of the true authors of the Empire’s might. The chief chamberlain of the army during the time of the Northern Wars (q.v.), from 1290 imperial treasurer of the crown. In the final period of Emhyr’s rule, he was raised to the rank of coadjutor of the Empire. During the rule of Emperor Morvran Voor he was falsely accused of misappropriation of funds, found guilty, imprisoned and died in 1301 in Winneburg Castle. Posthumously rehabilitated by Emperor Jan Calveit in 1328.

  Effenberg and Talbot, Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi,

  Volume V

  May Ye All Wail, for the Destroyer of Nations is upon us. Your lands shall they trample and divide with rope. Your cities razed shall be, their dwellers expelled. The bat, owl and raven your homes shall infest, and the serpent will therein make its nest . . .

  Aen Ithlinnespeath

  The captain of the squad reined back his mount, removed his helmet and used his fingers to comb his thinning hair, which was matted with sweat.

  ‘Journey’s over,’ he repeated, seeing the troubadour’s questioning gaze.

  ‘What? How d’you mean?’ said Dandelion, astonished. ‘Why?’

  ‘We aren’t going any further. Do you see? The river you see glinting down there is the Ribbon. We were only told to escort you to the Ribbon. That means it’s time we were off.’

  The rest of the troops stopped behind them, but none of the soldiers dismounted. They were all looking around nervously. Dandelion shielded his eyes with a hand and stood up in the stirrups.

  ‘Where can you see that river?’

  ‘I said it’s down there. Ride down the ravine and you’ll be there in no time.’

  ‘You could at least escort me to the bank,’ protested Dandelion, ‘and show me the ford . . .’

  ‘There’s nothing much to show. Since May the weather’s been baking hot, so the water level’s dropped. There isn’t much water in the Ribbon. Your horse won’t have any problem crossing it . . .’

  ‘I showed your commander the letter from King Venzlav,’ said the troubadour, puffing up. ‘He read the contents and I heard him order you to escort me to the very edge of Brokilon. And you’re going to abandon me here in this thicket? What’ll happen if I get lost?’

  ‘You won’t get lost,’ muttered another soldier gloomily, who had come closer but had not so far spoken. ‘You won’t have time to get lost. A dryad’s arrow will find you first.’

  ‘What cowardly simpletons,’ Dandelion sneered. ‘I see you’re afraid of the dryads. But Brokilon only begins on the far bank of the Ribbon. The river is the border. We haven’t crossed it yet.’

  ‘Their border,’ explained the leader, looking around, ‘extends as far as their arrows do. A powerful bow shot from that bank will send an arrow right to the edge of the forest and still have enough impetus to pierce a hauberk. You insisted on going there. That’s your business, it’s your hide. But life is dear to me. I’m not going any further. I’d rather shove my head in a hornets’ nest!’

  ‘I’ve explained to you,’ said Dandelion, pushing his hat back and sitting up in the saddle, ‘that I’m riding to Brokilon on a mission. I am, it may be said, an ambassador. I do not fear dryads. But I would like you to escort me to the bank of the Ribbon. What’ll happen if brigands rob me in that thicket?’

  The gloomy soldier laughed affectedly.

  ‘Brigands? Here? In daylight? You won’t meet a soul here during the day. Latterly, the dryads have been letting arrows fly at anyone who appears on the bank of the Ribbon, and they’re not above venturing deeper into our territory either. No, no need to be afraid of brigands.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed the captain. ‘A brigand would have to be pretty stupid to be riding along the Ribbon during the day. And we’re not idiots. You’re riding alone, without armour or weapons, and you don’t look, forgive me, anything like a fighting man. You can see that a mile off. That may favour you. But if those dryads see us, on horseback and armed, you won’t be able to see the sun for arrows.’

  ‘Ah, well. There’s nothing else for it.’ Dandelion patted his horse’s neck and looked down towards the ravine. ‘I shall have to ride alone. Farewell, soldiers. Thank you for the escort.’

  ‘Don’t be in such a rush,’ said the gloomy soldier, looking up at the sky. ‘It’ll be evening soon. Set off when the haze starts rising from the water. Because, you know . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An arrow’s not so sure in the fog. If fate smiles on you, the dryads might miss. But they seldom miss . . .’

  ‘I told you—’

  ‘All right, all right. I’ve got it. You’re going to them on some kind of mission. But I’ll tell you something else. They don’t care whether it’s a mission or a church procession. They’ll let fly at you, and that’s that.’

  ‘You insist on frightening me, do you?’ said the poet snootily. ‘What do you take me for, a court scribbler? I, my good men, have seen more battl
egrounds than the lot of you. And I know more about dryads than you. If only that they never fire without warning.’

