The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  The weasel suddenly hunched forward, jumped, and made a dexterous feint and lunge, slashing diagonally downwards. Geralt parried obliquely and deflected. The bandit spun nimbly, moving from his stance to a nasty cut from below, when he suddenly goggled, sneezed loudly and covered himself in snot, dropping his guard for a moment. The Witcher jabbed him fast in the neck and the blade went in as far as the vertebrae.

  ‘Well, who’ll tell me now,’ he panted, looking at the twitching corpse, ‘that taking drugs isn’t bad for your health?’

  A bandit attacking him with a raised club tripped and fell face down in the mud, an arrow sticking out of the back of his head.

  ‘I’m coming, Witcher!’ Milva screamed. ‘I’m coming! Hold on!’

  Geralt turned, but there was no one left to hack. Milva had shot the only brigand remaining in the vicinity. The rest fled into the forest, pursued by the colourful knighthood. Several were being tormented by the Chequered Knight on Bucephalus. He caught them, and his terrible raging could be heard from the forest.

  One of the black-uniformed Nilfgaardians, not finished off precisely, suddenly leaped to his feet and bolted. Milva raised and tautened her bow in a second. The fletchings howled and the Nilfgaardian fell on the leaves with a grey-feathered arrow between his shoulder blades. The archer sighed heavily.

  ‘We’ll hang for this,’ she said.

  ‘Why do you think so?’

  ‘This is Nilfgaard, isn’t it? And it’s the second month I’ve been mainly shooting at Nilfgaardians.’

  ‘This is Toussaint, not Nilfgaard.’ Geralt felt the side of his head, and took away a bloody hand.

  ‘Dammit. What is it? Have a look, Milva.’

  The archer examined it carefully and critically.

  ‘Your ear’s been torn off,’ she finally said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. I was fond of that ear. Help me to bind it with something, it’s dripping down my collar. Where are Dandelion and Angoulême?’

  ‘In the cottage, with the pilgrims . . . Oh, a pox on it . . . ’

  Hooves pounded, and from the mist emerged three riders on warhorses, cloaks and pennants fluttering as they galloped. Before their war cries resounded, Geralt had grabbed Milva by the arm and pulled her under a wagon. There was no fooling around with someone charging with a lance, which gave the riders an effective range of ten feet in front of their horse’s head.

  ‘Get out!’ The knights’ mounts churned the earth around the wagon with their horseshoes. ‘Drop your weapons and get out!’

  ‘We’re going to hang,’ Milva murmured. She might have been right.

  ‘Ha, thugs!’ one of the knights, bearing a shield with a black bull’s head on a silver field, roared . ‘Ha, rogues! ’Pon my word, you shall hang!’

  ‘’Pon my word!’ crowed the other, with a uniformly blue shield, in a youthful voice. ‘We’ll carve them up on the spot!’

  ‘Hi, I say! Stop!’

  The Chequered Knight emerged from the fog on Bucephalus. He had finally managed to lift his twisted visor, from beneath which luxuriant flaxen moustaches now peeped.

  ‘Free them with all haste!’ he called. ‘They are not bandits, but upright and honest folk. The lady manfully acted in defence of the pilgrims. And that fellow is a goodly knight!’

  ‘A goodly knight?’ Bull’s Head raised his visor and scrutinised Geralt extremely incredulously. ‘’Pon my word! It cannot be!’

  ‘’Pon my word!’ The Chequered Knight thumped an armoured fist into his breastplate. ‘It can, I give my word! This doughty fellow saved my life when I was in need, after I was flung to the ground by ne’er-do-wells. He is called Geralt of Rivia.’

  ‘Arms?’

  ‘I’m forbidden from revealing them,’ the Witcher grunted. ‘I can share neither my true name nor my arms. I have taken knightly vows. I am the errant Geralt.’

  ‘Oooh!’ a familiar insolent voice suddenly yelled. ‘Look what the cat dragged in. Ha, I told you, aunty, that the Witcher would come and rescue us!’

  ‘And just in time!’ shouted Dandelion, approaching with Angoulême and a small group of terrified pilgrims. He was carrying his lute and the ever-present tube of scrolls. ‘And not a second too soon. You have a fine sense of drama, Geralt. You ought to write plays for the stage!’

  He suddenly fell silent. Bull’s Head leaned over in his saddle and his eyes shone.

  ‘Viscount Julian?’

  ‘Baron de Peyrac-Peyran?’

