The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  She stabbed him in the thigh, right at the edge of his mail shirt. He didn’t even scream. He flew overboard and splashed into the river, the water closing over him.

  She turned around and looked. It was a long time before he surfaced. Before he dragged himself out onto some marble steps descending into the river. He lay still, dripping water and blood.

  ‘It’ll do you good,’ she muttered. ‘A few weeks in bed in bandages.’

  She grabbed the pole, and pushed off powerfully. The River Easnadh became more and more rapid. The boat was moving more quickly. The final buildings of Tir ná Lia soon lay behind her.

  She didn’t look back.

  First it became very dark, for the boat had passed into an old forest, among trees whose boughs touched each other over the river, forming a vault. Then it brightened up as the forest came to an end, and on both banks there were alder wetlands, reeds and bulrushes. Tussocks of weed, floating water plants and tree trunks appeared in the previously clear river. When the sky brightened up from the lightning she saw rings on the water, and after the thunder rumbled she heard the splash of startled fish. Something was splashing and plopping, squelching and smacking its lips. Several times, not far from the boat, she saw large glowing eyes. Several times the boat shuddered upon hitting something large and alive. Not everything here is beautiful. For the unaccustomed this world means death. She repeated the words of Eredin in her mind.

  The river broadened considerably, spreading out wide. Islands and channels appeared. She let the boat float randomly, wherever the current took her. But she began to worry. What would happen if she made a mistake and took the wrong branch?

  She had barely thought that when the neighing of Kelpie and a strong, mental signal from the unicorn came from the rushes by the bank.

  ‘It’s you, Little Horse!’

  Hurry, Star—Eye. Follow me.

  ‘To my world?’

  First, I must show you something. The elders ordered me to.

  They rode, first through a forest, then across a steppe densely furrowed with ravines and gorges. Lightning flashed, thunder bellowed. The storm was coming closer. A wind was getting up.

  The unicorn led Ciri to one of the ravines.

  It’s here.

  ‘What’s here?’

  Dismount and see.

  She obeyed. The ground was uneven. She tripped. Something crunched and slipped under her foot. Lightning flashed and Ciri cried hollowly.

  She was standing among a sea of bones.

  The ravine’s sandy slopes had subsided, probably washed away by downpours. And that revealed what had been concealed. A burial ground. A boneyard. A huge heap of bones. Shinbones, hip bones, ribs and thigh bones. And skulls.

  She picked up one of them.

  The lightning flashed and Ciri screamed. She understood whose remains they were.

  The skull, which bore the marks of a blade, had canine teeth.

  Now you understand, she heard in her head. Now you know. They did it, the Aen Elle. The Alder King. The Fox. The Sparrowhawk. This world was not their world at all. It became their world. After they had conquered it. When they opened Ard Gaeth, having deceived and taken advantage of us, just as they have tried to deceive and take advantage of you.

  Ciri threw the skull away.

  ‘Murderers!’ she shouted into the night. ‘Scoundrels.’

  Thunder rolled across the sky with a clatter. Ihuarraquax neighed loudly, in warning. She understood. She leaped into the saddle, and urged Kelpie into a gallop with a cry.

  Pursuers were on their trail.

  *

  This has happened before, she thought, gulping air as she galloped. This has happened before. A ride like this, reckless, in the darkness, on a night full of dread, ghosts and apparitions.

  ‘Forward, Kelpie!’

  A furious gallop, eyes watering from the speed. Lightning split the sky in two. Ciri sees alders lit up on both sides of the road. From all sides misshapen trees reach out towards her the long, knobbly arms of their boughs, snap the black jaws of their hollows, and hurl curses and threats in her tracks. Kelpie neighs piercingly, hurtles along so fast her hooves seem only to brush the earth. Ciri flattens herself against the mare’s neck. Not just to minimise the drag, but also to avoid the alder branches, trying to knock or pull her from the saddle. The branches swish, lash, and whip, trying to latch onto her clothes and hair. The misshapen trunks sway, the hollows snap and roar.

  Kelpie neighs wildly. The unicorn replies. There is a snow-white dot in the gloom. It points the way.

  Hurry, Star—Eye! Ride with all your might!

  There are more and more alders, it’s getting more and more difficult to dodge their boughs. Soon they’ll bar the entire road . . .

