‘Even in the arse,’ Zoltan interrupted. ‘I know, because it pained me too when you started whacking that lid. If the monster has more sensitive hearing than I do, he has my sympathy. Sure he won’t be back? He won’t rustle up some mates?’
‘I don’t imagine many of its mates are left on this earth. That specimen is certain not to be back in these parts for a long time. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
‘I’m not going to talk about monsters,’ the dwarf said, looking glum. ‘But your concerto for brass instruments must have been heard as far away as the Skellige Islands, so it’s possible some music lovers might be heading this way. And we’d better not be around when they come. Strike camp, boys! Hey, ladies, get clad and count up the children! We’re moving out, and quickly!’
When they stopped for the night, Geralt decided to clear up a few issues. This time Zoltan Chivay hadn’t sat down to play Barrel, so there was no difficulty leading him away to a secluded place for a frank, man-to-man conversation. He got straight to the point.
‘Out with it. How do you know I’m a witcher?’
The dwarf winked at him and smiled slyly.
‘I might boast about my perspicacity. I could say I noticed your eyes changing after dusk and in full sunlight. I could show that I’m a dwarf-of-the-world and that I’ve heard this and that about Geralt of Rivia. But the truth is much more banal. Don’t scowl. You can keep things to yourself, but your friend the bard sings and jabbers; he never shuts his trap. That’s how I know about your profession.’
Geralt refrained from asking another question. And rightly so.
‘It’s like this,’ Zoltan continued. ‘Dandelion told me everything. He must have sensed we value sincerity, and, after all, he didn’t have to sense our friendly disposition to you, because we don’t hide our dispositions. So in short: I know why you’re in a hurry to go south. I know what important and urgent matters are taking you to Nilfgaard. I know who you’re planning to seek. And not just from the poet’s gossip. I lived in Cintra before the war and I heard tales of the Child of Destiny and the white-haired witcher to whom the child was granted.’
Geralt did not respond this time either.
‘The rest,’ the dwarf said, ‘is just a question of observation. You let that crusty monstrosity go, even though you’re a witcher and it’s your professional duty to exterminate monsters like that. But the beast didn’t do your Surprise any harm, so you spared it and just drove it away by banging on a cauldron lid. Because you’re no longer a witcher; you’re a valiant knight, who is hastening to rescue his kidnapped and oppressed maiden.
‘Why don’t you stop glaring at me,’ he added, still not hearing an answer or an explanation. ‘You’re constantly sniffing out treachery; fearful of how this secret – now it’s out – may turn against you. Don’t fret. We’re all going to the Ina, helping each other, supporting each other. The challenge you have in front of you is the same one we face: to survive and stay alive. In order for this noble mission to continue. Or live an ordinary life, but so as not to be ashamed at the hour of death. You think you’ve changed. That the world has changed. But look; the world’s the same as it’s always been. Quite the same. And you’re the same as you used to be. Don’t fret.
‘But drop your idea about heading off alone,’ Zoltan continued his monologue, unperturbed by the Witcher’s silence, ‘and about a solo journey south, through Brugge and Sodden to the Yaruga. You’ll have to search for another way to Nilfgaard. If you want, I can advise you—’
‘Don’t bother,’ Geralt said, rubbing his knee, which had been hurting incessantly for several days. ‘Don’t bother, Zoltan.’
He found Dandelion watching the Barrel-playing dwarves. He took the poet by the sleeve and led him off to the forest. Dandelion realised at once what it was all about; one glance at the Witcher’s face was enough.
‘Babbler,’ Geralt said quietly. ‘Windbag. Bigmouth. I ought to shove your tongue in a vice, you blockhead. Or put a bit between your teeth.’
The troubadour said nothing, but his expression was haughty.
‘When news got out that I’d started to associate with you,’ the Witcher continued, ‘some sensible people were surprised by our friendship. It astonished them that I let you travel with me. They advised me to abandon you in a desert, to rob you, strangle you, throw you into a pit and bury you in dung. Indeed, I regret I didn’t follow their advice.’
‘Is it such a secret who you are and what you’re planning to do?’ Dandelion suddenly said, losing his temper. ‘Are we to keep the truth from everybody and pretend all the time? Those dwarves . . . We’re all one company now . . .’
