Baptism of Fire

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘One is enough,’ said Zoltan, taking the cup and carefully filling it. ‘To your health, Mister Regis. Uuuuch…’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Regis apologized. ‘The quality of the distillate is still not fully meeting the demanded requirements… This is still a work in progress.’

  ‘Well, it is the best thing I have drunk in half my life.’ Zoltan caught his breath. ‘Here, poet.’

  ‘Aaaach… Oh, wow excellent! Try it, Geralt.’

  ‘For the host.’ The witcher bowed slightly towards Regis. ‘Where are your manners, Dandelion?’

  ‘I beg your forgiveness, gentlemen,’ the alchemist said. ‘I do not drink. My health is no longer what is was, so I had to give up… many pleasures.’

  ‘Not even a sip?’

  ‘It is a matter of principle.’ Regis said quietly. ‘I never violate the principles I set for myself.’

  ‘You have my admiration. I can only envy such principles.’ Geralt took a sip, after a moment’s hesitation he drank it to the bottom. After tasting it, it was impossible to keep tears from his eyes. It spread a pleasant warmth to his stomach.

  ‘I’ll get Milva.’ He offered, handing the empty vessel to the dwarf. ‘Don’t drink it all before we return.’

  Milva sat with the horses and played with the freckled girl with the braids that she had carried that day in the saddle. When she learned of Regis’s hospitality, she initially shrugged, but it did not take long to convince her.

  When they entered the hut, they found the company inspecting the stored mandrake roots.

  ‘This is the first time I’ve seen one,’ said Dandelion, turning the branched root in his hands. ‘They are indeed, somewhat reminiscent of a man.’

  ‘Twisted by back pain.’ Zoltan said. ‘And the other, looks like a pregnant woman. And this one, excuse me, looked like to people lying together.’

  ‘You only have one thing on your mind.’ Milva bravely swallowed the moonshine, and burst into a coughing fit. ‘So… it is a strong spirit! Is it really made from mandrake? Ha, then lets drink then! It’s not every day this happens to us. Thank you, sir surgeon.’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

  The constantly topped up vessel was circulated among those present and provoked a good mood, relaxation and talking.

  ‘I often used to hear, that the mandrake is a vegetable with great magical power.’ Said Percival Schuttenbach.

  ‘You can say that again,’ Dandelion confirmed, emptied the cup, shook his head and continued. ‘Many ballads are composed on the subject. Sorcerers add mandrake to elixirs, which provide them with eternal youth. Sorceresses make an ointment with Alraune called glamour. When a sorceress used the ointment, she becomes so beautiful that the people around them eye’s start to pop. I can also tell you that mandrake is a powerful aphrodisiac, used in love magic, especially to break resistant women. Hence the popular name of mandrake: pucelesta. Which means, heaven to whores.’

  ‘Stupid.’ Milva commented.

  ‘I heard,’ the gnome said, raising the cup, ‘that if the Alraune root is removed from the ground, it cries and complains as if alive.’

  ‘Bah!’ Zoltan said, shaking his head. ‘If it only complained! The mandrake, they say, has a scream so horrible you can lose your senses from it, and to top it off it shouts spells and curses at him who snatched it from the ground. Such a risk can pay with your life.’

  ‘I think it is a story for the donkeys,’ Milva took the cup, drank from it and shuddered. ‘I don’t believe that a plant could have such power.’

  ‘It has been proven true!’ The dwarf cried passionately. ‘But wise herbalists have invented a way to protect themselves. When they find Alraune they tie a rope to the root and the other end they attached to a dog…’

  ‘Or a pig.’ Said the gnome.

  ‘Or a wild boar.’ Dandelion said with exaggerated seriousness.

  ‘You are stupid, poet. The trick is to get the dog or the pig to pull the weed from the ground, then all the curses fall on it, while the herbalist is safely hidden in the bushes far away, and gets away alive. What, Mister Regis? Did I say something?’

  ‘The method is interesting,’ admitted the alchemist with a smile, ‘especially for its ingenuity. The problem, in my opinion, is that it is overly complicated. In theory, there should be enough rope without animal traction. I don’t think mandrake have the ability to recognize who is pulling the rope. Spells and curses would always fall on the rope, which is after all cheaper and less cumbersome to use than a dog or a pig.’

