The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Please forgive me,’ the barber-surgeon said, smiling again. ‘The quality of the distillate probably leaves a lot to be desired . . . It’s actually unfinished.’

  ‘It’s the best unfinished product I’ve ever tasted,’ Zoltan said, gasping. ‘Your turn, poet.’

  ‘Aaaah . . . Oh, mother of mine! Excellent! Have a sip, Geralt.’

  ‘Give it to our host,’ the Witcher said, bowing slightly towards Emiel Regis. ‘Where are your manners, Dandelion?’

  ‘Please forgive me, gentlemen,’ the alchemist said, acknowledging the gesture, ‘but I never permit myself any stimulants. My health isn’t what it was. I’ve been forced to give up many . . . pleasures.’

  ‘Not even a sip?’

  ‘It’s a principle,’ Regis explained calmly. ‘I never break any principles once I’ve adopted them.’

  ‘I admire and envy you your resoluteness,’ Geralt said, sipping a little from the flask and then, after a moment’s hesitation, draining it in one. The tears trickling from his eyes interfered a little with the taste of the moonshine. An invigorating warmth spread through his stomach.

  ‘I’ll go and get Milva,’ he offered, handing the flask to the dwarf. ‘Don’t polish it all off before we get back.’

  Milva was sitting near the horses, bantering with the freckled girl she had been carrying on her saddle all day. When she heard about Regis’s hospitality she initially shrugged, but in the end didn’t need much persuading.

  When they entered the shack they found the company carrying out an inspection of the stored mandrake roots.

  ‘I’ve never seen it before,’ Dandelion confessed, turning a bulbous root around in his fingers. ‘Indeed, it does somewhat resemble a man.’

  ‘A man twisted by lumbago, perhaps,’ Zoltan added. ‘And that one’s the spitting image of a pregnant woman. And that one, if you’ll excuse me, looks just like a couple busy bonking.’

  ‘You lot only think of one thing,’ Milva sneered, boldly drinking from the full flask and then coughing loudly into a fist. ‘Bloody hell . . . Powerful stuff, that hooch! Is it really made from love apples? Ha, so we’re drinking a magic potion! That doesn’t happen every day. Thank you, master barber-surgeon.’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

  The flask, kept topped up, circulated around the company, prompting good humour, verve and garrulousness.

  ‘The mandrake, I hear, is a vegetable with great magical powers,’ Percival Schuttenbach said with conviction.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Dandelion confirmed. He then emptied the flask, shuddered and resumed talking. ‘There’s no shortage of ballads written on the subject. It’s well known that sorcerers use mandrake in elixirs, which help them preserve their eternal youth and sorceresses make an ointment, which they call glamarye. If an enchantress applies such ointment she becomes so beautiful and enchanting it makes your eyes pop out of your head. You also ought to know that mandrake is a powerful aphrodisiac and is used in love magic, particularly to break down female resistance. That’s the explanation of mandrake’s folk name: love apple. It’s a herb used to pander lovers.’

  ‘Blockhead,’ Milva commented.

  ‘And I heard,’ the gnome said, downing the contents of the flask, ‘that when mandrake root is pulled from the ground the plant cries and wails as though it were alive.’

  ‘Why,’ Zoltan said, filling the flask from the pail, ‘if it only wailed! Mandrake, they say, screams so horribly it can send you up the wall, and moreover it screams out evil spells and showers curses on whoever uproots it. You can pay with your life taking a risk like that.’

  ‘That sounds like a cloth-headed fairy-tale,’ Milva said, taking the flask from him and drinking deeply. She shuddered and added: ‘It’s impossible for a plant to have such powers.’

  ‘It’s an infallible truth!’ the dwarf called heatedly. ‘But sagacious herbalists have found a way of protecting themselves. Having found a mandrake, you must tie one end of a rope to the root and the other end to a dog . . .’

  ‘Or a pig,’ the gnome broke in.

  ‘Or a wild boar,’ Dandelion added gravely.

  ‘You’re a fool, poet. The whole point is for the mutt or swine to pull the mandrake out of the ground, for then the vegetable’s curses and spells fall on the said creature, while the herbalist – hiding safely, far away in the bushes – gets out in one piece. Well, Master Regis? Am I talking sense?’

