The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Schirrú – for he’s the one pursuing us – will follow your trail.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I’m certain. Go.’

  ‘What will aunty say when I show up without you?’

  ‘You’ll explain. But not to Milva; to Regis. Regis will know what’s to be done. And we . . . When Cahir’s mop dries a bit harder onto his pate, we’ll make for Toussaint. We’ll meet up there somehow. Very well, don’t dally. Get on your horse and ride. Don’t let our pursuers get any closer. Don’t let them hunt you by sight.’

  ‘Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs. Look after yourselves! Farewell!’

  ‘Farewell, Angoulême.’

  *

  He didn’t move too far from the road. He couldn’t deny himself a glance at their pursuers. And in fact he didn’t fear any trouble from them, knowing they wouldn’t waste time and would pursue Angoulême.

  He wasn’t mistaken.

  The riders who thundered into the pass less than a quarter of an hour later stopped, admittedly, at the sight of the dead horse, shouted, argued, trotted around the roadside bushes, but returned almost at once to the road to resume their pursuit. They clearly believed that two of the three fugitives were now riding one horse and it would be possible to catch them quickly if they didn’t dawdle. Geralt saw that some of the pursuing horses weren’t in the best of shape either.

  There weren’t too many black cloaks of the Nilfgaardian light horse among them. Nightingale’s colourful brigands predominated. Geralt couldn’t see if Nightingale himself was taking part in the hunt, or if he’d stayed behind to treat his mutilated face.

  When the hoof beats of the vanishing pursuers had faded away, Geralt stood up from his hiding place in the bracken, lifted and held up the moaning and groaning Cahir.

  ‘The horse is too feeble to bear you. Will you be able to walk?’

  The Nilfgaardian made a noise which might as easily have been agreement or disagreement. Or something else. But he shuffled forward, and that was the main idea.

  They went down to the stream bed in the ravine. Cahir negotiated the final few yards of the slippery slope in a rather chaotic descent. He crawled to the stream, drank, and poured the icy water copiously over the bandage on his head. The Witcher didn’t hurry him. He was breathing heavily himself, gathering his strength.

  He walked upstream, supporting Cahir and pulling the horse at the same time, wading in the water and stumbling on pebbles and fallen tree trunks. After some time Cahir stopped cooperating, stopped shuffling his legs obediently – in fact he stopped moving them at all, so the Witcher simply dragged him. It was impossible to continue like that, particularly since the stream bed was obstructed by rocks and waterfalls. Geralt grunted and lifted the wounded man onto his back. Neither did pulling the horse make life any easier. When they finally emerged from the ravine, the Witcher simply collapsed on the wet forest floor and lay, panting, completely drained, beside the groaning Cahir. He lay there for a long time. His knee had begun to throb again with intense pain.

  Cahir finally started to show signs of life once more, and soon after – astonishingly – got up, swearing and holding his head. They set off. Cahir marched bravely at first. Then slowed. Then slumped down.

  Geralt heaved him onto his back again and lugged him, grunting, slipping over the stones. Pain shot through his knee, and fiery, black bees seemed to flash in front of his eyes.

  ‘Just a month ago . . .’ Cahir moaned from his back. ‘Who’d have thought you’d be lugging me like this . . .’

  ‘Quiet, Nilfgaardian . . . You’re heavier when you talk . . .’

  When they finally made it to the rocks and the rock walls, it was almost dark. The Witcher didn’t look for or find a cave – he fell exhausted by the first opening he came across.

  *

  Human skulls, ribs, pelvises and other bones were strewn around on the cave floor. But – more importantly – there were also dry branches there.

  Cahir was feverish, trembling and shivering. He endured the sewing of the patch of skin to his skull using twine and a crooked needle manfully and fully conscious, with his faculties intact. The crisis came later, during the night. Geralt lit a fire in the cave, disregarding safety considerations. Actually, outside it was drizzling and a strong wind was blowing, so it was unlikely that anybody was wandering around watching out for the glare of a fire. And he had to keep Cahir warm.

  The fever lasted the entire night. He trembled, moaned and raved. Geralt enjoyed no sleep – he kept the fire burning. And his knee hurt like hell.

