Introducing the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘I do.’ The guard swallowed, looking at the poet’s pale face and chin covered in black, dried blood. ‘Wounded ? It looks terrible, sir.’

  ‘I’m in haste,’ repeated Geralt. ‘We’ve been travelling since dawn. Let us through, please.’

  ‘We can’t,’ said the other guard. ‘You’re only allowed through between sunrise and sunset. None may pass at night. That’s the order. There’s no way through for anyone unless they’ve got a letter of safe-conduct from the king or the mayor. Or they’re nobility with a coat of arms.’

  Dandilion croaked, huddled up even more, resting his forehead on the horse’s mane, shuddered, shook and retched dryly. Another stream of blood trickled down the branched, dried pattern on his mount’s neck.

  ‘My good men,’ Geralt said as calmly as he could, ‘you can see for yourselves how badly he fares. I have to find someone who can treat him. Let us through. Please.’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ The guard leant on his halberd. ‘Orders are orders. I’ll go to the pillory if I let you through. They’ll chase me from service, and then how will I feed my children? No, sir, I can’t. Take your friend down from the horse and put him in the room in the barbican. We’ll dress him and he’ll last out until dawn, if that’s his fate. It’s not long now.’

  ‘A dressing’s not enough.’ The witcher ground his teeth. ‘We need a healer, a priest, a gifted doctor—’

  ‘You wouldn’t be waking up anyone like that at night anyway,’ said the second guard. ‘The most we can do is see that you don’t have to camp out under the gate until dawn. It’s warm in there and there’s somewhere to put your friend; he’ll fare better there than in the saddle. Come on, let us help you lower him from the horse.’

  It was warm, stuffy and cosy in the room within the barbican. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and behind it a cricket chirped fiercely.

  Three men sat at the heavy square table laid with jugs and plates.

  ‘Forgive us for disturbing you, squires . . .’ said the guard, holding Dandilion up. ‘I trust you won’t mind . . . This one here is a knight, hmm . . . And the other one is wounded, so I thought—’

  ‘You thought well,’ one of the men turned his slender, sharp, expressive face towards them and got up. ‘Here, lay him down on the pallet.’

  The man was an elf, like the other one sitting at the table. Both, judging by their clothes, which were a typical mixture of human and elven fashion, were elves who had settled and integrated. The third man, who looked the eldest, was human, a knight, judging by the way he was dressed and by his salt-and-pepper hair, cut to fit beneath a helmet.

  ‘I’m Chireadan,’ the taller of the elves, with an expressive face, introduced himself. As was usual with representatives of the Old People, it was difficult to guess his age; he could have been twenty or one hundred and twenty. ‘This is my cousin Errdil. And this nobleman is the knight Vratimir.’

  ‘A nobleman,’ muttered Geralt, but a closer look at the coat of arms embroidered on his tunic shattered his hopes: a shield divided per cross and bearing golden lilies was cut diagonally by a silver bar. Vratimir was not only illegitimate but came from a mixed, human-nonhuman union. As a result, although he was entitled to use a coat of arms, he couldn’t consider himself a true nobleman, and the privilege of crossing the city gate after dusk most certainly wasn’t extended to him.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ – the witcher’s scrutiny did not escape the elf’s attention – ‘we, too, have to remain here until dawn. The law knows no exceptions, at least not for the likes of us. We invite you to join our company, sir knight.’

  ‘Geralt, of Rivia,’ the witcher introduced himself. ‘A witcher, not a knight.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ Chireadan indicated Dandilion, whom the guards had laid on a pallet in the meantime. ‘It looks like poisoning. If it is poisoning, then I can help. I’ve got some good medicine with me.’

  Geralt sat down, then quickly gave a guarded account of events at the river. The elves looked at each other, and the knight spat through his teeth and frowned.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ Chireadan remarked. ‘What could it have been?’

  ‘A djinn in a bottle,’ muttered Vratimir. ‘Like a fairy tale—’

  ‘Not quite.’ Geralt indicated Dandilion, curled up on the pallet. ‘I don’t know of any fairy tale that ends like this.’

  ‘That poor fellow’s injuries,’ said Chireadan, ‘are evidently of a magical nature. I fear that my medicine will not be of much use. But I can at least lessen his suffering. Have you already given him a remedy, Geralt?’

