The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  They took a risk and didn’t leave the road, and soon reached the next smouldering remains. A sizeable village had been burnt down and a skirmish must have taken place nearby, because they saw a fresh burial mound directly behind the smoking ruins. And at a certain distance beyond the mound a huge oak tree stood by the crossroads. The tree was hung with acorns.

  And human corpses.

  ‘We ought to take a look,’ Zoltan Chivay decided, putting an end to the discussion about the risks and the danger. ‘Let’s go closer.’

  ‘Why the bloody hell,’ Dandelion asked, losing his temper, ‘do you want to look at those corpses, Zoltan? To despoil them? I can see from here they don’t even have boots.’

  ‘Fool. It’s not their boots I’m interested in but the military situation. I want to know of the developments in the theatre of war. What’s so funny? You’re just a poet, and you don’t know what strategy is.’

  ‘You’re in for a surprise. I do.’

  ‘Nonsense. You wouldn’t know strategy from your own arse, even if your life depended on it.’

  ‘Indeed, I wouldn’t. I’ll leave half-arsed strategies to dwarves. The same applies to strategies dangling from oak trees.’

  Zoltan dismissed him with a wave and tramped over to the tree. Dandelion, who had never been able to rein in his curiosity, urged Pegasus on and trotted after him. A moment later Geralt decided to follow them. And then noticed that Milva was riding behind him.

  The crows feeding on the carcasses took flight, cawing and flapping their wings noisily. Some of them flew off towards the forest, while others merely alighted on the mighty tree’s higher branches, intently observing Field Marshal Windbag, who was coarsely defaming their mothers from the dwarf’s shoulder.

  The first of the seven hanged humans had a sign on his chest reading: ‘Traitor’. The second was described as a ‘Collaborator’, the third as an ‘Elven Nark’ and the fourth as a ‘Deserter’. The fifth was a woman in a torn and bloodied shift, described as a ‘Nilfgaardian Whore’. Two of the corpses weren’t bearing signs, which suggested at least some of the victims had been hanged by chance.

  ‘Look,’ Zoltan Chivay said cheerfully, pointing at the signs. ‘Our army passed by this way. Our brave boys have taken the initiative and repulsed the enemy. And they had time, as we can see, for relaxation and wartime entertainment.’

  ‘And what does that mean for us?’

  ‘That the front has moved and the Temerian Army are between us and the Nilfgaardians. We’re safe.’

  ‘And the smoke ahead of us?’

  ‘That’s our boys,’ the dwarf declared confidently. ‘They’re burning down villages where Squirrels were given rest or vittles. We’re behind the front line now, I’m telling you. The southern way heads from the crossroads to Armeria, a fortress lying in a fork of the Chotla and the Ina. The road looks decent, we can take it. We needn’t be afraid of Nilfgaardians now.’

  ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,’ Milva said. ‘And where there’s fire you can get your fingers burnt. I reckon it’s stupid to head towards the flames. It’s also stupid to travel along a road, when the cavalry could be on us in an instant. Let’s disappear into the trees.’

  ‘The Temerians or an army from Sodden passed through here,’ the dwarf insisted. ‘We’re behind the front line. We can march along the highway without fear; if we come across an army it’ll be ours.’

  ‘Risky,’ said the archer, shaking her head. ‘If you’re such an old hand, Zoltan, you must know that Nilfgaard usually sends advance parties a long way ahead. Perhaps the Temerians were here. But we have no idea what’s in front of us. The sky’s black from smoke to the south. That fortress of yours in Armeria is probably burning right now. Which means we aren’t behind the front line, but right on it. We may run into the army, marauders, leaderless bands of rogues, or Squirrels. Let’s head for the Chotla, but along forest tracks.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Dandelion concurred. ‘I don’t like the look of that smoke either. And even if Temeria is on the offensive, there may still be advance Nilfgaardian squadrons in front of us. The Nilfgaardians are fond of long-distance raids. They attack the rear lines, link up with the Scoia’tael, wreak havoc and ride back. I remember what happened in Upper Sodden during the last war. I’m also in favour of travelling through the forest. We have nothing to fear there.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Geralt said, pointing to the last corpse who, although he was dangling high up, had bloody stumps instead of feet. They looked like they had been raked by talons until all that was left was protruding bones. ‘Look. That’s the work of ghouls.’

