Baptism of Fire

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “In fact,” Zoltan whispered, sniffing, “that certainly does smell tasty. Especially since my nostrils have become accustomed to the smell of burnt forest. I see neither guards nor horses which is reassuring, and I reckon it is a band of ruffians who have taken up refuge here. Hmm... I feel we have nothing to fear.”

  “I will go.” Milva declared.

  “No,” protested the dwarf. “You look too much like a Squirrel. If they see you, they may be frightened and humans tend to be unpredictable when they're scared. Yazon and Caleb will go. As for you, keep your bow ready to shoot, to cover them if need be. Percival will be ready to warn the others. Stay alert, in case we need to retreat.”

  Yazon Varda and Caleb Stratton cautiously emerged from the thicket and moved towards the buildings. They walked slowly, carefully looking around.

  The dog saw them straight away. He barked furiously, running around the yard, and didn't respond to the soft clicking and whistling of the dwarves. The cabin door opened.

  Milva immediately raised her bow and stretched the string smoothly. She quickly loosened it again.

  On the threshold stood a short, thin girl with long braids. She screamed something at the dwarves, and waved her hands. Yazon Varda spread his hands, and shouted something back. The girl began to scream. Geralt and the others heard it, but they were not able to distinguish the words.

  Those words must have had an impression on Yazon and Caleb, because the two dwarves turned on their heels and ran back towards the lilac bushes. Milva stretched her bow again, moving the tip, looking for a target.

  “What the devil?” barked Zoltan. “What's going on? What made them run away like this? Did you see something, Milva?”

  “Shut your trap.” The archer hissed, still letting her tip move from cottage to cottage, from shed to shed. But there was still nothing to see. The girl with the braids disappeared into the cabin, slamming the door behind her.

  The dwarves raced as if all the demons of Chaos trod on their heels after them. Yazon yelled something, maybe cursing. Dandelion suddenly turned pale.

  “He is yelling ... Oh, mother!”

  “What is goi ...” Zoltan stopped because Yazon and Caleb had arrived, both red with exertion. “What is it? Tell us!”

  “There is plague ...” Caleb gasped. “Black smallpox ...”

  “Did you touch anything?” Zoltan Chivay retreated abruptly, almost knocking Dandelion over. “Did you touch anything in the yard?”

  “No... The dog didn't let us get close enough...”

  “Thanks be to that damn mutt.” Zoltan raised his eyes skyward. “May the gods grant him a long life and a pile of bones the size of Mount Carbon. The girl in the hut, did she have pimples?”

  “No. She's healthy. The sick are lying in the last hut, the rest of her family. Many have already died, she said. Aye, aye, Zoltan, the wind was blowing towards us!”

  “Enough teeth chattering,” said Milva, lowering her bow. “If you did not touch anything infected, you will be fine, don't worry. Indeed, that's if there really is any smallpox. The girl may have wanted to scare you.”

  “No,” asserted Yazon, still shivering. “Behind the hut there was a pit ... And inside it, corpses. The girl didn't have enough strength to bury the dead, so she threw them into the pit...”

  “Well!” Zoltan sniffed. “There's your oatmeal, Dandelion. I don't know about you, but somehow I'd rather pass. Let's get out of here, alive.”

  Frantic barking suddenly rose from the village.

  “Hide yourselves!” The witcher hissed, kneeling.

  On the opposite side of the clearing, a rowdy group of horsemen galloped around the broken fence, whistling and surrounding buildings, then burst into the yard. The riders were armed but wore no uniforms. On the contrary, they were casually dressed in colorful clothes, and their equipment gave the impression of being completely mismatched - not taken from the barracks, but found on the battlefield.

  “Thirteen.” Percival Schuttenbach counted quickly.

  “Who are they?”

  “They aren't Nilfgaard or any other regular army,” said Zoltan. “They're not Scoia'tael either. It seems to me, they are deserters. A single band.”

  “Or marauders.”

