‘And who the fuck will touch him? He's a warlock!’
‘Pthu!, damn him.’
‘Chickens,’ shouted Spintop, getting a leather strap from her saddlebag. ‘Hare's skins! I will do it, if no one else has the balls.’
Geralt let himself be bound. He decided to submit. For now.
From the forest road came two carts pulled by oxen, loaded with poles and elements of some wooden constructions.
‘Let someone go to the carpenter and bailiff,’ pointed Shevlov. ‘Order them to get back. We have placed enough poles, it's done for today. We will make camp here. Look through the buildings and see if you can find some fodder for the horses. And something for us to eat.’
Ligenza picked up and examined Geralt's sword, Dandelion's purchase. Shevlov took it from him. He weighed it, took a swing, spun.
‘You were lucky,’ he said, ‘that we came here in force. He would have cut you to pieces, Spintop and Floquet. There are legends about witcher swords. The best steel, many times folded and forged, folded and forged. And additionally enchanted with special spells. Due to this they are of unheard strength, flexibility and sharpness. A witcher's blade cuts through plate armor and chain mails like through silk shirts, and cuts through every other blade like cake.’
‘It can't be,’ said Sperry. His mustache, like many others dripped with the cream they found in the house and drank to the bottom. ‘It can't be like cake.’
‘I don't believe it either,’ said Spintop.
‘It's hard,’ added Burn, ‘to believe something like that.’
‘Yeah?’ Shevlov stood in a fencing position. ‘So let one of you stand here, we will check. Will there be any volunteers? Eh? Why it's so silent?’
‘Alright,’ Escayrac stepped forward and unsheathed his sword. ‘I'll stand. Why not. We will see, if... Let's bind blades Shevlov.’
‘Let's bind. One, two... Three!’
The swords collided with a crash. The shattering metal moaned pitifully. Spintop almost shat when a broken shard flew near her temple.
‘Fuck!’ said Shevlov, looking in disbelief at the blade, broken off a few inches from the gold-plated cross guard.
‘And not a dent on mine!’ Escayrac lifted his sword. ‘Heh, heh ,heh! Not a dent. Not a mark even!’
Spintop laughed girlishly, Ligenza bleated like a goat. The rest laughed.
‘A witcher's sword?’ snorted Sperry. ‘Cuts like cake? You are fucking cake yourself.’
‘This is…’ Shevlov pursed his lips. ‘This is some fucking shit. This is rubbish. And you...’
He threw the broken shards of the sword away, stared at Geralt and pointed at him with an accusatory gesture.
‘You are a cheater. A fraud and a cheater. You act like a witcher, and you bear such trash... You carry such fucking rubbish in place of a proper blade? And how many people, I'm curious, have you scammed of their money? How many poor people have you cheated from their gold, you fraud? Oh, you will confess all the sins in Findetann, the bailiff there will surely convince you to do so!’
He sighed, spat and beat his foot on the ground.
‘On your horses! Let's get out of here!’
They rode away, laughing, singing and whistling. The settler with his family looked at them grimly, Geralt saw that their mouth moved slightly. It was easy to guess what fate and what accidents they wish on Shevlov and his company.
The settler in his boldest dreams could not expect that his wishes would be fulfilled. And that it would be so soon.
***
They got to the crossroads. A road to the west, leading through a ravine, was grooved by wheels and hooves, that was the direction - it could be seen - in which the carpenter's carts had gone. It was also the direction taken by the company. Geralt was dragged behind Spintop's horse, bound to her saddle with a leather strap.
Shevlov's horse riding in front whinnied and reared.
On the slope of the ravine something flashed suddenly, ignited and became a milky opalescent sphere. The sphere vanished, and in its place appeared a weird group. A few figures hugging each other, entangled.
‘What devilry is this?’ cursed Burn as Shevlov approached, who was calming down his horse ‘What is it?’
The group separated. Into four figures. A lean, long-haired and slightly effeminate man. Two long-armed giants on bandy legs. And a hunchback midget with huge crossbow with two steel prods.
