Baptism of Fire

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Clog is the one who had his head smashed.’ said a second man. ‘We had the notion to marrying him off.’

  ‘I have nothing against it,’ Zoltan said angrily. ‘I wish him happiness in his new way of life. Health, happiness and prosperity.’

  ‘And lots of small Clogs’ Dandelion said.

  ‘No, no, gentlemen,’ said the peasant ‘Do not laugh, how are supposed to marry him? After you knocked him in the head his mind is completely addled, he cannot even distinguish between day and night.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t sound so bad after all,’ Milva said, looking at the ground. ‘It seems to me that he is already better. Definitely better than he was this morning.’

  ‘I do not know what Clog was like this morning,’ replied the peasant. ‘But I saw him bowing before a shovel and say to the shovel that it was a pretty girl. I don’t want to talk about it anymore – pay the blood money.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When a knight kills a peasant, he has to pay the blood money. So the law now stands.’

  ‘I am not a knight!’ Milva screamed.

  ‘That is the first,’ supported Dandelion. ‘Secondly, it was an accident. Thirdly, Clog is still alive, so it cannot therefore be a question of blood money, but of damages and compensation. But, this is the fourth, we have no money.’

  ‘So give us the horses.’

  ‘Hey, Hey.’ Milva’s eyes narrowed ominously. ‘Leave quickly peasant. Take care where you pass.’

  ‘Krrrrwa mother!’ croaked Field Marshal Duda.

  ‘Oh the bird has hit the nail on the head,’ Zoltan drawled while patting the axe in his belt. ‘Know this peasants that I do not have the best opinions about the mothers of individuals who think only about profit, even if it is earned from the broken head of a fellow traveler. Get going, good people. If you leave immediately, I promise that I will not chase you.’

  ‘If you won’t pay us, let us take this to a higher authority.’

  The dwarf gnashed his teeth and reached for his axe when Geralt grabbed him by the elbow.

  ‘Peace. Is this how you want to solve this problem? By killing them?”

  ‘Why just kill them? It is easy enough to cripple.’

  ‘Enough of this, dammit.’ spat the witcher, turning to the peasant. ‘Who is this higher authority that you mentioned?’

  ‘Our elder Hector Laabs, Mayor of the village Breza.’

  ‘Lead us to him. We will somehow come to an agreement.’

  ‘He is busy,’ announced the peasant. ‘Prosecuting a witch. He is at the court hearing the people under the maple tree. We caught a witch who was allied with the vampire.’

  ‘Again with the vampire.’ Dandelion spread his hands. ‘Do you hear? Again with the same. They dig up a cemetery, then catch a witch who is an accomplice to a vampire. Countrymen, why not instead of plowing, harvesting and gathering you become witchers?’

  ‘Do not make stupid jokes,’ said the peasant.’ There is nothing to laugh about. We have a priest, and he is more reliable than a witcher. The priest has ruled that the vampire keeps company and makes it dealings with the witch. The witch summons the vampire and points it towards the victims.’

  ‘It was so,’ said the second peasant. ‘The treacherous witch was hiding among us. But the priest saw her use spells and now she will burn.’

  ‘Of course,’ the witcher muttered. ‘Come on; let’s take a look at this court of yours. I will talk to your mayor about the unfortunate accident that Clog met with. We will come up with some acceptable reparation. Isn’t that right, Percival? I bet you could still find a rock in one of your pockets. Lead on, my good people.’

  The procession move in the direction of a spreading maple tree, under whose branches people gathered excitedly. The witcher trailed behind a bit, trying to strike up a conversation with one of the peasants, who according to his face seems a somewhat honest man.

  ‘Who is this witch, you have captured? Did she really practice black magic?’

  ‘Oh, Sir,’ muttered the peasant. ‘I don’t know. This girl is a vagabond, a stranger. And not altogether healthy in the head. She is a grown up already, but will only play with little children. She is also like a child, and says no ma, no pa. But I do not understand those things. The priest, and everyone, is saying that he did all kinds of witchcraft.’

  ‘Everyone but the accused,’ Regis said quietly, walking next to the witcher. ‘I suppose when she was asked she said no ma, no pa.’

  There was no more time to make specific inquiries. They passed through the crowd although not without the help of Zoltan and his ash stick.