  Two more knights emerged from behind the oaks. One, in a great helm adorned with a very good likeness of a white swan with outstretched wings, was leading two prisoners in a lasso. The other knight, errant, but practical, was preparing a noose and looking for a suitable bough.

  ‘Neither Nightingale,’ Angoulême noticed the Witcher’s expression, ‘nor Schirrú. Pity.’

  ‘Pity,’ Geralt admitted. ‘But we’ll try to correct that. Sir knight . . . ’

  But Bull’s Head – or rather Baron de Peyrac-Peyran – wasn’t paying any attention to him. He only had eyes, it seemed, for Dandelion.

  ‘’Pon my word,’ he drawled. ‘My eyes do not deceive me! It’s Viscount Julian in person. Ha! The Duchess will be pleased!’

  ‘Who is Viscount Julian?’ the Witcher asked curiously.

  ‘That would be me,’ Dandelion muttered. ‘Don’t interfere, Geralt.’

  ‘Lady Henrietta will be pleased,’ Baron de Peyrac-Peyran repeated. ‘Ha, ’pon my word! We shall take you all to Beauclair Castle. But no excuses, viscount. I won’t hear of any excuse!’

  ‘Some of the brigands fled,’ Geralt spoke in quite a cool tone. ‘I suggest we catch them first. And then think about what to do with this day – so interestingly begun. What say you, baron?’

  ‘’Pon my word,’ said Bull’s Head, ‘nothing will come of it. Pursuit is impossible. The criminals fled across the stream, and we mustn’t put a foot over it, not even a scrap of hoof. That part of the Myrkvid Forest is an inviolable sanctuary, in accordance with the compacts entered into with the druids by Her Majesty Duchess Anna Henarietta, who benignly reigns over Toussaint—’

  ‘The robbers bolted in there, dammit!’ Geralt interrupted, growing furious. ‘They’re going into that inviolable sanctuary to kill! And you’re telling me about some compacts—’

  ‘We’ve given our knightly word!’ It seemed a mutton head would have suited Baron de Peyrac-Peyran’s shield better than a bull’s head. ‘We are forbad! Compacts! Not a single step onto druidic territory!’

  ‘If they’re forbidden, well that’s too bad,’ Angoulême snorted, pulling two bandit horses by their bridles. ‘Drop that empty talk, Witcher. Let’s go. I still have unfinished business with Nightingale and you, I think, would like to talk some more with the half-elf.’

  ‘I’m with you,’ said Milva. ‘I’ll just find some mare or other.’

  ‘Me too,’ Dandelion muttered. ‘I’m with you too . . . ’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no!’ called the bull-headed baron. ‘’Pon my word, Viscount Julian will ride with us to Beauclair Castle. The duchess wouldn’t forgive us if after meeting you we didn’t bring you to her. I shan’t stop the rest of you, you are free in your plans and ideas. As the companions of Viscount Julian, Her Grace, Lady Henarietta, would have gladly received you with all due respect and invited you to stay at the castle, but why, if you scorn her hospitality. . . ’

  ‘We scorn it not,’ Geralt interrupted, with a menacing glance restraining Angoulême, who was making insulting gestures with her hand behind the baron’s back. ‘Far be it from us to scorn it. We shall not fail to pay our respects and due homage to the duchess. But first we will accomplish what we must accomplish. We also gave our word; one might say that we’ve also made compacts. Once we have carried them out we shall make for Beauclair Castle. We shall unfailingly go there.’

  ‘If only,’ he added knowingly and with emphasis, ‘to ensure that no disgrace or dishonour befalls our comrade, Dandel
ion. I meant Julian, by thunder.’

  ‘’Pon my word!’ the baron suddenly laughed. ‘No disgrace nor dishonour will befall Viscount Julian, I’m prepared to give my word on it! For I omitted to tell you, viscount, that Duke Raymund died of apoplexy two years past.’

  ‘Ha, ha!’ Dandelion shouted, beaming all over. ‘The duke kicked the bucket! These truly are marvellous and joyous tidings! I mean, I meant to say, sorrow and grief, a great loss . . . May the earth lie lightly on him . . . If that is the case, let’s ride with all haste to Beauclair, noble knights! Geralt, Milva and Angoulême, I’ll see you in the castle!’