‘Buueh-hhhhrrr-eeeehhh-bueeeeh! Bueeh-heeh!’
‘To arms!’ shouted Shevlov. ‘To arms, company!’
The string of the huge crossbow clanked, and just a moment after the second one did too. Shevlov was stricken in the head and died on the spot. Burn, before he fell from his saddle was gazing into his belly through which a bolt had gone through.
‘Attack!’ The company like a single entity simultaneously unsheathed their swords. ‘Attack!’
Geralt was not inclined to wait for the result of the battle without action. He arranged his fingers into the Igni sign, and burned through the leather strap binding his hands. He caught Spintop by her belt, and threw her from the saddle, and then he mounted her horse.
Something flashed blindingly, the horses started to whinny, shy and beat the air with their front legs. A few riders fell off, the trampled ones shouted. Spintop’s grey mare also shied, before the witcher managed to calmed her. Spintop got to her feet, jumped and caught the bridle. He pushed her away with a blow of his fist and made the mare gallop.
Leaning over his mount neck he did not see how Degerlund, with consecutive magical thunderbolts scared the horses, and blinded the riders. How the riders were struck by the roaring Bue and Bang, one of them armed with an axe, the other with a broad scimitar. He did not see blood spattering and he didn't hear the shouts of the murdered.
He didn't see how Escayrac died, and a few moments after him Sperry cut to pieces like fish by Bang. He didn't see Bue felling Floquet with his horse, and then pulling him from under this horse. The shriek of Floquet, like the sound of a slaughtered rooster, he did hear for a long time.
Up until the moment when he turned from the road and entered a forest.
If you want to prepare Mahakam potato soup, do it this way: if during summer gather chanterelles, if in fall yellow knights. And if it's winter or early spring take a large handful of dried mushrooms. In a small pot pour water, keep mushrooms in it for a full night, in the morning add salt, put half an onion in and boil. Sift out, but do not waste the decoction, pour it into another vessel, but be careful to avoid sand that is surely deposited on bottom of the pot. Boil potatoes, dice them. Take a rich piece of fat bacon, cut and fry. Cut onions into slices, strongly fry them in fat obtained from bacon, almost to burning. Take a huge pot, and put everything in, remembering the cut mushrooms. Pour the mushroom decoction and add water as appropriate, pour sour-floor leaven up to taste - how to prepare such leaven is described elsewhere. Boil, add pepper, salt and marjoram according to your liking. Decorate with melted pork fat. It’s a question of taste to whiten with sour cream, but take into account: It's against dwarven tradition, it’s the human way to whiten potato soup with cream.
Eleonora Rhundurin-Pigott, Mahakamian perfect cook, exact knowledge of the ways of boiling and preparing dishes from meat, fish and vegetables, and also flavouring various sauces, baking cakes, preparing jams, making cold meats, preserves, wines, vodkas, and various advantageous culinary secrets, necessary to every good and provident housewife.
Chapter Thirteen
Like almost every post station this one was situated at the crossroads on a crossing of two highways. A shingle covered roof with a penthouse supported with poles, a stable adjoining the building, a wood shack, all of above in a group of birches with white boles. It was empty. It had no guests, nor travellers it seemed.
The bone-tired grey mare stumbled, moving stiffly and wobbly, with her head lowered almost to the ground. Geralt lead her, and gave the reins to the stable boy. The
stable boy looked to be forty years old, and was strongly hunched under the weight of these years. He stroked the mare's neck. He gave Geralt a stare from head to heels, and spat just in front of him. Geralt nodded and sighed. He was not surprised. He knew that he was guilty, that he had overdone it with the gallop, and in hard terrain at that. He wanted to be far from Sorel Degerlund and his goons. He knew that this was a poor excuse, and he himself did not hold people that brought their horses to such a condition in good esteem.
The stable boy moved away, pulling the mare along and mumbling something under his breath, it was not difficult to guess what exactly that was, and what he thinks. Geralt sighed, and pushed open the door and entered the station.
Inside it smelled nice, the Witcher realized that he had fasted for a day and night.
