‘Perhaps we ought to go back,’ Dandelion suggested in a whisper. ‘Perhaps we should get out of here, while there’s still some light.’
‘That’s what I think too.’
‘The womenfolk can’t go any further,’ Milva said angrily. ‘The kids are ready to drop. The horses have stopped. You were the one driving us on, Zoltan. “Let’s keep going, just another half a mile,” you kept repeating. “Just another furlong,” you said. And now what? Two more furlongs back the way we came? Crap. Cemetery or no cemetery, we’re stopping for the night, the first place we find.’
‘That’s right,’ the Witcher said in support, dismounting. ‘Don’t panic. Not every necropolis is crawling with monsters and apparitions. I’ve never been to Fen Carn before, but if it were really dangerous I’d have heard about it.’
No one, not even Field Marshal Windbag, commented. The women from Kernow retrieved their children and sat down in a tight group, silent and visibly frightened. Percival and Dandelion tethered the horses and let them graze on the lush grass. Geralt, Zoltan and Milva approached the edge of the meadow, to look at the burial ground drowning in the fog and the gathering gloom.
‘To cap it all, the moon’s completely full,’ the dwarf muttered. ‘Oh dear, there’ll be a ghastly feast tonight, I can feel it, oh, the demons will make our lives miserable . . . But what’s that glow to the south? A fire?’
‘What else? Of course it is,’ the Witcher confirmed. ‘Someone’s torched someone else’s roof over their head again. Know what, Zoltan? I think I feel safer here in Fen Carn.’
‘I’ll feel like that too, but only when the sun comes up. As long as the ghouls let us see out the night.’
Milva rummaged in her saddlebag and took out something shiny.
‘A silver arrowhead,’ she said. ‘Kept for just such an occasion. It cost me five crowns at the market. That ought to kill a ghoul, right, Witcher?’
‘I don’t think there are any ghouls here.’
‘You said yourself,’ Zoltan snapped, ‘that ghouls had been chewing that corpse on the oak tree. And where there’s a cemetery, there are ghouls.’
‘Not always.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. You’re a witcher, a specialist; so you’ll defend us, I hope. You chopped up those marauders pretty smartly . . . Is it harder fighting ghouls than marauders?’
‘Incomparably. I said stop panicking.’
‘And will it be any good for a vampire?’ Milva asked, screwing the silver arrowhead onto a shaft and checking it for sharpness with her thumb. ‘Or a spectre?’
‘It may be.’
‘An ancient dwarven incantation in ancient dwarven runes is engraved on my sihil,’ Zoltan growled, drawing his sword, ‘If just one ghoul approaches at a blade’s length, it won’t forget me. Right here, look.’
‘Ah,’ Dandelion, who had just joined them, said with interest. ‘So those are some of the famous secret runes of the dwarves. What does the engraving say?’
‘ “Confusion to the whores’ sons!” ’
‘Something moved among the stones,’ Percival Schuttenbach suddenly yelled. ‘It’s a ghoul, it’s a ghoul!’
‘Where?’
‘Over there! It’s hid itself among the boulders!’
‘One?’
‘I saw one!’
‘He must be seriously hungry, since he’s trying to get his teeth into us before nightfall,’ the dwarf said, spitting on his hands and gripping the hilt of his sihil tightly. ‘Ha! He’ll soon find out gluttony will be his ruin! Milva, you stick an arrow in his arse and I’ll cut his gizzard open!’
‘I can’t see anything there,’ Milva hissed, with the fletchings already touching her chin. ‘Not a single weed between the stones is trembling. Sure you weren’t seeing things, gnome?’
‘Not a chance,’ Percival protested. ‘Do you see that boulder that looks like a broken table? The ghoul hid behind it.’
‘You lot stay here,’ Geralt said, quickly drawing his sword from the scabbard on his back. ‘Guard the womenfolk and keep an eye on the horses. If the ghouls attack, the animals will panic. I’ll go and find out what it was.’
‘You aren’t going by yourself,’ Zoltan firmly stated. ‘Back there in the clearing I let you go alone. I chickened out because of the smallpox. And two nights running I haven’t slept for shame. Never again! Percival, where are you off to? To the rear? You claim to have seen the phantom, so now you’re going in the vanguard. Don’t be afeared, I’m coming with you.’
