The Sword of Destiny

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Behind the cart, quickly,’ the stranger croaked.

  It was not the same voice that he had heard earlier. The merchant suddenly felt the pressure of a full bladder.

  The stranger turned and walked over the bridge.

  A witcher.

  The horse tethered to the cart groaned and neighed, striking the planks with its hooves.

  A mosquito hummed over Yurga's ear. The merchant did not even dare to raise his hand to swat it. More humming. A whole swarm of mosquitoes can be heard humming in the bushes on the opposite side of the ravine.

  Then there was howling.

  Yurga clenched his teeth so hard that it hurt. He realized that those were not from the mosquitoes.

  In the deepening gloom of the twilight, small grotesque figures - no more than four cubits, frighteningly thin as skeletons - emerged from the other side of the ravine. They moved onto the bridge with a bizarre gait - lifting their swollen knees high in sudden movements - like that of a heron. Yellow eyes shone on their flat and wrinkled faces and white warts gleamed on their frog-like jaws. They approached, seeking their victim.

  The stranger, still as a statue in the center of the bridge, suddenly lifted his right hand making strange gestures. The monstrous dwarves retreated momentarily, hissing loudly, before quickly resuming their forward movement, faster and faster, while raising their spindly, clawed limbs.

  As another monster suddenly jumped out from under the bridge, grinding its claws, the others pounced forward in stupefying leaps. The stranger turned. With a flash of the new sword, the head of the creature that climbed from under the bridge flew six feet into the air, leaving a trail of blood behind. The white-haired man leapt among the rest of the creatures, spun around, and slashed rapidly to the left and right. The monsters hurled themselves at him from all sides, howling and flailing their limbs, oblivious to the bright, razor-like blade. Yurga huddled up against the cart.

  Something fell at his feet, covered in blood. It was a long bony limb with four claws, scaled like a hen's.

  The merchant screamed.

  He felt something sneaked past him. He flinched and tried to dive further under the carriage. At that very moment, something fell upon his back: the large clawed limb gripped him by his temple and his cheek. Yurga covered his eyes; he screamed and tossed his head; he sprang up and staggered onto the center of the bridge, stumbling over corpses lying on the planks. The battle was in full swing on the bridge. The merchant saw nothing but a raging tumult and whirling movements from which an arc of silver light from the blade emerged from time to time.

  ‘Helpppp!’ he yelled, as he felt sharp fangs piercing through his hood and stabbing him in the back of his head.

  ‘Duck your head!’

  He pressed his chin against his chest, a flash of the blade caught his eye. The sword whistled through the air, brushing against his hood. Yurga heard a wet and horrible crunch. Warm liquid spilled onto his back as if it came from a bucket. The dead weight around his neck forced him down to his knees.

  The merchant saw three other monsters running out from under the bridge. They leapt like locusts, and seized the stranger's legs. One of them took a quick blow in its frog-like mouth, staggered for a moment before falling onto the planks. A second, pierced by the tip of the sword, collapsed in a convulsion. The others surrounded the white-haired man like ants, driving him to the edge of the bridge. Another monster shot out from the swirling heap, splashing blood, convulsing and howling. At this moment, the stranger, along with the monsters, rolled over the edge of the bridge and fell into the ravine. Yurga fell to the ground, and covered his head with his hands.

  Under the bridge, the merchant heard the triumphant clamor of the monsters give way to the whistling of the sword, howling and shrieks of pain. Then out of the darkness there came a clatter of stones followed by the crackle of crushed and trampled skeletons. Once again the sword whistled, to be interrupted by a final, desperate, blood-curdling screech.

  Silence fell, broken only by a sudden cry of frightened bird among the trees deep in the woods. Then even the bird went silent.

  Yurga swallowed hard, lifted his head, and got up with difficulty. The silence still reigned. Not even the rustling of leaves can be heard.

  The forest seemed to have become mute with terror. Frayed clouds darkened the sky.

