Introducing the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Of course it is, dammit. Am I a princess or not?’

  V

  ‘Daddy,’ Marilka nagged monotonously, ‘when are we going to the market? To the market, Daddy!’

  ‘Quiet, Marilka,’ grunted Caldemeyn, wiping his plate with his bread. ‘So what were you saying, Geralt? They’re leaving?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I never thought it would end so peacefully. They had me by the throat with that letter from Audoen. I put on a brave face but, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t do a thing to them.’

  ‘Even if they openly broke the law? Started a fight?’

  ‘Even if they did. Audoen’s a very touchy king. He sends people to the scaffold on a whim. I’ve got a wife, a daughter, and I’m happy with my office. I don’t have to worry where the bacon will come from tomorrow. It’s good news that they’re leaving. But how, and why, did it happen?’

  ‘Daddy, I want to go to the market!’

  ‘Libushe! Take Marilka away! Geralt, I asked Centurion, the Golden Court’s innkeeper, about that Novigradian company. They’re quite a gang. Some of them were recognised.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The one with the gash across his face is Nohorn, Abergard’s old adjutant from the so-called Free Angren Company – you’ll have heard of them. That hulk they call Fifteen was one of theirs too and I don’t think his nickname comes from fifteen good deeds. The half-elf is Civril, a brigand and professional murderer. Apparently, he had something to do with the massacre at Tridam.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Tridam. Didn’t you hear of it? Everyone was talking about it three . . . Yes, three years ago. The Baron of Tridam was holding some brigands in the dungeons. Their comrades – one of whom was that half-blood Civril – seized a river ferry full of pilgrims during the Feast of Nis. They demanded the baron set those others free. The baron refused, so they began murdering pilgrims, one after another. By the time the baron released his prisoners they’d thrown a dozen pilgrims overboard to drift with the current – and following the deaths the baron was in danger of exile, or even of execution. Some blamed him for waiting so long to give in, and others claimed he’d committed a great evil in releasing the men, in setting a pre—precedent or something. The gang should have been shot from the banks, together with the hostages, or attacked on the boats; he shouldn’t have given an inch. At the tribunal the baron argued he’d had no choice, he’d chosen the lesser evil to save more than twenty-five people – women and children – on the ferry.’

  ‘The Tridam ultimatum,’ whispered the witcher. ‘Renfri—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Caldemeyn, the marketplace.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s deceived us. They’re not leaving. They’ll force Stregobor out of his tower as they forced the Baron of Tridam’s hand. Or they’ll force me to . . . They’re going to start murdering people at the market, it’s a real trap!’

  ‘By all the gods—Where are you going? Sit down!’

  Marilka, terrified by the shouting, huddled, keening, in the corner of the kitchen.

  ‘I told you!’ Libushe shouted, pointing to the witcher. ‘I said he only brings trouble!’

  ‘Silence, woman! Geralt? Sit down!’

  ‘We have to stop them. Right now, before people go to the market. And call the guards. As the gang leaves the inn seize them and hold them.’

  ‘Be reasonable. We can’t. We can’t touch a hair of their heads if they’ve done nothing wrong. They’ll defend themselves and there’ll be bloodshed. They’re professionals, they’ll slaughter my people, and it’ll be my head for it if word gets to Audoen. I’ll gather the guards, go to the market and keep an eye on them there—’

  ‘That won’t achieve anything, Caldemeyn. If the crowd’s already in the square you can’t prevent panic and slaughter. Renfri has to be stopped right now, while the marketplace is empty.’

  ‘It’s illegal. I can’t permit it. It’s only a rumour the half-elf was at Tridam. You could be wrong, and Audoen would flay me alive.’

  ‘We have to take the lesser evil!’

  ‘Geralt, I forbid it! As Alderman, I forbid it! Leave your sword! Stop!’

  Marilka was screaming, her hands pressed over her mouth.

  VI

  Shading his eyes with his hand, Civril watched the sun emerge from behind the trees. The marketplace was coming to life. Waggons and carts rumbled past and the first vendors were already filling their stalls. A hammer was banging, a cock crowing and seagulls screeched loudly overhead.

  ‘Looks like a lovely day,’ Fifteen said pensively.