They headed off cautiously between the barrows, trying not to disturb the weeds – which were knee-high to Geralt and waist-high to the dwarf and the gnome. As they approached the dolmen that Percival had pointed out they artfully split up, cutting off the ghoul’s potential escape route. But the strategy turned out to be unnecessary. As Geralt had expected, his witcher medallion didn’t even quiver; betrayed no sign of anything monstrous nearby.
‘There’s no one here,’ Zoltan confirmed, looking around. ‘Not a soul. You must have imagined it, Percival. It’s a false alarm. You put the wind up us for no reason. You truly deserve my boot up your arse for that.’
‘I saw it!’ the gnome said indignantly. ‘I saw it hopping about among the stones! It was skinny and dressed all in black like a tax collector . . .’
‘Be quiet, you foolish gnome, or I’ll . . .’
‘What’s that strange odour?’ Geralt suddenly asked. ‘Can you smell it?’
‘Indeed,’ the dwarf said, nose extended like a pointer. ‘What a pong.’
‘Herbs,’ Percival said, sniffling with his sensitive, two-inch-long nose. ‘Wormwood, basil, sage, aniseed . . . Cinnamon? What the blazes?’
‘What do ghouls smell of, Geralt?’
‘Rotting corpses,’ the Witcher said, taking a quick look around and searching for footprints in the grass. Then with a few swift steps he returned to the sunken dolmen and tapped gently against the stone with the flat of his sword.
‘Get out,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I know you’re in there. Be quick, or I’ll poke a hole in you.’
A soft scraping could be heard from a cleverly concealed cavity beneath the stones.
‘Get out,’ Geralt repeated. ‘You’re perfectly safe.’
‘We won’t touch a hair on your head,’ Zoltan added sweetly, raising his sihil above the hollow and rolling his eyes menacingly. ‘Out with you!’
Geralt shook his head and made a clear sign for the dwarf to withdraw. Once again there was a scratching from the cavity under the dolmen and once again they were aware of the intense aroma of herbs and spices. A moment later they saw a grizzled head and then a face embellished with a nobly aquiline nose, belonging by no means to a ghoul but to a slim, middle-aged man. Percival hadn’t been wrong. The man did indeed somewhat resemble a tax collector.
‘Is it safe to come out?’ he asked, raising black eyes beneath slightly greying eyebrows towards Geralt.
‘Yes, it is.’
The man scrambled out of the hole, brushed down his black robes – which were tied around the waist with some kind of apron – and straightened a linen bag, causing another wave of the herbal aroma.
‘I suggest you put away your weapons, gentlemen,’ he declared in a measured voice, running his eyes over the group of wanderers surrounding him. ‘They won’t be necessary. I, as you can see, bear no blade. I never do. Neither do I have anything on me that might be termed attractive booty. My name is Emiel Regis. I come from Dillingen. I’m a barber-surgeon.’
‘Indeed,’ Zoltan Chivay grimaced a little. ‘A barber-surgeon, alchemist or herbalist. No offence, my dear sir, but you smell seriously like an apothecary’s shop.’
Emiel Regis smiled strangely, with pursed lips, and spread his arms apologetically.
‘The scent betrayed you, master barber-surgeon,’ Geralt said, replacing his sword in its sheath. ‘Did you have any particular reason to hide from us?’
‘Any particular reason?’ the man asked
, turning his black eyes towards him. ‘No. I was just taking general precautions. I was simply afraid of you. These are difficult times.’
‘True.’ The dwarf nodded and pointed towards the glow of fire lighting up the sky. ‘Difficult times. I surmise that you are a fugitive, as we are. It intrigues me, however, that although you’ve fled far from your native Dillingen, you’re hiding all alone among these kurgans. Well, people’s fates are various, particularly during difficult times. We were afraid of you and you of us. Fear makes one imagine things.’
‘You have nothing to fear from me,’ the man who was claiming to be Emiel Regis said, without taking his eyes off them, ‘I hope I can count on reciprocity.’
‘My, my,’ Zoltan said, grinning broadly. ‘You don’t take us for robbers, do you? We, master barber-surgeon, are fugitives. We are travelling to the Temerian border. You may join us if you wish. The more the merrier . . . and safer, and a physician may come in handy. We have women and children in the party. Among the stinking medicaments I can smell about you, would you have a remedy for blisters?’