  *

  They forded the stream and spurred the horses into the forest, among spreading oaks and stirrup-high ferns. Milva found the trail of the fleeing gang without difficulty. They rode as quickly as they could, for Geralt feared for the druids. He was afraid the survivors of the gang, feeling safe, would want to seek vengeance on the druids for the massacre sustained from the knights errant of Toussaint.

  ‘Well, Dandelion’s come up trumps,’ Angoulême suddenly said. ‘When Nightingale’s men surrounded us in that cottage, he told me what he feared in Toussaint.’

  ‘I’d guessed,’ Witcher replied. ‘I just didn’t know he’d aimed so high. The duchess, ho!’

  ‘It was a good few years ago. And Duke Raymund, the one who croaked, had apparently sworn he’d tear out the poet’s heart, have it roasted and make his inconstant duchess eat it for supper. Dandelion’s lucky he didn’t fall into the duke’s clutches while he was still alive. We’re also lucky . . .’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’

  ‘Dandelion claims that Duchess Henarietta is madly in love with him.’

  ‘Dandelion always claims that.’

  ‘Shut your traps!’ Milva snapped, reining in her horse and reaching for her bow.

  A brigand rushed blindly towards them, without a hat, weaving from oak to oak. He was running, falling over, getting up and running again. And screaming. Shrilly, dreadfully, awfully.

  ‘What the . . . ?’ Angoulême asked in astonishment.

  Milva tautened her bow in silence. She didn’t shoot, but waited until the brigand approached and rushed straight for them, as though he couldn’t see them. He ran between the horses of the Witcher and Angoulême. They saw his face, as white as a sheet and contorted in horror. They saw his bulging eyes.

  ‘What the . . . ?’ Angoulême repeated.

  Milva recovered from her astonishment, turned in the saddle and sent an arrow into the fleeing man’s back. The brigand roared and tumbled into the ferns.

  The earth shook, making acorns fall from a nearby oak.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Angoulême, ‘what he was fleeing from . . .’

  The earth shook again. The bushes rustled and broken branches cracked.

  ‘What is it?’ Milva stammered, standing up in her stirrups. ‘What is it, Witcher?’

  Geralt looked, saw it and sighed loudly. Angoulême also saw it. And paled.

  ‘Oh, fuck!’

  Milva’s horse also saw it. It neighed wildly, reared and then bucked. The archer flew from the saddle and sprawled heavily onto the ground. The horse raced into the forest. Without a second thought the Witcher’s steed rushed after it, unfortunately choosing a path under an overhanging oak branch. The branch toppled the Witcher from the saddle. The impact and the pain in his knee almost made him lose consciousness.

  Angoulême managed to stay in control of her frenzied horse the longest, but finally she too ended up on the ground and her horse fled, almost trampling Milva as she was getting up.

  And they saw more clearly the thing that was coming for them. And absolutely, absolutely lost their astonishment at the animals’ panic.

  The creature resembled a gigantic tree, a branching, ancient oak; perhaps it was an oak. But if so it was a very unusual oak. Instead of standing somewhere in a clearing among fallen leaves and acorns, instead of letting squirrels scamper over it and linnets shit on it, this oak was marching briskly through the forest, stamping its sturdy roots steadily and waving its boughs. The stout trunk – or torso – of the monster had a diameter of more or less four yards, and the hollow gaping in it was probably not a hollow, but its maw, for it was snapping with a sound like the slamming of a heavy door.

  Though the ground trembled beneath its terrible weight, making it difficult for them to keep their balance, the creature was loping through the ravines quite nimbly. And it wasn’t doing it aimlessly.

  In front of their eyes the monster swung its boughs, swished its branches and plucked from a pit a bandit who was cowering there, just as deftly as a stork plucks a frog hidden in the grass. Entwined in the branches, the thug hung among the boughs, howling pitifully. Geralt saw that the monster was carrying three brigands caught in the same way. And one Nilfgaardian.

  ‘Run . . .’ he moaned, vainly trying to stand. He felt as though someone was banging a white-hot nail into his knee with the rhythmic blows of a hammer. ‘Milva . . . Angoulême . . . Run . . .’

  ‘We won’t leave you!’

  The tree creature heard them, stamped its roots joyfully and rushed towards them. Angoulême, vainly trying to lift Geralt, swore hideously. With trembling hands, Milva tried to nock an arrow on the bowstring. Quite pointlessly.

  ‘Run away!’