  The riders were loud, they frolicked in the yard. The dog received a blow from a stick and fled. The girl with the braids jumped from the door, she yelled. But this time the warning did not work nor was it taken seriously. One of the riders galloped by, took her by the hair, pulled her from the threshold, and dragged her through the puddle. Others jumped from their horses, helped to drag the girl to the end of the yard, tore off her clothes and threw her on the pile of rotten straw. The girl fought tooth and nail, but she had no chance. Only one of the marauders had not joined in the fun, he looked after the horses tied to the fence. The girl began to shriek in despair. Then the cries became less frequent, spasmodic, and finally ceased altogether.

  “Warriors!” Milva broke up. “Heroes... bastards yes!”

  “Obviously they are not afraid of smallpox.” Yazon Varda shook his head.

  “Fear,” whispered Dandelion, “is a human thing. In them is no longer anything human.”

  “Except their guts,” Milva croaked, carefully embedding her arrow on the string. “Which I'm about to drill through with this arrow, those villains.”

  “There are thirteen of them,” said Zoltan Chivay with a somber look. “And they have horses. You can kill one or two maybe, but the rest will attack us. Besides, it could be a detachment. The devil knows how many could follow them.”

  “So what, I must watch quietly, do nothing?”

  “No.” Geralt had hung his sword around his back and had tied his hair. “I'm sick of watching quietly. I'm tired of inaction. They have to be dispersed. You see the one who's keeping the horses? When I reach there, shoot him from the saddle. If you can, take a second. But only when I reach there.”

  “Then there will be eleven.” The archer turned around.

  “I can count.”

  “What about the smallpox?” Muttered Zoltan Chivay. “If you go there, you will be contaminated with plague ... with the devil, witcher! Putting us all in danger ... Damn it, this is not the girl you are looking for!”

  “Shut up, Zoltan. Go back to the cart, hide in the forest.”

  “I'm going with you.” Milva said hoarsely.

  “No. Cover me from afar, you'll help me more effectively.”

  “And me?” Dandelion asked. “What shall I do?”

  “What you usually do. Nothing.”

  “You are crazy ...” Zoltan growled. “Only you against all of them ... What is wrong with you? You want to play the Hero, the savior of virgins?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Then let the devil take you! Wait... Leave your sword. There are a lot of them, it's better that you do not have to cut twice. Take my sihil. With it, once is enough.”

  The witcher accepted the dwarf's weapon without hesitation and without a word. Again he pointed out to Milva, the straggler guarding the horses. Then he jumped over the stumps and walked briskly towards the sheds.

  The sun was shining. Grasshoppers leapt from under his feet. The rider guarding the horses saw him, and pulled a spear from its sheath by his saddle. He had very long, matted hair, which fell onto his ragged chain mail, patched with rusty wire. He wore new shoes with shiny buckles, they had obviously been looted recently.

  The guard shouted, then from behind the fence came another marauder. This one carried a belt with a sword around his neck and had just finished fastening his trousers. Geralt was already quite close. From the heap of straw he heard laughter from those entertaining themselves with the girl. He breathed deeply, every breath in him intensifying his desire to kill. He could have calmed himself down, but he didn't want to. He wanted to take pleasure from this.

  “Hey you, who are you? Stop!” Shouted long haired, weighing the javelin in his hands. “What do you want?”

  “I'm tired
of watching.”

  “Whaaat?”

  “Does the name Ciri mean anything to you?”

  “I'll ...”

  The rider didn't manage to say anything more. An arrow with gray feathers hit him in the centre of the chest and he dropped from the saddle. Before he fell to the ground, Geralt already heard the whistle of a second arrow. The tip hit the other soldier in the abdomen, low, right between his fingers that were holding his fly. He howled like an animal, bent in half and fell back over the fence, knocking over and breaking the poles.

  Before the others had time to turn and seize their weapons, the witcher was already among them. The dwarf's sword danced and sang, its song was as light as a feather and its razor sharp steel revealed its wild lust for blood. The bodies it cut offered almost no resistance. The blood spurted on his face, he did not have time to wipe it.

