‘Do you really want to know?’
‘I do.’
‘Because I don’t believe in your metaphysical platitudes about goals, plans and preordained ideas of creators. Nor do I believe in the celebrated prophecy of Ithlinne or other prophecies. I consider them, if you can imagine it, the same bullshit and humbug as your cave painting. The purple bison, Avallac’h. Nothing more. I don’t know if you can’t – or won’t – help me. Nonetheless, I don’t feel resentment towards you . . . ’
‘You say I can’t or don’t want to help you. And how might I help?’
Geralt pondered for a moment, absolutely aware that much depended on how the question was put.
‘Will I get Ciri back?’
The answer was immediate.
‘You will. Only to lose her at once. And to be clear: forever; irrevocably. Before it comes to that, you will lose everybody who accompanies you. You will lose one of your companions in the next few weeks, perhaps even days. Perhaps even hours.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I haven’t finished yet. The direct effect of your interference in the grinding querns of the Purpose and the Plan will be the death of tens of thousands of people. Which, as a matter of fact, doesn’t matter much, since soon after, tens of millions of people will lose their lives. The world as you know it will simply vanish, cease to exist, in order – after a suitable time has passed – to revive in a totally different form. But in fact no one has, nor will have, any influence on it, no one is capable of preventing it nor staving off the course of events. Not you, not I, not sorcerers nor Sages. Not even Ciri. What do you say to that?’
‘Purple bison. All the same, I thank you, Avallac’h.’
‘While we’re about it,’ the elf shrugged, ‘I’m somewhat curious as to what a pebble falling in the gears of the querns might accomplish . . . May I do anything else for you?’
‘Not really. Because you can’t show me Ciri, I imagine?’
‘Who said so?’
Geralt held his breath. Avallac’h headed towards the cave wall with rapid steps, indicating the Witcher to follow him.
‘The walls of Tir ná Béa Arainne –’ he pointed to the sparkling rock crystals ‘– have special qualities. And I, though I say it as shouldn’t, have special abilities. Place your hands on this. Fix your gaze on it. Think intensively. About how much she needs you right now. And declare, so to speak, the mental willingness to help. Think about how you want to run and rescue her, be beside her; something like that. The image should appear by itself. And be distinct. Look, but refrain from impulsive reactions. Say nothing. It will be a vision, not communication.’
He obeyed.
The first images, in spite of the promise, weren’t distinct. They were vague, but so brutal that he stepped back involuntarily. A severed hand on a table . . . Blood splashed on a glazed surface . . . Skeletons on skeleton horses . . . Yennefer, in manacles . . .
A tower? A black tower? And behind it, in the background . . . The northern lights?
And suddenly, without warning, the image became all too clear.
‘Dandelion!’ Geralt yelled. ‘Milva! Angoulême!’
‘Eh?’ Avallac’h took an interest. ‘Ah, yes. You seem to have spoiled everything.’
Geralt leaped back from the cave wall, almost falling over on a basalt plinth.
‘It doesn’t bloody matter!’ he cried. ‘Listen, Avallac’h, I must get to that druidic forest as quickly as possible . . . ’
‘Caed Myrkvid?’
‘Very likely! My companions are in mortal danger there! They’re fighting for their lives! Other people are also in danger . . . What’s the quickest way . . . ? Oh, dammit! I’m going back for my sword and horse—’
‘No horse,’ the elf calmly interrupted, ‘is capable of carrying you to the Myrkvid grove before nightfall—’
‘But I—’
‘I haven’t finished yet. Go and get your legendary sword, and meanwhile I’ll find you a mount. A perfect steed for mountain tracks. It’s a somewhat unusual one, I’d say . . . But with its help you’ll be in Caed Myrkvid in less than half an hour.’
*
The knocker reeked like a horse – but that was where the similarity ended. Geralt had once seen in Mahakam a mountain goat-riding contest organised by dwarves, which had seemed to be a totally reckless sport. But it was only now, as he sat on the back of the knocker as it hurtled insanely up the cliff, that he learned what true recklessness was.