  On the wheel of a wagon loaded with sacks was tied a girl of no more than sixteen years, with arms wide apart, her toes barely touching the ground. Her shirt had been torn from her emaciated arms, and used to bind her. From the girl came a blend of mad giggling and sobbing.

  Beside the wagon blaze a fire. A blacksmith was fanning the flames with a bellow; another took a horseshoe in a pair of calipers and deposited it into the red-hot coals. Above the din rose the excited cry of the priest.

  ‘Vile witch! Godless woman! Confess the truth! Ha, look at her, countrymen; she is doped with some evil weed! Witchcraft is painted on her face!’

  The priest was thin; his face dark and dry as a smoked fish. The black robe hung on him like a peg. Around his neck gleamed a sacred symbol, Geralt could not recognize what deity, and didn’t know much about them anyway. Recently, the rapidly growing pantheon was of completely no interest to him. It was likely the priest belong to one of the new religious sects. These older sects dealt with more profitable activities and were less interested in chasing young girls, tying them to carts and inciting superstitious mobs against them.

  ‘Since the beginning of time woman has been the seat of evil! The tool of Chaos, the partner in the conspiracy against the world and the male gender! A woman is ruled by carnal lust, Countrymen! Therefore, she readily serves demons to be able to satisfy her insatiable and unnatural lust!’

  ‘Now we learn something fundamental about women,’ murmured Regis. ‘This is phobia, in its pure, clinical form. Holy men often dream of vagina dentata.’

  ‘I bet its worse,’ Dandelion replied, also in a whisper. ‘He probably daydreams all the time about a normal one, without teeth. And the desire has risen to his brain.’

  ‘And that deranged girl will pay for it.’

  ‘Can we not find anyone,’ growled Milva, ‘who will stop this black fool?’

  Dandelion looked meaningfully and with hope towards the witcher but Geralt avoided his gaze.

  ‘And who else but this female witch is to blame for our current troubles and misery?’ The priest continued to shout. ‘Why, it was none other than the witches of Thanedd Island who betrayed our kings, assassinating the King of Redania! Why, it is none other than the elven witch of Dol Blathanna who incites the Squirrels against us! You see now, what familiarity with witches has bought us! Tolerance of their filthy practices! Turning a blind eye to their arbitrariness, their insolent pride, their wealth! And who is to blame? The Kings! The self-satisfied leaders have renounced the gods, expelled the priests who held positions on their councils, and replaced them with witches who were awarded with honors and gold! And here is the result!’

  ‘Aha! Herein lies the vampire.’ Dandelion said. ‘You’re wrong Regis. This is about politics, not vaginas.’

  ‘And the money.’ added Zoltan Chivay.

  ‘Therefore I tell you!’ shouted the priest his voice cracking. ‘Before we are engulfed in war with Nilfgaard, clean out your home of this abomination! Burn this ulcer with white-hot iron! Let us cleanse with a baptism of fire! Do not let those who deal with spells live!’

  ‘Do not allow it! To the stake with her!’

  The girl attached to the wagon laughed hysterically, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Slowly, slowly,’ said an, until now silent villager of enormous size, who was surrounded by a groups of silent men and women. ‘We he
ard screams. And everyone can scream, even a crow. From you priest I expected greater respect than that of crows.’

  ‘Do you deny my words, Mayor Laabs? The word of a priest?’

  ‘I deny nothing,’ spat the giant and adjusted his course pants. ‘This girl is an orphan and a stray; she doesn’t mean anything to me. If she is in league with the vampire, take her and kill her. But as long as I am mayor of this camp I will be here to punish the real offenders. If you want to punish, then bring forward your proof of guilt. ‘

  ‘I will show you!’ shouted the priest, giving a signal to his lackeys, the same ones who had recently been putting horseshoes into the fire. ‘Before your eyes I’ll show you. To you, Laabs and to all those present!’

  The lackeys brought from behind the wagon and set on the ground a small cauldron.

  ‘Here is the proof!’ the priest yelled and kicked the cauldron, overturning it. Onto the earth, poured a clear liquid, containing small pieces of carrots, green unrecognizable ribbons and a handful of small bones.

  ‘The witch has been brewing magic potions! A witches elixir that enables them to fly in the air! To her vampire lover, to commune with him and concoct further vicious crimes! I am familiar with the ways and means of sorceresses; I know what this decoction was made with! The witch boiled a cat alive!’

