The Time of Contempt

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘All right,’ Ciri said, pursing her lips and rising. There was silence broken only by the crackling fire. The Rats looked at her curiously, waiting.

  ‘All right.’ She repeated, amazed at the sound of her voice which sounded so alien. ‘I do not need you, I have not asked for anything… And I do not want to be with you! I’ll leave…’

  ‘So you’re not mute.’ Giselher said sombrely. ‘You can speak, even cheeky.’

  ‘Look at her eyes.’ Iskra snapped. ‘Look how she is holding her head. Bird of prey. Hawk!’

  ‘You want to leave.’ Said Kayleigh ‘But where, do you know?’

  ‘What do you care?’ Ciri screamed, her eyes flashing a brilliant green. ‘Do I ask you, where you go? I don’t care! I do not need you at all! I can… I can handle it! Alone!’

  ‘Alone?’ Mistle repeated, smiling strangely. Ciri was silent, bowing her head. The Rats were also silent.

  ‘It’s night.’ Giselher finally said. ‘Do not ride at night. Do not ride alone, girl. He who is alone, dies alone. There, near the horses, are blankets and furs. Take some. Nights are cold in the mountains. Why are you looking at me with those green lanterns? Prepare a bed and sleep. You have to rest.’

  After a moment of reflection, Ciri obeyed. When she returned, carrying a blanket and furs the Rats were no longer sitting around the fire. They stood in a semicircle, and the brightness of the fire flared in their eyes.

  ‘We are the Border Rats.’ Giselher said proudly. ‘Smelling the spoils of loot miles away. And there is nothing we are not able to crack. We are the Rats. Come here, girl.’

  She obeyed.

  ‘You have nothing.’ Giselher said, handing her a silver studded belt. ‘Accept this.’

  ‘You have nothing and not one.’ Said Mistle, throwing over her shoulders with a smile, a green satin doublet and a plain weave blouse.

  ‘You have nothing.’ Said Kayleigh and his gift to her was a small dagger in a sheath studded with precious stones. ‘You are alone.’

  ‘You have no one.’ Asse repeated after giving Ciri a decorative baldric.

  ‘You have no family.’ Said Reef in his Nilfgaardian accent, handing her a pair of soft skin gloves. ‘You have no one nearby…’

  ‘ Everywhere you are a stranger.’ Finished Iskra with seeming carelessness, and quickly and unceremoniously placed a beret with turkey feathers on her head. ‘An Outsider everywhere and always different. How shall we call you, little hawk?’

  Ciri looked into her eyes.

  ‘Gvalch’ca.’

  The elf laughed.

  ‘Once you start to speak, you speak in multiple languages, little hawk! Very good. You will carry the name from the Elder People, a name that you yourself have chosen. You will be called Falka.’

  * * *

  Falka.

  She could not sleep. Horses shuffled and neighed in the dark, the wind whispered through the tops of the pines. The sky was covered with starts. With great clarity shone the Eye, her faithful guide for many days while in the wilderness of the desert. The Eye pointed west. But Ciri was not sure if that was right. She was not sure of anything.

  She could not sleep even though for the first time in many days she felt safe. She was no longer alone. She had placed the bed of blankets and furs in a corner, away from the Rats, who slept on the clay floor of the ruined hut, by the warm fire. She was away from them but still felt a closeness and presence. She was not alone.

  She heard quiet footsteps.

  ‘Do not be afraid.’ Said Kayleigh. ‘I will not tell,’ whispered the blond hair Rat, while he crouched beside her ‘I will not tell them anything about the reward promised for you by the governor of Amarillo. There in the tavern you saved my life. I will reward you. With a beautiful thing. Right now.’

  He lay beside her, slowly and carefully. Ciri tried to get up but Kayleigh forced her to lie down with a movement that was not violent, but strong and firm. He put a finger gently on her lips. It was not necessary. Ciri was paralysed with fear and her throat was painfully tight and dry and a cry could not have escaped, even though she wanted it. But it did not. The silence and darkness were better. Safer. More intimate. Hiding her fear and shame. She moaned.

