The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘And have you?’

  Regis smiled.

  ‘Without talking to the other fathers?’

  ‘The medicine she’s requesting,’ Cahir said quietly, ‘isn’t a miraculous panacea. I have three sisters, so I know what I’m talking about. She thinks, it seems to me, that she’ll drink the decoction in the evening, and the next morning she’ll ride on with us. Not a bit of it. For about ten days there won’t be a chance of her even sitting on a horse. Before you give her that medicine, Regis, you have to tell her that. And we can only give her the medicine after we’ve found a bed for her. A clean bed.’

  ‘I see,’ Regis said, nodding. ‘One voice in favour. What about you, Geralt?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Gentlemen.’ The vampire swept across them with his dark eyes. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t understand.’

  ‘In Nilfgaard,’ Cahir said, blushing and lowering his head, ‘the woman decides. No one has the right to influence her decision. Regis said that Milva is certain she wants the . . . medicament. Only for that reason, absolutely only for that reason, have I begun – in spite of myself – to think of it as an established fact. And to think about the consequences. But I’m a foreigner, who doesn’t know . . . I ought not to get involved. I apologise.’

  ‘What for?’ the troubadour asked, surprised. ‘Do you think we’re savages, Nilfgaardian? Primitive tribes, obeying some sort of shamanic taboo? It’s obvious that only the woman can make a decision like that. It’s her inalienable right. If Milva decides to—’

  ‘Shut up, Dandelion,’ the Witcher snapped. ‘Please shut up.’

  ‘You don’t agree?’ the poet said, losing his temper. ‘Are you planning to forbid her or—’

  ‘Shut your bloody mouth, or I won’t be answerable for my actions! Regis, you seem to be conducting something like a poll among us. Why? You’re the physician. The agent she’s asking for . . . yes, the agent. The word medicament doesn’t suit me somehow . . . Only you can prepare and give her this agent. And you’ll do it should she ask you for it again. You won’t refuse.’

  ‘I’ve already prepared the agent,’ Regis said, showing them all a little bottle made of dark glass. ‘Should she ask again, I shall not refuse. Should she ask again,’ he repeated with force.

  ‘What’s this all about then? Unanimity? Total agreement? Is that what you’re expecting?’

  ‘You know very well what it’s about,’ the vampire answered. ‘You sense perfectly what ought to be done. But since you ask, I shall tell you. Yes, Geralt, that’s precisely what it’s about. Yes, that’s precisely what ought to be done. And no, it’s not me that’s expecting it.’

  ‘Could you be clearer?’

  ‘No, Dandelion,’ the vampire snapped. ‘I can’t be any clearer. Particularly since there’s no need. Right, Geralt?’

  ‘Right,’ the Witcher said, resting his forehead on his clasped hands. ‘Yes, too bloody right. But why are you looking at me? You want me to do it? I don’t know how. I can’t. I’m not suited for this role at all . . . Not at all, get it?’

  ‘No,’ Dandelion interjected. ‘I don’t get it at all. Cahir? Do you get it?’

  The Nilfgaardian looked at Regis and then at Geralt.

  ‘I think I do,’ he said slowly. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Ah,’ the troubadour said, nodding. ‘Ah. Geralt understood right away and Cahir thinks he understands. I, naturally, demand to be enlightened, but first I’m told to be quiet, and then I hear there’s no need for me to understand. Thank you. Twenty years in the service of poetry, long enough to know there are things you either understand at once, even without words; or you’ll never understand them.’

  The vampire smiled.

  ‘I don’t know anyone,’ he said, ‘who could have put it more elegantly.’

  It was totally dark. The Witcher got to his feet.

  It’s now or never, he thought. I can’t run away from it. There’s no point putting it off. It’s got to be done. And that’s an end to it.

  Milva sat alone by the tiny fire she had started in the forest, in a pit left by a fallen tree, away from the woodmen’s shack where the rest of the company were sleeping. She didn’t move when she heard his footsteps. It was as though she was expecting him. She just shifted along, making space for him on the fallen tree trunk.