  The crowd murmured with horror.

  ‘How gruesome,’ Dandelion shuddered. ‘Boiling a living creature? I feel sorry for the girl, but this has gone a little too far…’

  ‘Shut up,’ Milva said.

  ‘Here is the proof!’ barked the priest as he lifted a small bone from the steaming pool. ‘Here is irrefutable proof! The bone of a cat!’

  ‘That is a bird bone,’ said Zoltan Chivay serenely, rolling his eyes. ‘A jay, I think, or a dove. The maid was preparing a little broth, that’s all.’

  ‘Shut up, heathen midget!’ shouted the priest. ‘Do not blaspheme, or the gods will punish with the hands of devout people! This is a concoction of cat, I say!’

  ‘From a cat! Definitely a cat!’ shouted the surrounding peasants. ‘The girl had a cat! A black cat! Everyone knows it was! It was always following her! And now where is the cat? It’s gone! She must have cooked it!’

  ‘She has cook it! Cooked it in her concoction!’

  ‘Right! The witch has made cat soup!’

  ‘No other evidence is needed! The fire for the witch! But first torture! Let her confess everything!’

  ‘Rrrrwa mother!’ Field Marshal Duda croaked.

  ‘I’m sorry for the cat,’ Percival suddenly spoke loudly, ‘it was a beautiful beast. Its skin shone like anthracite, the eyes were like beryl, the long whiskers and the tail, fat like a raccoon! A cat like a painting. It must have been great at catching mice!’

  The peasants went silent.

  ‘And how do you know, Sir Gnome?’ grumbled one. ‘How do you know what the cat looked like?’

  Percival Schuttenbach blew his nose and wiped his fingers onto his leg.

  ‘Oh because it is there, sitting on the wagon. Behind you.’

  The peasants turned around as if on cue, and murmured in chorus while looking at the cat, who sat on the bags loaded on the wagon. Meanwhile, the cat, without regard for anyone lifted its rear leg and concentrated on licking its bum.

  ‘Well, it has been shown,’ rang the voice of Zoltan Chivay in the silence. That your irrefutable proof is conclusively under the tail of a tomcat. What’s your second proof? Another cat? It would be nice if we had a couple. We could breed them, and no rodent would be seen in a barn for half a mile away.’

  Several peasants snorted, others, including Hector Laabs, laughed heartily. The priest turned purple.

  ‘I’ll remember you, blasphemer!’ roared the priest, pointing a finger at the dwarf. ‘Wicked kobold! Creature of darkness! Where’d you come from? Perhaps you are in collusion with the vampire? Wait, while we punish the witch, then we’ll take you to the torture! But first we will judge the witch! We have already put the horseshoes into the coals; we’ll see what she reveals when her ugly skin hisses! I assure you that she will admit her crimes of witchcraft, do they need more evidence than a guilty plea?’

  ‘It depends,’ said Hector Laabs. ‘If you, priest, had hot horseshoes pressed to you, you would probably admit to fucking a mare. Ugh! You say you’re a man of God, but blast both races.’

  ‘Yes, I am a man of God!’ roared the priest, shouting over the swelling grumble of the peasants. ‘I believe in divine justice, punishment and vengeance! And in God’s court! The witch is brought before a trial of God, the judgment of God...’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ the witcher cut in loudly, leaving the crowd.

  The priest looked at him with hate; the peasants stopped murmuring and stared open-mouthed.

  ‘The judgment of God,’ continued Geralt, in the absolute silence, ‘is absolutely certain and fair. The trials by ordeal are also accepted by the secular courts and have their own rules. These rules provide that in the event of prosecution of a woman, child, old man or a person deprived of reason, there may be a defender. Is this not true, Mayor Laabs? I wish to be her defender. Delineate a field. Those of you who are convinced of the guilt of the girl and have no fear of God’s judgment. Let him stand forth and fight me.’

  ‘Ha!’ cried the priest, his eyes still measuring him. ‘Not very cunning, worthy stranger. A challenge to a duel? Anyone can clearly see you are a scoundrel and a bully! With your sword, you want to pass the judgment of God?’

  ‘If you do not like the sword,’ said Zoltan, coming to stand next to Geralt, ‘and if this fellow does not fit you, maybe I will be worthy? Come on let those who accuse the girl beat me with the axe.’