  ‘Ghouls?’ Zoltan Chivay said, retreating and spitting on the ground. ‘Flesh-eaters?’

  ‘Naturally. We have to beware in the forest at night.’

  ‘Fuuuckiiin’ ’ell!’ Field Marshal Windbag screeched.

  ‘You took the words right out of my mouth, birdie,’ Zoltan Chivay said, frowning. ‘Well, we’re in a pretty pickle. What’s it to be, then? Into the forest, where there’s ghouls, or along the road, where there’s armies and marauders?’

  ‘Into the forest,’ Milva said with conviction. ‘The denser the better. I prefer ghouls to humans.’

  They marched through the forest, at first cautious, on edge, reacting with alarm to every rustle in the undergrowth. Soon, however, they regained their poise, their good humour and their previous speed. They didn’t see any ghouls, or the slightest trace of their presence. Zoltan joked that spectres and any other demons must have heard about the approaching armies, and if the fiends had happened to see the marauders and Verdenian volunteers in action, then – seized with terror – they would have hidden in their most remote and inaccessible lairs, where they were now cowering and trembling, fangs chattering.

  ‘And they’re guarding the she-ghouls, their wives and their daughters,’ Milva snapped. ‘The monsters know that a soldier on the march won’t even pass up a sheep. And if you hung a woman’s shift on a willow tree, a knothole would be enough for those heroes.’ She looked pointedly at the women and children from Kernow, who were still with the group.

  Dandelion, who had been full of vigour and good humour for quite some time, tuned his lute and began to compose a fitting couplet about willows, knotholes and lascivious warriors, and the dwarves and the parrot outdid each other in supplying ideas for rhymes.

  ‘O,’ Zoltan stated.

  ‘What? Where?’ Dandelion asked, standing up in his stirrups and looking down into the ravine in the direction the dwarf was pointing. ‘I can’t see anything!’

  ‘O.’

  ‘Don’t drivel like your parrot! What do you mean “oh”?’

  ‘It’s a stream,’ Zoltan calmly explained. ‘A right-bank tributary of the Chotla. It’s called the O.’

  ‘Ey . . .’

  ‘Not a bit of it!’ Percival Schuttenbach laughed. ‘The A joins the Chotla upstream, some way from here. That’s the O, not the A.’

  The ravine, along the bottom of which flowed the stream with the uncomplicated name, was overgrown with nettles taller than the marching dwarves, smelled intensively of mint and rotten wood and resounded with the unremitting croaking of frogs. It also had steep sides, which turned out to be fatal. Vera Loewenhaupt’s wagon, which from the beginning of the journey had valiantly born the adversities of fate and overcome every obstacle, lost out in its clash with the stream by the name of ‘O’. It slipped from the hands of the dwarves leading it downwards, bounced on down to the very bottom of the ravine and was smashed to matchwood.

  ‘’Kin’ . . . ’ell!’ Field Marshal Windbag squawked, a counterpoint to the massed cry of Zoltan and his company.

  ‘To tell the truth,’ Dandelion concluded, scrutinising the remains of the vehicle and the scattered possessions, ‘perhaps it’s for the best. That bloody wagon of yours only slowed down the march. There were constant problems with it. Look at it realistically, Zoltan. We were just lucky that no one was following us. If we’d
had to suddenly run for it we’d have had to abandon the wagon along with all of your belongings, which we can now at least salvage.’

  The dwarf seethed and grunted angrily into his beard, but Percival Schuttenbach unexpectedly backed up the troubadour. The support, as the Witcher observed, was accompanied by several conspiratorial winks. The winks were meant to be surreptitious, but the lively expression of the gnome’s little face revealed everything.

  ‘The poet’s right,’ Percival repeated, contorting his face and winking. ‘We’re a muddy stone’s throw from the Chotla and the Ina. Fen Carn’s in front of us; not a road to be seen. It would have been arduous with a wagon. And should we meet the Temerian Army by the Ina, with our load . . . we might be in trouble.’

  Zoltan pondered this, sniffing.