‘I ought to have something,’ the barber-surgeon said softly. ‘Glad to be of assistance. But as far as travelling together is concerned . . . Thank you for the offer, but I’m not running away, gentlemen. I wasn’t fleeing from Dillingen to escape the war. I live here.’
‘Come again?’ the dwarf said, frowning and taking a step back. ‘You live here? Here, in this burial ground?’
‘In the burial ground? No. I have a cottage not far from here. Apart from my house and shop in Dillingen, you understand. But I spend my summers here every year, from June to September, from Midsummer to the Equinox. I gather healing herbs and roots, from which I distil medicines and elixirs in my cottage . . .’
‘But you know about the war in spite of your reclusive solitude far from the world and people.’ Geralt pointed out. ‘Who do you get your news from?’
‘From the refugees who pass this way. There’s a large camp less than two miles from here, by the River Chotla. A good few hundred fugitives – peasants from Brugge and Sodden – are gathered there.’
‘And what about the Temerian Army?’ Zoltan asked with interest. ‘Are they on the move?’
‘I know nothing about that.’
The dwarf swore and then glowered at the barber-surgeon.
‘So you simply live here, Master Regis,’ he drawled, ‘and stroll among the graves of an evening. Aren’t you afraid?’
‘What ought I to be afraid of?’
‘This here gentleman,’ Zoltan pointed at Geralt, ‘is a witcher. He saw evidence of ghouls not long ago. Corpse eaters, get it? And you don’t have to be a witcher to know that ghouls hang around in cemeteries.’
‘A witcher,’ the barber-surgeon said, and looked at Geralt with obvious interest. ‘A monster killer. Well, well. Fascinating. Didn’t you explain to your comrades, Master Witcher, that this necropolis is over five hundred years old? Ghouls aren’t fussy about what they eat, but they don’t chew five-hundred-year-old bones. There aren’t any ghouls here.’
‘I feel a lot better knowing that,’ Zoltan Chivay said, looking around. ‘Well, master physician, come over to our camp. We have some cold horsemeat. You won’t refuse it, will you?’
Regis looked at him long and hard.
‘My thanks,’ he said finally. ‘But I have a better idea. Come to my place. My summer abode is more of a shack than a cottage, and a small one at that. You’ll have no choice but to sleep under the stars. But there’s a spring nearby and a hearth where you can warm up your horsemeat.’
‘We’ll gladly take you up on your invitation,’ the dwarf said, bowing. ‘Perhaps there really aren’t any ghouls here, but the thought of spending a night in the burial ground doesn’t do much for me. Let’s go, I’ll introduce you to the rest of our company.’
When they reached the camp the horses snorted and stamped their hooves on the ground.
‘Stand a little downwind, Master Regis,’ Zoltan Chivay said, casting the physician a telling glance. ‘The smell of sage frightens our horses, and in my case, I’m ashamed to admit, reminds me unpleasantly of teeth being pulled.’
‘Geralt,’ Zoltan muttered, as soon as Emiel Regis had disappeared behind the flap covering the entrance to the cottage. ‘Let’s keep our eyes open. There’s something fishy about that stinking herbalist.’
‘Anything specific?’
‘I don’t like it when people spend their summers near cemeteries, never mind cemeteries a long way from human dwellings. Do herbs really not grow in more pleasant surroundings? That Regis looks like a grave robber to me. Barber-surgeons, alchemists and the like exhume corpses from boneyards, in order to perform various experiments on them.’
‘Experiments. But fresh corpses are needed for practices of that kind. This cemetery is very old.’
‘True,’ the dwarf said, scratching his chin and watching the women from Kernow making their beds under some hagberry shrubs growing by the barber-surgeon’s shack. ‘So perhaps he steals buried treasure from these barrows?’
‘Ask him,’ Geralt said, shrugging. ‘You accepted the invitation to stay at his homestead at once, without hesitation, and now you’ve suddenly become as suspicious as an old maid being paid a compliment.’
‘Er . . .’ Zoltan mumbled, somewhat tongue-tied. ‘There’s something in that. But I’d like to have a gander at what he keeps in that hovel of his. You know, just to be on the safe side . . .’
