Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 04]

by Baptism of Fire (fan translation) (epub)

  ‘Who said that the perpetrator is a vampire and not some other monster or predator? Whose idea was it to search the cemetery?’

  ‘Our holy priest told us. He is a learned and pious man, thanks to the gods that he came to our camp. He immediately realized it was a vampire that assails us. As punishment for having neglected our prayers and temple donations. He is now at the camp praying and commanded us to seek the tomb where the dead one sleeps during the day.’

  ‘And why here?’

  ‘Where else would you find the tomb of a vampire if not in a cemetery? And this is after all an elven graveyard; every child knows that the elves are a vile and godless race, that one of every two elves is condemned to die again! All of this evil is because of the elves!’

  ‘And the priests’ Zoltan nodded seriously. ‘True. Ever child knows. How far away is this camp of yours?’

  ‘Oh, not far …’

  ‘Do not give the location to them, father,’ shouted a boy with shaggy hair and eyebrows, the same one who had shown his displeasure before. ‘The devil knows who the hell they are, they could be a gang. Let them give us the horse and then they can be on their way.’

  ‘You speak the truth,’ the old peasant said. ‘We must finish the task, because time is running out. Give us the horse. The black one. We need it to find the vampire. Take down the child from the saddle, woman.’

  Milva, who during the entire conversation was staring impassively at the clouds, slowly looked down at the peasant, her features sharpened dangerously.

  ‘Are you talking to me, pig?’

  ‘Of course you. Give us the black horse, we need it.’

  Milva wiped her sweaty neck and clenched her teeth. The look in her tired eyes became that of a wolf.

  ‘Where are you going, fellows?’ The witcher smiled, trying to alleviate the escalating situation. ‘Why do you need the horse, which you ask for so politely?’

  ‘And how can we otherwise find the tomb of the vampire? Everyone knows that if you ride around the cemetery on the back of a black horse, when it stops in front of a grave and refused to move, that is where the vampire is. Then we must dig it up and drive a stake through its heart. We must have the black horse!’

  ‘Could you not use another coloured horse?’ Dandelion asked conciliatory, offering the reins of Pegasus to the peasant.

  ‘We can not.’

  ‘Then you are unlucky,’ Milva said through clenched teeth, ‘because I’m not giving up my horse.’

  ‘Why will you not give it? Have you not been listening to what I said, woman? We must…’

  ‘You do. But it is not my business.’

  ‘There is an amicable solution.’ Regis said softly. ‘As I understand, Miss Milva is averse to putting her horse into someone else’s hands…’

  ‘You can be sure of that.’ The archer said, spitting loudly. ‘I shudder at the thought.’

  ‘So that the wolf and the sheep remain happy, healthy and serene,’ the surgeon continued, ‘I propose that Lady Milva rides the stallion and performs the necessary circuit of the necropolis.’

  ‘I will not ride around the cemetery!’

  ‘No one asked you, girl!’ Cried the peasant with the hair in his eyes. ‘We should just take the horse. Women belong in the kitchen with the pots and stove. Although a girl, may be useful after we draw the monster out, as the tears of a virgin when thrown on a vampire, burn like a firebrand. But the woman must be clean and not touched by a man. I can’t see what benefit you’d be.’

  Milva took a step forward and swiftly threw her right fist. There was a crunch, the boy’s head flew back and his shaggy neck and chin became a perfect target. She took another step and hit him in the throat with an open hand, reinforcing the momentum of the blow with a twist of her hips and shoulders. The young man leaned back, tripped over his own feet and fell with an audible crack, striking the back of his head against a boulder.

  ‘Now you can see what I’m worth.’ The archer said, her voice trembling with rage, as she rubbed her fist. ‘Whose the man now, and who belongs with the stove? There is nothing better than a fist fight. The one still standing on their feet is the man and the one on the ground is the fool. Am I right oaf?’

  The peasants hurried to agree, they stared at Milva with their mouths hanging open. The peasant with the felt hat knelt down next to the young man and patted him on the cheek. Without effect.