  Civril looked at him askance but didn’t say anything.

  ‘The horses all right, Tavik?’ asked Nohorn, pulling on his gloves.

  ‘Saddled and ready. But, there’s still not many of them in the marketplace.’

  ‘There’ll be more.’

  ‘We should eat.’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘Dead right. You’ll have time later. And an appetite.’

  ‘Look,’ said Fifteen suddenly.

  The witcher was approaching from the main street, walking between stalls, coming straight towards them.

  ‘Renfri was right,’ Civril said. ‘Give me the crossbow, Nohorn.’ He hunched over and, holding the strap down with his foot, pulled the string back. He placed the bolt carefully in the groove as the witcher continued to approach. Civril raised the crossbow.

  ‘Not one step closer, witcher!’

  Geralt stopped about forty paces from the group.

  ‘Where’s Renfri?’

  The half-blood’s pretty face contorted. ‘At the tower. She’s making the sorcerer an offer he can’t refuse. But she knew you would come. She left a message for you.’

  ‘Speak.’

  ‘ “I am what I am. Choose. Either me, or a lesser.” You’re supposed to know what it means.’

  The witcher nodded, raised his hand above his right shoulder, and drew his sword. The blade traced a glistening arc above his head. Walking slowly, he made his way towards the group.

  Civril laughed nastily, ominously.

  ‘Renfri said this would happen, witcher, and left us something special to give you. Right between the eyes.’

  The witcher kept walking, and the half-elf raised the crossbow to his cheek. It grew very quiet.

  The bowstring hummed, the witcher’s sword flashed and the bolt flew upwards with a metallic whine, spinning in the air until it clattered against the roof and rumbled into the gutter.

  ‘He deflected it . . .’ groaned Fifteen. ‘Deflected it in flight—’

  ‘As one,’ ordered Civril. Blades hissed as they were drawn from sheathes, the group pressed shoulder to shoulder, bristling with blades.

  The witcher came on faster; his fluid walk became a run – not straight at the group quivering with swords, but circling it in a tightening spiral.

  As Geralt circled the group Tavik’s nerve failed. He rushed the witcher, the twins following him.

  ‘Don’t disperse!’ Civril roared, shaking his head and losing sight of the witcher. He swore and jumped aside, seeing the group fall apart, scattering around the market stalls.

  Tavik went first. He was chasing the witcher when he saw Geralt running in the opposite direction, towards him. He skidded, trying to stop, but the witcher shot past before he could raise his sword. Tavik felt a hard blow just above his hip, fell to his knees and, when he saw his hip, started screaming.

  The twins simultaneously attacked the black, blurred shape rushing towards them, mistimed their attack and collided with each other as Geralt slashed Vyr across the chest and Nimir in the temple, leaving one twin to stagger, head down, into a vegetable stall, and the other to spin in place and fall limply into the gutter.

  The marketplace boiled with vendors running away, stalls clattering to the ground and screams rising in the dusty air. Tavik tried to stumble to his trembling legs and fell painfully to the ground.

  ‘From the left, Fiftee
n!’ Nohorn roared, running in a semi-circle to approach the witcher from behind.

  Fifteen spun. But not quickly enough. He bore a thrust through the stomach, prepared to strike and was struck again in the neck, just below his ear. He took four unsteady steps and collapsed into a fish cart, which rolled away beneath him. Sliding over the slippery cargo Fifteen fell onto the flagstones, silver with scales.

  Civril and Nohorn struck simultaneously from both sides, the elf with a high sweeping cut, Nohorn from a kneeling position, low and flat. The witcher caught both, two metallic clangs merging into one. Civril leapt aside and tripped, catching himself against a stall as Nohorn warded off a blow so powerful it threw him backwards to his knees. Leaping up he parried too slowly, taking a gash in the face parallel to his old scar.

  Civril bounced off the stall, jumping over Nohorn as he fell, missed the witcher and jumped away. The thrust was so sharp, so precise, he didn’t feel it; his legs only gave way when he tried to attack again. The sword fell from his hand, the tendons severed above the elbow. Civril fell to his knees and shook his head, trying and failing to rise. His head dropped, and among the shattered stalls and market wares, the scattered fish and cabbages, his body stilled in the centre of a growing red puddle.