  It was already too late. The tree creature was upon them. Paralysed by terror, they could now see its prey: four robbers, hanging in a tangle of branches. Two were still alive, for they were emitting hoarse croaks and kicking their legs. The third, probably unconscious, was hanging limply. The monster was clearly trying to catch its prey alive. But it had been unsuccessful with the fourth, and it had inadvertently squeezed too hard – which was obvious from its victim’s bulging eyes and distended tongue, which was flopping down over a chin soiled with blood and vomit.

  The next second they were hanging in the air, tangled in the branches, all three of them howling to high heaven.

  ‘Graze, graze, graze,’ they heard from below, near the roots. ‘Graze, graze, Little Tree.’

  A young druidess in a white robe with a flower wreath on her head strode behind the tree creature, driving it lightly with a leafy twig.

  ‘Don’t harm them, Little Tree, don’t squeeze. Gently. Graze, graze, graze.’

  ‘We aren’t brigands . . .’ Geralt grunted from above, barely able to produce a sound from his chest, which was being crushed by the bough. ‘Order it to let us go . . . We’re innocent . . .’

  ‘They all say that.’ The druidess shooed away a little butterfly fluttering around her brow. ‘Graze, graze, graze.’

  ‘I’ve pissed myself . . .’ Angoulême whimpered. ‘I’ve bloody pissed myself!’

  Milva only wheezed. Her head was lolling on her chest. Geralt swore vilely. It was the only thing he could do.

  Driven by the druidess, the tree creature ran jauntily through the forest. During the run, all of the prisoners – at least those that were conscious – teeth were chattering to the rhythm of the creature’s leaps, so loudly it echoed.

  After a short while they were in a large clearing. Geralt saw a group of white-robed druids, and besides them another tree creature. The other had a poorer collection – only three bandits hung from its boughs, and probably only one was still alive.

  ‘Oh, criminals, malefactors, oh, contemptible ones!’ declaimed one of the druids from below. He was an old man resting on a long crosier. ‘Observe carefully. See what punishment befalls criminals and base individuals in Myrkvid Forest. Look on and remember. We shall release you, that you might tell others about what you will soon behold. As a warning!’

  In the very centre of the clearing stood a cage woven from wicker, a great, human-shaped effigy upon a huge pile of logs and faggots. The cage was full of yelling and struggling people. The Witcher could clearly hear the frog-like croaking of the robber Nightingale, hoarse with terror. He saw the face of the half-elf Schirrú, as white as a sheet and contorted in panic
ked fear, pressed against the wicker lattice.

  ‘Druids!’ Geralt yelled, puting all his strength into the cry, in order to be heard despite the general clamour. ‘Lady flaminika! I am the Witcher Geralt!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ responded a tall, thin woman with hair the colour of grey steel falling over her back, bound around her brow with a wreath of mistletoe.

  ‘I am Geralt . . . The Witcher . . . A friend of Emiel Regis . . .’

  ‘Again, please. I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘Geraaaaalt! A friend of the vampiiiire’s!’

  ‘Oh! You ought to have said so at once!’

  At a sign from the druidess, the tree creature put them on the ground. Not very gently. Milva was unconscious, with blood dripping from her nose. Geralt stood up with difficulty and kneeled before her.

  The steely-haired flaminika stood beside them and gave a slight cough. Her face was very lean, even haggard, evoking unpleasant associations of a skull covered in skin. Her cornflower-blue eyes were kind and gentle.

  ‘I believe she has broken ribs,’ she said, looking at Milva. ‘But we shall soon remedy that. Our healers will give her help immediately. I regret what has happened. But how was I to know who you were? I didn’t invite you to Caed Myrkvid or give my permission for you to enter our sanctuary. Emiel Regis vouched for you, admittedly, but the presence of a witcher in our forest, a paid killer of living creatures . . .’

  ‘I shall get out of here without a moment’s delay, honourable flaminika,’ Geralt assured her. ‘As soon as I—’

  He broke off, seeing druids with flaming torches walking up to the pyre and the effigy full of people.

  ‘No!’ he cried, clenching his fists. ‘Stop!’

  ‘That cage,’ said the flaminika, seeming not to hear him, ‘was originally meant to serve as a winter manger for starving animals, was meant to have stood in the forest, stuffed with hay. But when we seized those scoundrels, I recalled the nasty rumours and calumnies which people spread about us. Very well, I thought, you can have your Wicker Hag. You made it up as a horrific nightmare, so I shall treat you to that nightmare . . .’