  ‘Dead,’ he moaned, looking up. ‘He is dead. What have you done, woman? You killed this man for nothing?’

  ‘I did not mean to.’ Milva whispered, dropping her hands and going pale. Then she did something that nobody, absolutely nobody expected.

  She turned, bent, leaning her forehead against a boulder and vomited violently.

  * * *

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘A slight concussion.’ Regis replied, rising and tying his bag. ‘His skull is thick. He regained consciousness. He can remember his name and what happened. This is a good sign. The lively emotions of Lady Milva did not, fortunately, have consequences.’

  The witcher looked at the archer, who was sitting next to them on rock, her eyes lost in the distance.

  ‘She isn’t a delicate lady susceptible to such emotions,’ he muttered. ‘I would blame the residue of the belladonna from yesterday.’

  ‘She has vomited before.’ Zoltan interjected quietly. ‘The day before yesterday, at dawn. Everyone was still asleep. I think it was because of the mushrooms we got in Turlough. I have also had a sore gut for two days ‘

  Regis gave the witcher a strange look from under his greying eyebrows, smiled mysteriously and wrapped himself in his black cloak. Geralt went to Milva and cleared his throat.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Miserable. How is the boy?’

  ‘He’ll be fine. He regained consciousness. Regis, however, forbade him to get up. The peasants are assembling a stretcher; we’ll take him to camp between two horses.’

  ‘Take my horse.’

  ‘We are using Pegasus and a chestnut. They are calmer. Come on, it is time to be on our way.’

  * * *

  The enlarged company now resembled a funeral procession, and move at the same rate.

  ‘What do you think of their vampire?’ Zoltan Chivay asked the witcher. ‘Do you believe their story?’

  ‘I have not seen the victims. I can not say anything in advance.’

  ‘It is obviously nonsense,’ Dandelion said with conviction. ‘The peasants said the victims had been torn apart. Vampires don’t do this; they bite into an artery and suck the blood, leaving behind two clear signs of fangs. The victims often survive. I read about it in a specialized book. There were also engravings depicting vampire bites on the necks of virgin swans. What do you think, Geralt?’

  ‘What can I say? I’ve not seen these engravings. I also don’t know a lot of virgins.’

  ‘Don’t mock. You’ve seen more than once the signs of a vampire bite. Have you ever encountered a vampire that tears its victim to pieces?’

  ‘No. It doesn’t happen.’

  ‘Never, if we are dealing with higher vampires,’ Emiel Regis joined the conversation. ‘From what I understand, the victims of Alps, Katakan, Mula, Bruxa, Nosferat are not hurt terribly. However, Fleders and Ekimma are quite brutal with their victims.’

  ‘Well done,’ Geralt looked at him with unfeigned admiration. ‘You did not miss any kind of vampire. And you have not mentioned any of the mythical ones, which only exist in fairy tales. Truly, an impressive knowledge. So you would know that Fleders and Ekimma do not live in this climate.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Zoltan, waving his stick around. ‘But what in our climate is capable of tearing a woman and man apart? Were they torn apart in a fit of rage?’

  ‘The list of creatures that this could be attributed to is quite long. It could be, for example a pack of feral dogs, plagues of which are quite common during times of war. You can not imagine what these dogs are capable
of. Half of the victims attributed to chaotic monsters are actually on account of packs of stray mutts.’

  ‘Exclude monsters then?’

  ‘Of course not. It could have been a striga, gravier, ghoul, harpies …’

  ‘But not a vampire?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘The peasants spoke of a priest,’ Percival reminded them. ‘Do priests know about vampires?’

  ‘Some are versed in many things, often their opinions are worth hearing. Unfortunately, not all of them.’

  ‘Especially not those who roam the forests with refugees,’ snorted the dwarf. ‘More than likely it will be a superstitious fanatic from the forest. He sent this expedition into your graveyard, Regis. When collecting mandrake during the full moon, did you ever notice a vampire? Even a little one?’

  ‘No, never.’ The surgeon adopted a half-smile. ‘And no wonder. The vampire, as you heard, flies in the darkness on bat wings, without any noise. It would be easy to miss.’

