Introducing the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  They walked on. Slowly. It was slippery under their feet from fallen leaves. He felt warmth on his face, the sunlight shining through the blindfold.

  ‘Oh, Geralt,’ he heard Ciri’s voice. ‘How delightful it is here . . . Pity you can’t see. There are so many flowers. And birds. Can you hear them singing? Oh, there’s so many of them. Heaps. Oh, and squirrels. Careful, we’re going to cross a stream, over a stone bridge. Don’t fall in. Oh, so many little fishes! Hundreds. They’re swimming in the water, you know. So many little animals, oh my. There can’t be so many anywhere else.’

  ‘There can’t,’ he muttered. ‘Nowhere else. This is Brokilon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Brokilon. The Last Place.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No one understands. No one wants to understand.’

  V

  ‘You can take off the blindfold now, Gwynbleidd. We have arrived.’

  Braenn stood up to her knees in a dense carpet of fog.

  ‘Duén Canell,’ she said, pointing.

  Duén Canell, the Place of the Oak. The Heart of Brokilon.

  Geralt had already been there. Twice. But he had never told anyone about it. No one would have believed him.

  A basin enclosed by the crowns of mighty green trees. Bathed in fog and mist rising from the earth, the rocks and the hot springs. A basin . . .

  The medallion around his neck vibrated slightly.

  A basin bathed in magic. Duén Canell. The Heart of Brokilon.

  Braenn lifted her head and adjusted the quiver on her back.

  ‘We must go. Give me your little hand, moppet.’

  At first, the valley seemed to be lifeless. Deserted. But not for long. A loud, modulated whistling rang out, and a slender, dark-haired dryad, dressed, like all of them, in dappled, camouflaged attire slid nimbly down barely perceptible steps of bracket mushrooms winding around the nearest trunk.

  ‘Ceád, Braenn.’

  ‘Ceád, Sirssa. Va’n vort meáth Eithné á?’

  ‘Neén, aefder,’ the dark-haired dryad answered, sweeping her gaze up and down the Witcher. ‘Ess’ ae’n Sidh?’

  She smiled, flashing white teeth. She was incredibly comely, even according to human standards. Geralt felt uncertain and foolish, aware that the dryad was inspecting him uninhibitedly.

  ‘Neén,’ Braenn shook her head. ‘Ess’ vatt’ghern, Gwynbleidd, á váen meáth Eithné va, a’ss.’

  ‘Gwynbleidd?’ the beautiful dryad said, grimacing. ‘Bloede caérme! Aen’ne caen n’wedd vort! T’ess foile!’

  Braenn sniggered.

  ‘What is it?’ the Witcher asked, growing angry.

  ‘Nothing,’ Braenn sniggered again. ‘Nothing. Let us be moving.’

  ‘Oh,’ Ciri said in delight. ‘Look at those funny cottages, Geralt!’

  Duén Canell really began deep in the valley; the ‘funny cottages’, resembling huge bunches of mistletoe in shape, clung to the trunks and bows at various heights, both low, just above the ground, and high, occasionally very high, right beneath the very crowns. Geralt also saw several larger constructions on the ground, shelters made of woven branches, still covered in leaves. He saw movements in the openings to the shelters, but the dryads themselves could barely be made out. There were far fewer than there had been the last time he was there.

  ‘Geralt,’ Ciri whispered. ‘Those cottages are living. They’ve got little leaves!’

  ‘They’re made of living wood,’ the Witcher nodded. ‘That’s how dryads live, that’s how they build their houses. No dryad will ever harm a tree by chopping or sawing it. They love trees. However, they can make the branches grow to form those dwellings.’

  ‘How sweet. I’d like to have a little house like that on our estate.’

  Braenn stopped in front of one of the larger shelters.

  ‘Enter, Gwynbleidd,’ she said. ‘You will wait here for Lady Eithné. Vá fáill, moppet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That was a farewell, Ciri. She said “goodbye”.’

  ‘Oh. Goodbye, Braenn.’

  They went inside. The interior of the ‘cottage’ twinkled like a kaleidoscope, from the patches of sunlight filtered and diffused through the roof structure.

  ‘Geralt!’

  ‘Frexinet!’

  ‘You’re alive, by the Devil!’ the wounded man said, flashing his teeth, raising himself up on a makeshift bed of spruce. He saw Ciri clinging to the Witcher’s thigh and his eyes widened, a flush rushing to his face.