  A cry behind. The voice of the pursuers.

  Ihuarraquax neighs. Ciri receives his signal. She understands its significance. She presses herself to Kelpie’s neck. She doesn’t have to urge her on. The mare, chased by fear, flies in a breakneck gallop.

  Again a signal from the unicorn, clearer, penetrating her brain. It’s an instruction, quite simply an order.

  Leap, Star—Eye. You must leap. Into another place, into another time.

  Ciri doesn’t understand, but she fights to. She tries hard to understand, she focuses, she focuses so hard that the blood buzzes and pulses in her ears . . .

  Lightning. And after it a sudden darkness, darkness soft and black, black darkness that nothing can lighten.

  A buzzing in her ears.

  *

  The wind on her face. A cool wind. Drops of rain. The scent of pine in her nostrils.

  Kelpie prances, snorts and stamps. Her neck is hot and wet.

  Lightning. Soon after it thunder. In the light Ciri sees Ihuarraquax shaking his head and horn, powerfully pawing the ground with his hoof.

  ‘Little Horse?’

  I’m here, Star—Eye.

  The sky is full of stars. Full of constellations. The Dragon. The Winter Maiden. The Seven Goats. The Pitcher.

  And almost just above the horizon – the Eye.

  ‘We did it,’ she gasped. ‘We made it, Little Horse. This is my world!’

  His signal is so clear that Ciri understands everything.

  No, Star—Eye. We’ve fled from one world. But it still isn’t your place, not your time. There are still many worlds ahead of us.

  ‘Don’t leave me alone.’

  I will not. I am in debt to you. I must pay it off. Entirely.

  *

  Along with the growing wind, the sky darkens from the west. The clouds, coming in waves, extinguish the constellations in turn. The Dragon goes out, the Winter Maiden goes out, then the Seven Goats and the Pitcher. The Eye, which shines brightest and longest, goes out.

  The line of the horizon is lit up by the short-lived brightness of lightning. Thunder rolls with a dull rumble. The wind abruptly intensifies, blowing dust and dry leaves into their eyes.

  The unicorn neighs and sends a mental signal.

  There’s no time to lose. Our only hope is in a quick escape. To the right place, and the right time. We must hurry, Star—Eye.

  I am the Master of Worlds. I am the Elder Blood.

  I am of the blood of Lara Dorren, the daughter of Shiadhal.

  Ihuarraquax neighs, urges them on. Kelpie echoes it with a long-drawn-out snort. Ciri puts on her gloves.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she says.

  A buzzing in her ears. A flash and brightness. And then darkness.

  The trial, sentence and execution of Joachim de Wett is usually ascribed by most historians to the violent, cruel and tyrannical nature of Emperor Emhyr, and neither is there any shortage either – particularly amongst authors of a literary bent – of allusive hypotheses about revenge and the settling of wholely private scores. It is high time the truth were told: the truth, which for every attentive scholar is more than obvious. Duke de Wett commanded the Verden Group in such a way that the term ‘inept’ is much too mild. H
aving against him forces twice as weak as his own, he delayed the offensive to the north, and directed all his efforts towards a fight against the Verdanian guerrillas. The Verden Group committed unspeakable atrocities against the civilian population. The result was easy to predict and was inevitable. If, in the winter, the forces of the insurgents had numbered less than half a thousand, by spring almost the entire country had risen up. King Ervyll, who had been devoted to the Empire, was eliminated, and the insurrection was led by his son, Prince Kistrin, who sympathised with the Nordlings. Having on his flank a landing force of pirates from Skellige, to the fore an offensive of Nordlings from Cidaris, and at the rear a rebellion, de Wett became entangled in piecemeal engagements, suffering defeat after defeat. In the process he delayed the offensive of the Centre Army Group – instead of, as had been planned, engaging the Nordlings’ wing, the Verden Group tied down Menno Coehoorn. The Nordlings immediately exploited the situation and went on the counter—attack, breaking through the encirclement near Mayena and Maribor, and thwarting the chances of those vital forts being swiftly captured a second time.

  The ineptitude and stupidity of de Wett also had a psychological significance. The myth of Nilfgaard’s invincibility was broken. Scores of volunteers began to flock to the army of the Nordlings . . .