  ‘Be quiet, little one.’ Kayleigh whispered, slowly untying her shirt. Slowly and smoothly he slid the fabric down off of her shoulders and pulled the shirt above her waist. ‘Do not be afraid. You’ll see how pleasant this is.’

  Ciri shivered at the touch of his fingers, dry, hard and rough. She lay motionless, stretched taunt and full of fear and an overwhelming disgust, that sent heat waves to her temples and cheeks. Kayleigh slipped her left arm under his head and drew her closer to himself, trying to remove her hands that convulsively pulled the bottom of her shirt down in vain. She began to tremble.

  In the darkness around her she suddenly felt a movement; she felt a jolt and the sound of a kick.

  ‘Have you gone mad, Mistle?’ Barked Kayleigh, sitting up a little.

  ‘Leave her alone, you swine.’

  ‘Piss off. Go to sleep.’

  ‘I said leave her alone.’

  ‘Does this seem unwelcome? Did she yell or stir? I just wanted to comfort her in her sleep. Don’t interrupt.’

  ‘Get out of here or I’ll make you.’

  Ciri heard the screech of a sword in its scabbard.

  ‘I’m not kidding,’ Mistle repeated, looming in the darkness above them. ‘Go over to the others. Now!’

  Kayleigh sat up, cursing. Her got up without saying a word and went quickly.

  Ciri felt tears running down her cheeks, faster and faster, moving like worms crawling into her hair beside her ears. Mistle lay down beside her and covered her skin diligently. But did not close the shirt, leaving it open as it was. Ciri started shaking again.

  ‘Quiet, Falka. Everything is fine.’

  Mistle was warm and smelled of cattle and smoke. Her hand, unlike Kayleigh’s hand was more delicate, more tender. More enjoyable. But the contact was making Ciri tense again, her body stiffened with fear and disgust, she squeezed her jaw shut. Mistle stuck to her, holding her protectively and whispering soothing words, but also her soft hand was crawling tireless like a snail, warm, calm, confident, determined, aware of it route and purpose. Ciri felt the grip of fear and disgust open up and release their prey, she felt the pressure release and fell down, down, deeper, into a warm and humid swamp of resigned submission.

  She moaned dully, desperately. Mistle breath scorched her neck, velvet moist lips kissed her shoulder, collarbone and then very slowly moved lower.

  Ciri, moaned again.

  ‘Hush, little hawk.’ Mistle whispered, gently pushing her arm under her head. ‘You will not be alone. Not anymore.’

  * * *

  Ciri awoke at dawn. She slipped from under the fur and slowly and carefully, as to not wake Mistle, who slept with parted lip and her eyes hidden by her forearm. Her forearm had goosebumps. Ciri carefully covered the girl. After a moment’s hesitation she leaned forward and gently kissed her cropped spiky hair. Mistle purred in her sleep. Ciri wiped a tear from her cheek.

  She was no longer alone.

  The rest of the Rats were also asleep, one was snoring loudly, while another let lose a fart. Iskra was lying with her hand across Giselher’s chest, lush hair scattered in disarray. The horses snorted and kicked, a woodpecker was at the trunk of a pine hammering it with short blows.

  Ciri ran to the river. She washed for a long time, shivering with cold. She washed with sharp movements of her hands, trying to remove what could not be removed. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Falka.

  The water foamed and hissed onto the rocks, sailing into the distance, in fog.

  Everything flowed into the distance. Into the fog.

  Everything.

  * * *

  They were outcasts. They were a strange jumble created by war, misery and contempt. War, misery and contempt joined them and spat them out, like a swollen river spits
out and deposits on beaches black polished stones and pieces of wood.

  Kayleigh had woken up in smoke, fire and blood in a plundered castle lying between the corpses of his adoptive parents and siblings. Crawling among the corpses in the courtyard was Reef. Reef was a solider of the punitive expedition, which Emperor Emhyr van Emreis sent to quell the insurgency in Ebbing. He was one of those who had conquered and plundered the castle after a two day siege. Having conquered the castle, his comrades abandoned Reef, although Reef was still alive. But care of the wounded had never been customary in the Nilfgaard special forces.

  At first Kayleigh wanted to finish off Reef. But Kayleigh did not want to be alone. And Reef and Kayleigh were only sixteen.