  ‘Hey!’

  The merchant turned, instinctively protecting himself with his hands. The witcher was standing before him, motionless, black, with his shining sword held low. Yurga noticed that he did not stand up straight, and that he was leaning on one side.

  ‘Sir, are you alright?’

  The witcher did not respond. He took a heavy and awkward step on a wobbly left hip, and reached out to hold on to the side of the cart. Yurga noticed black and shiny blood dripping onto the planks.

  ‘You're injured, sir!’

  Again, the witcher did not respond. He clung to the side of the cart, looked straight into the merchant's eyes, and then slowly slumped onto the bridge.

  II

  ‘Slowly, carefully… Under the head… Someone carry his head!’

  ‘Here, here, on the cart!’

  ‘By the gods, Mister Yurga, he's bleeding through the dressing…’

  ‘Stop jabbering! Come on, hurry up! Profit, look alive! Cover him with a sheepskin coat, Vell, don't you see that he's shaking?’

  ‘Perhaps he could be given some vodka?’

  ‘Wounded and unconscious? Are you mad, Vell? Pass me the vodka instead, I need a drink… Dogs, scoundrels, vile cowards! Running away like that and leaving me by myself!’

  ‘Master Yurga! He said something!’

  ‘What? What did he say?’

  ‘I'm not sure… A name…’

  ‘What name?’

  ‘Yennefer…’

  III

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Don't get up, sir, don't move, or wounds will open up again. Those horrible creatures must have bitten your thigh down to the bone. You lost a lot of blood… Don't you recognize me? I am Yurga! You saved me on the bridge, remember?’

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘Are you thirsty?’

  ‘Like hell I am…’

  ‘Drink, sir, drink. You're consumed by fever.’

  ‘Yurga… where are we?’

  ‘We're on the road, in my cart. Speak no more, sir, and don't move. We must cross the forests and find a healer in the human settlements. The bandage we have on your leg is of little help. The blood won't stop flowing…’

  ‘Yurga…’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘In my casket… a flask… sealed with green wax. Break the seal and give it to me… in a bowl. Wash the bowl well and let no one touch the flask… if you value your life… Hurry, Yurga… Damn, how this cart shakes… The flask, Yurga…’

  ‘Here… drink.’

  ‘Thank you… Now pay attention. Soon I'm going to fall asleep. I will be thrashing and raving, and then be still as a corpse. It's nothing to be afraid of…’

  ‘Lie down, lord, otherwise your wound will reopen and you'll lose more of your blood.’

  He sank into the sheepskin. As his head reeled, he felt the merchant covering him with a sheepskin blanket that smelled of horse sweat. Each bump of the cart sent a jolt of pain down his thigh and hip. He gritted his teeth. Above him, he saw billions of stars. So close that it seemed within reach. Just above his head, just above the treetop.

  He chose to stay away from the light, from the glow of fires, to stay under the cover of the swaying shadows. It was not easy: there were burning pyres of pine all around, casting a red glow in the sky interspersed with occasional sparks, marked the darkness with lighter pennants of smoke, crackling and shedding light in between the dancing silhouettes.

  Geralt stopped to give way to a procession that was headed in his direction - frenzied, rowdy, and blocking the path. Someone seized his shoulder and tried to give him a wooden mug overflowing with foam. He refused politely, but fir
mly pushed away the staggering man who carried a barrel of watered beer around to the people. He did not want to drink.

  Not on a night like this.

  Not far away, on a scaffold built from the trunks of birch trees that overlooked the huge bonfire, the fair-haired King of May, crowned with a wreath and wearing nothing but woolen trousers, kissed the Queen of May; he groped her breasts through her thin, sweat-drenched tunic. The monarch, very drunk, staggered and could not keep his balance without holding onto the back of the queen, his fist clenched on a mug of beer. The queen was not sober either. Encircled by a wreath of flowers that was falling over her eyes, she clung to the neck of the king and kicked up her legs. The crowd danced under the scaffolding, singing, shouting, and waving branches twined with flowers and vines.