  ‘Very well,’ he said finally, looking at the remains of the wagon being washed by the O’s lazy current. ‘We’ll split up. Munro, Figgis, Yazon and Caleb will stay here. The rest of us will continue on our way. We’ll have to saddle the horses with our sacks of vittles and small tackle. Munro, do you know what to do? Got spades?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just don’t leave the merest trace! And mark the spot well and remember it!’

  ‘Rest assured.’

  ‘You’ll catch up with us easily,’ Zoltan said, throwing his rucksack and sihil over his shoulder and adjusting the battle-axe in his belt. ‘We’ll be heading down the O and then along the Chotla to the Ina. Farewell.’

  ‘I wonder,’ Milva mumbled to Geralt when the depleted unit had set off, sent on its way by the waving of the four dwarves who were remaining behind, ‘I wonder what they have in those chests that needs burying in secret.’

  ‘It’s not our business.’

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ Dandelion said, sotto voce, cautiously steering Pegasus between the fallen trees, ‘that there were spare trousers in those chests. They’re pinning their hopes on that load. I talked with them enough to work out how the land lies and what might be concealed in those coffers.’

  ‘And what might be concealed in them, in your opinion?’

  ‘Their future,’ the poet said, looking around to check no one could hear. ‘Percival’s a stone polisher and cutter by trade, and wants to open his own workshop. Figgis and Yazon are smiths, they’ve been talking about a forge. Caleb Stratton plans to marry, but his fiancée’s parents have already driven him away once as a penniless bum. And Zoltan . . .’

  ‘That’s enough, Dandelion. You’re gossiping like an old woman. No offence, Milva.’

  ‘None taken.’

  The trees thinned out beyond the stream and the dark, boggy strip of ancient woodland. They rode into a clearing with low birch woods and dry meadows. In spite of that they made slow progress. Following the example of Milva, who right away had lifted the freckled girl with the plaits onto her saddle, Dandelion also put a child on Pegasus, while Zoltan put a couple on his chestnut colt and walked alongside, holding the reins. But the pace didn’t increase, since the women from Kernow were unable to keep up.

  It was almost evening when, after nearly an hour of roaming through ravines and gorges, Zoltan Chivay stopped, exchanged a few words with Percival Schuttenbach, and then turned to the rest of the company.

  ‘Don’t yell and don’t laugh at me,’ he said, ‘but I reckon we’re lost. I don’t bloody know where we are or which way to go.’

  ‘Don’t talk drivel,’ Dandelion said, irritated. ‘What do you mean you don’t know? After all, we’re following the course of the river. And down there in the ravine is your O. Right?’

  ‘Right. But look which way it’s flowing.’

  ‘Oh bugger. That’s impossible!’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Milva said gloomily, patiently pulling dry leaves and pine needles from the hair of the freckled girl who was riding in front of her. ‘We’re lost among the ravines. The stream twists and turns. We’re on a meander.’

  ‘But it’s still the O,’ Dandelion insisted. ‘If we follow the river, we can’t get lost. Little rivers are known to meander, I admit, but ultimately they all invariably flow into something bigger. That is the way of the world.’

  ‘Don’t play the smart-arse, singer,’ Zoltan said, wrinkling his nose. ‘And shut your trap. Can’t you see I’m thinking?’

  ‘No. There’s nothing to suggest it. I repeat, let’s keep to the course of the stream, and then . . .’

  ‘That’ll do,’ Milva snapped. ‘You’re a townie. Your world is bounded by walls. Perhaps your worldly wisdom is of some use there. Take a look around! The valley’s furrowed by ravines with steep, overgrown banks. How do you think we’ll follow the course of the stream? Down the side of a gorge into thickets and bogs, up the other side and down again and up again, pulling our horses by the reins? After two ravines you’ll be so short of breath you’ll be flat on your back halfway up a slope. We’re leading women and children, Dandelion. And the sun’ll be setting directly.’

  ‘I noticed. Very well, I’ll keep quiet. And listen to what the experienced forest trackers come up with.’

  Zoltan Chivay cuffed the cursing parrot around the head, twisted a tuft of his beard around a finger and tugged it in anger.

  ‘Percival?’

  ‘We know the rough direction,’ the gnome said, squinting up at the sun, which was suspended just above the treetops. ‘So the first conception is this: blow the stream, turn back, leave these ravines for dry land and go through Fen Carn, between the rivers, all the way to the Chotla.’