  ‘And even easier to see where it is not and never has been,’ confirmed Geralt. ‘When I was younger, quite a few times I’ve wasted time and energy chasing illusion and superstition, that a whole village had described to me, including the mayor. Once I stayed for two months in a castle threatened by a vampire. There was no vampire. But there was a good cook.’

  ‘No doubt there were those cases. However, where the vampire rumour was justified,’ Regis said, without looking at the witcher. ‘Then, I imagine, the time and energy was not used in vain. The monster died from your sword?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Either way,’ said Zoltan, ‘the peasants are in luck. I intend to wait at the camp for Munro Bruys and the boys. Nor could it hurt to rest. And whatever killed the girl and the boy, better look out, because there will be a witcher in the camp.’

  ‘And while we’re at it,’ Geralt pursed his lips, ‘I’ll ask you not to go around telling everyone who I am and my name. This goes for you to, Dandelion.’

  ‘As you wish.’ The dwarf nodded. ‘You have your reasons. Well, you warned us just in time, because the camp is already in sight.’

  ‘And in earshot,’ Milva said, breaking a long silence. ‘The clamour sounds like fear.’

  ‘That sound you hear,’ said Dandelion in an instructive tone, ‘is the typical symphony of a refugee camp. As usual, issued by the throats of hundreds of people, as well as cows, sheep and poultry. The solo part is executed by nagging women, children fighting, the cock crowing and a donkey, which, if I’m not mistaken, someone has shoved a thistle under its tail. The title of the symphony is: “The human community struggles to survive.”’

  ‘The symphony,’ Regis said, turning up his arched nose, ‘is usually acoustic-olfactory. From the group of people fighting for survival arises the delightful smell of cabbage stew and vegetables, without which, it seems, they can not survive. The distinctive accent of perfume also forms the effect of physiological needs, handled wherever they can, usually on the outskirts of the encampment. I could never understand why the struggle for survival manifested a reluctance to dig latrines.’

  ‘May you be swept away with the devil for all your clever chatter,’ Milva said angrily. ‘Instead of using fifty unintelligible words, use just three: Cabbage and shit.’

  ‘Cabbage and shit always comes in pairs,’ Percival Schuttenbach proclaimed a profound truth. ‘One produces the other. Perpetuum mobile.’

  * * *

  Soon they had arrived in the bustling, stinking camp, between the fires, carts and sheds, they immediately became the center of interest to all of the refugees gathered here, which was a good two hundred, and perhaps even more. The interest grew rapidly and in ways difficult to believe - suddenly someone shouted, suddenly someone screamed, suddenly someone jumped onto someone’s neck, someone started laughing wildly and someone started sobbing. Confusion arose. From the cacophony of male, female and children’s voices it was initially difficult to deduce what was happening, but soon the matter was clarified. Two of the women from Kernow who had been traveling with them had found in the camp their husband and his brother, who they had thought had died or disappeared without a trace during the maelstrom of war. The joy and tears were endless.

  ‘Something as trivial and melodramatic,’ Dandelion said with conviction, pointing his finger at the touching scene, ‘can only happen in real life. If I tried to finish one of my romances this way, I would be made fun of mercilessly.’

  ‘Inevitably,’ Zoltan confirmed. ‘Although all are glad of something so banal. It relieves us when destiny is favourable, instead of continually crushing. Come, we’ve delivered the women. In the end they finally got here. Come on, there is no use standing here.’

  The witcher felt for a moment to propose that they wait for a bit, in case any of the women want to express their gratitude to the dwarves. He abandoned it though, as there was no indication. The women, exultant with their meeting had ceased to notice them at all.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Zoltan looked at him sharply. ‘Until they shower you with flowers in thanks? Until they anoint you with honey? Let’s go, there is nothing here for us.’

  ‘You are undoubtedly right.’

  They had not gone far when a shrill little voice stopped them. The girl with the freckles and braids caught up to them. She was panting and in both hands she held a bouquet of wildflowers.

  ‘Thank you,’ she squeaked, ‘for caring for me and my brother and mother. You have been good to us and all that. I picked some flowers for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ said Zoltan Chivay seriously.