  Renfri entered the marketplace.

  She approached slowly with a soft, feline step, avoiding the carts and stalls. The crowd in the streets and by the houses, which had been humming like a hornet’s nest, grew silent. Geralt stood motionless, his sword in his lowered hand. Renfri came to within ten paces and stopped, close enough to see that, under her jacket, she wore a short coat of chain-mail, barely covering her hips.

  ‘You’ve made your choice,’ she said slowly. ‘Are you sure it’s the right one?’

  ‘This won’t be another Tridam,’ Geralt said with an effort.

  ‘It wouldn’t have been. Stregobor laughed in my face. He said I could butcher Blaviken and the neighbouring villages and he wouldn’t leave his tower. And he won’t let anyone in, not even you. Why are you looking at me like that? Yes, I deceived you. I’ll deceive anyone if I have to, why should you be special?’

  ‘Get out of here, Renfri.’

  She laughed. ‘No, Geralt.’ She drew her sword, quickly and nimbly.

  ‘Renfri.’

  ‘No. You made a choice. Now it’s my turn.’ With one sharp move, she tore the skirt from her hips and spun it in the air, wrapping the material around her forearm. Geralt retreated and raised his hand, arranging his fingers in the Sign.

  Renfri laughed hoarsely. ‘It doesn’t affect me. Only the sword will.’

  ‘Renfri,’ he repeated. ‘Go. If we cross blades, I—I won’t be able—’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But I, I can’t do anything else. I just can’t. We are what we are, you and I.’

  She moved towards him with a light, swaying step, her sword glinting in her right hand, her skirt dragging along the ground from her left.

  She leapt, the skirt fluttered in the air and, veiled in its tracks, the sword flashed in a short, sparing cut. Geralt jumped away; the cloth didn’t even brush him, and Renfri’s blade slid over his diagonal parry. He attacked instinctively, spinning their blades, trying to knock her weapon aside. It was a mistake. She deflected his blade and slashed, aiming for his face. He barely parried and pirouetted away, dodging her dancing blade and jumping aside again. She fell on him, threw the skirt into his eyes and slashed flatly from short range, spinning. Spinning with her he avoided the blow. She knew the trick and turned with him, their bodies so close he could feel the touch of her breath as she ran the edge across his chest. He felt a twinge of pain, ignored it. He turned again, in the opposite direction, deflected the blade flying towards his temple, made a swift feint and attacked. Renfri sprang away as if to strike from above as Geralt lunged and swiftly slashed her exposed thigh and groin from below with the very tip of his sword.

  She didn’t cry out. Falling to her side she dropped her sword and clutched her thigh. Blood poured through her fingers in a bright stream over her decorated belt, elk-leather boots, and onto the dirty flagstones. The clamour of the swaying crowd, crammed in the streets, grew as they saw blood.

  Geralt put up his sword.

  ‘Don’t go . . .’ she moaned, curling up in a ball.

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘I’m . . . cold . . .’

  He said nothing. Renfri moaned again, curling up tighter as her blood flowed into the cracks between the stones.

  ‘Geralt . . . Hold me . . .’

  The witcher remained silent.

  She turned her head, resting her cheek on the flagstones and was still. A fine dagger, hidden beneath her body until now, slipped from her numb fingers.

  After a long moment the witcher raised his head, hearing Stregobor’s staff tapping against the flagstones. The wizard was approaching quickly, avoiding the corpses.

  ‘What slaughter,’ he panted. ‘I saw it, Geralt, I saw it all in my crystal ball . . .’

  He came closer, bent over. In his trailing black robe, supported by his staff, he looked old.

  ‘It’s incredible.’ He shook his head. ‘Shrike’s dead.’

  Geralt didn’t reply.

  ‘Well, Geralt.’ The wizard straightened himself. ‘Fetch a cart and we’ll take her to the tower for an autopsy.’

  He looked at the witcher and, not getting any answer, leant over the body.

  Someone the witcher didn’t know found the hilt of his sword and drew it. ‘Touch a single hair of her head,’ said the person the witcher didn’t know, ‘touch her head and yours will go flying to the flagstones.’