  ‘You little beast!’ he yelled. ‘I almost lost my life thanks to you! Oh, you’re fortunate I cannot stand, for I’d tan your hide!’

  Ciri pouted.

  ‘You’re the second person,’ she said, wrinkling her nose comically, ‘to want to thrash me. I’m a little girl and little girls can’t be beaten!’

  ‘I’d soon show you . . . what’s allowed and what isn’t,’ Frexinet coughed. ‘You little wretch! Ervyll is beside himself . . . He’s sending out word, terrified that your grandmother’s army is marching on him. Who will believe that you bolted? Everyone knows what Ervyll’s like and what his pleasures are. Everyone thinks he . . . did something to you in his cups, and then had you drowned in the fishpond! War with Nilfgaard is looming, and because of you the treaty and the alliance with your grandmother have gone up in smoke! See what you’ve done?’

  ‘Don’t excite yourself,’ the Witcher warned, ‘for you might open your wounds. How did you get here so swiftly?’

  ‘The Devil only knows, I’ve been lying half-dead most of the time. They poured something revolting down my throat. By force. They held my nose and . . . What a damned disgrace . . .’

  ‘You’re alive thanks to what they poured down your throat. Did they bring you here?’

  ‘They dragged me here on a sledge. I asked after you but they said nothing. I was certain you’d caught an arrow. You vanished so suddenly . . . But you’re hale and hearty, not even in fetters, and not only that, prithee, you rescued Princess Cirilla . . . A pox on it, you get by everywhere, Geralt, and you always fall on your feet.’

  The Witcher smiled but did not respond. Frexinet hacked, turned his head away and spat out saliva tinged pink.

  ‘Well,’ he added. ‘And you’re sure to be the reason they didn’t finish me off. They know you, bloody eerie wives. That’s the second time you’ve got me out of trouble.’

  ‘Oh, come on, baron.’

  Frexinet, moaning, tried to sit up, but abandoned the attempt.

  ‘Bollocks to my barony,’ he panted. ‘I was a baron back in Hamm. Now I’m something like a governor at Ervyll’s court in Verden. I mean I was. Even if I get out of this forest somehow, there’s no place for me in Verden now, apart from on the scaffold. This little weasel, Cirilla, slipped out of my hands and my protection. Do you think the three of us went to Brokilon for the hell of it? No, Geralt, I was fleeing too, and could only count on Ervyll’s mercy if I brought her back. And then I happened on those accursed eerie wives . . . If not for you I’d have expired in that hollow. You’ve rescued me again. It’s destiny, that’s as clear as day.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating.’

  Frexinet shook his head.

  ‘It’s destiny,’ he repeated. ‘It must have been written up there that we’d meet again, Witcher. That you’d save my skin again. Remember, people talked about it in Hamm after you lifted that bird curse from me.’

  ‘Chance,’ Geralt said coldly. ‘Pure chance, Frexinet.’

  ‘What chance? Dammit, if it hadn’t been for you, I’d probably still be a cormorant—’

  ‘You were a cormorant?’ Ciri cried in excitement. ‘A real cormorant? A bird?’

  ‘I was,’ the baron grinned. ‘I was cursed by . . . by a bitch . . . Damn her . . . for revenge.’

  ‘I bet you didn’t give her a fur,’ Ciri said, wrinkling up her nose. ‘For a, you know . . . muff.’

  ‘There was another reason,’ Frexinet blushed slightly, then gl
owered angrily at the little girl. ‘But what business is it of yours, you tyke!’

  Ciri looked offended and turned her head away.

  ‘Yes,’ Frexinet coughed. ‘Where was I . . . Aha, when I was cursed in Hamm. Were it not for you, Geralt, I would have remained a cormorant till the end of my days, I would be flying around the lake, shitting on tree branches, deluding myself that the shirt made of nettle fibres stubbornly woven by my dear sister would save me. Dammit, when I recall that shirt of hers, I feel like kicking somebody. That idiot—’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ the Witcher smiled. ‘She had the best of intentions. She was badly informed, that’s all. Lots of nonsensical myths circulate about undoing curses. You were lucky, anyway, Frexinet. She might have ordered you to dive into a barrel of boiling milk. I’ve heard of a case like that. Donning a nettle shirt, if you think about it, isn’t very harmful to the health, even if it doesn’t help much.’