‘We have no horses,’ the Postmaster got ahead of his question, showing up from behind the bar. ‘And the nearest courier will show up in two days.’
‘I'd eat something,’ Geralt looked up at the rafters and ridges of the high ceiling. ‘I'll pay.’
‘But we have nothing.’
‘Whoa, whoa, Master Postmaster,’ a voice from a corner of the room could be heard, ‘is that the proper way to treat a traveller so?’
Behind the table in the corner, a dwarf was sitting. Fair haired and fair bearded, clothed in an embroidered claret-coloured jacket decorated with brass buttons on the front and on the sleeves. His cheeks were florid, and his nose was big. Geralt sometimes saw at the market atypical potatoes with a slight pinkish tint to the bulb. The dwarf's nose was similar in colour. And in size.
‘You offered potato soup to me,’ the dwarf gave the postmaster a harsh look from under his bushy brows. ‘You will no tell me that your wife prepared just a single bowl of this soup, will you? I bet any money that there is enough for the newcomer too. Sit traveller, Will you drink beer?’
‘With pleasure, thank you,’ Geralt sat down, took a golden coin out of a hidden pocket in his belt. ‘But let it be me to have the pleasure to entertain you nice master. Against erroneous appearances I'm not a tramp nor hobo. I'm a Witcher. Doing my job, that's way my clothes are rough and I look neglected. Hopefully you’ll be so nice to forgive. Two beers, Postmaster.’
The beer ended up at the table immediately.
‘My wife will presently bring the potato soup,’ grunted the postmaster. ‘And please don’t keep that against me. I must have food constantly ready. If there were some people of power traveling, king’s couriers or postal service... If I had not had enough and there was nothing to serve...’
‘Alright, alright...’ Geralt lifted his tankard. He was acquainted with many dwarves, he knew how to drink and how to make toasts.
‘For the success of a just cause!’
‘And the motherfuckers' doom!’ finished the dwarf, clinking his tankard on Geralt's. ‘It's nice to drink with someone who knows customs and protocol. I'm Addario Bach. In principle it is Addarion, but everyone calls me Addario.’
‘Geralt of Rivia.’
‘Witcher Geralt of Rivia,’ Addario Bach wiped the froth from his moustache. ‘I've heard your name. You've been to places, no wonder you know the customs. And I, you see, came here from Cidaris by courier's coach, or a stage-coach as they call it in the South. And I’m waiting for a change, a coach from Dorian to Redania, to Tretogor. Well, here is the soup. Let's check how it is. The best potato soup, you should know, is prepared by our women in Mahakam. You can taste such like it in no other place. On a thick leaven of dark bread and rye flour, with mushrooms, and with well fried onions...’
The station’s potato soup proved to be excellent, mushrooms and well fried onion was not lacking, and if something was missing in comparison with the Mahakamian version Geralt didn’t know it, as Addario Bach ate quickly, in silence and without comments.
Suddenly the postmaster looked through the window, his reaction made Geralt look too.
In front of the station appeared two horses, both in a condition probably even worse than the one that Geralt captured. And there were three riders. Of mixed gender. The Witcher carefully looked around the room.
The door squeaked. Into the station walked Spintop. And after her Ligenza and Trent.
‘Horses...’ the postmaster stopped when he saw a sword in Spintop's hand.
‘You guessed it,’ she finished. ‘It is exactly horses that we need. Three of them. So move and get them immediately from the stable.’
‘Horses are not ...’
The postmaster didn't get to finish this time either. Spintop jumped at him and flashed her blade in front of his eyes. Geralt stood up.
‘Hey!’
All three turned in his direction.
‘It is you,’ said Spintop through clenched teeth. ‘You bloody tramp.’
On her cheek was a large bruise, in the place where he had hit her.
‘It's all because of you,’ she spat. ‘Shevlov, Burn, Sperry... All cut down, the whole company. And you, you son of a bitch, pulled me down from my horse, which you stole and cowardly ran away. And I will get even with you right now.’