  ‘Are you mocking me?’

  ‘Not at all. I said I admire the ingenuity. Though the mandrake, in my personal opinion, is not able to cast spell or curses, however, when fresh it is highly toxic. Even the soil around the root can be poisoned. Fresh juice if splashed in the face or on a cut hand, and even inhalation of the vapor, can be fatal. I personally use gloves and a mask on my face, which means I don’t have anything against the method of the rope and a dog.’

  ‘Hmm…’ thought the dwarf. ‘And what about the terrible screaming the picked Alraune issues?’

  ‘Mandragora has no vocal chords,’ the surgeon said. ‘This is typical for plants, is it not? However, a toxin which drips from a fresh plant may have a strong hallucinogenic effect. Whispers, voices, screams and other sounds can be perceived sensations by an irritable nervous system.’

  ‘How could I forget?’ wailed Dandelion, just emptying another cup. ‘Mandragora is still very poisonous! We handled it! And now we sit here drinking it…’

  ‘Only a fresh root is toxic,’ said Regis. ‘These have been professionally stored and properly cured, the distillate is filtered. There is no reason for concern.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Zoltan said. ‘You can even run it through nettles, fish scales and old lace. Give me the cup, Dandelion, because you’re holding up the queue.’

  The cup started moving again. Everyone sat comfortably on the trampled ground. The witcher hissed and swore under his breath. Carefully he straightened his leg as the knee had a stabbing pain in it again. He saw Regis looking at him intently.

  ‘A recent injury?’

  ‘Not very. But it still hurts. Do you have an herb here, capable of pain relief?’

  ‘It depends on the type of pain.’ The surgeon smiled slightly. ‘And what causes it. In your sweat, witcher, I sense a strange smell. Were you treated with magic? With any magic elixirs or preparations?’

  ‘I received several medications. I had no idea that they could still be smelled in my sweat. You have an incredibly sensitive sense of smell, Regis.’

  ‘Everyone has their advantages. As well as their weaknesses. What illness or injury were you magically treated for?’

  ‘A broken arm and legs.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘Just over a month.’

  ‘And you already walk? Incredible. The Dryads of Brokilon, correct?’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Only dryads know the medications that would rebuild a bone so quickly. On the tops of your hands I see dark spots, places through which the purple comfrey and the symbiotic conynhaela penetrated the skin. Only the dryads use conynhaela and purple comfrey doesn’t grow outside of Brokilon.’

  ‘Bravo. A faultless deduction. However, I’m interested in something else. I broke the bones of my thighs and forearm. Yet I feel a strong pain in the knee and the elbow.’

  ‘It’s typical,’ the surgeon nodded. ‘The magic of the Dryads rebuilt your damaged bone, but also caused a small revolution in the nerve endings. A side effect most noticeable in the joints.’

  ‘What can be done for it?’

  ‘Sadly, nothing. For a long time you will be able to infallibly predicted bad weather. In winter the pain will worsen. I cannot recommend any medication for soothing the pain. Especially narcotics. You’re a witcher; it would be unacceptable for your body.’

  ‘So the best thing is your mandrake.’ The witcher raised the glass
that Milva had filled and given to him, and drank to the bottom, then coughed until tears came to his eyes. ‘Damn, I feel better.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Regis said with a tight-lipped smile, ‘you are treating the disease properly. I remember you should cure the causes not the symptoms.’

  ‘Not for this witcher.’ A ruddy faced Dandelion snorted. ‘For him and his worries, booze will do him good.’

  ‘You should too.’ Geralt froze the poet with a look. ‘Especially if it numbs your tongue.’

  ‘Do not count on it.’ The surgeon smiled again. ‘One of the ingredients is belladonna. It contains various alkaloids, including scopolamine. The strong alcohol before you, will inevitable make each of you give me a display of eloquence.’

  ‘A display of what?’ Percival asked.

  ‘Eloquence. Sorry. Let us use simpler words.’

  Geralt’s lips turned up in an imitation of a smile.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘It is easy to fall into mannerisms and start using those words every day. The people around them then consider them a pompous fool.’

  ‘Or by an alchemist.’ Said Zoltan, pouring another cup.