  ‘Have you gone mad? You’re wounded, in shock! An autopsy’s the only way we can confirm—’

  ‘Don’t touch her!’

  Stregobor, seeing the raised blade, jumped aside and waved his staff. ‘All right!’ he shouted. ‘As you wish! But you’ll never know! You’ll never be sure! Never, do you hear, witcher?’

  ‘Be gone.’

  ‘As you wish.’ The wizard turned away, his staff hitting the flagstones. ‘I’m returning to Kovir. I’m not staying in this hole another day. Come with me rather than rot here. These people don’t know anything, they’ve only seen you killing. And you kill nastily, Geralt. Well, are you coming?’

  Geralt didn’t reply; he wasn’t looking at him. He put his sword away. Stregobor shrugged and walked away, his staff tapping rhythmically against the ground.

  A stone came flying from the crowd and clattered against the flagstones. A second followed, whizzing past just above Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher, holding himself straight, raised both hands and made a swift gesture with them. The crowd heaved; the stones came flying more thickly but the Sign, protecting him behind an invisible oval shield, pushed them aside.

  ‘Enough!’ yelled Caldemeyn. ‘Bloody hell, enough of that!’

  The crowd roared like a surge of breakers but the stones stopped flying. The witcher stood, motionless.

  The alderman approached him.

  ‘Is this,’ he said, with a broad gesture indicating the motionless bodies strewn across the square, ‘how your lesser evil looks? Is this what you believed necessary?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Geralt slowly, with an effort.

  ‘Is your wound serious?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In that case, get out of here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the witcher. He stood a moment longer, avoiding the alderman’s eyes. Then he turned away slowly, very slowly.

  ‘Geralt.’

  The witcher looked round.

  ‘Don’t come back,’ said Caldemeyn. ‘Never come back.’

  THE VOICE OF REASON 4

  ‘Let’s talk, Iola.

  ‘I need this conversation. They say silence is golden. Maybe it is, although I’m not sure it’s worth that much. It has its price certainly; you have to pay for it.

  ‘It’s easier for you. Yes it is, don’t deny it. You’re silent through choice; you’ve made it a sac
rifice to your goddess. I don’t believe in Melitele, don’t believe in the existence of other gods either, but I respect your choice, your sacrifice. Your belief. Because your faith and sacrifice, the price you’re paying for your silence, will make you a better, a greater being. Or, at least, it could. But my faithlessness can do nothing. It’s powerless.

  ‘You ask what I believe in, in that case.

  ‘I believe in the sword.

  ‘As you can see, I carry two. Every witcher does. It’s said, spitefully, the silver one is for monsters and the iron for humans. But that’s wrong. As there are monsters which can be struck down only with a silver blade, so there are those for whom iron is lethal. And Iola, not just any iron, it must come from a meteorite. What is a meteorite, you ask? It’s a falling star. You must have seen them – short, luminous streaks in the night. You’ve probably made a wish on one. Perhaps it was one more reason for you to believe in the gods. For me, a meteorite is nothing more than a bit of metal, primed by the sun and its fall, metal to make swords.

  ‘Yes, of course you can take my sword. Feel how light it—No! Don’t touch the edge, you’ll cut yourself. It’s sharper than a razor. It has to be.

  ‘I train in every spare moment. I don’t dare lose my skill. I’ve come here – this furthest corner of the temple garden – to limber up, to rid my muscles of that hideous, loathsome numbness which has come over me, this coldness flowing through me. And you found me here. Funny, for a few days I was trying to find you. I wanted—

  ‘I need to talk, Iola. Let’s sit down for a moment.

  ‘You don’t know me at all, do you?

  ‘I’m called Geralt. Geralt of—No. Only Geralt. Geralt of nowhere. I’m a witcher.

  ‘My home is Kaer Morhen, Witcher’s Settlement. It’s . . . It was a fortress. Not much remains of it.

  ‘Kaer Morhen . . . That’s where the likes of me were produced. It’s not done anymore, no one lives in Kaer Morhen now. No one but Vesemir. Who’s Vesemir? My father. Why are you so surprised ? What’s so strange about it? Everyone’s got a father, and mine is Vesemir. And so what if he’s not my real father? I didn’t know him, or my mother. I don’t even know if they’re still alive, and I don’t much care.