  ‘You are good,’ the little girl added, placing one flower in her pigtail. ‘I do not believe what the old woman said. You are not disgusting underground goblins. You are not a white freak from hell, and you Uncle Dandelion, you’re not a gaudy peacock. The old woman lied. And you Aunt Milva, you’re no pervert with a bow, Aunt Milva, I like you. For you I’ve picked the prettiest flowers.’

  ‘Thank you.’ said Milva with a sad voice.

  ‘We all thank you.’ Zoltan repeated. ‘Hey, Percival, you disgusting underground goblin, give the child a present. Something to remember us by. Do you have in your pockets a worthless stone?’

  ‘I have, here, young lady. This is a beryllium aluminium silicate, commonly known as…’

  ‘An emerald.’ Finished the dwarf. ‘Do not confuse the child, she will not remember anyway.’

  ‘Oh lovely! Green! Thank you very, very much!’

  ‘Take care.’

  ‘And don’t lose it.’ Dandelion muttered. ‘Because that stone is worth a much as a small farm.’

  ‘Bah,’ Zoltan said, planting on the bonnet of flowers he received from the girl. ‘A stone is a stone, what else can you say. Take care, girl. Let us go, we can set up camp by the ford and wait for Munro Bruys, Yazon Varda and the others. They should be along soon. It is strange we have not seen them. Damn, I forgot to take away the cards. I bet they are sitting somewhere and playing cards!’

  ‘We must get fodder for the horses,’ Milva said. ‘And drink. Let’s go down to the river.’

  ‘Maybe we will be able to find some hot food.’ Dandelion said. ‘Percival, take a tour of the camp and make use of your nose. We can eat where there are the best cooks.’

  To their surprise, the way to the river was fenced and guarded and those guarding the river demanded a penny per horse. Zoltan and Milva began to get angry, but Geralt, not wanting any problems or the associated publicity, calmed them. Surprisingly, it was Dandelion who dug up a few coins from the bottom of his pocket.

  Percival Schuttenbach soon appeared, sullen and angry.

  ‘Did you find something to eat?’

  The gnome blew his nose and wiped his fingers on the fleece of a sheep returning from the river.

  ‘I found it. I don’t know whether we can afford it. Here they want money for everything and the prices made me fall on my ass. For flour and barley they ask a crown a pound. A bowl of watery
soup, two nobles. A bowl of fish caught in the northern pike of Chotla which in Dillingen cost a pound …’

  ‘And feed for the horses?’

  ‘One measure of oats, a thaler.’

  ‘How much?’ cried the dwarf. ‘How much?’

  ‘How much,’ Milva growled. ‘Just ask the horses how much. If we leave them to eat grass, they will fall. And on top of that there isn’t any grass around here. With the local circumstances there is nothing we can do. We could haggle with the peasant selling the oats and have Dandelion give him the rest of his money. Or from Zoltan and his parrot, he could receive a nasty stream of abuse, which, of course would do nothing. Bu the horses are eager to get their heads in a bag of feed.’

  ‘Bloody rip off!’ Cried the dwarf, venting his anger with blows of his stick on the passing wheels of the carts. ‘I wonder if we are allowed to breathe for free, or if he is charging for every breath. Or for every shit!’

  ‘You’re not far from the truth,’ said Regis. ‘The satisfaction of physical needs also costs here. Do you see that tent? The man who stands before it? He is marketing the charms of his daughter. The price is negotiable. A moment ago I saw a chicken and some tobacco accepted.’

  ‘I predict a bad end for your race,’ Zoltan said grimly. ‘Every rational creature in this world, when they fall into poverty, misery and unhappiness, commonly join with their kinsmen, because among them it is easier to survive the bad times, because they help each other. But among you humans, each of you looks at only how to make something out of misfortune. If hungry, then food is not distributed, the weakest is devoured. Such a procedure makes sense for wolves, allowing the individual to survive healthier and stronger. But among intelligent races such selection usually allows the dominant and biggest bastards to survive. Analyze this how you want.’