Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 06]

by The Lady of the Lake (fan translation) (epub)

  Before the tent sat a group of medics, enjoying the last minutes of sweat idleness. Rusty gave them a stern look, and sniffed to see if they were already drunk.

  The blacksmith, a muscular fellow, was busy rearranging tools on his bench that would be used to rescue the wounded from warped armour and helmets.

  ‘There,’ Rusty began without preamble, pointing towards the battlefield, ‘will soon begin a bloodbath. And right afterwards we will get our first wounded. You all know what to do, where your position is and what your responsibilities are. If you behave accordingly, you can no go wrong. Are we clear?’

  The girls listened to his speech without comment.

  ‘There,’ Rusty pointed in the same direction as before, ‘will soon begin hundreds of thousands of people trying to hurt and kill each other. In very sophisticated ways. In this and two other hospitals we have twelve doctors. There is no way in the world we’ll be able to help all those in need. Not even a fraction of those in need. And to tell you the truth, no one even expects that from us. But we will treat them. Because it is, sorry for the cliché, the reason for our existence. To those who need us.’

  His listeners remained silent. Rusty shrugged.

  ‘We cannot do more than we can,’ he said quieter and warmer. ‘But we will do our all, we can do no less than that.’

  * * *

  ‘They’re charging,’ Constable John Natalis said while wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. ‘The Nilfgaardians are charging, Your Majesty, they are coming for us!’

  King Foltest, mastered his dancing horse, a white horse decorated with lilies on his saddle and turned his noble profile, worthy of decorating coins towards the constable.

  ‘We must prepare an appropriate welcome, Lord Constable! Officers!’

  ‘Death to the Black ones!’ yelled the condottiere Adam “Adieu” Pangratt and Count de Ruyter. The Constable straightened in his saddle and took a deep breath.

  ‘To the banners!’

  Drums reverberated, cymbals crashed and horns sounded. The earth trembled under the tens of thousands of hooves.

  * * *

  ‘Now,’ said the Halfling, Andy Biberveldt brushing the hair from his pointy ears. ‘It begins …’

  Tara Hildebrandt, Didi Hofmeier and the others who were gathered around the wagons nodded. They could hear the dull, monotonous thud of hooves coming from behind the hill and forest. They could feel the ground shaking.

  Then, beyond the forest arose cries. And the noise intensified.

  ‘The first volley from the archers,’ said Andy expertly who had already seen – or rather heard – many battles. ‘There will be another one.’

  He was right.

  ‘Now they’ll collide.’

  ‘Ma …ma..maybe we could … hide … under the … wagon,’ William Hardbottom proposed, stuttering and writhing uneasily.

  Biberveldt and the others looked at the Halfling with pity.

  ‘Under? The wagons? What for? We are separated from the battle by nearly a quarter of a mile. And even if a patrol came here to the rear, hiding under the wagon would not save our lives.’

  The noise from the fighting intensified.

  ‘Now,’ Andy Biberveldt estimated and was right again. From a distance of a quarter of a mile through the forest came the sound of the royal army colliding with iron and a horrible sound that bristled the hair.

  Terrible, desperate, wild squeals and whinnies from animals being mutilated.

  ‘The cavalry …’ Biberveldt licked his lips. ‘The cavalry impaled on pikes …’

  * * *

  The old chronicler used the sponge and erased the next sentence, with whose wording he was not satisfied. He closed his eyes, reminding himself of that day. The moment when the two armies collided. Where both armies, as fierce as mastiffs, jumped at each other’s throats, tightening in a deadly embrace.

  Jarre looked for the words with which to describe it.

  In vain.

  * * *

  A wedge was driven into the side of the Temerian infantry. A gargantuan live ram of the Alba division, crushing everything that protected the living bodies of the infantry – pikes, spears, shields and halberds.

  The Alba division struck like a dagger into a living body and shed blood. Horses slipped on the blood slicked ground. But although the tip of the dagger penetrated very deep, it did not hit the heart or any vital organs. The wedge of the Alba division instead of crushing and dismembering the Temerian infantry, dug in and got stuck. They remained stuck in the mass of infantry, thick and viscous like pitch.