  ‘Ha, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I expect too much of her. Eliza was always stupid, from a child she was stupid and lovely, as a matter of fact; splendid material for a king’s wife.’

  ‘What is lovely material?’ Ciri asked. ‘And why for a wife?’

  ‘Don’t interfere, you tyke, I said. Yes, Geralt, I was lucky you turned up in Hamm then. And that my brother-in-law king was ready to spend the few ducats you demanded for lifting the spell.’

  ‘You know, Frexinet,’ Geralt said, smiling even more broadly, ‘that news of the incident spread far and wide?’

  ‘The true version?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. To begin with, they gave you ten more brothers.’

  ‘Oh no!’ The baron raised himself on an elbow and coughed. ‘And so, counting Eliza, there were said to be twelve of us? What bloody idiocy! My mama wasn’t a rabbit!’

  ‘That’s not all. It was agreed that cormorants aren’t romantic enough.’

  ‘Because they aren’t! There’s nothing romantic about them!’ The baron grimaced, feeling his chest, wrapped in bast and sheets of birch bark. ‘What was I turned into, according to the tale?’

  ‘A swan. I mean swans. There were eleven of you, don’t forget.’

  ‘And how is a swan more romantic than a cormorant?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t either. But I’ll bet that in the story Eliza lifted the curse from me with the help of her gruesome nettle blouse?’

  ‘You win. How is Eliza?’

  ‘She has consumption, poor thing. She won’t last long.’

  ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘It is,’ Frexinet agreed dispassionately, looking away.

  ‘Coming back to the curse . . .’ Geralt leaned back against a wall made of woven, springy switches. ‘You don’t have any recurrences? You don’t sprout feathers?’

  ‘No, may the Gods be praised,’ the baron sighed. ‘Everything is in good order. The one thing that I was left with from those times is a taste for fish. There are no better vittles for me, Geralt, than fish. Occasionally I go down to the fishermen on the jetty early in the morning, and before they find me something more refined, I gobble down a handful or two of bleak straight from the holding cage, a few minnows, dace or chub . . . It’s pure bliss, not food.’

  ‘He was a cormorant,’ Ciri said slowly, looking at Geralt. ‘And you lifted the curse from him. You can do magic!’

  ‘I think it’s obvious,’ Frexinet said, ‘that he can. Every witcher can.’

  ‘Wi . . . witcher?’

  ‘Didn’t you know he was a witcher? The famous Geralt Riv? True enough, how is a little tyke like you to know what a witcher is? Things aren’t what they used to be. Now there are very few witchers. You’d have a job finding one. You’ve probably never seen a witcher before?’

  Ciri shook her head slowly, not taking her eyes off Geralt.

  ‘A witcher, little tyke, is a . . .’ Frexinet broke off and paled, seeing Braenn entering the cottage. ‘No, I don’t want it! I won’t let you pour any more of it down my throat, never, never again! Geralt! Tell her—’

  ‘Calm down.’

  Braenn did not grace Frexinet with anything more than a fleeting glance. She walked over to Ciri, who was squatting beside the Witcher.

  ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Come, moppet.’

  ‘Where to?’ Ciri grimaced. ‘I’m not going. I want to be with Geralt.’

  ‘Go,’ the Witcher managed a smile. ‘You can play with Braenn and the young dryads. They’ll show you Duén Canell . . .’

  ‘She didn’t blindfold me,’ Ciri said very slowly. ‘She didn’t blindfold me while we were walking here. She blindfolded you. So you couldn’t find your way back here when you leave. That means . . .’

  Geralt looked at Braenn. The dryad shrugged and then hugged the little girl tightly.

  ‘That means . . .’ Ciri’s voice suddenly cracked. ‘That means I’m not leaving here. Doesn’t it?’

  ‘No one can escape their destiny.’

  All heads turned at the sound of that voice. Quiet, but sonorous, hard and decisive. A voice demanding obedience, which brooked no argument. Braenn bowed. Geralt went down on one knee.

  ‘Lady Eithné.’

  The ruler of Brokilon was wearing a flowing, gauzy, light-green gown. Like most dryads she was small and slender, but her proudly raised head, grave, sharp-featured face and resolute mouth made her seem taller and more powerful. Her hair and eyes were the colour of molten silver.