In order not to fall off, he dug his fingers tightly into the rough shaggy coat and squeezed his thighs against the monster’s fleecy sides. The knocker stank of sweat, urine and vodka. It flew as though possessed, the earth thudding under the impact of its gigantic feet, as though its soles were of bronze. Slowing slightly, it climbed up hillsides and pelted down them so fast the wind howled in Geralt’s ears. It rushed across ridges, mountain paths and ledges so narrow Geralt kept his eyes tightly closed so as not to look down. It cleared waterfalls, cascades, chasms and clefts too extreme even for a mountain goat, and each successful leap was accompanied by a savage and deafening roar. That is, more savage and deafening than the knocker’s usual roar – which was something it did almost constantly.
‘Don’t race like that!’ The rush of air shoved the words back down his throat.
‘Why not?’
‘You’ve been drinking!’
‘Uuuaaahaaaaaaaa!’
They raced on. The wind whistled in his ears.
The knocker reeked.
The clatter of immense feet on rock fell silent. Instead, rock fields and scree rattled. Then the ground became less rocky, and something that might have been a dwarf pine flashed by. Then a blur of green and brown, for the knocker was loping in insane bounds through a fir forest. The scent of resin mingled with the monster’s stench.
‘Uaaahaaaaaa!’
The firs ceased and fallen leaves whispered. Now red, now claret, ochre and golden.
‘Slow down!’
‘Uaaaahahhahaha!’
The knocker cleared a pile of fallen trees with a huge bound. Geralt almost bit his tongue off.
*
The breakneck ride ended as unceremoniously as it had begun. The knocker dug its heels into the ground, roared, and tossed the Witcher onto the leaf-strewn forest floor. Geralt lay still for a while and couldn’t even curse, from lack of breath. Then he stood up, hissing and rubbing his knee, which had begun to throb again.
‘You never fell off,’ the knocker stated with surprise in its voice. ‘Well, well.’
Geralt didn’t comment.
‘We’ve arrived.’ The knocker pointed with one shaggy paw. ‘That’s Caed Myrkvid.’
Beneath them was a basin, densely filled with mist. The tops of great trees showed through the haze.
‘That fog,’ the knocker anticipated the question, sniffing, ‘isn’t natural. What’s more I can smell smoke from over there. If I were you, I’d hurry. Eeeh, I’d go with you . . . I’m sick with the desire to fight! And I dreamed as a child of one day charging at people with a witcher on me back! But Avallac’h forbad me from showing myself. It’s to do with the safety of our whole tribe. . . ’
‘I know.’
‘Don’t bear a grudge that I smacked you in the mouth.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You’re alright. For a human.’
‘Thank you. For the lift too.’
The knocker bared his teeth among his red beard, and breathed vodka.
‘The pleasure’s all mine.’
*
The fog lying on Myrkvid Forest was dense and had an irregular shape, calling to mind a heap of whipped cream squeezed onto a cake by a lunatic cook. The fog reminded the Witcher of Brokilon – the Forest of the Dryads was often covered by a similarly dense, protective and camouflaging magical haze. Like Brokilon it had the dignified and menacing atmosphere of an ancient forest, here at the edge consisting predominantly of alder and beech.
And just like in Brokilon, right at
the edge of the forest, on the leaf-strewn road, Geralt almost tripped over a corpse.
*
The cruelly massacred people weren’t druids or Nilfgaardians, and they certainly didn’t belong to Nightingale and Schirrú’s hassa. Before Geralt had even spied the outlines of wagons in the fog, he recalled that Regis had spoken of pilgrims. It appeared that for some the pilgrimage had not ended happily.
The stench of smoke and burning, unpleasant in the damp air, became more and more distinct, and pointed the way. Soon after, the way was also indicated by voices. Cries. And the discordant music of fiddles. Geralt made haste.
A wagon stood on the rain-softened road. More bodies lay beside the wheels.
One of the bandits was rummaging around the wagon, chucking objects and tackle onto the road. Another was holding the unharnessed horses and a third was stripping a foxskin coat from a dead pilgrim. A fourth was sawing a fiddle with a bow – evidently found among the loot – and utterly failing to get even a single pure note from the instrument.
The cacophony came in useful. It muffled Geralt’s steps.
The music broke off abruptly, the fiddle stings whined piercingly, the brigand slammed down onto the leaves and spattered them with blood. The one holding the horses didn’t even manage to shout; the sihill severed his windpipe. The third brigand didn’t manage to jump down from the wagon. He fell, yelling, with his femoral artery carved open. The last one even managed to draw his sword. But not to raise it.