  ‘An interesting method,’ the alchemist admitted, smiling mysteriously. ‘Interesting mainly for its ingenuity. The disadvantage, however, is its extreme complexity. For in theory the rope ought to be enough, without the draught animal. I wouldn’t suspect mandrake of having the ability of knowing who or what’s pulling the rope. The spells and curses should always fall on the rope, which after all is cheaper and less problematic to use than a dog, not to mention a pig.’

  ‘Are you jesting?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. I said I admire the ingenuity. Because although the mandrake, contrary to popular opinion, is incapable of casting spells or curses, it is – in its raw state – an extremely toxic plant, to the extent that even the earth around the root is poisonous. Sprinkling the fresh juice onto the face or on a cut hand, why, even breathing in its fumes, may all have fatal consequences. I wear a mask and gloves, which doesn’t mean I have anything against the rope method.’

  ‘Mmmm . . .’ the dwarf pondered. ‘But what about that horrifying scream the plucked mandrake makes? Is that true?’

  ‘The mandrake doesn’t have vocal chords,’ the alchemist explained calmly, ‘which is fairly typical for plants, is it not? However, the toxin secreted by the root has a powerful hallucinogenic effect. The voices, screams, whispers and other sounds are nothing more than hallucinations produced by the poisoned central nervous system.’

  ‘Ha, I clean forgot,’ Dandelion said, having just drained the flask and letting out a suppressed burp, ‘that mandrake is extremely poisonous! And I was holding it! And now we’re guzzling this tincture with abandon . . .’

  ‘Only the fresh mandrake root is toxic,’ Regis said, calming him down. ‘Mine is seasoned and suitably prepared, and the distillate has been filtered. There is no need for alarm.’

  ‘Of course there isn’t,’ Zoltan agreed. ‘Moonshine will always be moonshine, you can even distil it from hemlock, nettles, fish scales and old bootlaces. Give us the glass, Dandelion, there’s a queue forming here.’

  The flask, kept topped up, circulated around the company. Everybody was sitting comfortably on the dirt floor. The Witcher hissed and swore, and shifted his position, because the pain shot through his knee again as he sat. He caught sight of Regis looking at him intently. ‘Is that a fresh injury?’

  ‘Not really. But it’s tormenting me. Do you have any herbs capable of soothing the pain?’

  ‘That all depends on the class of pain,’ the barber-surgeon said, smiling slightly. ‘And on its causes. I can detect a strange odour in your sweat, Witcher. Were you treated with magic? Were you given magic enzymes and hormones?’

  ‘They gave me various medicaments. I had no idea they could still be smelled in my sweat. You’ve got a bloody sensitive nose, Regis.’

  ‘Everybody has their good points. To even out the vices. What ailment did they use magic to treat you with?’

  ‘I broke my arm and the shaft of my thighbone.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘A little over a month.’

  ‘And you’re already walking? Remarkable. The dryads of Brokilon, I presume?’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Only the dryads have medicaments capable of rebuilding bone tissue so quickly. I can see dark marks on the backs of your hands. They’re the places where the tendrils of the conynhaela and the symbiotic shoots of knitbone entered. Only dryads know how to use conynhaela, and knitbone doesn’t grow outside Brokilon.’

  ‘Well done. Admirable deduction skills. Though something else interests me. My thighbone and forear
m were broken, but the strong pain is in the knee and elbow.’

  ‘That’s typical,’ the barber-surgeon nodded. ‘The dryads’ magic reconstructed your damaged bone, but simultaneously caused a minor upheaval in your nerve trunks. It’s a side effect, felt most intensely in the joints.’

  ‘What do you advise?’

  ‘Unfortunately, nothing. You’ll continue to predict rainy weather unerringly for a long time to come. The pains will grow stronger in the winter. However, I wouldn’t recommend that you take powerful painkilling drugs. Particularly steer clear of narcotics. You’re a witcher and in your case it’s absolutely to be avoided.’

  ‘I’ll treat myself with your mandrake, then,’ the Witcher said, raising the full flask, which Milva had just handed him. He took a deep swallow and hacked until tears filled his eyes. ‘Bloody hell! I’m feeling better already.’