  ‘Belleteyn!’ a girl cried into Geralt's ear.

  Tugging at his sleeve, she forced him to join the procession that surrounded him. She danced beside him: her robe and the flowers in her hair fluttered in the breeze. He allowed her to draw him into the dance. He whirled deftly, moving out of the other couples' way.

  ‘Belleteyn! It's the Night of May!’

  Next to them, a scuffle broke out, the cries and nervous laughter of a girl feigning resistance against a boy who carried her off into the darkness, beyond the circle of light. The procession, shouting, followed a path between the burning fires. Someone tripped and fell, breaking the chain of hands and divided the procession into small groups.

  The girl looked at Geralt from under the wreath that adorned her brow, pressed hard against him and embraced him with her arms, breathing hard. He grabbed her more forcefully than he had intended. His hands that were pressed against her back felt the warm wetness of her body through the fine linen. She lifted her head. Her eyes were closed. Her teeth gleamed below her slightly raised upper lip. She smell of sweat and reeds, smoke and desire.

  Why not, he thought, crumpling the back of her dress. His hands delighted in the warm and wet sensation. The girl was certainly not his type: too small, too plump. He felt with his fingers where the tight dress form two sharp curves on her body, just where he should not feel them. But why not, he thought, on a night like this… it doesn't matter.

  Belleteyn… The fires on the horizon. The Night of May.

  The fire closest to them devoured dry pine and crackled, momentarily illuminating the surroundings with a bright golden light. The girl opened her eyes, and looked at his face. She inhaled sharply. He felt the hands on his chest tensed up. Geralt let go of her immediately. She hesitated at first, then moved her body away without immediately giving up the contact between her hips the witcher's thigh. She lowered her head, then withdrew her hands, tooked a step back, and looked sideways.

  They stood motionless for a moment, until the procession approached them once again. The girl quickly turned away and made a deliberate effort to join the dance. She looked back. Just once.

  Belleteyn…

  But what am I doing here?

  In the darkness a gleaming star caught his eye. The witcher medallion around his neck vibrated. Geralt's pupil widened instinctively, allowing his vision to adapt to the darkness effortlessly.

  The woman was not a peasant. Peasant women did not wear black velvet coats. Peasant women, whom, being carried or led by men into the bushes, screamed, giggled, and flapped like a trout taken out of the water. None of them noticed that she was leading a tall, fair-haired man with an unbuttoned shirt into the darkness.

  Peasant women never wore a black velvet ribbon around their neck, with an obsidian star encrusted with diamonds hanging from it.

  ‘Yennefer.’

  She advanced rapidly, her violet eyes ablaze in a pale, triangular face.

  ‘Geralt…’

  She let go of the hand of the blond angel whose sweaty torso gleamed like a copper plate. The boy staggered, fell to his knees, turned his head, looked around, and blinked. Then he rose slowly, considered them with a look that was at once confused and embarrassed, and staggered back toward the fires. The sorceress did not even look at him. She gazed intently at the witcher as her hand gripped the edge of her coat tightly.

  ‘It's good to see you again,’ he said with ease.

  He felt that the initial tension between them had lessened.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, smiling. It seemed to him that there was something forced about that smile, but he was not sure about it. ‘This is undeniably a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here, Geralt? Oh! Pardon me, and forgive my indiscretion. Of course you are here for the same thing as I am. After all it is the feast of Belleteyn. Only thing is, you have caught me, so to speak, in the act.’

  ‘I've interrupted you.’

  ‘I'll live,’ she laughed. ‘The night goes on. If I want, I can always seduce another.’

  ‘A pity that I can't do the same,’ he managed to say, feigning indifference with great difficulty. ‘A girl saw my eyes in the light and ran away.’