  ‘It once was thus, you’re right,’ said the leader quietly. ‘Once they gave warnings. They shot an arrow into a tree trunk or into the road, and that marked the border that you couldn’t cross. If a fellow turned back right then, he could get out in one piece. But now it’s different. Now they shoot to kill at once.’

  ‘Why such cruelty?’

  ‘Well,’ muttered the soldier, ‘it’s like this. When the kings made a truce with Nilfgaard, they went after the elven gangs with a will. You can tell they’re putting the screws on, for there isn’t a night that survivors don’t flee through Brugge, seeking shelter in Brokilon. And when our boys hunt the elves, they sometimes mix it with the dryads too, those who come to the elves’ aid from the far side of the Ribbon. And our army has also been known to go too far . . . Get my drift?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dandelion, looking at the soldier intently and shaking his head. ‘When you were hunting the Scoia’tael you crossed the Ribbon. And you killed some dryads. And now the dryads are taking their revenge in the same way. It’s war.’

  ‘That it is. You took the words right out of my mouth. War. It was always a fight to kill – never to let live – but now it’s worse than ever. There’s a fierce hatred between them and us. I’ll say it one more time: if you don’t have to, don’t go there.’

  Dandelion swallowed.

  ‘The whole point,’ he said, sitting tall in the saddle and working hard to assume a resolute expression and strike a dashing pose, ‘is that I do have to. And I’m going. Right now. Evening or no evening, fog or no fog. Duty calls.’

  The years of practice paid off. The troubadour’s voice sounded beautiful and menacing, austere and cold. It rang with iron and valour. The soldiers looked at him in unfeigned admiration.

  ‘Before you set off,’ said the leader, unfastening a flat, wooden canteen from his saddle, ‘neck down some vodka, minstrel, sir. Have a good old swig . . .’

  ‘It’ll make the dying easier,’ added the gloomy one, morosely.

  The poet sipped from the canteen.

  ‘A coward,’ he declared with dignity, when he’d stopped coughing and had got his breath back, ‘dies a hundred times. A brave man dies but once. But Dame Fortune favours the brave and holds cowards in contempt.’

  The soldiers looked at him in even greater admiration. They didn’t know and couldn’t have known that Dandelion was quoting from a heroic epic poem. Moreover, from one written by someone else.

  ‘I shall repay you for the escort with this,’ said the poet, removing a jingling, leather pouch from his bosom. ‘Before you return to the fort, before you’re once again embraced by strict mother-duty, stop by at a tavern and drink my health.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the leader, blushing somewhat. ‘You are generous, although we— Forgive us for leaving you alone, but . . .’

  ‘It’s nothing. Farewell.’

  The bard adjusted his hat to a jaunty angle over his left ear, prodded his horse with his heels and headed into the ravine, whistling ‘The Wedding Party at Bullerlyn’, a well-known and extremely indecent cavalry song.

  ‘The cornet in the fort said he was a freeloader, a coward and a knobhead. But he’s a valiant, military gentleman, even if he is a poe-taster.’ The voice of the gloomy soldier was carried to Dandelion’s ears.

  ‘Truly spoken,’ responded the captain. ‘He isn’t faint-hearted, you couldn’t say that. He didn’t even bat an eyelid, I noticed. And on top of that, he’s whistling, can you hear? Ho, ho . . . Heard what he said? That he’s an embarrassador. You can be sure they don’t make any old bugger an embarrassador. You’ve got to have your head screwed on to be made an embarrassador . . .’

  Dandelion quickened his pace in order to get away as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to sabotage the reputation he’d just earned himself. And he knew, with his mouth drying up in terror, that he wouldn’t be able to whistle for much longer.

  The ravine was sombre and damp, and the wet clay and carpet of rotten leaves lying on it muffled the thudding of his dark bay gelding’s hooves. He’d called the horse ‘Pegasus’. Pegasus walked slowly, head hanging down. He was one of those rare specimens of horse who could never care less.

  The forest had come to an end, but a wide, reedy meadow still separated Dandelion from the banks of the river, which was marked by a belt of alders. The poet reined Pegasus in. He looked around carefully but didn’t see anything. He listened out intently but only heard the singing of frogs.

  ‘Well, boy,’ he croaked. ‘It’s do or die. Gee up.’

  Pegasus lifted his head a little and stuck up his ears, which normally hung down, questioningly.

  ‘You heard right. Off you go.’

  The gelding set off reluctantly, the boggy ground squelching beneath his hooves. Frogs fled with long hops. A duck took flight a few paces in front of them, fluttering and quacking, briefly stopping the troubadour’s heart, after which it began pounding very hard and very rapidly. Pegasus showed no interest in the duck whatsoever.