  ‘Or me with the bow.’ said Milva, squinting, also emerging from the crowd. ‘One arrow at a hundred paces.’

  ‘You see, people, how quickly they multiply to defend the witch?’ shouted the priest, then turned and twisted his face into a sly smile. ‘Well, scoundrels I accept the ordeal for your trio. We will hold the judgment of God, to determine the guilt of the witch and to verify your virtue, at the same time! But not with swords, axes, spears or bows. You say, you know the rules of the judgment of God? I know them too! There is a horseshoe in the white-hot coals! A Baptism of fire! Come, supporters of witchcraft! He who removes the horseshoe from the fire and brings it to me and does not show a trace of burns will prove that the witch is not guilty. But if the judgment of God shows something else, then you die with her! I have spoken!’

  The murmurs of displeasure from Mayor Laabs and his group were drowned out by the shouts of those gathered by the priest, anticipating a great show and rejoicing. Milva looked at Zoltan, Zoltan the witcher, the witcher at the sky, and then at Milva.

  ‘Do you believe in gods?’ He asked in a low voice.

  ‘I believe,’ said the archer quietly, staring intently at the embers in the fire. ‘But do not expect they are bothered with hot horseshoes.’

  ‘From the fire to the bastard is all of three steps.’ Zoltan hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Somehow I’ll endure; I worked in a forge... But pray for me to those gods of yours...’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Emiel Regis, put his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. ‘Please refrain from praying.’

  The surgeon approached the fire, respectfully bowed to the priest and to the audience and then without the slightest hesitation, reached his hand into the burning coals. The crowd gasped in unison, Zoltan cursed. Milva grasped Geralt’s arm. Regis straightened up, looked calmly at the horseshoe in his hand and without hurrying, approached the priest. The priest stepped back, but crashed into the peasants who were behind him.

  ‘This is what you wanted, if I’m not mistaken, Reverend?’ Regis asked, holding up the horseshoe. ‘A baptism of fire? If so, I suppose that God’s verdict is unequivocal. The girl is innocent. Her defenders are innocent. And I imagine that I myself am also innocent.’

  ‘After... after... show me your hand...’ the priest
stuttered. ‘It must be burned...’

  The surgeon smiled at him with pursed lips and them move the horseshoe to his left hand and demonstrated his right hand to the priest, which was quite healthy, then lifted it to show everybody. The crowd roared.

  ‘Whose is this horseshoe?’ Regis said. ‘Let the owner come pick it up.’

  No one answered.

  ‘These are diabolical arts!’ cried the priest. ‘You’re a witch or a devil incarnate!’

  Regis threw the shoe on the ground and turned around.

  ‘Then perform an exorcism on me.’ He suggested coldly. ‘I’ll allow it. But the judgment of God has already taken place. I understand that disparaging the results of an ordeal is an act of heresy.’

  ‘Die, Be gone!’ shouted the priest, waving in front of the surgeon an amulet and performing other cabalistic hand gestures. ‘Down to the infernal abyss, Devil! Let the earth below you part...’

  ‘Enough of this!’ Zoltan shouted angrily. ‘Hey, people! Mayor Laabs, how long must we endure this madness? Do you think...’

  A piercing cry drowned out the voice of the dwarf.

  ‘Niiiiiilfgaaaard!’

  ‘Horses come from the west! Cavalry! Nilfgaard is coming! Save yourself, who can!’

  The encampment was turned into total pandemonium within an instant. People rushed to their wagons and huts, jostling and falling all over each other. All a deafening roar and din.

  ‘Our horses!’ Milva yelled, sending kicks and punches around her. ‘Our horses, witcher! To me, quickly!’

  ‘Geralt!’ Dandelion screamed. ‘Help!’

  The crowd parted, scattering like a wave in the surf, in the twinkling of an eye, it took Milva with it. Geralt grabbed Dandelion by the collar but was not carried away because he managed to latch onto the wagon, which the girl accused of witchcraft was tied to. The wagon jerked suddenly and moved from its place, the witcher and the poet crashed to the ground. The girl shook her head and stared laughing hysterically. The wagon slowly drifted away, the laughter was lost among the general roar.

  ‘We’ll be trampled!’ Wailed Dandelion on the ground. ‘Crushed! Auuauauu!’