  ‘Well?’ she said harshly, not waiting for him to say anything. ‘We’re in a fix, aren’t we, eh?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘You didn’t expect this when we set off, did you? When you let me join the company? You thought: “So what if she’s a peasant; a foolish, country wench?” You let me join. “I won’t be able to talk to her about brainy things on the road,” you thought, “but she might come in useful. She’s a healthy, sturdy lass. She shoots a straight arrow, she won’t get a sore arse from the saddle, and if it gets nasty she won’t shit her britches. She’ll come in useful.” And it turns out she’s no use, just a hindrance. A millstone. A typical bloody woman!’

  ‘Why did you come after me?’ he asked softly. ‘Why didn’t you stay in Brokilon? You must have known . . .’

  ‘I did,’ she interrupted. ‘I mean, I was with the dryads, they always know what’s wrong with a girl; you can’t keep anything secret from them. They realised quicker than me . . . But I never thought I’d start feeling poorly so soon. I thought I’d drink some ergot or some other decoction, and you wouldn’t even notice, wouldn’t even guess . . .’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘I know. The vampire told me. I spent too long dragging my feet, meditating, hesitating. Now it won’t be so easy . . .’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ she said a moment later. ‘Imagine this. I had more than one string to my bow . . . I saw how Dandelion puts on a brave face; but thought him weak, soft, not used to hardship. I was just waiting for him to give up and then we’d have to offload him. I thought if it got hard I’d go back with Dandelion . . . Now just look: Dandelion’s the hero, and I’m . . .’

  Her voice suddenly cracked. Geralt embraced her. And he knew at once it was the gesture she had been waiting for, which she needed more than anything else. The roughness and hardness of the Brokilon archer disappeared just like that, and what remained was the trembling, gentle softness of a frightened girl. But it was she who interrupted the lengthening silence.

  ‘And that’s what you told me . . . in Brokilon. That I would need a . . . a shoulder to lean on. That I would call out, in the darkness . . . You’re here, I can feel your arm next to mine . . . And I still want to scream . . . Oh dear, oh dear . . . Why are you trembling?’

  ‘It’s nothing. A memory.’

  ‘What will become of me?’

  He didn’t answer. The question wasn’t meant for him.

  ‘Daddy once showed me . . . Where I come from there’s a black wasp that lives by the river and lays its eggs in a live caterpillar. The young wasps hatch and eat the caterpillar alive . . . from the inside. . . Something like that’s in me now. In me, inside me, in my own belly. It’s growing, it keeps growing and it’s going to eat me alive . . .’

  ‘Milva—’

  ‘Maria. I’m Maria, not Milva. What kind of Red Kite am I? A mother hen with an egg, not a Kite . . . Milva laughed with the dryads on the battleground, pulled arrows from bloodied corpses. Waste of a good arrow shaft or a good arrowhead! And if someone was still breathing, a knife across the throat! Milva was treacherous, she led those people to their fate and laughed . . . Now their blood calls. That blood, like a wasp’s venom, is devouring Maria from the inside. Maria is paying for Milva.’

  He remained silent. Mainly because he didn’t know what to say. The girl snuggled up closer against his shoulder.

  ‘I was guiding a commando to Brokilon,’ she said softly. ‘It was in Burnt Stump, in June, on the Sunday before summer solstice. We were chased, there was a fight, seven of us escaped on horseback. Five elves, one she-elf and me. About half a
mile to the Ribbon, but the cavalry were behind us and in front of us, darkness all around, swamps, bogs . . . At night we hid in the willows, we had to let ourselves and the horses rest. Then the she-elf undressed without a word, lay down . . . and the first elf lay with her . . . It froze me, I didn’t know what to do . . . Move away, or pretend I couldn’t see? The blood was pounding in my temples, but I heard it when she said: “Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Who will cross the Ribbon and who will perish? En’ca minne.” En’ca minne, a little love. Only this way, she said, can death be overcome. Death or fear. They were afraid, she was afraid, I was afraid . . . So I undressed too and lay down nearby. I placed a blanket under my back . . . When the first one embraced me I clenched my teeth, for I wasn’t ready, I was terrified and dry . . . But he was wise – an elf, after all – he only seemed young . . . wise . . . tender . . . He smelled of moss, grass and dew . . . I held my arms out towards the second one myself . . . desiring . . . a little love? The devil only knows how much love there was in it and how much fear, but I’m certain there was more fear . . . For the love was fake. Perhaps well faked, but fake even so, like a pantomime, where if the actors are skilled you soon forget what’s playacting and what’s the truth. But there was fear. There was real fear.’