  At first it did not seem so threatening. The head and wings of the wedge were made up of elite troops in heavy armour, from their shields and armour, blows bounced off like a blacksmith’s hammer off of an anvil, they had also chosen well protected mounts. And although every now and again one of the armoured troops fell and the horse with him, their swords and axes fell among the infantrymen in a bloody harvest. Surrounded by a mob, the division began to penetrate deeper.

  ‘Albaaa!’ Junior Lieutenant Devlin aep Meara heard the battle cry of Colonel Eggebracht, rising above the clatter of weapons and the roar of men and the neighing of horses. ‘Forward Alba! For the Emperor!’

  They moved forward, chopping, pounding and thrusting. Under the reluctant horses hooves could be heard sloshing, cracking and wailing.

  ‘Albaaa!’

  The wedge became stuck again. The landsknechts although crushed and bleeding, did not yield and surrounded the cavalry like a vice. The earth trembled. Under the bludgeoning of the halberds and the flails, the first line of the wedge fell apart. Riddled with halberds and clubs, torn from their mounts by hooks, the knights of the Alba division began to die.

  The dagger stuck in the Temerian infantry, was now not so much crippling iron in a living organism but was now like an icicle in the grip of a peasant.

  ‘Temeriaaa! For the King! Kill the Black ones!’

  It was not easy for the landsknechts. The Alba division did not burst apart. Swords and axes rose and feel and for every fallen rider the fierce infantry paid the price in blood.

  The tip of a spear found its way into the crack n the armour of Eggebracht and thrust into it. The Colonel cried and swayed in his saddle. Before his men could help him, the combat swept him to the ground and the infantry fell upon him.

  The black banner with the Alerion wobbled and fell. Heavy cavalry, among them Junior Lieutenant Delvin aep Meara, rushed in that direction, chopping, slashing, trampling and yelling.

  I wonder, thought Devlin aep Meara, removing his sword from the shattered skull of a Temerian landsknecht. I wonder, he thought deflecting a blow aimed at him, what is the point of all this? And who is to blame?

  * * *

  ‘Uh … And then the Great Masters gathered at … Our Venerable Mother … uh … Whose memory will always live within us … For the … Er … great champions of the First Lodge of … consulted … and decided …’

  ‘You did not prepare, adept Abonde. You have failed. Go sit down.’

  ‘But I learned it. Really …’

  ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Why do they have to teach that old nonsense,’ Abonde muttered, sitting down. ‘Who cares about it today … And what is the use …’

  ‘Silence! Adept Nimue!’

  ‘Present, Mistress.’

  ‘Can you answer the questions? If not, sit straight and do not waste my time.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Well, I’m listening.’

  ‘So it stands in the annals that the convent of masters took place at the Castle of Bald Mountain and there they agree to end the destructive war between the Emperor and the Kings of the North. Reverend Mother Assire, the holy martyr, decided that the rulers would not stop fighting until completely exhausted. Whereupon, Reverend Mother Philippa, the holy martyr decided, “Let’s give them an unimaginably horrible, cruel and bloody battle, a battle that will be unprecedented. That the imperial armies and troops of the kings w
ill be swimming in the blood of that battle, and then, we, the Grand Lodge will force them to make peace”. And that is exactly what happened. The Reverend Mothers created the Battle of Brenna. And then the rulers were force to sign for peace at Cintra.’

  ‘Well done, adept Nimue. I’d give you an A … if not for the word “so” at the beginning of the speech. Do not start a sentence with “so”. Sit down. And now we will talk about the Peace of Cintra …’

  The bell rang for recess. But the adepts did not react with the immediate snap and clatter of desks. They kept their calm and dignity, a distinguished tranquillity.

  They were not snotty first years. They were third years. They were already fourteen. And that was important.

  * * *

  ‘This is the only possible solution,’ Rusty assessed the status of the first of the wounded, who was covering the clean operation table with blood. ‘The thigh bone is crushed. The artery has not been cut, otherwise it would have been a corpse brought here. It looks like an axe blow, with which the saddle served as a wooden block. You can look for yourselves …’

  Iola and Shani bent over the wounded soldier, Rusty rubbed his palms together.