  Together they licked their wounds. Together they killed and robbed a tack collector; together they gave away the beer to an inn, and then riding through the village on stolen horses, throwing away the rest of the stolen money, dying of laughter the whole time.

  Together they fled the pursuit and Nilfgaardian Nissir patrols.

  Giselher deserted the army. Perhaps it was the army of the lord of Geso who had allied with the rebels from Ebbing. Probably. Giselher was not sure where he had been dragged from and enlisted. He had been drunk. Once he sobered up and got his first drill sergeant, he escaped. At first, he wandered alone, but when the Nilfgaard destroyed the confederation of rebels, the forest was full of deserters and fugitives. The fugitives soon joined into bands. Giselher joined one of them.

  The band plundered and burned villages, attacking caravans and transports that were running in wild flight from the Nilfgaardian cavalry squadrons. During one of these flights, the band ran to escape into the woods but ran into Elves and found death and destruction. The death was in the form of invisible hissing gray feathered arrows from all sides. One shot pierced through his shoulder and pinned him to a tree. The one who pulled the arrow the next morning and took care of the wound was Aenyeweddien.

  Giselher never learned why the elves sent Aenyeweddien into exile, for what crime she had been condemned to death. Because for a free elf, death was being alone in the narrow stretch of no man’s land separating the humans from the free Elder People. A lonely elf will die, if they cannot find a companion.

  Aenyeweddien had found a companion. Her name, in free translation was “Child of Fire”, was too complicated and poetic for Giselher. He called her Spark.

  Mistle came from a wealthy and noble family of Thurn manor, north of Maecht. His father was a vassal of Prince Rudiger, he joined the rebel army, let himself get killed and disappeared without a trace. When the population of Thurn fled the city before the news of the impending punitive expedition the notorious Peacekeepers of Gemmer, Mistle’s family also fled, but lost Mistle in the panic that gripped the crowd. A decorated and delicate lady, who from early childhood had been carried around in a sedan chair, was unable to keep up with the fugitives. After three days of wandering alone she fell into the clutches of slave hunters who followed the Nilfgaardians. A girl under seventeen years was worth a lot. If she was intact. The hunters did not touch Mistle, after checking earlier that she was intact. After that check, Mistle sobbed all night.

  In the valley of Velda, the caravan of hunters was attacked and destroyed by a band of Nilfgaardian deserters. They killed all the hunters and male slaves. They spared only the girls. The girls did not know why they had been spared. The ignorance did not last long.

  Mistle was the only one who survived. She was pulled from the ditch, where she was thrown, naked, covered in bruises, filth, mud and blood. She was saved by Asse, the son of a village blacksmith, who had followed the Nilfgaardians for three days, mad with desire for revenge for what the marauders had done with his father, mother and sisters, which he had witness while hiding among some reeds.

  They all met one day during the celebrations of Lamas, the Harvest Festival, in one of the villages of Geso. War and poverty had not then devastated the country’s high veld. Farmers celebrated as tradition dictated the beginning of the crescent moon, with dancing and noisy entertainment.

  They did not have to search for too long for each other in the crowd. They differed a lot from them. They had many things in common. They shared a taste for noisy, colourful, imaginative costumes, stolen trinkets, beautiful horses and swords which they did not remove even to dance. They were distinguished by their arrogance and haughtiness, their self-confidence and mocking chatter and their violence.

  And their hatred.

  They were children of the times of contempt. And for others they only held contempt. What counted to them was strength. Efficiency in arms, which they quickly acquired on the highways. Fast horses and sharp swords.

  They became comrades. Companions. Friends. Because those who are alone, shall die of famine, sword, arrow, the stakes of the peasants, on the scaffold or by fire. Whoever is alone dies: stabbed, beaten, kicked, defiled, like a toy passed from hand to hand.

  They met at the Harvest Festival. The sombre, dark, skinny Giselher. Kayleigh, thin, long hair, with evil eyes and mouth arranged in a hideous face. Reef, who still spoke with a Nilfgaardian accent. Mistle, tall, long legged, with straw coloured hair cut so short that it was stiff as a brush. Spark, large colourful eyes, slender, and light in the dance but fast and deadly in battle, with thin lips and small elvish teeth. Asse, broad shouldered, with a white moustache and a twisted beard.