‘I don’t have a company,’ the Witcher snapped. ‘I don’t have one, and I don’t want to have one. I don’t need one. Do you get it?’
‘Of course he gets it,’ Milva said from behind him. ‘And I get it too. You don’t need anyone, Witcher. You show it often enough.’
‘I’m not fighting a private war,’ he said, turning around suddenly. ‘I don’t need a company of daredevils, because I’m not going to Nilfgaard to save the world or to bring down an evil empire. I’m going to get Ciri. And that’s why I can go alone. Forgive me if that sounds unkind, but the rest of it doesn’t concern me. And now leave me. I want to be alone.’
When he turned around a moment later, he discovered that only Dandelion had walked away.
‘I had that dream again,’ he said abruptly. ‘Milva, I’m wasting time. I’m wasting time! She needs me. She needs help.’
‘Talk,’ she said softly. ‘Get it out. No matter how frightening it is, get it out.’
‘It wasn’t frightening. In my dream . . . She was dancing. She was dancing in some smoky barn. And she was – hell’s bells – happy. There was music playing, someone was yelling . . . The entire barn was shaking from shouting and music . . . And she was dancing, dancing, clicking her heels . . . And on the roof of that bloody barn, in the cold, night air . . . death was dancing too. Milva . . . Maria . . . She needs me.’
Milva turned her face away.
‘Not just her,’ she whispered. Quietly, so he wouldn’t hear.
At the next stop, the Witcher demonstrated his interest in Zoltan’s sword, the sihil, which he had glanced at during the adventure with the eyehead. Without hesitation, the dwarf unwrapped the weapon from its catskins and drew it from its lacquered scabbard.
The sword measured a little over three feet, but didn’t weigh much more than two pounds. The blade, which was decorated along much of its length with mysterious runes, had a bluish hue and was as sharp as a razor. In the right hands, it could have been used to shave with. The twelve-inch hilt, wound around with criss-crossed strips of lizard skin, had a cylindrical brass cap instead of a spherical pommel and its crossguard was very small and finely crafted.
‘A fine piece of work,’ Geralt said, making a quick, hissing moulinet followed by a thrust from the left and then a lightning transition to a high seconde parry and then laterally into prime. ‘Indeed, a nice bit of ironmongery.’
‘Phew!’ Percival Schuttenbach snorted. ‘Bit of ironmongery! Take a better look at it, because you’ll be calling it a horseradish root next.’
‘I had a better sword once.’
‘I don’t dispute that,’ Zoltan said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Because it was sure to have come from our forges. You witchers know how to wield a sword, but you don’t make them yourselves. Swords like that are only forged by dwarves, in Mahakam under Mount Carbon.’
‘Dwarves smelt the steel,’ Percival added, ‘and forge the laminated blades. But it’s us, the gnomes, who do the finishing touches and the sharpening. In our workshops. Using our own, gnomish technology, as we once made our gwyhyrs, the best swords in the world.’
‘The sword I wield now,’ Geralt said, baring the blade, ‘comes from the catacombs of Craag An in Brokilon. It was given to me by the dryads. It’s a first-class weapon, but it’s neither dwarven nor gnomish. It’s an elven blade
, at least one or maybe two hundred years old.’
‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!’ the gnome called, picking up the sword and running his fingers over it. ‘The details are elven, I give you that. The hilt, crossguard and pommel. The etching, engraving, chasing and other decorative elements. But the blade was forged and sharpened in Mahakam. And it’s true that it was made several centuries ago, because it’s obvious that the steel is mediocre and the workmanship primitive. Now, hold Zoltan’s sihil against it; do you see the difference?’
‘Yes I do. And I have the impression mine’s just as well made.’
The gnome snorted and waved a hand. Zoltan smiled superciliously.
‘The blade,’ he explained in a patronising voice, ‘should cut, not make an impression, and it shouldn’t be judged on first impressions either. The point is that your sword is a typical composition of steel and iron, while my sihil’s blade was forged from a refined alloy containing graphite and borax . . .’