  ‘As I said, there is nothing to heal here; we will just have to cut. To work. Iola, a tourniquet. Tighten it harder. Shani, a scalpel. Not that one. The larger one for amputation.’

  The wounded man kept shooting terrified glances at their hands, watching their actions through the eyes of an animal caught in a trap.

  ‘A little magic, Marti, if you please,’ The Halfling bent over the patient so as to minimize his field of vision.

  ‘I have to amputate son.’

  ‘Noooo!’ the wounded man said, thrashing his head, trying to escape Marti Sodergren’s hands. ‘I don’t want you to!’

  ‘I have to amputate or you will die.’

  ‘I’d rather die …’ The wounded man’s movements were getting slower under the influence of the healing magic. ‘I’d rather die than be maimed … Let me die … I beg you … Let me die!’

  ‘I cannot,’ Rusty raised the scalpel and looked at the bright blade of immaculate steel. ‘I cannot let you die. I am a doctor.’

  He strongly pressed the blade into the skin and cut deeply. The wounded man howled. The sound was inhuman.

  * * *

  The messenger stopped the horse so suddenly that sparks emerged from under the hooves. Two assistants seized the halter and calmed the frothy stallion. The messenger dropped to the ground.

  ‘Who are you?’ John Natalis said. ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Lord de Ruyter …’ wheezed the messenger. ‘We have stopped the Black ones, but we have suffered terrible losses. Lord de Ruyter is asking for reinforcements.’

  ‘No,’ the Constable replied after a moment of silence. ‘You’ll have to endure. You have to!’

  * * *

  ‘Look here,’ Rusty said pointing like a collector who was showing his collection. ‘Kindly look at the resulting cut from a blow to the abdomen. Someone has beat us to it and made this unfortunate amateur laparotomy. Good thing he was brought here with care and has not lost most of the important organs … At least, I hope not …. What’s wrong, Shani? Why the look on your face? Up until now, have you only known men from the outside?’

  ‘The intestines are damaged, Mister Rusty …’

  ‘A diagnosis as accurate as evident! I don’t even have to look, just smell. A handkerchief, Iola. Marti, there is still too much blood, be so kind as to give us some of the priceless magic of yours. Shani, clamp here, you can see how much he is bleeding. Iola, scalpel.’

  ‘Who wins?’ the soldier was quite awake, his eyes bulging. ‘Tell me … Who wins?’

  ‘Boy,’ Rusty said hunch over the open, bloody, pulsating abdominal cavity. ‘That is the last thing I’d be interested in if I was in your place.’

  * * *

  On the left flank and in the center a fierce fight still lasted, but even though the Nilfgaardian army was hard and persistent, they broke upon the King’s army like a sea wave breaks against the rocks. For there stood the brave soldiers from Maribor, Vizima and Tretogor and the grim landsknechts, the mercenary professionals, the cavalry did not scare.

  And there they fought, truly like the sea against the rocks and continued to fight, and it was not possible to guess who would win, because even though the waves beat against the rock, it did not weaken or disappear and it stood there between the raging waves.

  Like an old hawk, who knows where to fall and attack, so Field Marshal Menno Coehoorn knew where to strike. With the iron fist of his army, which consisted of the Deithwen division and Ard Feainn division he struck at the enemy lines above Golden Pond. That place was fiercely defended by the troops from Brugge, but they were less armed and armoured and morale was low. They managed to hold off the attack of the Nilfgaardians. In a breath of relief two flags of the Free Company under the command of Adam Pangratt arrested the Nilfgaardians, but both sides paid dearly in blood.

  However, the dwarves of the Volunteer brigade were facing a terrible siege and the threat of encirclement, which would threaten to tear apart the formation of the royal army.

  Jarre dipped his pen into the inkwell. His grandchildren played in the yard, their laughter ringing like bells.