  Even if the deserters had harbored intentions of fighting back, the sight of the falling corpses and streams of blood effectively discouraged them. One of them, with his pants around his knees, did not even have time to pull them up. He was slashed in the carotid artery and fell on his back, with his appendage waving ridiculously, his masculinity left unsatisfied. A second rider, his head cleanly shaven, tried to protect his face with both hands, and immediately the sihil cut both of his wrists. The others fled, scattering in different directions. The witcher chased them, mentally cursing the pain, which had again manifested in his knee. He hoped that his leg would not refuse to obey him.

  Two managed to reach the fence, and tried to defend themselves, waving their swords. Paralyzed with terror, they were sluggish. The witcher's face was once again splashed with the blood that gushed from the arteries cut by the dwarven blade. The others used this time to escape and jump on their horses. One immediately fell, struck by an arrow, wriggling and flapping like a fish thrown out of the net. The two that were left, launched their horses into a full gallop. However, only one managed to escape, because Zoltan Chivay suddenly appeared on the battlefield. The dwarf whirled his axe and threw it, hitting one of the fleeing riders in the middle of the back. The marauder roared, and flew from the saddle, kicking his legs. The last clung to his horse's neck, cleared the ditch full of corpses and galloped down towards the road.

  “Milva!” The witcher and dwarf cried simultaneously.

  The archer was already running towards him. She stopped, frozen with her legs apart. She lowered her bow and tightened the arch, raising it higher and higher. They heard the sound of the chord, but Milva had not changed position, she had not even twitched. They only saw the arrow when it had reached its target. The rider slumped forward on his horse, the feathered projectile protruding from his shoulder. But he did not fall. He straightened up and with a cry, pushed his horse into a faster gallop.

  “What a bow.” Zoltan Chivay groaned in awe. “And what a shot!”

  “A shot of shit.” The witcher wiped the blood from his face. “The son-of-a-bitch has escaped and he'll bring more.”

  “She hit him! And it was fired from two hundred steps!”

  “She could have aimed for the horse.”

  “The horse is not guilty.” Milva snorted angrily, walking up to them. She spat, watching the rider disappearing into the forest. “I missed the miserable scoundrel because I was a little breathless... Pah, poisonous snake, run away with my tip! May it curse you!”

  They heard a whinny from the road and immediately after, the piercing howl of a murdered man.

  “Ho, ho!” Zoltan looked at the archer with admiration. “He did not get far! Your arrow didn't fail! Was it poisoned? Or was it magical? Because after all, even if the rogue had caught smallpox, the damn disease doesn't spread that fast!”

  “It wasn't my arrow.” Milva gave the witcher a knowing look. “It wasn't smallpox either. But I think I know what it was.”

  “I think I know too.” The dwarf bit his moustache, smiling mischievously. “I always noticed that you look behind you, I know there is someone following us on the sly. On a chestnut stallion. I do not know who he is, but since you didn't mind ... well, it's not my business.”

  “Especially since we benefit from such a rear guard.” Milva said, looking meaningfully at Geralt. “Are you certain that this Cahir is your enemy?”

  The witcher did not answer. He handed Zoltan his sword.

  “Thanks. It's not bad.”

  “Especially in such good hands,” the dwarf approved, with a smile on his face. “I've heard stories about witchers, but to overcome eight people in less than two minutes ...”

  “That's not something to be proud of. They did not know how to defend themselves.”

  The girl with braids rose onto all fours, then stood on her feet, and with shaking hands tried unsuccessfully to improve the remnants of her torn garments. The witcher was surprised, seeing that in general, she was in absolutely no way similar to Ciri, when only a moment before he swore she looked like her twin sister. With an uncoordinated movement the girl rubbed her face, and moved unsteadily towards the cottage, not avoiding the puddle of manure.

  “Hey, wait,” called Milva. “Hey, you ... Can we help you? Oi!”

  The girl did not even look at her. She stumbled over the threshold, almost falling, holding onto the frame. She slammed the door behind her.

