Baptism of Fire

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  The moon gave enough light so that Dandelion did not have to grope. The witcher could see in this light as well as in the day, so they managed to avoid two mounted soldiers while waiting in the bushes for the patrol to pass by. Just before them was a dark alder grove lying just on the other side of the ring of posts.

  Everything was going smoothly.

  Too smoothly.

  He had forgotten his knowledge of military procedure.

  The low and sinister grove of alders was tempting because it would allow them to hide. But since the world began, soldiers, when they came to perform their guard duties lay down among bushes, so they could sleep in shifts and also see the enemy as well as monitor their own annoying officers in case they passed by during an unexpected inspection.

  Geralt and Dandelion had barely approached the alder woods when dark silhouettes appeared in front of them. And a sharpened spears.

  ‘The password!’

  ‘Cintra!’ Dandelion blurred without hesitation.

  The soldiers laughed in chorus.

  ‘Oh, men, men,’ said one. ‘You do not have a touch of fantasy. You can’t come up with something more original. Nothing just, “Cintra”. Are you becoming homesick, or what? Okay. The price is the same as yesterday.’

  Dandelion clenched his teeth audibly. Geralt had a chance to assess the situation. But the assessment yielded a poor result.

  ‘Come,’ urged the soldier. ‘You want to leave, pay the toll and we’ll turn a blind eye. Quickly, the patrol will pass soon.’

  ‘Right,’ the poet changed his accent. ‘I need to sit down and take off my shoe because I have...’

  He did not get a chance to say more. Four soldiers threw him to the ground, two taking each of his legs and pulled off his boot. The one, who asked for the password, ripped the inner lining of the boot. Something jingled to the ground.

  ‘Gold!’ shouted a commander. ‘Search the other one! And call the patrol!’

  No one was listening because all the men were on their knees. Some were digging through leaves searching for the doubloons, others were dragging off Dandelion’s other boot. Now or never, thought Geralt, then punch the commander in the jaw as he fell he kicked him in the side of the head. The men gathering gold did not even notice. Dandelion without encouragement jumped to his feet and dashed off through the bushes. Geralt ran after him.

  ‘Help! Help!’ shouted the captain of the guards who had been knocked down, now supported by his comrades. ‘Paaaaaatrol!’

  ‘Rogues!; Dandelion shouted as he ran. ‘Thieves! They took my money!’

  ‘Save your breath, idiot! Can you see the forest? Run!’

  ‘Alarm! Alaaaaarm!’

  They ran. Geralt cursed with rage when he heard cries, whistles and horses hooves. Behind them. And before them. His surprise did not last long. What he took to be the salvation of the forest, was an approaching cavalry, surging like a wave.

  ‘Stop, Dandelion!’ he shouted, then turning towards the oncoming patrol galloping towards them and whistled loudly with his fingers.

  ‘Nilfgaard!’ he roared, with all the power of his lungs. ‘Nilfgaard is coming! To the camp! Return to the camp, fools! Raise the alarm! Nilfgaard!’

  The rider leading the patrol chasing them, looked forward, he shouted in fright and tried to turn his horse around. But Geralt decided that he had had enough of the Cintra’s lions and Temeria’s lilies. He jumped up and skillfully knocked the soldier from his saddle.

  ‘Get on, Dandelion! And hold on!’

  The poet did not have to be told twice. The horse paused for a moment under the weight of a second rider, but fuelled by two pairs of heels, went into a mad gallop. The swarm of Nilfgaardians approaching them was now a much greater threat that Vissegerd and his army, so they galloped along the ring of guard posts surrounding the camp, trying to get as far possible from the lines that could flare up at any moment when the two armies clashed. The Nilfgaardians, however, were close and saw them. Dandelion yelled, Geralt looked back and saw as the dark wall of Nilfgaardians started to stretch out riders towards them like black tentacles. Without hesitation, they turned the horse towards the camp, overtaking the fleeing guards. Dandelion yelled again, but this time it was unnecessary. The witcher had also seen the cavalry rushing from the side of the camp. Vissegerd’s army, stirred by the alarm, had mounted their horses in a time worthy of admiration. Geralt and Dandelion found themselves trapped.