‘It’s a modern technique!’ Percival burst out, a little excited, since the conversation was moving inevitably towards his field of expertise. ‘The blade’s construction and composition, numerous laminates in its soft core, edged with hard – not soft – steel . . .’
‘Take it easy,’ the dwarf said, reining him in. ‘You won’t make a metallurgist out of him, Schuttenbach, so don’t bore him with details. I’ll explain it in simple terms. It’s incredibly difficult to sharpen good, hard, magnetite steel, Witcher. Why? Because it’s hard! If you don’t have the technology, as we dwarves once did not, and you humans still don’t have, but you want a sharp sword, you forge soft steel edges, which are more malleable, onto a hardened core. Your Brokilonian sword is made using just such a simplified method. Modern dwarven blades are made the opposite way around: with a soft core and hard edges. The process is time-consuming and, as I said, demands advanced technology. But as a result you get a blade which will cut a batiste scarf tossed up in the air.’
‘Is your sihil capable of a trick like that?’
‘No’ The dwarf smiled. ‘The swords sharpened to that degree are few and far between, and not many of them ever left Mahakam. But I guarantee that the shell of that knobbly old crab wouldn’t have put up much resistance against it. You could have sliced him up without breaking a sweat.’
The discussion about swords and metallurgy continued for some time. Geralt listened with interest, shared his own experiences, added some extra information, asked about this and that and then examined and tried out Zoltan’s sihil. He had no idea that the following day he would have the opportunity to add practice to the theory he had acquired.
The first indication that humans were living in the area was the neatly stacked cord of firewood standing among woodchips and tree bark by the track, spotted by Percival Schuttenbach, who was walking at the head of the column.
Zoltan stopped the procession and sent the gnome ahead to scout. Percival vanished and after half an hour hurried back, excited and out of breath and gesticulating from a long way off. He reached them, but instead of giving his report, grabbed his long nose in his fingers and blew it powerfully, making a sound resembling a shepherd’s horn.
‘Don’t frighten away the game,’ Zoltan Chivay barked. ‘And talk. What lies ahead of us?’
‘A settlement,’ the gnome panted, wiping his fingers on the tails of his many-pocketed kaftan. ‘In a clearing. Three cottages, a barn, a few mud and straw huts . . . There’s a dog running around in the farmyard and the chimney’s smoking. Someone’s preparing food there. Porridge. And made with milk.’
‘You mean you went into the kitchen?’ Dandelion laughed. ‘And peered into the pot? How do you know it’s porridge?’
The gnome looked at him with an air of superiority and Zoltan snarled angrily.
‘Don’t insult him, poet. He can sniff out grub a mile away. If he says it’s porridge, it’s porridge. Still, I don’t like the sound of this.’
‘Why’s that? I like the sound of porridge. I’d be happy to try some.’
‘Zoltan’s right,’ Milva said. ‘And you keep quiet, Dandelion, because this isn’t poetry. If the porridge is made with milk that means there’s a cow. And a peasant who sees fires burning will take his cow and disappear into the forest. Why didn’t this one? Let’s duck into the forest and give it a wide berth. There’s something fishy about this.’
‘Not so fast, not so fast,’ the dwarf muttered. ‘There’ll be plenty of time to flee. Perhaps the war’s over. Perhaps the Temerian Army has finally moved out. What do we know, stuck in this forest? Perhaps the decisive battle’s over, perhaps Nilfgaard’s been repulsed, perhaps the front’s already behind us, and the peasants are returning home with their cows. We ought to examine this and find out what’s behind it. Figgis and Munro; you two stay here and keep your eyes peeled. We’ll do a bit of reconnaissance. If it’s safe, I’ll make a call like a sparrow hawk.’
‘Like a sparrow hawk?’ said Munro Bruys, anxiously moving his chin. ‘Since when did you know anything about mimicking bird calls, Zoltan?’
‘That’s the whole point. If you hear a strange, unrecognisable sound, you’ll know it’s me. Percival, lead on. Geralt, will you come with us?’
‘We’ll all go,’ Dandelion said, dismounting. ‘If it’s a trap we’ll be safer in a bigger group.’