  “The gratitude of man knows no bounds,” said the dwarf. Milva turned like a spring, her face frozen.

  “What is there to be grateful for?”

  “Yes.” The witcher said. “What is there?”

  “The marauder's horses,” Zoltan did not lower his eyes. “She can kill them for their meat, and won't have to kill the cow. She is resistant to smallpox apparently, and now will not have to fear hunger. She'll survive. And the fact that thanks to you her torture was shortened, and the cottages weren't set on fire. She will understand after a few days, when she's had time to gather her thoughts. Come on, let's get away, before the pestilence blows our way... Hey, witcher, where are you going? Searching for gratitude?”

  “No. Some boots,” said Geralt coldly, bending over the long-haired straggler, who's dead eyes were fixed at the sky. “Looks like these will fit me perfectly.”

  Over the next few days, they ate horse meat. The boots with shiny buckles were quite comfortable. The Nilfgaardian called Cahir still rode behind them on his chestnut stallion, but the witcher did not look back.

  He finally figured out the secrets of Screwed and even played with the Dwarves. He lost.

  They did not mention what happened in the forest clearing. There was no point.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mandrake a. rare, plant species from the nightshade family, which includes herbaceous plants, stems, the roots of the tuber show similarities with the human form. The leaves are gathered in a rosette. M. autumnalis a. officinalis, grown on a small scale in Vicaro, Rowan and Ymlac it seldom grows wild. The berries are green, then turn yellow and are eaten with vinegar and pepper; the leaves are use in their raw state. The root (radix mandragorae) is today valued in medicine and pharmacy. Previously it once held great importance in certain superstitious beliefs, especially among the people of the North; they carved human figures on them (alruniki, alraune) and then stored them in homes as a valued talisman. It was considered as protection against disease and in the process provided happiness and fertility to women to ensure easy births. They were worn in clothes and during the new moon were placed into new clothes. The root of the mandrake was a popular trade commodity, whose price could reach up to sixty florins apiece. In trade it was often out of ignorance or fraudulent intent mistaken for belladonna root. Mandrake was also used in witchcraft as a magical ingredient in elixirs as well as poisons. The superstition came during the time of the persecution of the witches. The preparation of the mandrake poison was being investigated in the trial of Lucracia Migo. It is also assumed that the legendary Philippa Eilhart also used the mandrake as a poison.

  Effenberg and Talbot

  Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, Vol. XI
>
  The old road had changed somewhat since the witcher had travelled it last. The road, once paved with flat basalt slabs, built by the elves and dwarves hundreds of years ago, had become a ruin of pocked marks and corroded holes. Sometimes, the open holes were so deep they resembled small quarries. The marching pace slowed down, the dwarven cart maneuvered among the holes with great difficulty, getting stuck again and again.

  Zoltan Chivay knew the cause of the devastation of the road. After the last war with Nilfgaard, there was an extreme increased in demand for building materials. People then realized that the old road had a near inexhaustible source of hewn stone. And since the route was carelessly located in the wilderness and the road led from nowhere to nowhere, it had long ago lost its importance for transport and severed little use, they ravaged it without mercy, without measure.

  ‘All your big cities,’ complained the dwarf between the loud rasping of his parrot, ‘are built on ours and the elves foundations. The smaller towns and castles you have built yourselves, but you continue to take our stones. All this time, it was thanks to us non-humans for your development and progress.’

  Geralt said nothing.

  ‘But you destroy even this.’ Zoltan cursed, shaking his head and helped move the cart around another of the holes. ‘Why are you not removing the stones gradually from the ends of the road? You are like children! Instead of eating the whole donut, as is right and proper, you just lick the jam from the inside and discard the rest, because it was not as tasty.’

  Geralt explained that this was the fault of political geography. The western end of the old road was located in Brugge, the eastern in Temeria and the middle in Sodden, every kingdom devastated their part as they needed it. In response, Zoltan obscenely described a place where they could remove the kings and their politics. Field Marshal Duda added something offensive about the royal mothers.