  ‘A painkilling elixir.’

  ‘Come and help me. You can hold his head up.’

  Dandilion greedily drank the medicine, diluted with wine, choked on his last sip, wheezed and covered the leather pillow with spittle.

  ‘I know him,’ Errdil said. ‘He’s Dandilion, the troubadour and poet. I saw him singing at the court of King Ethain in Cidaris once.’

  ‘A troubadour,’ repeated Chireadan, looking at Geralt. ‘That’s bad. Very bad. The muscles of his neck and throat are attacked. Changes in his vocal cords are starting to take place. The spell’s action has to be halted as soon as possible otherwise . . . This might be irreversible.’

  ‘That means . . . Does that mean he won’t be able to talk?’

  ‘Talk, yes. Maybe. Not sing.’

  Geralt sat down at the table without saying a word and rested his forehead on his clenched fists.

  ‘A wizard,’ said Vratimir. ‘A magical remedy or a curative spell is needed. You have to take him to some other town, witcher.’

  ‘What?’ Geralt raised his head. ‘And here, in Rinde? Isn’t there a wizard here?’

  ‘Magicians are hard to come by in the whole of Redania,’ said the knight. ‘Isn’t that true? Ever since King Heribert placed an exorbitant tax on spells, magicians have boycotted the capital and those towns which are rigorous in executing the king’s edicts. And the councillors of Rinde are famous for their zeal in this respect. Chireadan, Errdil, am I right?’

  ‘You are,’ confirmed Errdil. ‘But . . . Chireadan, may I?’

  ‘You have to,’ said Chireadan, looking at the witcher. ‘There’s no point in making a secret of it; everyone knows anyway. There’s a sorceress staying in the town right now, Geralt.’

  ‘Incognito, no doubt?’

  ‘Not very,’ smiled the elf. ‘The sorceress in question is something of an individualist. She’s ignoring both the boycott imposed on Rinde by the Council of Wizards, and the disposition of the local councillors, and is doing rather splendidly out of it: the boycott means there’s tremendous demand for magical services here and, of course, the sorceress isn’t paying any levies.’

  ‘And the town council puts up with it?’

  ‘The sorceress is staying with a merchant, a trade broker from Novigrad, who is also the honorary ambassador. Nobody can touch her there. She has asylum.’

  ‘It’s more like house arrest than asylum,’ corrected Errdil. ‘She’s just about imprisoned there. But she has no shortage of clients. Rich clients. She ostentatiously makes light of the councillors, holds balls and extravagant parties—’

  ‘While the councillors are furious, turn whoever they can against her and tarnish her reputation as best they can,’ Chireadan cut in. ‘They spread foul rumours about her and hope, no doubt, that the Novigrad hierarchy will forbid the merchant to grant her asylum.’

  ‘I don’t like meddling in things like that,’ muttered Geralt, ‘but I’ve got no choice. What’s the merchant-ambassador’s name?’

  ‘Beau Berrant.’

  The witcher thought that Chireadan grimaced as he pronounced the name.

  ‘Oh well, it really is your only hope. Or rather, the only hope for that poor fellow moaning on the bed. But whether the sorceress will want to help you . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Be careful when you go there,’ said Errdil. ‘The mayor’s spies are watching the house. You know what t
o do if they stop you. Money opens all doors.’

  ‘I’ll go as soon as they open the gates. What’s the sorceress called ?’

  Geralt thought he detected a slight flush on Chireadan’s expressive face. But it could have been the glow from the fire in the hearth.

  ‘Yennefer of Vergerberg.’

  III

  ‘My lord’s asleep,’ repeated the doorman, looking down at Geralt. He was taller by a head and nearly twice as broad in the shoulders. ‘Are you deaf, you vagabond? The lord’s asleep, I said.’

  ‘Then let him sleep,’ agreed the witcher. ‘I’ve not got business with your lord but with the lady who is staying here.’

  ‘Business, you say.’ The doorman, as it turned out, was surprisingly witty for someone of such stature and appearance. ‘Then go, you loiterer, to the whorehouse to satisfy your need. Scram.’

  Geralt unfastened the purse on his belt and, holding it by the straps, weighed it in his palm.

  ‘You won’t bribe me,’ the Cerberus said proudly.

