He unsaddled his mare and groomed her himself, sending the stable boy away. He was a royal messenger, and a royal messenger never permits anyone to touch his horse. He ate a goodly portion of scrambled eggs with sausage and a quarter of a loaf of rye bread, washed down with a quart of ale. He listened to the gossip. Of various kinds. Travellers from every corner of the world were dining at the inn.
Aplegatt learned there’d been more trouble in Dol Angra; a troop of Lyrian cavalry had once again clashed with a mounted Nilfgaardian unit. Meve, the queen of Lyria, had loudly accused Nilfgaard of provocation – again – and called for help from King Demavend of Aedirn. Tretogor had seen the public execution of a Redanian baron who had secretly allied himself with emissaries of the Nilfgaardian emperor, Emhyr. In Kaedwen, Scoia’tael commandos, amassed into a large unit, had orchestrated a massacre in Fort Leyda. To avenge the massacre, the people of Ard Carraigh had organised a pogrom, murdering almost four hundred non-humans residing in the capital.
Meanwhile the merchants travelling from the south described the grief and mourning among the Cintran emigrants gathered in Temeria, under the standard of Marshal Vissegerd. The dreadful news of the death of Princess Cirilla, the Lion Cub, the last of the bloodline of Queen Calanthe, had been confirmed.
Some even darker, more foreboding gossip was told. That in several villages in the region of Aldersberg cows had suddenly begun to squirt blood from their udders while being milked, and at dawn the Virgin Bane, harbinger of terrible destruction, had been seen in the fog. The Wild Hunt, a spectral army galloping across the firmament, had appeared in Brugge, in the region of Brokilon Forest, the forbidden kingdom of the forest dryads; and the Wild Hunt, as is generally known, always heralds war. And a spectral ship had been spotted off Cape Bremervoord with a ghoul on board: a black knight in a helmet adorned with the wings of a bird of prey …
The messenger stopped listening; he was too tired. He went to the common sleeping chamber, dropped onto his pallet and fell fast asleep.
He arose at daybreak and was a little surprised as he entered the courtyard – he was not the first person preparing to leave, which was unusual. A black gelding stood saddled by the well, while nearby a woman in male clothing was washing her hands in the trough. Hearing Aplegatt’s footsteps she turned, gathered her luxuriant black hair in her wet hands, and tossed it back. The messenger bowed. The woman gave a faint nod.
As he entered the stable he almost ran into another early riser, a girl in a velvet beret who was just leading a dapple grey mare out into the courtyard. The girl rubbed her face and yawned, leaning against her horse’s withers.
‘Oh my,’ she murmured, passing the messenger, ‘I’ll probably fall asleep on my horse … I’ll just flake out … Auuh …’
‘The cold’ll wake you up when you give your mare free rein,’ said Aplegatt courteously, pulling his saddle off the rack. ‘Godspeed, miss.’
The girl turned and looked at him, as though she had only then noticed him. Her eyes were large and as green as emeralds. Aplegatt threw the saddlecloth over his horse.
‘I wished you a safe journey,’ he said. He wasn’t usually talkative or effusive but now he felt the need to talk to someone, even if this someone was just a sleepy teenager. Perhaps it was those long days of solitude on the road, or possibly that the girl reminded him a little of his middle daughter.
‘May the gods protect you,’ he added, ‘from accidents and foul weather. There are but two of you, and womenfolk at that … And times are ill at present. Danger lurks everywhere on the highways.’
The girl opened her green eyes wider. The messenger felt his spine go cold, and a shudder passed through him.
‘Danger …’ the girl said suddenly, in a strange, altered voice. ‘Danger comes silently. You will not hear it when it swoops down on grey feathers. I had a dream. The sand … The sand was hot from the sun.’
‘What?’ Aplegatt froze with the saddle pressed against his belly. ‘What say you, miss? What sand?’
The girl shuddered violently and rubbed her face. The dapple grey mare shook its head.
‘Ciri!’ shouted the black-haired woman sharply from the courtyard, adjusting the girth on her black stallion. ‘Hurry up!’
The girl yawned, looked at Aplegatt and blinked, appearing surprised by his presence in the stable. The messenger said nothing.