  ‘In the morning,’ she replied, with a falser smile, ‘when they don't have a clear head, they won't pay so much attention. You'll find another, you'll see…’

  ‘Yen…’

  The rest of the sentence caught in his throat.

  They looked at each other for a long, long time. The red glow of the fire reflected off their faces. Yennefer suddenly sighed, her eyes veiled under their lashes.

  ‘Geralt, no. Don't start…’

  ‘Did you forget?’ he interrupted, ‘It's Belleteyn.’

  She slowly moved closer, put a hand on his shoulder and snuggled up to him, her forehead touching his chest. He stroked the raven-black hair that fell in snake-like curls.

  ‘Believe me,’ she murmured, lifting her head, ‘I wouldn't hesitate for a moment, if it were only a question of… but it wouldn't make sense. Everything would begin and end again as it did before. There's no point for us…’

  ‘Must everything make sense? It's Belleteyn.’

  ‘Belleteyn?’ She turned her face. ‘What difference does that make? Something drew us to these fires and these merry people. We wanted to dance, to let loose, to get a little drunk and to take advantage of freedom from the prevailing mores here, in celebration of the renewal of the cycle of nature. And what? We trip over each other after… how much time has passed since? … A year?’

  ‘One year, two months and eighteen days.’

  ‘I'm touched. Did you do that on purpose?’

  ‘Yes, Yen…’

  ‘Geralt,’ she interrupted, moving away suddenly and shaking her head, ‘let's be clear: I do not want this.’

  He confirmed with a nod that this was clear.

  Yennefer pushed her coat back from her shoulders. She wore a thin white blouse and a black skirt held by a belt of silver links.

  ‘I don't want to start again,’ she repeated. ‘And the thought of doing it with you… what I intended to do with the handsome blond… under the same rules… the thought, Geralt, I find demeaning. Degrading for you and for me. Do you understand?’

  He nodded again. She looked at him, through her lowered lashes.

  ‘You're not leaving?’

  ‘No.’

  She remained silent for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

  ‘Are you angry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come, let's sit down somewhere, away from the noise. Let's talk for a moment. You see, I'm glad that we met, really. Let's sit together for a moment, alright?’

  ‘Alright, Yen.’

  They left in the darkness, away from the bonfire, toward the dark edge of the forest, careful to avoid the embracing couples. They had to walk far before finding a spot for themselves. They stopped on a dry hill flanked by a juniper trees as slender as a cypress.

  The sorceress unclasped her brooch and spread her cloak on the ground after shaking it out. He sat next to her. He longed to embrace her, but out of defiance he did not do so. Yennefer rebuttoned her wide-open blouse, gazed piercingly at him, sighed, and embraced him. Ge
ralt knew that Yennefer had to make a great effort to read thoughts, but that she could instinctively sense the intentions of others.

  They were silent.

  ‘Oh, by the plague!’ she cried suddenly, pushing up.

  The sorceress lifted her arms and recited an incantation. Red and green bubbles flew over their head, burst high in the air, and formed colourful, feathery flowers. Laughter and cries of joy reached them from the fires.

  ‘Belleteyn,’ she said bitterly. ‘The Night of May… The cycle repeats itself. Let them have fun, if they can…’

  There were other sorcerers in the area. From afar three orange flashesshot into the sky; on the other side, from the forest, a geyser of rainbow-colored meteors twirled into the sky and exploded. The people dancing around the fire cried out in admiration. Feeling tense, Geralt caressed Yennefer's curls and inhaled the scent of lilac and gooseberry they gave off. If I desire her too much, he thought, she will sense it; it might upset her and she will push me away. I'll ask her calmly what she has heard.

  ‘It's nothing new to me,’ she said, her voice trembled. ‘Nothing worth mentioning.’

  ‘Don't do that to me, Yen. Don't read my mind. It bothers me.’

  ‘Forgive me. It's instinctive. And you, Geralt, what's new?’