  ‘The hero rode . . .’ mumbled Dandelion, wiping the cold sweat from the nape of his neck with a handkerchief taken from inside his jerkin, ‘rode fearlessly through the wilderness, heedless of the leaping lizards and flying dragons . . . He rode and rode . . . Until he reached a vast expanse of water . . .’

  Pegasus snorted and stopped. They were by the river, among reeds and bulrushes, which stood taller than his stirrups. Dandelion wiped his sweaty forehead and tied the handkerchief around his neck. He had been staring at the alder thicket on the far bank until his eyes watered. He saw nothing and no one. The surface of the water rippled from waterweed being swayed by the current, while overhead turquoise and orange kingfishers flitted past. The air twinkled with swarming insects. Fish gulped down mayflies, leaving huge rings on the surface of the water.

  Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, there were beaver lodges – piles of cut branches, and felled and gnawed tree trunks – being washed by the lazy current.

  There’s an astonishing abundance of beavers here, thought the poet. And no small wonder. No one bothers those bloody tree-chewers. Neither robbers, hunters nor forest beekeepers venture into this region; not even those interfering fur trappers would dare set their snares here. The ones who tried would have got an arrow through the throat, and the crayfish would have nibbled on them in the ooze by the riverbank. And I, the idiot, am forcing my way out here of my own free will; here, by the Ribbon, over which hangs a cadaverous stench, a stench which even the scent of sweet flag and mint cannot mask . . .

  He sighed heavily.

  Pegasus slowly planted his forelegs into the water, lowered his muzzle towards the surface, drank long, and then turned his head and looked at Dandelion. The water dripped from his muzzle and nostrils. The poet nodded, sighed once more and sniffed loudly.

  ‘The hero gazed on the maelstrom,’ he quietly declaimed, trying not to let his teeth chatter. ‘He gazed on it and travelled on, for his heart knew not trepidation.’

  Pegasus lowered his head and ears.

  ‘Knew not trepidation, I said.’

  Pegasus shook his head, jingling the rings on his reins and bit. Dandelion dug a heel into his side. The gelding entered the water with pompous resignation.

  The Ribbon was shallow but very overgrown. Before they had reached the centre of the current, Pegasus was dragging long plaits of waterweed. The horse walked slowly and with effort, trying to shake the annoying pondweed off with every step.

  The rushes and alders of the far bank were close. So close that Dandelion felt his stomach sinking low, very low, right down to the saddle itself. He knew that in the centre of the river, entangled in the waterweed, he was an excellent target; a sitting duck. In his mind’s eye he could already see bows bending, bowstrings being pulled back and sharp arrowheads being aimed at him.

  He squeezed the horse’s sides with
his calves, but Pegasus was having none of it. Instead of picking up speed, he stopped and lifted his tail. Balls of dung splashed into the water. Dandelion gave a long groan.

  ‘The hero,’ he muttered, closing his eyes, ‘was unable to cross the raging rapids. He fell in action, pierced by many missiles. He was hidden for ages long in the azure depths, rocked by jade-green algae. All traces of him vanished. Only horse shit remained, borne by the current to the distant sea . . .’

  Pegasus, clearly relieved, headed jauntily towards the bank without any encouragement, and when he reached the bank, and was finally free of waterweed, even took the liberty of breaking into a canter, utterly soaking Dandelion’s trousers and boots. The poet didn’t notice it, though, since the vision of arrows aimed at his belly hadn’t left him for a moment, and dread crept down his neck and back like a huge, cold, slimy leech. For beyond the alders, less than a hundred paces away, beyond the vivid green band of riverside grass, rose up a vertical, black, menacing wall of trees.

  It was Brokilon.

  On the bank, a few steps downstream, lay the white skeleton of a horse. Nettles and bulrushes had grown through its ribcage. Some other – smaller – bones, which didn’t come from a horse, were also lying there. Dandelion shuddered and looked away.

  Squelching and splashing, the gelding, urged on by Dandelion, hauled himself out of the riverside swamp, the mud smelling unpleasantly. The frogs stopped croaking for a moment. It all went very quiet. Dandelion closed his eyes. He stopped declaiming and improvising. His inspiration and daring had evaporated. Only cold, revolting fear remained; an intense sensation, but one utterly bereft of creative impulses.

  Pegasus perked up his floppy ears and dispassionately shambled towards the Forest of the Dryads. Called by many the Forest of Death.

  I’ve crossed the border, thought the poet. Now it will all be settled. While I was by the river and in the water, they could be magnanimous. But not now. Now I’m an intruder. Just like that one . . . I might end up a skeleton, too; a warning for people to heed . . . If there are dryads here at all. If they’re watching me . . .