Geralt shook blood from the fuller with his thumb.
‘Yes, boys,’ he said to the forest and the scent of smoke. ‘This was a stupid idea. You oughtn’t to have listened to Nightingale and Schirrú. You should have stayed at home.’
*
He soon came across further wagons and further victims. Druids in bloodstained white robes also lay among the numerous mutilated pilgrims. The smoke from the now close fire crawled low over the ground.
This time, the brigands were more vigilant. He only managed to stalk one of them, who was occupied pulling cheap rings and bracelets from the bloody hands of a murdered woman. Geralt, without hesitation, slashed the bandit, the bandit roared, and then the remaining men – brigands mixed up with Nilfgaardians – attacked him, yelling.
He dodged into the forest, to the foot of the nearest tree, so the trunk would protect his back. But before the brigands could run over, hooves thudded, and from the bushes and fog emerged a mighty horse draped in a caparison with a red and gold diagonal chequered pattern. The horse was carrying a rider clad in full armour, a snow-white cloak, and a helmet with a perforated pig-faced visor. Before the bandits could compose themselves, the knight was already breathing down their necks and carving every which way with his sword, and blood was gushing in fountains. It was a splendid sight.
Geralt didn’t have time to watch, however, having two on his hands himself: a brigand in a cherry-red jerkin and a black-uniformed Nilfgaardian. The brigand exposed himself as he lunged, so Geralt slashed him across the face, and the Nilfgaardian – seeing teeth flying – took to his heels and vanished into the fog.
Geralt was almost trampled by the horse in the chequered caparison, now running and riderless.
Without delaying, he leaped through the undergrowth towards cries, curses and thudding.
Three bandits had dragged the knight in the white cloak from the saddle and were trying to kill him. One of them, standing with legs astride, was smiting with a poleaxe; the second was striking with a sword; and the third – small and red-haired – was hopping beside them like a hare, seeking a chance and an unprotected place where he could stab with his bear spear. The knight – lying on his back – was yelling incomprehensibly from inside his helmet and deflecting the blows with a shield held in both hands. The shield sank lower with each blow; it was almost resting on his breastplate. There was no doubt. One or two more blows and the knight’s innards would burst through every slit in his armour.
Geralt was in the thick of it in three bounds, slashing the hopping red-head with the bear spear across the nape and carving open the belly of the one with the poleaxe. The knight, agile in spite of his armour, whacked the third brigand in the knee with the shield rim, and pummelled him thrice in the face as he lay on the ground until blood sprayed across his shield. He rose onto his knees, fumbled among ferns in search of his sword, buzzing like a great iron-plated drone. He suddenly saw Geralt and froze.
‘In whose hands am I?’ He trumpeted from deep within his helmet.
‘In no one’s. The men lying there are also my foes.’
‘Aha . . .’ The knight tried to raise his visor, but the metal plate was bent and the mechanism had blocked. ‘’Pon my word! Thank you a hundredfold for your succour.’
‘I thank you. For it was you who came to my aid.’
‘Indeed? When?’
He didn’t see anything, thought Geralt. He hadn’t even noticed me through the holes in that iron pot.
‘What is your name?’ the knight asked.
‘Geralt. Of Rivia.’
‘Coat of arms?’
‘It is not the time, sir knight, for heraldry.’
‘’Pon my word, ’tis the truth, stout-hearted Sir Geralt.’ Having found his sword the knight stood up. His chipped shield – like the horse’s caparison – was decorated with a gold and red diagonal chequered pattern, the letters A and H alternating in the fields.
‘They are not my ancestral arms,’ he boomed in explanation. ‘They are the initials of my suzerain lady, Duchess Anna Henarietta. I’m called the Chequered Knight. I’m a knight errant. And forbidden from revealing my name or arms. I have taken knightly vows. ’Pon my word, thanks again for the help, sir knight.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine.’
One of the defeated bandits groaned and rustled in the leaves. The Chequered Knight leaped and pinned him to the ground with a mighty thrust. The brigand’s arms and legs waved like a spider impaled on a pin.