  ‘I don’t intend to.’

  The porter was too huge to have the reflexes which would let him dodge or shield himself from a quick blow given by an ordinary man. He didn’t even have time to blink before the witcher’s blow landed. The heavy purse struck him in the temple with a metallic crash. He collapsed against the door, grabbing the frame with both hands. Geralt tore him away from it with a kick in the knee, shoved him with his shoulder and fetched him another blow with the purse. The doorman’s eyes grew hazy and diverged in a comical squint, and his legs folded under him like two pen-knives. The witcher, seeing the strapping fellow moving, although almost unconscious, walloped him with force for the third time, right on the crown of his head.

  ‘Money,’ he muttered, ‘opens all doors.’

  It was dark in the vestibule. A loud snoring came from the door on the left. The witcher peeped in carefully. A fat woman, her nightdress hitched up above her hips, was asleep on a tumbled pallet, snoring and snorting through her nose. It wasn’t the most beautiful sight. Geralt dragged the porter into the little room and closed the door.

  On the right was another door, half-opened, and behind it stone steps led down. The witcher was about to pass them when an indistinct curse, a clatter and the dry crash of a vessel cracking reached him from below.

  The room was a big kitchen, full of utensils, smelling of herbs and resinous wood. On the stone floor, among fragments of a clay jug, knelt a completely naked man with his head hanging low.

  ‘Apple juice, bloody hell,’ he mumbled, shaking his head like a sheep which had rammed a wall by a mistake. ‘Apple . . . juice. Where . . . Where’re the servants?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ the witcher asked politely.

  The man raised his head and swallowed. His eyes were vague and very bloodshot.

  ‘She wants juice from apples,’ he stated, then got up with evident difficulty, sat down on a chest covered with a sheepskin coat, and leant against the stove. ‘I have to . . . take it upstairs because—’

  ‘Do I have the pleasure of speaking to the merchant Beau Berrant?’

  ‘Quieter,’ the man grimaced painfully. ‘Don’t yell. Listen, in that barrel there . . . Juice. Apple. Pour it into something . . . and help me get upstairs, all right?’

  Geralt shrugged, then nodded sympathetically. He generally avoided overdoing the alcohol but the state in which the merchant found himself was not entirely unknown to him. He found a jug and a tin mug among the crockery and drew some juice from the barrel. He heard snoring and turned. Beau Berrant was fast asleep, his head hanging on his chest.

  For a moment, the witcher considered pouring juice over him to wake him up, but he changed his mind. He left the kitchen, carrying the jug. The corridor ended in a heavy inlaid door. He entered carefully, opening it just enough to slip inside. It was dark, so he dilated his pupils. And wrinkled his nose.

  A heavy smell of sour wine, candles and overripe fruit hung in the air. And something else, that brought to mind a mixture of the scents of lilac and gooseberries.

  He looked around. The table in the middle of the chamber bore a battlefield of jugs, carafes, goblets, silver plates, dishes and ivory-handled cutlery. A creased tablecloth, which had been pushed aside, was soaked in wine, covered in purple stains and stiff with wax which had trickled down the candlesticks. Orange peel glowed like flowers among plum and peach stones, pear cores and grape stalks. A goblet had fallen over and smashed. The other was in one piece, half full, with a turkey bone sticking out of it. Next to the goblet stood a black, high-heeled slipper. It was made of basilisk skin. There wasn’t a more expensive raw material which could be used in the making of shoes.

  The other slipper lay under a chair on top of a carelessly discarded black dress with white frills and an embroidered flowery pattern.

  For a moment Geralt stood undecided, struggling with embarrassment and the desire to turn on his heel and leave. But that would have meant his tussle with the Cerberus below had been unnecessary. And the witcher didn’t like doing anything unnecessarily. He noticed winding stairs in the corner of the chamber.

  On the steps he found four withered white roses and a napkin stained with wine and crimson lipstick. The scent of lilac and gooseberries grew stronger. The stairs led to a bedroom, the floor of which was covered in an enormous, shaggy animal skin. A white shirt with lace cuffs, and umpteen white roses, lay on the skin. And a black stocking.

  The other stocking hung from one of the four engraved posts which supported the domed canopy over the bed. The engravings on the posts depicted nymphs and fauns in various positions. Some of the positions were interesting. Others funny. Many repeated themselves.