  ‘I’m not certain,’ Regis said, smiling through pursed lips, ‘that you’re treating the right illness. I’d also like to remind you that one should treat causes, not symptoms.’

  ‘Not in the case of this witcher,’ Dandelion snorted, now a little flushed and eavesdropping on their conversation. ‘Booze is just right for him and his worries.’

  ‘It ought to do you good, too,’ Geralt said, giving the poet a chilling stare. ‘Particularly if it paralyses your tongue.’

  ‘I wouldn’t especially count on that.’ The barber-surgeon smiled again. ‘Belladonna is one of the preparation’s ingredients, which means a large number of alkaloids, including scopolamine. Before the mandrake puts you to sleep, you’re all sure to give me a display of eloquence.’

  ‘A display of what?’ Percival asked.

  ‘Talkativeness. My apologies. Let’s use simpler words.’

  Geralt mouth twisted into a fake smile.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘It’s easy to adopt an affected style and start using words like that every day. Then people take the speaker for an arrogant buffoon.’

  ‘Or an alchemist,’ Zoltan Chivay said, filling the flask from the pail once more.

  ‘Or a witcher,’ Dandelion snorted, ‘who’s read a lot to impress a certain enchantress. Nothing attracts enchantresses like an elaborate tale, gentlemen. Am I right, Geralt? Go on, spin us a yarn . . .’

  ‘Sit out your turn, Dandelion,’ the Witcher cut in coldly. ‘The alkaloids in this hooch are acting on you too quickly. They’ve loosened your tongue.’

  ‘It’s time you gave up your secrets, Geralt,’ Zoltan grimaced. ‘Dandelion hasn’t told us much we didn’t know. You can’t help it if you’re a walking legend. They re-enact stories of your adventures in puppet theatres. Like the story about you and an enchantress by the name of Guinevere.’

  ‘Yennefer,’ Regis corrected in hushed tones. ‘I saw that one. It was the story of a hunt for a genie, if my memory serves me correctly.’

  ‘I was present during that hunt,’ Dandelion boasted. ‘We had some laughs, I can tell you . . .’

  ‘Tell them all,’ Geralt said, getting up. ‘Tell them while you’re sipping the moonshine and embellishing the story suitably. I’m taking a walk.’

  ‘Hey,’ the dwarf said, nettled. ‘No need to get offended . . .’

  ‘You misunderstand, Zoltan. I’m going to relieve my bladder. Why, it even happens to walking legends.’

  The night was as cold as hell. The horses stamped and snorted, and steam belched from their nostrils. Bathed in moonlight, Regis’s shack seemed utterly as if it could have come from a fairy-tale. It could have been a witch’s cottage. Geralt fastened his trousers.

  Milva, who had left soon after him, coughed hesitantly. Her long shadow drew level with his.

  ‘Why are you delaying going back?’ she asked. ‘Did they really annoy you?’

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  ‘Then why the hell are you standing here by yourself in the moonlight?’

  ‘I’m counting.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Twelve days have passed since I set out from Brokilon, during which I’ve travelled around sixty miles. Rumour has it that Ciri’s in Nilfgaard, the capital of the Empire. Which is around two and half thousand miles from here. Simple arithmetic tells me that at this rate I’ll get there in a year and four months. What do you say to that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Milva said, shrugging and coughing again. ‘I’m not as good at reckoning as you. I don’t know how to read or write at all. I’m a foolish, simple country girl. No company for you. Nor someone to talk to.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s the truth, though,’ she said, turning away abruptly. ‘Why did you tally up the days and miles? For me to advise you? Cheer you up? Chase away your fear, suppress the remorse that torments you worse than the pain in your broken peg? I don’t know how! You need another. The one Dandelion was talking about. Intelligent, educated. Your beloved.’

  ‘Dandelion’s a prattler.’

  ‘That he is. But he occasionally prattles sense. Let’s go back, I want to drink some more.’

  ‘Milva?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You never told me why you decided to ride with me.’

  ‘You never asked.’

  ‘I’m asking now.’

  ‘It’s too late now. I don’t know any more.’

  ‘Oh, you’re back at last,’ Zoltan said, pleased to see them, his voice now sounding quite different. ‘And we, just imagine, have decided that Regis will continue on our journey with us.’