  Giselher became the leader. They adopted the name the Rats. Someone had called them that once and they loved it.

  They robbed and killed, and their cruelty became proverbial.

  At first, the governor of Nilfgaard underestimated them. They were sure that, like the other bands, they would soon fall victim to the angry peasants or would destroy and kill each other, when their greed for the stored booty triumphed over the bandit solidarity. The governor was right in regards to the other gangs, but they were wrong about the Rats. Because the Rats, children of contempt, despised the spoils. They attacked, robbed and killed for fun and seized shipments of military horses, cattle, grain, straw, salt, tar and cloth which they distributed in villages. With handfuls of gold and silver to pay tailors and craftsmen for things they loved above all else: weapons, clothes and ornaments. Those they paid well, who sheltered and hid them, even when flogged but the Nissir would not betray the hiding places and routes of the Rats.

  The governors offered a large reward, and at first there were those that rejoiced at the prospect of Nilfgaardian gold. But at night, the homes of the informers became engulfed in flames and as the fire died down from the smoke rode ghostly riders with swords. The Rats attacked as rats. In silence, betrayal and cruelty. Rats loved to kill.

  The governors turned to other methods that had worked with other bands; sometimes they tried to introduce a traitor among the Rats. They were unsuccessful. The Rats did not accept anyone. They were a compact and fraternal six made by the time of contempt and they did not want strangers. They despised them.

  Until the day when a girl appeared, ashen haired, tight-lipped and agile as an acrobat, who knew nothing about the Rats.

  Except she was like each of them. She was alone and full of sadness, sadness for what had been stolen from her in this time of contempt.

  And in times of contempt, one who is alone must die.

  Giselher, Kayleigh, Reef, Iskra, Mistle, Asse and Falka.

  The governor of Amarillo was astonished beyond measure when he was told that there were now seven Rats.

  * * *

  ‘Seven?’ The surprised governor of Amarillo said, looking at the soldier in disbelief. ‘There were seven, not six? Are you sure?’

  ‘I wish I was as healthy as I was sure.’ The sole surviving solider of the massacre said faintly.

  His desire was quite natural – the head and half of the soldier’s face was covered by a dirty bandage and covered in blood. The governor, who had been in more than one battle, knew that the soldier had been hit at the back from above – the end of the blade, went from left to rig
ht, precise, requiring skill and speed, directed at the right ear and cheek, in places not protected by a helmet or iron collar.

  ‘Give me your account.’

  ‘We were walking along the Velda in the direction of Thurn.’ Started the soldier. ‘The order was to save one of the convoys being transported by Lord Evertsen which was heading south. We were attacked by the fallen bridge when we were crossing the river. One cart was stuck, then we had to use horses from the second to pull it out. The rest of the convoy went ahead; I was left with five men and with the bailiff. And we were jumped. The bailiff, before he was killed, had time to shout that these were the Rats and then they had him around the throat… They overthrew us all. When I saw this…’

  ‘When you saw him,’ the governor scowled ‘You put your heels to your horses. But you were too late to save his skin.’

  ‘She caught up with me’ The soldier bowed his head ‘the seventh; I hadn’t seen her at first. A girl. Almost a kid. I guess she was left at the back of the Rats, because she was young and inexperienced…’

  A visitor to the governor emerged from the darkness in which had been sitting.

  ‘Was it a girl?’ He asked. ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Like all of them. Painted up like an elf, colourfully like a parrot, dressed in bright velvets and brocades, with a hat with a feather.’

  ‘Blonde?’

  ‘I think so, sir. When I saw her, the horse she was riding was going fast, thinking that one of her companions was about to be made into mincemeat and she would make them pay blood for blood… I came in from the right and cut at her.. How she did it I don’t know. But I missed her. It was if the blow had gone through a ghost or spirit… I do not know how the devil… As though I was stopped, she got in behind me. Straight in the nose… Sir, I was at Sodden in Aldersburg. And now from that girl I have a souvenir on my face for life..’