  Geralt cleared his throat loudly, looking at the abundant black locks visible from under the eiderdown. The eiderdown moved and moaned. Geralt cleared his throat even louder.

  ‘Beau?’ the abundance of black locks asked indistinctly. ‘Have you brought the juice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A pale triangular face, violet eyes and narrow, slightly contorted lips appeared beneath the black tresses.

  ‘Ooooh . . .’ The lips became even more contorted. ‘Ooooh . . . I’m dying of thirst . . .’

  ‘Here you are.’

  The woman sat up, scrambling out of the bedclothes. She had pretty shoulders, a shapely neck and, around it, a black velvet choker with a star-shaped jewel sparkling with diamonds. Apart from the choker she had nothing on.

  ‘Thank you.’ She took the mug from his hand, drank greedily, then raised her arms and touched her temples. The eiderdown slipped down even further. Geralt averted his eyes – politely, but unwillingly.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the black-haired woman, narrowing her eyes and covering herself with the eiderdown. ‘What are you doing here? And where, dammit, is Berrant?’

  ‘Which question shall I answer first?’

  He immediately regretted his sarcasm. The woman raised her hand and a golden streak shot out from her fingers. Geralt reacted instinctively, crossing both hands in the Sign of Heliotrope, and caught the spell just in front of his face, but the discharge was so strong that it threw him back against the wall. He sank to the floor.

  ‘No need!’ he shouted, seeing the woman raise her hand again. ‘Lady Yennefer! I come in peace, with no evil intentions!’

  A stamping came from the stairs and servants loomed in the bedroom doorway.

  ‘Lady Yennefer!’

  ‘Leave,’ the sorceress ordered calmly. ‘I don’t need you. You’re paid to keep an eye on the house. But since this individual has, nevertheless, managed to get in, I’ll take care of him myself. Pass that on to Berrant. And prepare a bath for me.’

  The witcher got up with difficulty. Yennefer observed him in silence, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘You parried my spell,’ she finally said. ‘You’re not a sorcerer, that’s obvious. But you reacted exceptionally fast. Tell me who you are, stranger who has come in peace. And I advise you to
speak quickly.’

  ‘I’m Geralt of Rivia. A witcher.’

  Yennefer leant out of the bed, grasping a faun – engraved on the pole – by a piece of anatomy well adapted to being grasped. Without taking her eyes off Geralt, she picked a coat with a fur collar up off the floor and wrapped herself up in it tightly before getting up. She poured herself another mug of juice without hurrying, drank it in one go, coughed and came closer. Geralt discreetly rubbed his lower back which, a moment ago, had collided painfully with the wall.

  ‘Geralt of Rivia,’ repeated the sorceress, looking at him from behind black lashes. ‘How did you get in here? And for what reason? You didn’t hurt Berrant, I hope?’

  ‘No. I didn’t. Lady Yennefer, I need your help.’

  ‘A witcher,’ she muttered, coming up even closer and wrapping the coat around her more tightly. ‘Not only is it the first one I’ve seen up close but it’s none other than the famous White Wolf. I’ve heard about you.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘I don’t know what you can imagine.’ She yawned, then came even closer. ‘May I?’ She touched his cheek and looked him in the eyes. He clenched his jaw. ‘Do your pupils automatically adapt to light or can you narrow and dilate them according to your will?’

  ‘Yennefer,’ he said calmly, ‘I rode nonstop all day from Rinde.

  I waited all night for the gates to open. I gave your doorman, who didn’t want to let me in, a blow to the head. I disturbed your sleep and peace, discourteously and importunately. All because my friend needs help which only you can give him. Give it to him, please, and then, if you like, we can talk about mutations and aberrations.’

  She took a step back and contorted her lips unpleasantly. ‘What sort of help do you mean?’

  ‘The regeneration of organs injured through magic. The throat, larynx and vocal cords. An injury caused by a scarlet mist. Or something very much like it.’

  ‘Very much like it,’ she repeated. ‘To put it in a nutshell, it wasn’t a scarlet mist which has injured your friend. So what was it? Speak out. Being torn from my sleep at dawn, I have neither the strength nor the desire to probe your brain.’