  ‘And the second conception?’

  ‘The O’s shallow. Even though it’s carrying more water than usual after the recent rains, it can be forded. We’ll cut off the meanders by wading through the stream each time it blocks our way. By holding a course according to the sun, we’ll come right out at the fork of the Chotla and the Ina.’

  ‘No,’ the Witcher suddenly broke in. ‘I suggest we drop the second idea right away. Let’s not even think about it. On the far bank we’ll end up in one of the Mealybug Moors sooner or later. It’s a vile place, and I strongly advise we keep well away from it.’

  ‘Do you know these parts, then? Ever been there before? Do you know how we can get out of here?’

  The Witcher remained silent for a while.

  ‘I’ve only been there once,’ he said, wiping his forehead. ‘Three years ago. But I entered from the other side. I was heading for Brugge and wanted to take a short cut. How I got out I don’t remember. I was carried out on a wagon half-dead.’

  The dwarf looked at him for a while, but asked no more questions.

  They returned in silence. The women from Kernow had difficulty walking. They were stumbling and using sticks for support, but none of them uttered a word of complaint. Milva rode alongside the Witcher, holding up the girl with the plaits, who was asleep on the saddle in front of her.

  ‘I think,’ she suddenly began, ‘that you got carved up in that wilderness, three years ago. By some monster, I understand. You have a dangerous job, Geralt.’

  ‘I don’t deny it.’

  ‘I remember what happened then,’ Dandelion boasted from behind. ‘You were wounded, some merchant got you out and then you found Ciri in Riverdell. Yennefer told me about it.’

  At the sound of that name Milva smiled faintly. It did not escape Geralt’s notice. He decided to give Dandelion a good dressing down at the next camp for his untrammelled chatter. Knowing the poet, he couldn’t count on any results, particularly since Dandelion had probably already blabbed everything he knew.

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea,’ said the archer after a while, ‘that we didn’t cross to the far bank, towards the wilderness. If you found the girl then . . . The elves say that sometimes lightning can strike twice. They call it . . . Bugger, I’ve forgotten. The noose of fate?’

  ‘The loop,’ he corrected her. ‘The loop of fate.’

  ‘Uurgh!’ Dandelion said, grimacing. ‘Can’t you stop talking about nooses and loops? A she-elf once divin
ed that I would say farewell to this vale of tears on the scaffold, with the help of the deathsman. Admittedly I don’t believe in that type of tawdry fortune-telling, but a few days ago I dreamed I was being hanged. I awoke in a muck sweat, unable to swallow or catch my breath. So I listen with reluctance to discussions about gibbets.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to the Witcher,’ Milva riposted. ‘So don’t flap your ears and nothing horrible will fall into them. Well then, Geralt? What have you got to say about that loop of fate? If we go to the wilderness, perhaps time will repeat itself.’

  ‘That’s why it’s good we’ve turned back,’ he replied brusquely. ‘I don’t have the slightest desire to repeat that nightmare.’

  ‘There’s no two ways about it.’ Zoltan nodded, looking around. ‘You’ve led us to a pretty charming place, Percival.’

  ‘Fen Carn,’ the gnome muttered, scratching the tip of his long nose. ‘Meadow of the Barrows . . . I’ve always wondered how it got its name . . .’

  ‘Now you know.’

  The broad valley in front of them was already shrouded in evening mist from which, as far as the eye could see, protruded thousands of burial mounds and moss-covered monoliths. Some of the boulders were ordinary, shapeless lumps of stone. Others, smoothly hewn, had been sculpted into obelisks and menhirs. Still others, standing closer to the centre of this stone forest, were formed into dolmens, cairns and cromlechs, in a way that ruled out any natural processes.

  ‘Indeed,’ the dwarf repeated, ‘a charming place to spend the night. An elven cemetery. If my memory doesn’t fail me, Witcher, some time ago you mentioned ghouls. Well, you ought to know, I can sense them among these kurgans. I bet there’s everything here. Ghouls, graveirs, spectres, wights, elven spirits, wraiths, apparitions; the works. They’re hunkered down there and do you know what they’re whispering? “We won’t have to go looking for supper, because it’s come right to us.” ’