‘Let us hurry,’ the knight said. ‘The rabble is still raging here. ’Pon my word, it’s not time to repose yet!’
‘True,’ Geralt agreed. ‘There’s a gang marauding through the forest, killing pilgrims and druids. My friends are in a predicament . . .’
‘Excuse me for a moment.’
A second brigand was showing signs of life. He was also vigorously pinned and his turned-up feet cut such a caper that his boots fell off.
‘’Pon my word!’ The Chequered Knight wiped his sword on the moss. ‘These good-for-nothings are loath to depart this life! Let it not astound you, sir knight, that I’m finishing off the wounded. ’Pon my word, I’ve not done it for many years. But these imps recover so swiftly an honest fellow may only envy them. Ever since I happened to cross swords with the same rascal thrice in a row, I began to finish them off more meticulously. Once and for all.’
‘I understand.’
‘I – you see – am errant. But not, ’pon my word, erratic! Oh, it’s my horse. Come here, Bucephalus!’
*
The forest became more open and brighter; great oaks with spreading but thin crowns began to predominate. They could now smell the smoke and stench of the fire nearby. And a moment later they could see it.
Three cottages with thatched roofs – an entire small settlement – were on fire. The tarpaulins of the nearby wagons were also on fire. Corpses were lying between the wagons; from a distance it was evident that many were wearing white druidic gowns.
The bandits and Nilfgaardians, drumming up courage by yelling, and concealed behind wagons they were pushing in front of them, were attacking a large house on stilts leaning against the trunk of a gigantic oak. The house was built from robust beams with a shingle roof down which the torches thrown by the bandits were harmlessly rolling. The besieged house was defending itself and striking back effectively – before Geralt’s eyes one of the brigands leaned imprudently out from behind a wagon and fell as though struck by lightning with an arrow in his skull.
; ‘Your friends,’ the Chequered Knight displayed his acuity, ‘must be in that building! ’Pon my word, they’re in desperate straits! Onward! Let us hasten to their aid!’
Geralt heard screeching yells and orders, and recognised the robber Nightingale with his bandaged cheek. He also glimpsed the half-elf Schirrú, hiding behind some Nilfgaardians in black cloaks. Suddenly horns roared, so loudly that leaves fell from the oak trees. The hooves of war horses rumbled and the swords and armour of charging knights flashed. The robbers fled, yelling, in all directions.
‘’Pon my word!’ the Chequered Knight roared, spurring on his horse. ‘It’s my comrades! They’re ahead of us! Attack, so a little glory will be left for us! Smite, kill!’
Galloping ahead on Bucephalus the Chequered Knight fell on the fleeing robbers, hacked down two in a flash, and scattered the rest like a hawk among sparrows. Two of them turned towards Geralt, and the Witcher dealt with them in the blink of an eye.
A third shot at him with a Gabriel.
A certain Gabriel, a craftsman from Verden, had invented and patented a miniature crossbow. He advertised them with the slogan “Defend yourself”. His handbill declared “Banditry and violence are rampant among us. The law is powerless and inept. Defend yourself! Don’t leave home without a handy Gabriel crossbow. A Gabriel is your guardian, a Gabriel will protect you and your dear ones from bandits.”
Sales were phenomenal. Soon every bandit packed a Gabriel during robberies.
Geralt was a witcher and could dodge a bolt. But he’d forgotten about his painful knee. His evasive manoeuvre was an inch late, and the leaf-shaped point gashed his ear. The pain blinded him, but just for a moment. The brigand was too slow to reload and defend himself. The furious Witcher slashed him across the hands, and then disembowelled him with a sweeping flourish of his sihill.
Geralt hadn’t even managed to wipe the blood from his ear and neck when he was attacked by a small character as agile as a weasel, with unnaturally shining eyes, armed with a curved Zerrikanian sabre which he was twirling with admirable skill. He parried two of Geralt’s blows, and the fine steel of the two blades rang and showered sparks. The weasel was alert and keen-eyed – he noticed at once that the Witcher was limping. He immediately began to circle and attack from a more favourable position. He was astonishingly quick. The sabre’s blade seemed to wail as he made dangerous diagonal thrusts. Geralt was finding it more and more difficult to avoid the blows. He was limping worse and worse, forced to stand on his aching leg.
The Saga of the Witcher Page 133