  ‘Or by a witcher,’ snorted Dandelion, ‘who has been reading, in order to impress a certain sorceress. The sorceresses, gentlemen, do not go crazy for convoluted far-fetched tales. Am I right, Geralt? Come on, tell us…’

  ‘Skip a few rounds, Dandelion,’ interrupted the witcher coldly. ‘Some of the alkaloids have started to act too quickly on you. You talk too much.’

  ‘I might end up with those secrets of yours, Geralt.’ Zoltan frowned

  ‘Dandelion has told us nothing new. You can’t avoid being a walking legend. The stories of your adventures are played in puppet theaters. Among them is the story of you and a sorceress named Guinevere.’

  ‘Yennefer.’ Regis corrected him softly. ‘I saw one of those shows. The story of you hunting a djinn, if my memory serves me.’

  ‘I was in that one.’ Boasted Dandelion. ‘We had fun. I can tell you…’

  ‘Tell it all.’ Geralt got up. ‘Don’t forget to drink and exaggerate. I’m going for a walk.’

  ‘Whoa,’ said the dwarf. ‘No need to get angry…’

  ‘You don’t understand, Zoltan, I’m going to relieve myself. It happens, even to a walking legend.’

  The night was cold as hell. The horses snorted and steam streamed from their nostrils. The surgeons hut in the moonlight looked fabulous. Exactly like the witch’s hut in the forest. Geralt buttoned his pants.

  Milva, who had left the house shortly after, cleared her throat uncertainly. Her shadow cast a shadow next to the one cast by Geralt.

  ‘Why don’t you go back inside?’ She asked. ‘Are you really offended?’

  ‘No.’ he denied.

  ‘So why do you stand here alone in the moonlight?’

  ‘I’m counting.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Since we left Brokilon, twelve days have passed, during which we have travelled about sixty miles. Ciri, so the rumors say, is in Nilfgaard, the capital of the empire, a place that separates me by two thousand five hundred miles. A simple calculation shows that at this rate I’ll get there in a year and four months. What do you say to that?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Milva shrugged her shoulders and cleared her throat again. ‘I cannot count as well as you. I can’t read nor write at all. I’m stupid, a simple wench from a village. I’m not good company for you. Not even for a conversation.’

  ‘Do not say that.’

  ‘But it is true!’ she said sharply. ‘Why tell me the days and miles? Do you want my advice? Do you want me to encourage you? To dispel your fears and ward off the sorrow that is worse than a broken bone? I can’t! You need another. Talk to Dandelion. He is wise, learned. Beloved!’

  ‘Dandelion is a braggart.’

  ‘Sure. But sometimes he tends to tell the truth. Let’s go back in. I want to drink more.’

  ‘Milva?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You never told me why you decided to come with me.’

  ‘You never asked.’

  ‘I’m asking now.’

  ‘It is too late. Now I don’t even know.’

  ‘Well finally, you’re back.’ Zoltan greeted them cheerfully. ‘Now we are all here, imagine this, Regis has decided to journey with us.’

  ‘Really?’ Geralt looked at the alchemist. ‘Why the sudden decision?’

  ‘Zoltan,’ Regis lowered his eyes, ‘made me realize that the war that sweeps around me is much more serious than the stories I have heard from the refugees. Returning to Dillingen is off the table and hiding in the wilderness doesn’t seem wise. Neither does wandering around alone.’

  ‘And we, though most would not know it to look at us, are safe to travel with. Did the one look you took suffice?’

  ‘Two,’ corrected the surgeon. ‘One for the women in your care. The second for their children.’

  Zoltan belched loudly. The bottom of the cup scratching the tube.

  ‘Appearances can be deceiving,’ he joked. ‘Maybe we are going to sell those women as slaves? Percival, do something about this machine. We want to drink, but it drips like a running nose.’

  ‘The distillate is cool enough. The spirit will come out warm.’

  ‘Never mind that, the night is cold.’

  The liquor stimulated conversation. Dandelion, Zoltan and Percival were flushed, their voices had changed even more – in the case of the poet and the gnome it came out a lisp. They grew hungry and chewed on cold horse meat and horseradish, which was in the hut in decent supply. The alchemist collected a mass of roots as strong as the liquor and they were reduced t tears. But it added fire to the discussion.