  *

  A young and sturdy fellow, Cahir came around the following morning. He was pale and sweaty, and the heat of his fever could still be felt. His chattering teeth somewhat complicated articulation. But what he said was comprehensible. And he spoke lucidly. He was complaining of a headache – a fairly normal symptom for someone whose scalp has been torn from their head by an axe.

  Geralt divided his time between anxiously catnapping and catching rainwater dripping from the rocks in beakers he had fashioned from birch bark. Thirst was tormenting both him and Cahir.

  *

  ‘Geralt?

  ‘Yes?’

  Cahir tidied up the wood in the fire using a femur he’d found.

  ‘When we were fighting in the mine . . . I was scared.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘For a moment it looked as though you’d gone berserk. That nothing mattered to you any longer . . . Aside from killing . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I was afraid,’ he calmly finished, ‘that you’d butcher Schirrú to death in your frenzy. And we wouldn’t get any information out of a dead man, would we?’

  Geralt cleared his throat. He was growing to like the young Nilfgaardian more and more. He was not only brave, but smart too.

  ‘You did right, sending Angoulême away,’ Cahir continued, his teeth chattering only slightly. ‘It isn’t for girls . . . Not even for girls like her. We’ll sort it out, the two of us. We’ll ride down our pursuers. But not in order to slaughter them in a berserker frenzy. What you said about revenge that time . . . Geralt, even in vengeance there must be some method. We’ll catch up with that half-elf . . . And force him to tell us where Ciri is . . .’

  ‘Ciri’s dead.’

  ‘Not true. I don’t believe she’s dead . . . And you don’t either. Admit it.’

  ‘I don’t want to believe it.’

  A gale was whistling outside and the rain was whispering. It was cosy in the cave.

  ‘Geralt?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ciri’s alive. I’ve had dreams again . . . Yes, something happened at the Equinox, something dreadful . . . Yes, without doubt, I felt and saw it . . . But she’s alive . . . She’s definitely alive. Let’s hurry . . . But not to avenge and murder. To find her.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, Cahir. You’re right.’

  ‘And you? Don’t you have dreams now?’

  ‘I do,’ he said bitterly. ‘But seldom since we crossed the Yaruga. And I remember nothing after waking. Something has ended in me, Cahir. Something has burned out. Something has ruptured in me . . .’

  ‘Never mind, Geralt. I shall dream for both of us.’

  *

  They set off at dawn. It had stopped raining. It even seemed that the sun was trying to find a hole in the greyness enveloping the sky.

  They rode slowly, on the single horse with the Nilfgaardian military trappings.

  The horse trudged over the pebbles, moving at a walk along the bank of the Sansretour, the small river leading to Toussaint. Geralt knew the way. He had been there once. A long, long time ago; much had changed since then. But the valley had not changed, and neither had the Sansretour stream, which, the further they went, become more and more the River Sansretour. Neither the Amell Mountains, nor the obelisk of the Gorgon, Devil Mountain, had changed.

  There were certain things that simply didn’t change.

  *

 
; ‘A soldier doesn’t question his orders,’ said Cahir, feeling the dressing on his head. ‘Doesn’t analyse them, doesn’t ponder over them, doesn’t wait for them to be explained to him. That’s the first thing they teach a soldier where I come from. So you can understand that not for a second did I ever question an order which was issued to me. The thought of why I had to capture a Cintran princess didn’t even cross my mind. An order’s an order. I was cross, naturally, because I wanted to taste fame, fighting against the knighthood, against the regular army . . . But working for the intelligence service is also treated as an honour where I come from. If it had only concerned a more taxing task, a more important prisoner . . . But a girl?’

  Geralt threw a trout’s spine onto the fire. Before nightfall they had caught enough fish in a stream flowing into the Sansretour to eat their fill. The trout were spawning and easy to catch.

  He listened to Cahir’s account, and the curiosity in him struggled with a feeling of profound hurt.