‘So follow him in and pretend you want to borrow a fork.’
‘Why a fork?’
‘Why not?’
The dwarf gave Geralt an old-fashioned look and finally made up his mind. He hurried over to the cottage, knocked politely on the door jamb and entered. He remained inside for some little time, and then suddenly appeared in the doorway.
‘Geralt, Percival, Dandelion, step this way. Come and see something interesting. Come on, without further ado, Master Regis has invited us in.’
The interior of the cottage was dark and dominated by a warm, intoxicating aroma that made the nose tickle, mainly coming from the bunches of herbs and roots hanging from all the walls. The only items of furniture were a simple cot – also strewn with herbs – and a rickety table cluttered with innumerable glass, pottery and ceramic vials. The room was illuminated by the dim glow of burning coals in a curious, pot-bellied stove, resembling a bulging hourglass. The stove was surrounded by a spidery lattice of shining pipes of various diameters, bent into curves and spirals. Beneath one of the pipes stood a wooden pail into which a liquid was dripping.
At the sight of the stove Percival Schuttenbach first stared goggle-eyed, then gaped, and finally sighed and leapt up in the air.
‘Ho, ho, ho!’ he called, unable to conceal his delight. ‘What do I see? That’s an absolutely authentic athanor coupled to an alembic! Equipped with a rectifying column and a copper condenser! A beautiful apparatus! Did you build it yourself, master barber-surgeon?’
‘Indeed,’ Emiel Regis admitted modestly. ‘My work involves producing elixirs, so I have to distil, extract the fifth essence, and also . . .’
He broke off, seeing Zoltan Chivay catching a drop falling from the end of the pipe and licking his finger. The dwarf sighed and a look of indescribable bliss appeared on his ruddy face.
Dandelion couldn’t resist and also had a go, tasting and moaning softly.
‘The fifth essence,’ he confirmed, smacking his lips. ‘And I suspect the sixth and even the seventh.’
‘Well . . .’ The barber-surgeon smiled faintly. ‘As I said: a distillate.’
‘Moonshine,’ Zoltan corrected him gently. ‘And what moonshine! Try some, Percival.’
‘But I’m not an expert in organic chemistry,’ the gnome answered absentmindedly, examining the details of the alchemical furnace’s construction. ‘It’s doubtful I would be familiar with the ingredients . . .’
‘It is a distillate of mandrake,’ Regis said, dispelling any doubt. �
�Enriched with belladonna. And fermented starch mass.’
‘You mean mash?’
‘One could also call it that.’
‘May I request a cup of some kind?’
‘Zoltan, Dandelion,’ the Witcher said, folding his arms on his chest. ‘Are you deaf? It’s mandrake. The moonshine is made of mandrake. Leave that copper alone.’
‘But dear Master Geralt,’ the alchemist said, digging a small graduated flask out from between some dust-covered retorts and demijohns, and meticulously polishing it with a rag. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. The mandrake is appropriately seasoned and the proportions carefully selected and precisely weighed out. I only add five ounces of mandrake to a pound of mash, and only half a dram of belladonna . . .’
‘That’s not the point,’ the Witcher said, looking at Zoltan. The dwarf understood at once, grew serious and cautiously withdrew from the still. ‘The point is not how many drams you add, Master Regis, but how much a dram of mandrake costs. It’s too dear a tipple for us.’
‘Mandrake,’ Dandelion whispered in awe, pointing at the small heap of sugar beet-like roots piled up in the corner of the shack. ‘That’s mandrake? Real mandrake?’
‘The female form’ – the alchemist nodded – ‘grows in large clumps in the very cemetery where we chanced to meet. Which is also why I spend my summers here.’
The Witcher looked knowingly at Zoltan. The dwarf winked. Regis gave a half-suppressed smile.
‘Gentlemen, please, I warmly invite you to sample it, if you wish. I appreciate your moderation, but in the current situation there’s little chance of me taking the elixirs to war-torn Dillingen. It all would have gone to waste anyway, so let’s not talk about the price. My apologies, but I only have one drinking vessel.’
‘That should do,’ Zoltan said, picking up the flask and carefully scooping up moonshine from the pail. ‘Your good health, Master Regis. Ooooh . . .’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 82