She was short, and of a rather petite build. The Witcher was not deceived. He knew, because he had experienced it, that life was like a post office - even very nasty things can be delivered in inconspicuous packages.
‘This is a post station!’ shouted the postmaster from behind the bar. ‘It is under the king's protection!’
‘Did you hear?’ asked Geralt calmly. ‘It’s a post station. Get away from here.’
‘You, you grey-haired scamp are still bad at math,’ Spintop hissed. ‘Do you again need help with counting? You are one and there are three of us. It means there is more of us.’
‘There is three of you,’ he stared at them, ‘and I'm only one. But there is not more of you. This is a kind of mathematical paradox, and an exception from the rule.’
‘This means?’
‘This means you should get the fuck out, quickly. As long as you are still able to.’
He saw a flash in her eye, he instantly knew that she belonged to those few that can in a fight strike at a place completely different than that one at which they stare. Spintop must have only trained this trick rather recently as Geralt effortlessly avoided a murderous cut. He outmanoeuvred her with a short half-turn, cut her knee out from under her with a kick that threw her into the bar. She hit the boards with a loud thump.
Ligenza and Trent must have seen Spintop in action earlier, because her failure just made them freeze with mouths open. For a long enough time that the Witcher managed to get hold of a broom that he had spotted earlier in the corner. Trent was hit first in face with the birch branches, then in the head with the handle. Geralt pushed the broom under his leg and kicked in the bend of the knee.
Ligenza calmed down, unsheathed his sword, and jumped, cutting from the ear. Geralt dodged the blow with a half-turn, then twisted in a full turn, stretched his elbow, and let the impetus carry his elbow into Ligenza’s windpipe, wheezing, he fell down on his knees. Before he fell Geralt took the sword out of his hand and threw it vertically up. Sword went into the rafters and stayed there.
Spintop attacked low, Geralt barely had time to dodge. He hit her in the hand that held the sword, caught by her arm, turned around, hit her legs with the broom handle and threw her into the bar. There was thump.
Trent jumped at him, Geralt hit him with the broom in the face, once, twice, three times, very quickly. Then with the handle on one temple, then the second and with a swing in the side of his neck. Then he put the handle behind his legs, came near, caught his hand, bent it back, took the sword from it, and threw it up. The sword went into the rafters and stayed there. Trent took a step back, stumbled on bench, and fell down. Geralt decided that there was no need to hurt him further.
Ligenza stood on his feet, but stood still, with his hands down, and he stared up, at the swords stack in the rafters, high beyond reach. Spintop attacked. She s
pun the blade, feinted, cut with a swing. The style was good in tavern brawls, in a crowd and bad lighting. The witcher was not disturbed by any lighting, or lack of thereof, and he knew who to stall well. Spintop's blade cut the air, and her feint turned her in such a way that the witcher found himself behind her back. She shouted, when he put the broom handle under her arm, and twisted her elbow joint. He took the sword from her fingers, and he thrust her away.
‘I was thinking that,’ he looked at the blade, ‘I’d keep this one. As a payment for the effort put in. But I changed my mind. I will not carry a bandit's weapon.’
He threw the sword up. The blade went into the rafters and shook. Spintop, pale as paper, flashed her teeth from behind her curved lips. She hunched and with a quick move took a dagger out of her boot.
‘This is,’ he appraised looking her in the eye, ‘a very stupid idea.’
On the road, hooves beat, horses snorted, weapons clinked. In front of the station there was suddenly a lot of riders.
‘If I was in your shoes,’ Geralt said to the three. ‘I'd sit on a bench in the corner. And pretend that I'm not here.’
The pushed doors thundered, spurs rattled, and into the room entered soldiers in fox caps and short black jackets with silver braids. They were led by a moustached man with a scarlet scarf.
‘The Royal service!’ he announced, putting his fist on a mace that he held behind his belt. ‘Master Corporal Kovacs, second squadron of the first banner, of the armed forces of the gracefully ruling, King Foltest, lord of Temeria, Pontaria and Mahakam. In pursuit of a Redanian band.’
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