  There was no way out. The witcher changed direction again and forced the horse to gallop with all its might, trying to escape from the swiftly narrowing gap between the rock and the hard place. When it seemed like they would succeed in escape, the night air was suddenly filled with the sound of whistling arrows. Dandelion yelled, this time in pain and dug his fingers into Geralt’s ribs. The witcher felt something warm splatter on his neck.

  ‘Hold on!’ he caught the poet’s arm and pressed him hard against his back. ‘Hold on, Dandelion!’

  ‘They’ve killed me!’ the poet yelled, a little too loud for the dead. ‘I’m bleeding! I’m dying!’

  ‘Hold on!’

  The hail of arrows and bolts, which buried the two armies and which had proved so fatal for Dandelion, had also become a his salvation. The armies, coming under fire, had lost their momentum and the gap between them provide some breathing room, enough to get both riders and the horse out of the trap. Geralt mercilessly forced the stallion to galloping further, because although it loomed before them they could still hear the rumble of hooves from behind. The horse grunted, stumbled, but they might have kept running and escaped had Dandelion not groaned and suddenly slipped from the rump of the horse, pulling the witcher from the saddle. Geralt unintentionally pulled on the reins, the horse reared up and they were both tossed to the ground landing in a bush. The poet fell limply and did not get up, just screamed wrenchingly. He had the whole side of his head and his left shoulder covered in blood, shining black in the moonlight.

  Behind them, the armies collided with a crash, clang and screams. But despite the return of the battle, the Nilfgaardian pursuers had not forgotten about them. Three horsemen galloped in their direction.

  The witcher stood up, a feeling of cold rage welling inside of him. He jumped in front of the pursuers, trying to divert their attention from the unconscious Dandelion. He did not want to sacrifice himself for his friend. He wanted to kill.

  The first rider, flew at him with an axe, But he did not expect that he was going up against a witcher. Geralt, without effort, sprang away from the blow, grabbed the saddle in one hand and with the other grabbed the wide belt of the Nilfgaardian. With a strong jerk he pulled him from the saddle and fell on him. Only then realizing he had no weapon. He grabbed the man by the throat, but could not strangle him due to an iron gorget. The Nilfgaardian struggled under him then hit him with an iron gauntlet, tearing his cheek. The witcher rolled his whole body and felt a dagger on the belt of the Nilfgaardian and pulled it from its sheath. The fallen man noticed and started screaming. Geralt pushed down the arm with the white scorpion on the sleeve and raised the dagger to strike. The Nilfgaardian screamed.

  The witcher stabbed him in the open mouth, all the way to the hilt.

  When he rose, he saw the horses without riders, several corpses and a group returning to the battle. The Cintrans from the camp had followed the Nilfgaardian pursers and in the darkness had not seen the poet or the two men fighting on the ground.

  ‘Dandelion? Where did you get hit? Where is the arrow?’

  ‘In the ca... head... Nailed in the head...’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense! Damn, you were lucky,,, It’s only a scratch...’

  ‘I’m bleeding...’

  Geralt took off his jacket and tore off a sleeve. The tip of the arrow had scratched Dandelion’s ear, leaving a cut that reached to his temple. The poet, every now and again touched the wound with his shaking hands, and then looked at the blood covering his hands and sleeves. His eyes were lost. The witcher real
ized that before him was a man who, for the first time had felt real pain and for the first time in his life seen so much of his own blood.

  ‘Get up,’ he said, quickly tying the sleeve around the troubadour’s head. ‘It’s nothing. Dandelion, it’s just a scratch... Get up, we need to be on our way...’

  The night battle raging on the prairie was at its height, the clang of iron, the neighing of the horses and the cries all gathered strength. Geralt quickly grabbed two of the Nilfgaardians horses, but they only needed one. Dandelion stood up, but immediately sat down heavily, groaned and sobbed wretchedly. The witcher picked him up, shook him until he came around and helped him climb into the saddle. Then he climbed on the back and spurred the horse. They headed east, where in the brightening sky, shone the brightest star of the constellation of the Seven Goats.