  Geralt remained silent.

  ‘Nor did we manage to defeat death. They killed two of them at dawn, before we reached the bank of the Ribbon. Of the three who survived I never saw any of them again. My mother always told me a wench knows whose fruit she’s bearing . . . But I don’t know. I didn’t even know the names of those elves, so how could I tell? How?’

  He said nothing. He let his arm speak for him.

  ‘And anyway, why do I need to know? The vampire will soon have the draft ready . . . The time will come for me to be left in some village or other . . . No, don’t say a word; be silent. I know what you’re like. You won’t even give up that skittish mare, you won’t leave her, you won’t exchange her for another, even though you keep threatening to. You aren’t the kind that leaves others behind. But now you have no choice. After I drink it I won’t be able to sit in the saddle. But know this; when I’ve recovered I’ll set off after you. For I would like you to find your Ciri, Witcher. To find her and get her back, with my help.’

  ‘So that’s why you rode after me,’ he said, wiping his forehead. ‘That’s why.’

  She lowered her head.

  ‘That’s why you rode after me,’ he repeated. ‘You set off to help rescue someone else’s child. You wanted to pay; to pay off a debt, that you intended to incur even when you set off . . . Someone else’s child for your own, a life for a life. And I promised to help you should you be in need. But, Milva, I can’t help you. Believe me, I cannot.’

  This time she remained silent. But he could not. He felt compelled to speak.

  ‘Back there, in Brokilon, I became indebted to you and swore I’d repay you. Unwisely. Stupidly. You offered me help in a moment when I needed help very much. There’s no way of paying off a debt like that. It’s impossible to repay something that has no price. Some say everything in the world – everything, with no exception – has a price. It’s not true. There are things with no price, things that are priceless. But you realise it belatedly: when you lose them, you lose them forever and nothing can get them back for you. I have lost many such things. Which is why I can’t help you today.’

  ‘But you have helped me,’ she replied, very calmly. ‘You don’t even know how you’ve helped me. Now go, please. Leave me alone. Go away, Witcher. Go, before you destroy my whole world.’

  When they set off again at dawn, Milva rode at the head, calm and smiling. And when Dandelion, who was riding behind her, began to strum away on his lute, she whistled the melody.

  Geralt and Regis brought up the rear. At a certain moment the vampire glanced at the Witcher, smiled, and nodded in acknowledgement and admiration. Without a word. Then he took a small bottle of dark glass out of his medical bag and showed it to Geralt. Regis smiled again and threw the bottle into the bushes.

  The Witcher said nothing.

  When they stopped to water the horses, Geralt led Regis away to a secluded place.

  ‘A change of plans,’ he informed briefly. ‘We aren’t going through Ysgith.’

  The vampire remained silent for a moment, boring into him with his black eyes.

  ‘Had I not known,’ he finally said, ‘that as a witcher you are only afraid of real hazards, I should have thought you were worried by the preposterous chatter of a deranged girl.’

  ‘But you do know. And you’re sure to be guided by logic.’

  ‘Indeed. However, I should like to draw your attention to two matters. Firstly, Milva’s condition, which is neither an illness nor a disability. The girl must, of course, take care of herself, but she is utterly healthy and physically fit. I would even say more than fit. The hormones—’

  ‘Drop the patronising, superior tone,’ Geralt interrupted, ‘because it’s getting on my nerves.’

  ‘That was the first matter of the two I intended to bring up,’ Regis continued. ‘Here’s the second: when Milva notices your overprotectiveness, when she realises you’re making a fuss and mollycoddling her, she’ll be furious. And then she’ll feel stressed; which is absolutely inadvisable for her. Geralt, I don’t want to be patronising. I want to be rational.’

  Geralt did not answer.