‘Ciri,’ repeated the woman, ‘have you fallen asleep in there?’
‘I’m coming, Madam Yennefer.’
By the time Aplegatt had finally saddled his horse and led it out into the courtyard there was no sign of either woman or girl. A cock crowed long and hoarsely, a dog barked, and a cuckoo called from among the trees. The messenger leapt into the saddle. He suddenly recalled the sleepy girl’s green eyes and her strange words. Danger comes silently? Grey feathers? Hot sand? The maid was probably not right in the head, he thought. You come across a lot like that these days; deranged girls spoiled by vagabonds or other ne’er-do-wells in these times of war … Yes, definitely deranged. Or possibly only sleepy, torn from her slumbers, not yet fully awake. It’s amazing the poppycock people come out with when they’re roaming around at dawn, still caught between sleep and wakefulness …
A second shudder passed through him, and he felt a pain between his shoulder blades. He massaged his back with a fist.
Weak at the knees, he spurred his horse on as soon as he was back on the Maribor road, and rode away at a gallop. Time was running out.
The messenger did not rest for long in Maribor – not a day had passed before the wind was whistling in his ears again. His new horse, a roan gelding from the Maribor stable, ran hard, head forward and its tail flowing behind. Roadside willows flashed past. The satchel with the diplomatic mail pressed against Aplegatt’s chest. His arse ached.
‘Oi! I hope you break your neck, you blasted gadabout!’ yelled a carter in his wake, pulling in the halter of his team, startled by the galloping roan flashing by. ‘See how he runs, like devils were licking his heels! Ride on, giddy-head, ride; you won’t outrun Death himself!’
Aplegatt wiped an eye, which was watering from the speed.
The day before he had given King Foltest a letter, and then recited King Demavend’s secret message.
‘Demavend to Foltest. All is prepared in Dol Angra. The disguised forces await the order. Estimated date: the second night after the July new moon. The boats are to beach on the far shore two days later.’
Flocks of crows flew over the highway, cawing loudly. They flew east, towards Mahakam and Dol Angra, towards Vengerberg. As he rode, the messenger silently repeated the confidential message the king of Temeria had entrusted to him for the king of Aedirn.
‘Foltest to Demavend. Firstly: let us call off the campaign. The windbags have called a council. They are going to meet and debate on the Isle of Thanedd. This council may change much. Secondly: the search for the Lion Cub can be called off. It is confirmed. The Lion Cub is dead.’
Aplegatt spurred on his horse. Time was running out.
* The Scoia’tael – commonly known as the Squirrels – are non-human guerrillas. Predominantly elves, their ranks also include halflings and dwarves, and they are so named due to their habit of attaching squirrel tails to their caps or clothing. Allied with Nilfgaard, motivated by the racism of men, they fight all humans in the Northern Kingdoms.
By Andrzej Sapkowski from Gollancz:
The Witcher
Short Story Collections
The Last Wish
Sword of Destiny
Novels
Blood of Elves
Time of Contempt
Baptism of Fire
The Tower of the Swallow
The Lady of the Lake
Season of Storms
Copyright
This edition first published in Great Britain in 2020 by Gollancz
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4
Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company
The Last Wish Copyright © Andrzej Sapkowski 1993
The Last Wish English Translation Copyright © Danusia Stok 2007
Sword of Destiny Copyright © Andrzej Sapkowski 1993
Sword of Destiny English Translation Copyright © David French 2015
Blood of Elves Copyright © Andrzej Sapkowski 1994
Blood of Elves English Translation Copyright © Danusia Stok 2008
The Last Wish originally published in Polish as Ostatnie Zyczenie
Sword of Destiny originally published in Polish as Miecz Przeznaczenia
Blood of Elves originally published in Polish as Krew Elfow
This publication has been funded by the Book Institute –
The © POLAND Translation Program
Published by arrangement with the Patricia Pasqualini Literary Agency.
The moral right of Andrzej Sapkowski to be identified as the author of these works, and the moral right of Danusia Stok and David French to be identified as the translators of these works, has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (eBook) 978 1 473 23242 6
www.gollancz.co.uk
Introducing the Witcher Page 101