  Seeing the danger threatening, however, John Natalis, attentive as a crane, understood what was happening at the time, and without waiting he sent a messenger with orders to Colonel Els …

  * * *

  In all the naivety of his seventeen years, the trumpeter, Aubry, thought that he could get down to the right wing, transmit his orders and be back up the hill in no more than ten minutes. Absolutely no more! Not on Chiquita, his light foot mare.

  Even before he reached the Golden Pond, the trumpeter realised two things – He didn’t know when he would reach the right wing and he didn’t know when he would get back. And that Chiquita’s agility would be very useful to him.

  At the east end of Golden Pond, fighting raged. The Black one’s fought against Brugge’s cavalry which was protecting the infantry. Before the eyes of the trumpeter from the heat of the battle rode individual riders in green, yellow and red robes who fled at a gallop towards the river. Behind them like a black river, spilled the Nilfgaardians.

  Aubry jerked the reins, stopping his mare, ready to turn her and flee out of the way of the fugitives and pursuers. But his sense of duty prevailed. The trumpeter clung to the horse’s neck and went into a wild gallop.

  Around him was shouting and confusion, a kaleidoscopic jumble of silhouettes, the glitter of swords, crashes and rattles.

  Some of the men from Brugge where backed up to the pond and put up a desperate fight, milling about their flags with a crossed anchor. On the field the Black ones murdered the infantry who were devoid of support.

  Before his eyes swirled a black cloak with a silver sun on it.

  ‘Evgyr, Nordling!’

  Aubry yelled and Chiquita excited by the howling, took off at a gallop, saving his life by putting it out of reach of the Nilfgaardian’s sword. Above his head arrows whistled and flashed around the blurring silhouettes.

  Where am I? Where are ours? Where is the enemy?

  ‘Evgyr morv, Nordling!’

  The thunder of hooves, neighing of horses, banging of weapons, shouting.

  ‘Stop, you little shit! Not that way!’

  A woman’s voice. A woman on a chestnut stallion, in armour, her hair dishevelled and her face splattered with blood. Behind her were armed horsemen.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said, smearing the blood on her face with the back of her hand which held a sword.

  ‘Trumpeter Aubry, Second Lieutenant to Constable Natalis … with orders for Colonels Pangratt and Els …’

  ‘There is no way you’ll get to “Adieu” through the fighting. We’ll go to the dwarves. I’m Julia Abatemarco … Fuck! They’re flanking us! Ride!’

  He did not have time to protest. Similarly, it would not have made sen
se.

  After a while of furious galloping, they emerged from the dust in front of the infantry square who were defending themselves like a turtle with a wall of shields and like the skin of a hedgehog covered with spears. Over the square loomed a huge banner with crossed hammers and next to it was a pole with skulls and horsetails.

  The square who were moving and jumping around like a dog escaping from an old man waving a stick, were being attacked by the Nilfgaardians. The Ard Feainn division who thanks to their coats with the silver sun on them could not be mistaken for any other.

  ‘Strike, Free Company!’ screamed the woman, raising her sword. ‘Make them pay!’

  The riders – and with the Aubry – charged the Nilfgaardians.

  The battle only took a few moments. But it was horrible.

  Then the wall of shields opened before them. They were inside the square, in a crushing ring of dwarves in mail shirts and helmets, among the Redanian infantry, the cavalry of the Brugge and the light armoured condottiere.

  Julia Abatemarco – Pretty Kitty, Commander of the condottiere – who Aubry only now recognised – led him to a stocky dwarf in a helmet decorated with a red plume, sitting on a captured Nilfgaardian stallion, with a high saddle, with which he could see over the head of his soldiers.

  ‘Colonel Barclay Els?’

  The dwarf nodded his plume and looked at the blood that covered the messenger and his mare. Aubry involuntarily blushed. It was the blood of a Nilfgaardian who one of the condottiere had cut down right next to him. He did not even draw his sword.

  ‘Trumpeter Aubry …’

  ‘Son of Anzelm Aubry?’

  ‘The eldest.’

  ‘Ha! I know your father! What have you got for me from Natalis and Foltest, trumpeter?’

  ‘The center formation is in the threat of a breakthrough, the Constable commands you to move your men between Golden Pond and the bank of the Cholta … To support …’