  Restif de Montholon The Northern Wars. Myths, Lies and Half—truths.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jarre – what else can be said? – was very disappointed. An upbringing in a temple and his own open nature made him believe in people, in their goodness, kindness and selflessness. Not much remained of that faith.

  He had already slept two nights in the open, among the remains of hay ricks, and now it looked like he would be spending a third night in a similar fashion. In every village where he asked for a bed or a piece of bread he was answered with either a weighty silence, or insults and threats from behind securely locked gates. It didn’t help when he said who he was and why he was travelling.

  He was very, very disappointed in people.

  It was quickly growing dark. The boy marched jauntily and briskly along a path between some fields. He spotted a hay rick, resigned and downcast at the prospect of another night under the open sky. March was, admittedly, extremely warm, but it got cold at night. And very frightening.

  Jarre looked up at the sky, where, as it had been every night for almost a week, the gold and red bee of a comet was visible, crossing the sky from the west to the east, dragging in its wake a flickering plait of fire. He wondered what this strange phenomenon, mentioned in many prophecies, might actually auger.

  He started walking again. It was growing darker and darker. The track led downwards, into an avenue of dense undergrowth that assumed terrifying shapes in the semi-darkness. From below, where it was even darker, drifted the cold, foul smell of rotting weed and something else. Something very unpleasant.

  Jarre stopped. He tried to persuade himself that what was crawling over his back and shoulders was not fear, but cold. Unsuccessfully.

  A low footbridge connected the banks of a canal overgrown with osiers and misshapen willows, black and shining like freshly pared pitch. Long holes gaped in the footbridge in places where the timbers had rotted and caved in, and the handrail was broken, its spindles submerged in the water. The willows grew more thickly beyond the bridge. Although it was still a long way to the actual night, although the distant meadows beyond the canal were still glowing with a yarn of mist hanging on the top of the grass, darkness reigned among the willows. Jarre saw the vague ruins of a building in the gloom – probably a mill, sluice or eel smokery.

  I must cross that footbridge, thought the lad. There’s nothing to be done! Although I feel in my bones that something evil is lurking in the darkness, I must get to the other side of this canal. I must cross this canal, like that mythical leader or hero I read about in yellowed manuscripts in the Temple of Melitele. I’ll traverse this canal and then . . . What was it? The cards will have been dealt? No, the dice will have been cast. Behind me lies my past, before me stretches my future . . .

  He stepped onto the bridge and at once knew that his sense of foreboding hadn’t been mistaken. Before he even saw them. Or heard them.

  ‘Well?’ rasped one of the men who now blocked his way. ‘Didn’t I say? I said, just wait a tick and someone’ll appear.’

  ‘Exackly, Okultich,’ another of the characters armed with clubs lisped slightly. ‘Verily we’ll ‘ave to make you a fortune-teller or a wise-man. Well, gentle passer-by, walking all alone! Will you give us what you have of your own free will, or will it have to come to a struggle?’

  ‘I don’t have anything!’ yelled Jarre at the top of his voice, although he didn’t have much hope that anybody would hear and rush to help. ‘I’m a poor wanderer! I don’t have a groat to my name! What can I give you? This cane? These garments?’

  ‘Not only that,’ said the lisping one, and something in his voice made Jarre tremble. ‘For you ought to know, poor wanderer, that in truth we, being in urgent need, were looking out for a wench. Well, night’s just around the corner, no one else is coming now, so beggars can’t be choosers. Grab ‘im, boys!’

  ‘I have a knife,’ yelled Jarre. ‘I’m warning you!’

  He had a knife indeed. He’d swiped it from the temple kitchen the day before his flight and hidden it in his bundle. But he didn’t reach for it. He was paralysed – and terrified – by the realisation that it was pointless and that nothing would help him.

  ‘I have a knife!’

  ‘Well, prithee,’ sneered the lisping one, approaching. ‘He has a knife. Who’d have thought it?’

  Jarre couldn’t run away. Terror turned his legs into two posts stuck into the ground. Adrenaline seized him by the throat like a noose.

  ‘Hi there!’ a third character suddenly shouted, in a young and strangely familiar voice. ‘I think I know him! Yes, yes, I know him! Let him be, I say, he’s a pal! Jarre? Do you recognise me? I’m Melfi! Hey, Jarre? Do you recognise me?’