  ‘Dawn will be here soon,’ Milva said not looking at the sky but at the glossy surface of the river. ‘The catfish chase the salmon. But there is no sign of the witcher or Dandelion. Shit, I hope that Regis knew what he was doing...’

  ‘Do not lose hope,’ Cahir murmured, as he rearranged the saddle on his recovered chestnut stallion.

  ‘Pah... I wonder... Come into contact with Ciri, is like putting your head under an axe... The girl brings misfortune... Misery and death.’

  ‘Stop, Milva.’

  ‘Pah... I’m cold... and I want a drink, but at the edge of the river I saw a rotting corpse. Brr... I feel sick... I want to vomit.’

  ‘Here,’ Cahir passed her a canteen. ‘Have a drink. I will sit close to you and warm you.’

  More catfish hit the shallows, the group coming close to the surface in a shower of silver.

  ‘Who knows,’ murmured Milva thoughtfully, pressing close to Cahir’s arm, ‘what will happen tomorrow? Who will cross this river and who will occupy this territory?’

  ‘What will be, will be. Banish these thoughts.’

  ‘Are you not afraid?’

  ‘I’m scared. And you?’

  ‘I feel sick.’

  They were silent for a long time.

  ‘Tell me, Cahir, when did you meet Ciri?’

  ‘For the first time? Three years ago. During the battle of Cintra. While I was leaving the city. I found her, surrounded by fire on all sides. I rode through the fire, through the flames and the smoke, holding her in my arms and she too was like fire.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘No one can hold fire in their hands.’

  ‘If Ciri is not in Nilfgaard,’ she said after a long silence, ‘then where?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  Drakenborg, a Redanian castle converted in a concentration camp for elves, and other subversive elements had a grim tradition, developed over three years of operation. One of these traditions was the hangings at dawn. The second tradition was gathering all the condemned together in a great common cell, where they were taken out to the gallows at dawn.

  The convicts are grouped into cells from ten to twenty, and every morning two, three or four are hanged. The other wait for their turn. Sometimes for a long while. Sometimes within a week. Those waiting in the cells are called the Joyful. Because the atmosphere surrounding the cell was always cheerful. First, the captives were given food and heavily diluted sour wine, bearing the camp jargon name: “Dijkstra Riesling”, since it was no secret that the drink was served on the personal orders of the Redanian intelligence chief. Secondly, anyone in the condemned cell could not be dragged off into the notorious underground laundries and the guards were not allowed to mistreat the prisoners.

  That night another tradition was being performed. In a cell occupied by six elves, one half-elf, one halfling, two humans and a Nilfgaardian, there was joy. The Dijkstra Riesling was being poured into a tin plate and sipped without hands, in order to have better chances of getting a slight dizziness from the watered down wine. Only one of the elves, a Scoia’tael from Iorveth’s commandos had recently received a heavy beating in the laundry room, he kept his serenity and dignity, and wrote on a wall beam the inscription: “Freedom or death”. There were hundreds of similar inscriptions. The rest of the condemned, also following tradition, sang in chorus the hymn of the Joyful, an anonymous song, composed in Drakenborg, whose words were learned by each of the prisoners in the barracks at night by listening to the sounds coming from the death cell, knowing that someday they would join in the chorus.

  The hanged people dance on the ropes,

  Rhythmically writhing in spasms,

  Sing your song,

  With melancholic emotion,

  Too amuse the Joyful,

  Each of the dead remember when their feet left the stool,

  And their eyes popped out of their sockets.

  The lock screeched and the door groaned. The Joyful interrupted their song. Guards entering at dawn could only mean one thing – the chorus would be slimmed down a couple of voices. The question was: whose?

  The guards came in a group. They carried ropes that were to be used to tie the hands of those being led to the gallows. One sniffed, put his club under his arm, unrolled a scroll and cleared his throat.

  ‘Echel Traighlethan!’

  ‘Traighlethan,’ corrected the elf from Iorveth’s commandos. He looked again at the slogan he had written and rose with effort.

  ‘Cosmo Baldenyegg!’