  She entered the shelter escorted by two younger dryads armed with bows. Without a word she nodded towards Braenn, who immediately took Ciri by the hand and pulled her towards the door, bowing her head low. Ciri trod stiffly and clumsily, pale and speechless. When they passed Eithné, the silver-haired dryad seized her swiftly beneath the chin, lifted it and looked long in the girl’s eyes. Geralt could see that Ciri was trembling.

  ‘Go,’ Eithné finally said. ‘Go, my child. Fear naught. Nothing is capable of changing your destiny. You are in Brokilon.’

  Ciri followed Braenn obediently. In the doorway she turned around. The Witcher noticed that her mouth was quivering, and her green eyes were misty with tears. He didn’t say a word.

  He continued to kneel, head bowed.

  ‘Get up, Gwynbleidd. Welcome.’

  ‘Greetings, Eithné, Lady of Brokilon.’

  ‘I have the pleasure to host you in my Forest once again. Although you come here without my knowledge or permission. Entering Brokilon without my knowledge or permission is perilous, White Wolf. Even for you.’

  ‘I come on a mission.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ the dryad smiled slightly. ‘That explains your boldness, which I shall not describe using other, more blunt words. Geralt, the inviolability of envoys is a custom observed by humans. I do not recognise it. I recognise nothing human. This is Brokilon.’

  ‘Eithné—’

  ‘Be silent,’ she interrupted, without raising her voice. ‘I ordered you to be spared. You will leave Brokilon alive. Not because you are an envoy. For other reasons.’

  ‘Are you not curious whose envoy I am? Where I come from, on whose behalf?’

  ‘Frankly speaking, no. This is Brokilon. You come here from the outside, from a world that concerns me not. Why then would I waste time listening to supplications? What could some kind of proposal, some kind of ultimatum, devised by someone who thinks and feels differently to me, mean to me? What could I care what King Venzlav thinks?’

  Geralt shook his head in astonishment.

  ‘How do you know I come from Venzlav?’

  ‘For it is obvious,’ the dryad said with a smile. ‘Ekkehard is too stupid. Ervyll and Viraxas detest me too much. No other realms border Brokilon.’

  ‘You know a great deal about what happens beyond Brokilon, Eithné.’

  ‘I know much, White Wolf. It is a privilege of my age. Now, though, if you permit, I would like to deal with a confidential matter. That man with the appearance of a bear,’ the dryad stopped smiling and looked at Frexinet. ‘Is he
your friend?’

  ‘We are acquainted. I once removed a curse from him.’

  ‘The problem is,’ Eithné said coldly, ‘that I don’t know what to do with him. I cannot, after all, order him put to death. I have permitted him to recover his health, but he represents a threat. He does not look like a fanatic. Thus he must be a scalp-hunter. I know that Ervyll pays for every dryad scalp. I do not recall how much. In any case, the price rises as the value of money falls.’

  ‘You are in error. He is not a scalp-hunter.’

  ‘Why then did he enter Brokilon?’

  ‘To seek the girl-child whose care he was entrusted with. He risked his life to find her.’

  ‘Most foolish,’ Eithné said coldly. ‘Difficult to call it even a risk. He was heading for certain death. The fact that he lives at all he owes entirely to his iron constitution and endurance. As far as the child is concerned, it also survived by chance. My girls did not shoot, for they thought it was a puck or a leprechaun.’

  She looked once again at Frexinet, and Geralt saw that her mouth had lost its unpleasant hardness.

  ‘Very well. Let us celebrate this day in some way.’

  She walked over to the bed of branches. The two dryads accompanying her also approached. Frexinet blanched and cowered, without becoming any smaller.

  Eithné looked at him for a while, narrowing her eyes a little.

  ‘Have you children?’ she finally asked. ‘I am talking to you, blockhead.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I trust I express myself clearly.’

  ‘I’m not . . .’ Frexinet hemmed and coughed. ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘Your marital status is of little concern to me. What interests me is whether you are capable of mustering anything from your suety loins. By the Great Tree! Have you ever made a woman with child?’

  ‘Errr . . . Yes . . . Yes, my lady, but—’

  Eithné waved a hand carelessly and turned towards Geralt.

  ‘He shall stay in Brokilon,’ she said, ‘until he is fully healed and then a little longer. Afterwards . . . He may go whither he so wish.’

  ‘Thank you, Eithné,’ the Witcher bowed.’ And . . . the little girl? What about her?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ The dryad looked at him with a cold glint in her silver eyes. ‘You know.’