  ‘Yes . . . I do . . .’ Jarre fought against the hideous, overwhelming, previously unfamiliar sensation with all his strength. Only when he felt a pain in his hip, which had smashed against a timber of the bridge, did he understand what the sensation was.

  The sensation of losing consciousness.

  *

  ‘Oh, this is a surprise,’ said Melfi. ‘Why, a fluke among flukes! Why, coming across a fellow-countryman. A pal from Ellander. A mate! Eh, Jarre?’

  Jarre swallowed a bite of the hard, rubbery piece of fatback that his strange company had given him and ate a bit of roasted turnip. He didn’t reply, but only nodded towards the whole group of six surrounding the campfire.

  ‘And which way are you going, Jarre?’

  ‘To Vizima.’

  ‘Ha! We’re heading to Vizima too! Why, a fluke among flukes! What, Milton? Remember Milton, Jarre?’

  Jarre didn’t. He wasn’t certain if he had ever seen him. As a matter of fact, Melfi was exaggerating a little in calling him a pal. He was the cooper’s son from Ellander. When the two of them used to attend the temple school, Melfi would regularly and severely beat Jarre and call him a ‘bastard-without-a-mother-or-father-begotten-in-the-nettles’. This went on for about a year, after which the cooper took his son out of school, since it had been proved that his offspring was only fit for barrels. Thus Melfi, rather than toiling to learn the arcana of reading and writing, toiled to whittle staves in his father’s workshop. And after Jarre had completed his studies and on the strength of a recommendation from the temple became an assistant scribe in the magistrates’ court, the cooper’s son – following the example of his father – bowed to him, gave him presents and declared his friendship.

  ‘—we’re going to Vizima,’ Melfi continued his tale. ‘To join up. All of us here, to a man, are going to join the army. These here, look, Milton and Ograbek, peasant boys, have been selected for the acreage duty, why, you know. . .’

  ‘I do.’ Jarre cast
his eyes over the peasant sons, fair-haired and as alike as brothers, chewing some unrecognisable food roasted in the cinders. ‘One for each two score and ten acres. The acreage levy. And you, Melfi?’

  ‘With me,’ sighed the cooper’s son, ‘it’s like this, see: the first time the guilds had to supply a recruit my father got me out of trouble. But when poverty came, we had to draw lots a second time, because the town so decided . . . Well, you know . . .’

  ‘I do,’ nodded Jarre again. ‘An additional lottery for the levy was decreed by a resolution of Ellander town council on the day of the sixteenth of January. It was necessary owing to the Nilfgaardian threat—’

  ‘Just listen to ’im talk, Pike,’ raspingly interjected the thickset and shaven-headed fellow, the one called Okultich, who had hailed him on the bridge not long before.

  ‘Fop! Know-it-all!’

  ‘Smart alec!’ drawled another huge farmhand with a dopey smile permanently plastered onto his round face. ‘Know-all!’

  ‘Shut it, Klaproth,’ slowly lisped the one called Pike, the oldest of the company, sturdy, with a drooping moustache and a shaved nape. ‘Since he’s a know-it-all, it’s worth listening when he talks. There may be a benefit from it. Facts. And facts never harmed anyone. Well, almost never. And almost no one.’

  ‘I’ll second that,’ announced Melfi. ‘He, I mean Jarre, is indeed clever, knows his letters . . . A scholar! I mean he works as a court scribe in Ellander, and at the Temple of Melitele the whole book collection is under his care—’

  ‘What then, I wonder,’ interrupted Pike, staring at Jarre through the smoke and sparks, ‘is a sodding court-temple librarian doing on the highway to Vizima?’

  ‘Just like you,’ said the boy, ‘I’m going to join the army.’

  ‘And what—’ Pike’s eyes shone, reflecting the glow like the eyes of a real fish in the light of a torch on the bow of a boat ‘—what is a court-temple scholar hoping to find in the army? For he can’t be going to join up. Eh? Why, any fool knows that temples are exempt from the levy, they don’t have to supply recruits. And any fool knows that every single court is capable of defending its scribe and wangling him out of joining the army. So what’s it all about, master clerk?’