  The halfling swallowed hard. Nazarian knew he had been imprisoned on charges of sabotage, carried out on behalf of the Secret Service of Nilfgaard. Baldenyegg, however, pleaded not guilty and insisted that he had stolen the two cavalry horses on his own initiative and for profit and had nothing to do with Nilfgaard. They apparently had not believed him.

  ‘Nazarian!’

  Nazarian obediently stood up and gave his hands to the guards to be tied. When they lead the trio away, the other Joyful continued singing.

  Dance on the hanging ropes,

  Happily writhe in spasms,

  And the wind carries their songs,

  The ringing chorus all around…

  The dawn was shining purple and red. It promised to be a beautiful, sunny day.

  The song of the Joyful, Nazarian noticed, was incorrect. The hanged men could not dance on the gallows, because they were not hung on gallows but on ordinary poles, dug into the ground. Foot stools were not used, but practical birch stumps, bearing the marks of frequent use. At the end of the day, the anonymous author of the song, who had been execute, could not have known about it when it was composed. Like all the hanged, he learned the details shortly before his death. The executions in Drakenborg were never performed in public. This was punishment, not sadistic revenge. These words were also attributed to Dijkstra.

  The elf from Iorveth’s command shook of the hands of the guards, climbed onto the stump and allowed them to place the rope around his neck.

  ‘Long live the…’

  A guard kicked the stump out from under his feet.

  For the halfling, it took two logs one placed on top of another. The alleged saboteur climbed up with no pathetic cries. His short legs kicked vigorously then hung limp from the pole. His head fell limp onto his shoulder.

  The guards grabbed Nazarian, and Nazarian suddenly decided.

  ‘I’ll speak!’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘I’ll confess! I have important information for Dijkstra!’

  ‘A little late,’ said Vascoigne, the deputy commander of Drakenborg for political affairs, who was present at the executions. ‘In one of every two of you, the rope awakens the imagination!’

  ‘I’m not making this up!’ Nazarian broke loose from the arms of the executioners. ‘I have information!’

  After less than an hour, Nazarian was sitting in a windowless dungeon and delighted at the beauty of life, a messenger was ready at hand and scratched his crotch with passion, while Vascoigne read and correct the report intended for Dijkstra.

  With humility I announce to Your Grace, a criminal by the name of Nazarian, condemned for the attack on a royal official, has confessed the fo
llowing: Acting on the orders of a certain Rience, on the new moon of this year in July, along with two partners, the half-elf Schirrú and the human Millet, took part in the murder of lawyers Codringher and Fenn in Dorian. The half-elf Schirrú, assassinated both lawyers and set fire to their house. The criminal Nazarian, says that Schirrú did everything and denies that he killed anyone, probably from fear of the noose. What you may be interested in Your Grace is: before they committed the crime on the lawyers these villains, that is, Nazarian, the half-elf Schirrú and the human Millet, were following a witcher, a man named Geralt of Rivia, who met with the lawyer Codringher in secret. The subject of the meeting, the criminal Nazarian does not know, because before he could question them, they received an order from Rience to murder the two lawyers once he learned of the secret meeting with the witcher.

  Next the criminal Nazarian testified: His partner Schirrú stole documentation from the house which he delivered to Rience at “The Sly Fox” inn in Carreras. What Rience and Schirrú talked about, Nazarian does not know, but the next day all of the criminal trio went to Brugge, and there on the fourth day after the new moon committed a kidnapping of a young girl from a red brick house, whose door had brass scissors nailed to it. Rience the forced the young girl to drink a magic elixir and the criminals Schirrú and Nazarian with great haste took her to Verden, to the fortress of Nastrog. And now follows the one thing I recommend you read with great attention Your Grace: The miscreants who snatched the girl and delivered to the Nilfgaardian commander of the fortress, assured him that the kidnapped girl’s name was Cirilla of Cintra. The commander, so criminal Nazarian confessed, was very excited on hearing the news.

  The above, written on a message is issued to His Excellency in secret. As protocol demands I have sent along the detailed questioning of the criminal. I ask Your Grace for instructions on what to do with the criminal Nazarian, Whether to burn him with the tongs to remember more details or hang him under the original orders.

  Yours Respectfully, etc, etc…