  ‘There’s also a third matter,’ Regis added, still watching the Witcher carefully. ‘We aren’t being compelled to go through Ysgith by enthusiasm or the lust for adventure, but by necessity. Soldiers are roaming the hills, and we have to make it to the druids in Caed Dhu. I understood it was urgent. That it was important for you to acquire the information and set off to rescue your Ciri as quickly as possible.’

  ‘It is,’ Geralt said, looking away. ‘It’s very important to me. I want to rescue Ciri and get her back. Until recently I thought I’d do it at any price. But no. I won’t pay that price, I won’t consent to taking that risk. We won’t go through Ysgith.’

  ‘The alternative?’

  ‘The far bank of the Yaruga. We’ll go upstream, far beyond the swamps. And we’ll cross the Yaruga again near Caed Dhu. If it turns out to be difficult, only the two of us will meet the druids. I’ll swim across and you’ll fly over as a bat. Why are you staring at me like that? I mean, rivers being obstacles to vampires is another myth and superstition. Or perhaps I’m wrong.’

  ‘No, you are not wrong. But I can only fly during a full moon, not at any other time.’

  ‘That’s only two weeks away. When we reach the right place it’ll almost be full moon.’

  ‘Geralt,’ the vampire said, still not taking his eyes away from the Witcher. ‘You’re a strange man. To make myself clear, I wasn’t being critical. Right, then. We give up on Ysgith, which is dangerous for a woman with child. We cross to the far bank of the Yaruga, which you consider safer.’

  ‘I’m capable of assessing the level of risk.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘Not a word to Milva or the others. Should they ask, it’s part of our plan.’

  ‘Of course. Let us begin to look for a boat.’

  They didn’t have to look for long, and the result of their search surpassed their expectations. They didn’t find just a boat, but a ferryboat. Hidden among the willows, craftily camouflaged with branches and bunches of bulrushes, it was betrayed by the painter connecting it to the left bank.

  The ferryman was also found. While they were approaching he quickly hid in the bushes, but Milva spotted him and dragged him from the undergrowth by the collar. She also flushed out his helper, a powerfully built fellow with the shoulders of an ogre and the face of an utter simpleton. The ferryman shook with fear, and his eyes darted around like a couple of mice in an empty granary.

  ‘To the far bank?’ he whined, when he found out what they wanted. ‘Not a chance! That’s Nilfgaardian territory and there’s a war on! They’ll catch us and s
tick us on a spike! I’m not going! You can kill me, but I’m not going!’

  ‘We can kill you,’ Milva said, grinding her teeth. ‘We can also beat you up first. Open your trap again and you’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘I’m sure the fact there’s a war on,’ the vampire said, boring his eyes into the ferryman, ‘doesn’t interfere with smuggling, does it, my good man? Which is what your ferry is for, after all, craftily positioned as it is far from the royal and Nilfgaardian toll collectors. Am I right? Go on, push it into the water.’

  ‘That would be wise,’ Cahir added, stroking his sword hilt. ‘Should you hesitate, we shall cross the river ourselves, without you, and your ferry will remain on the far bank. To get it back you’ll have to swim across doing the breaststroke. This way you ferry us across and return. An hour of fear and then you can forget all about it.’

  ‘But if you resist, you halfwit,’ Milva snapped, ‘I’ll give you such a beating you won’t forget us till next winter!’

  The ferryman yielded in the face of these hard, indisputable arguments, and soon the entire company was on the ferry. Some of the horses, particularly Roach, resisted and refused to go aboard, but the ferryman and his dopey helper used twitches made of sticks and rope. The skill with which they calmed the animals proved it was not the first time they had smuggled stolen mounts across the Yaruga. The giant simpleton got down to turning the wheel which drove the ferry, and the crossing began.

  When they reached the peaceful waters and felt the gentle breeze, their moods improved. Crossing the Yaruga was something new, a clear milestone, marking progress in their trek. In front of them was the Nilfgaardian bank, the frontier, the border. They all suddenly cheered up. It even affected the ferryman’s foolish helper, who began to whistle an inane tune. Even Geralt was strangely euphoric, as though Ciri would emerge at any moment from the alder grove on the far bank and shout out joyfully on seeing him.