‘I’ll leave you the Field Marshal,’ Zoltan said, removing the parrot from his shoulder and passing him to Figgis Merluzzo. ‘This ugly bird might suddenly start effing and blinding at the top of his voice and then our silent approach will go to fuck. Let’s go.’
Percival quickly led them to the edge of the forest, into dense elder shrubs. The ground fell away slightly beyond the shrubs, where they saw a large pile of uprooted tree stumps. Beyond them there was a broad clearing. They peered out cautiously.
The gnome’s account had been accurate. There really were three cottages, a barn and several sod-roofed mud and straw huts in the middle of the clearing. A huge puddle of muck glistened in the farmyard. The buildings and a small, untended plot were surrounded by a low, partly fallen down fence, on the other side of which a scruffy dog was barking. Smoke was rising from the roof of one of the cottages, creeping lazily over the sunken turfs.
‘Indeed,’ Zoltan whispered, sniffing, ‘that smoke smells good. Particularly since my nostrils are used to the stench of burnt-down houses. There are no horses or guards around, which is good, because I bore in mind that some rabble might be resting up and cooking a meal here. Mmm, I’d say it’s safe.’
‘I’ll take a look,’ volunteered Milva.
‘No,’ the dwarf protested. ‘You look too much like a Squirrel. If they see you they might get frit, and humans can be unpredictable when they’re startled. Yazon and Caleb will go. But keep your bow at the ready; you can cover them if needs be. Percival, leg it over to the others. You lot be prepared, in case we have to sound the retreat.’
Yazon Varda and Caleb Stratton cautiously left the thicket and headed towards the buildings. They walked slowly, looking around intently.
The dog smelled them right away, started barking furiously, then ran around the farmyard, not reacting to the dwarves’ clucking and whistling. The door to the cottage opened. Milva raised her bow and drew back the bowstring in a single movement. And then immediately slackened it.
A short, stout girl with long plaits came rushing out. She shouted something, waving her arms. Yazon Varda spread his arms and shouted something back. The girl continued to bawl something. They could hear the sound but were unable to make out what she was saying.
But the words must have reached Yazon and Caleb, who made an about-turn and hurried back towards the elder shrubs. Milva drew her bow again and swept around with the arrowhead, searching for a target.
‘What the devil’s going on?’ Zoltan rasped. ‘What’s happening? What are they running away from? Milva?’
‘Shut your trap,’ the archer hissed, still taking aim at each cottage and hut
in turn. But she couldn’t find anyone to shoot. The girl with the plaits disappeared into her cottage and shut the door behind her.
The dwarves were sprinting as though the Grim Reaper was on their heels. Yazon yelled something – or possibly cursed. Dandelion suddenly blanched.
‘He’s saying . . . Oh, Gods!’
‘What . . .’ Zoltan broke off, for Yazon and Caleb had made it back, red in the face. ‘What is it? Spit it out!’
‘The plague . . .’ Caleb gasped. ‘Smallpox . . .’
‘Did you touch anything?’ Zoltan Chivay asked, stepping back nervously and almost knocking Dandelion over. ‘Did you touch anything in the farmyard?’
‘No . . . The dog wouldn’t let us near . . .’
‘May the fucking mutt be praised,’ Zoltan said, raising his eyes heavenwards. ‘May the Gods give it a long life and a heap of bones higher than Mount Carbon. That girl, the plump one, did she have blisters?’
‘No. She’s healthy. The infected ones are in the last cottage, her in-laws. And a lot of people have already died, she said. Blimey, Zoltan, the wind was blowing right towards us!’
‘That’s enough teeth chattering,’ Milva said, lowering her bow. ‘If you didn’t touch any infected people, you’ve got nothing to worry about. If it’s true what she says about the pox. Maybe the girl just wanted to scare you away.’
‘No,’ Yazon replied, still breathing heavily. ‘There was a pit behind the hut . . . with bodies in it. The girl doesn’t have the strength to bury the dead, so she throws them into the pit . . .’
‘Well,’ Zoltan said, sniffing. ‘That’s your porridge, Dandelion. But I’ve slightly lost my appetite for it. Let’s get out of here; and fast.’
The dog in the farmyard began barking again.
‘Get down,’ the Witcher hissed, dropping into a crouch.
The Saga of the Witcher Page 79