  ‘Really?’ The Witcher looked intently at the barber-surgeon. ‘What’s behind this sudden decision?’

  ‘Master Zoltan,’ Regis said, without lowering his gaze, ‘has made me aware that Dillingen has been engulfed by a much more serious war than I understood from the refugees’ accounts. A return to those parts is totally out of the question, and remaining in this wilderness doesn’t seem wise. Or travelling alone, for that matter.’

  ‘And we, although you don’t know us at all, look like people you could travel with safely. Was one glance enough for you?’

  ‘Two,’ the barber-surgeon replied with a faint smile. ‘One at the women you’re looking after. And the other at their children.’

  Zoltan belched loudly and scraped the flask against the bottom of the pail.

  ‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ he sneered. ‘Perhaps we intend to sell the women into slavery. Percival, do something with this apparatus. Loosen a valve a little or something. We want to drink more and it’s taking for ever to drip out.’

  ‘The condenser can’t keep up. The liquor will be warm.’

  ‘Not a problem. The night’s cool.’

  The lukewarm moonshine greatly stimulated the conversation. Dandelion, Zoltan and Percival were all ruddy-cheeked, and their voices had altered even more – in the case of the poet and the gnome one could now say that they were almost on the verge of gibbering. Ravenous, the company were chewing cold horsemeat and nibbling horseradish roots they had found in the cottage – which made their eyes water, because the horseradish was as bracing as the hooch. And added passion to the discussion.

  Regis gave an expression of astonishment when it turned out that the final destination of the trek was not the enclave of the Mahakam massif, the eternal and secure home of the dwarves. Zoltan, who had become even more garrulous than Dandelion, declared that under no circumstances would he ever return to Mahakam, and unburdened himself of his animosity to its ruling regime, particularly regarding the politics and absolute rule of Brouver Hoog, the Elder of Mahakam and all the dwarven clans.

  ‘The old fart!’ he roared, and spat into the hearth of the furnace. ‘To look at him you wouldn’t know if he was alive or stuffed. He almost never moves, which is just as well, because he farts every time he does. You can’t understand a word he’s saying because his beard and whiskers are stuck together with dried borscht. But he lords it over everyone and everything, and everyone has to dance to his tune . . .’

  ‘It would be difficult to claim, h
owever, that Hoog’s policies are poor,’ Regis interrupted. ‘For, owing to his decisive measures, the dwarves distanced themselves from the elves and don’t fight alongside the Scoia’tael any more. And thanks to that the pogroms have ceased. Thanks to that there have been no punitive expeditions to Mahakam. Prudence in their dealings with humans is bearing fruit.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Zoltan said, drinking from the flask. ‘In the case of the Squirrels, the old fossil wasn’t interested in prudence, it was because too many youngsters were abandoning work in the mines and the forges and joining the elves to sample freedom and manly adventures in the commandos. When the phenomenon grew to the size of a problem, Brouver Hoog took the punks in hand. He couldn’t care less about the humans being killed by the Squirrels, and he made light of the repression falling on the dwarves because of that – including your infamous pogroms. He didn’t give a damn and doesn’t give a damn about them, because he considers the dwarves who’ve settled in the cities apostates. And as regards punitive expeditions to Mahakam – don’t make me laugh, my dears. There’s no threat and never has been, because none of the kings would dare lay a finger on Mahakam. I’ll go further: even the Nilfgaardians, were they to manage to take control of the valleys surrounding the massif, wouldn’t dare touch Mahakam. Do you know why? I’ll tell you: Mahakam is steel; and not just any old steel. There’s coal there, there’s magnetite ore, boundless deposits. Everywhere else it’s just bog ore.’

  ‘And they have expertise and technology in Mahakam,’ Percival Schuttenbach interposed. ‘Metallurgy and smelting! Enormous furnaces, not some pathetic smelteries. Trip hammers and steam hammers . . .’

  ‘There you go, Percival, neck that,’ Zoltan said, handing the gnome the now full flask, ‘before you bore us to death with your technology and engineering. Everyone knows about it. But not everyone knows Mahakam exports steel. To the kingdoms, but to Nilfgaard too. And should anyone lay a finger on us, we’ll wreck the workshops and flood the mines. And then you humans will continue fighting, but with oaken staves, flint blades and asses’ jawbones.’