  ‘It was essentially chance,’ Cahir went on, gazing into the flames. ‘Pure chance. There was – as I found out later – a spy at the Cintran court, a valet. When we’d captured the city and were preparing to encircle the castle the spy stole out and gave a sign that he would try to get the princess out of the city. Several squads like mine were formed. By accident, it was my group the men spiriting Ciri away ran into.

  ‘A chase through the streets began, in quarter that was already on fire. It was sheer hell. Nothing but the roar of flames, walls of fire. The horses didn’t want to go there, and the men, what can I say, were in no hurry to urge them. My subordinates – there were four of them – began to claim I’d gone mad, that I was leading them to their doom . . . I barely managed to wrest back control . . .

  ‘We pursued them through that fiery bedlam and caught up with them. We suddenly had them before us: five mounted Cintrans. And a bloody fight began, before I could tell them to watch out for the girl. Who ended up on the ground at once anyway, as the man who was carrying her perished first. One of my men lifted her up and onto his horse, but he didn’t get far, for one of the Cintrans stabbed him through the back. I saw the blade pass an inch from Ciri’s head and she fell in the mud again. She was dazed with fear; I saw her cuddling up to the dead man, saw her trying to crawl under him . . . Like a kitten by its dead mother . . .’

  He fell silent and swallowed audibly.

  ‘She didn’t even know she was cuddling up to the enemy. To a hated Nilfgaardian.’

  ‘We ended up alone, she and I,’ he continued a moment later, ‘and all around us corpses and fire. Ciri was grovelling in a puddle, and the water and blood were beginning to steam. A house collapsed, and I could see very little through the sparks and smoke. The horse wouldn’t go any closer. I called to her, appealed to her to come to me. My voice had almost gone, trying to outshout the conflagration. She saw and heard me but didn’t react. The horse wouldn’t move, and I couldn’t control it. I had to dismount. There was no way I could lift her with one arm, and I had to hold the reins with the other; the horse was struggling so much it almost threw me. When I lifted her she began to scream. Then she tensed up and fainted. I wrapped her in my cloak which I had wetted in a puddle; in mud, muck and blood. And we rode on. Straight through the fire.

  ‘I don’t know by what miracle we managed to get out of there. But a breach in the wall suddenly appeared and we were by the river. Unluckily, it turned out, for it was the spot the fleeing Nordlings had chosen. I discarded my officer’s helmet, for they would have recognised me right away by it, even though the wings had burned off. The rest of my clothing was so blackened it couldn’t have betrayed me. But had the girl been conscious, had she screamed, they would have put me to the sword. I was lucky.

  ‘I rode a few furlongs with them, and then fell back and hid in the bushes by a river bearing dead bodies.’

  He fell silent, coughed slightly, and felt his bandaged head with both hands. And blushed. Or was it merely the glare of the flames?

  ‘Ciri was so dirty. I had to undress her . . . She didn’t resist, didn’t scream. She just trembled, eyes closed. Each time I touched her to clean her or dry her, she tensed and stiffened . . . I know, I ought to have spoken to her, calmed her . . . But suddenly I couldn’t find the words in your language . . . In my mother’s language, which I’ve known from a child. Unable to find the words, I tried to calm her by touch, by gentleness . . . But she stiffened and whimpered . . . Like a baby . . .’

  ‘That haunted her in her nightmares,’ Geralt whispered.

  ‘I know. Mine too.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘She fell asleep. So did I. From fatigue. When I woke she wasn’t beside me. She was nowhere to be seen. I don’t recall the rest. Those who found me claimed I was running around in circles howling like a wolf. They had to tie me up. When I’d calmed down, I was taken in hand by intelligence agents, Vattier de Rideaux’s subordinates. They wanted to know about Cirilla. Where she was, where she fled to, how she gave me the slip, why I let her escape. And again, from the beginning: where was she, where had she fled to . . . ? Infuriated, I yelled something about the emperor hunting a little girl like a sparrowhawk. For that I spent a year locked up in the citadel. But then I was back in grace, for I was needed. On Thanedd, they needed someone who spoke the Common Speech and knew what Ciri looked like. The emperor wanted me to go to Thanedd . . . And not to fail this time. But bring him Ciri.’

  He was silent for a time.