  Regis showed surprise when it turned out that the final purpose of the journey was not an area in the mountains of Mahakam, which had long been the home of the dwarves. Zoltan, who had become even more talkative than Dandelion, said he would not return under any circumstance to Mahakam, venting his displeasure of the order prevailing there, particularly in regards to the politics and the governor, Brouver Hogg who had absolute power over the dwarven clans.

  ‘Old fart!’ He yelled and spat into the coals of the stove. ‘When you look at him it is hard to tell if he is alive or stuffed. He almost never moves. It is impossible to understand what he is talking about, because his beard and moustache are glued to a stern withered chin. But he rules everyone, so everyone dances to his music…’

  ‘One cannot say that the policies of Lord Hogg are wrong,’ said Regis. ‘It is thanks to his strong views that, the dwarves have broken away and do not fight in the Scoia’tael commandos. And the pogrom have stopped, no punitive expedition has started on Mahakam. The normalization of relations with people has brought results.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Zoltan drank from the cup. ‘The old bastard did not seek any congeniality in the case of the Squirrels, but it was that too many youngsters threw in their jobs in the mines and forges to join with the elven commandos to enjoy freedom and adventure. Once this phenomenon had grown in scale, Brouver Hogg tied it up very shortly. He shitted on people for helping the Squirrels and ignored the humans retaliatory measures, including those accursed pogroms. He celebrated because he deemed any dwarves that didn’t settled in towns or cities to be renegades. As for the threat of an expedition to Mahakam, do not be ridiculous, there is no danger, and never will be. Which one of the kings would dare undertake anything against the Mahakam? I’ll tell you something else, even if the Nilfgaardians occupied the entire valley below Mahakam, they wouldn’t dare move. Do you know why? Let me tell you: Mahakam is steel. And not just any kind. There’s coal, there is the magnetite ore, and inexhaustible supplies. Everywhere and all for free.’

  ‘And the technology is in Mahakam,’ Percival interjected. ‘Iron, steel and metallurgy! Blast furnaces, not some shitty chimney. Water and steam hammers…’

  ‘Here, Percival, wet your whistle.’ Zoltan passed the gnome a full cup. ‘Yo
u’ll bore us all with your techniques. But not everyone knows that Mahakam exports steel. To the Northern Kingdoms, but also to Nilfgaard. And if someone raised a hand, we would start destroying workshops and flooding mines. And then you humans will go to war with nothing but sticks of wood, flint and donkey jaws.’

  ‘As annoyed as you are with Brouver Hogg and those in power in Mahakam,’ noted the witcher, ‘you started to say “we.”’

  ‘Of course,’ confirmed the dwarf with passion. ‘There is such a thing as solidarity, no? I admit that I’m proud that we are smarter than those cocky elves. There is no denying it, huh? The elves have for a couple of hundred years have pretended that you, humans did not exist. They stared into the heavens, smelled the flowers and turned their eyes away from you humans. And when it turned out that this was useless, they suddenly woke up and laid their hands on weapons. They decided to kill and be killed. And we, dwarves? We adapted. You believe you have conquered us, you must be dreaming. We have conquered you. Economically.’

  ‘Truth be told,’ Regis said, ‘it was easier for you to adapt than the elves. Elves integrate their country and territory, you integrate your clan. Where your clan lives, that is your homeland. Even if by chance some extremely short-sighted ruler attacked Mahakam, you’d floods your mines and destroy your workshops without regret and move elsewhere. Maybe to another distant mountain. Even into a human city.’

  ‘Right! In your cities we can live very well.’

  ‘Even in the ghettos?’ Dandelion gasped after taking another mouthful of moonshine.

  ‘And what is wrong with the ghettos? I like to live among my own kind. Why bother to integrate?’

  ‘So we may enter the guilds.’ Percival wiped his nose with his sleeve.

  ‘In the end they’ll allow it,’ the dwarf spoke with conviction, ‘and if not, then we’ll start our own guilds, and give them some healthy competition.’

  ‘But in Mahakam it is safer than in the towns and cities.’ Regis said. ‘Cities can be burned and destroyed during turbulent times. It would be sensible to wait out the war in the mountains.’