  ‘Emhyr gave me a chance. I could have refused. It would have meant absolute, total, perpetual disfavour and oblivion, but I could have declined if I’d wanted. But I didn’t decline. For you see, Geralt . . . I couldn’t forget her.

  ‘I won’t lie to you. I saw her constantly in my dreams. And not as the skinny child she was by the river, when I undressed and washed her. I saw her . . . and I still see her . . . as a woman; comely, aware, provocative . . . With such details as a crimson rose tattooed on her groin . . . ’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know myself . . . But that’s how it has been and is yet. I see her in my dreams, just as I saw her in my dreams back then . . . That is why I volunteered for the mission to Thanedd. That’s why I wanted to join you afterwards. I . . . I want to see her . . . again. I want to touch her hair again, look into her eyes . . . I want to gaze on her. Kill me if you will. But I won’t pretend any longer. I think . . . I think I love her. Please don’t laugh.’

  ‘I don’t feel like laughing.’

  ‘So that’s why I’m riding with you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Do you want her for yourself or for your emperor?’

  ‘I’m a realist,’ he whispered. ‘I mean, she won’t want me. But as the emperor’s spouse I could at least see her.’

  ‘As a realist,’ the Witcher snapped, ‘you should remember we have to find and rescue her first. Assuming your dreams aren’t lying and Ciri is really still alive.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. And should we find her? What then?’

  ‘We shall see. We shall see, Cahir.’

  ‘Don’t deceive me. Be frank. You won’t let me take her, will you?’

  He didn’t reply. Cahir didn’t repeat the question.

  ‘Until then,’ he asked coolly, ‘may we be comrades?’

  ‘We may, Cahir. I apologise again for back there. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never seriously suspected you of treachery or duplicity.’

  ‘I’m not a traitor. I’ll never betray you, Witcher.’

  *

  They rode along a deep gorge, which the swift-flowing and wide Sansretour – now a river – had carved out of the hills. They rode east towards the border of the Duchy of Toussaint. Gorgon, Devil Mountain, rose above them. To look at the summit they would have had to crane their necks.

  But they didn’t.

  *

  First they smelled smoke, then a moment later beheld a campfire, with spits over it and
filleted trout roasting on them. They then beheld a solitary individual sitting beside the fire.

  Not long before, Geralt would have mocked, mercilessly ridiculed and thought a complete idiot anyone who would have dared claim that he – a witcher – would feel great joy at the sight of a vampire.

  ‘Oho,’ Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy said placidly, adjusting the spits. ‘Look what the cat dragged in.’

  The Knocker, likewise called a knacker, coblynau, bucca, polterduk, karkorios, rübezahl, or pustecki, is a form of kobold, which, nonetheless, the K. considerably surpasses in magnitude and strength. The K. as a rule also wears a great beard, which kobolds habitually do not. The K. dwells in adits, vertical shafts, spoil heaps, precipices, tenebrous hollows, inside rocks, in diverse grottos, caves and stone wildernesses. Wherever it dwells, natural riches such as metal, ore, carbon, salt or petroleum are surely buried in the earth. Thus, one may often encounter a K. in mines, particularly abandoned ones, although it is also likely to appear in active ones. It is a vicious scourge and pest, a curse and veritable divine retribution for miners and quarrymen, whom the vexatious K. leads astray. By knocking on the rock it beguiles and frightens, obstructs galleries, steals and spoils mining equipment and all kinds of belongings, and is also inclined to strike one on the head a place of concealment. But it may be bribed, to curb its mischief-making, by placing in a dark gallery or shaft some bread and butter, a smoked cheese, or a flitch of smoked gammon; but best of all is a demijohn of alcohol, since the K. is extremely greedy for such.

  Physiologus

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘They’re safe,’ assured the vampire, spurring on his mule, Draakul. ‘All three of them. Milva, Dandelion and, of course, Angoulême, who drove us into the Sansretour valley just in time and told us everything, not stinting with her colourful expressions. I‘ve never understood why the majority of human curses and insults refer to the erotic sphere. Sex is wonderful and associated with beauty, joy and pleasure. How can the names of the sexual organs be used as a vulgar synonym for—’