Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 06]

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

  Vilgefortz talked and talked, obviously relishing in his own words.

  ‘And now for the most important thing, you may be upset, you may be happy, but know that your child will not be born. Who knows, maybe it would have been a great chosen one with extraordinary abilities, the saviour of the world and the king of all the nations. However, no one can guarantee this and besides I do not intent to wait that long. I need blood. More specifically, placental blood. Once you have developed a placenta, I’ll remove it. The rest of my plans and intentions, as you can understand, do not concern you, so there is no use in giving you useless information.’

  He made a theatrical pause. Ciri could not stop her lips from trembling.

  ‘And now,’ the wizard gestured with a flourish, ‘I invite you to your chair, princess.’

  ‘It would be worth it,’ Bonhart sneered under his grey moustache, ‘to see the look on that bitch, Yennefer’s face. She deserves it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Vilgefortz wiped bubbly foam from his lips again. ‘Fertilization is a sacred, noble and solemn affair, in which the family should assist. And Yennefer is something like a mother to her. In all primitive cultures, mothers of the bride are present at this ritual. Quickly bring Yennefer here!’

  ‘With regard to the fertilization,’ Bonhart said bending over Ciri, who the sorcerer’s minions had already started to undress, ‘would it not be possible to do it the old, proven way, Lord Vilgefortz? In accordance with nature?’

  Skellen snorted and shook his head. Vilgefortz frowned.

  ‘No,’ he said frostily. ‘It is not, Bonhart.’

  Ciri, as if only now realising the seriousness of the situation, cried shrilly. Once, twice.

  ‘Well, well,’ the sorcerer clicked. ‘With head held high and a direct gaze you entered the lion’s den, my dear, and now you are afraid of a thin glass tube. That’s a shame.’

  Ciri ignored his admonitions and screamed until the laboratory glassware rattled.

  And suddenly the whole of castle Stygga responded with cries of alarm.

  * * *

  ‘Woe to us,’ said Zadarlik scrapping a spear through the manure between the stones in the courtyard. ‘Woe, woe.’

  He looked at his companions, but none of the guards were saying anything. Nor was Boreas Mun, who had stayed with the guards at the gate. By his own will, because he had not been ordered to stay. He could have gone with the Owl like Silifant, could have seen with his own eyes what was going to happen to the Lady of the Lake and what fate awaited her. But he preferred to stay in the yard, in the open, away from the rooms and halls of the keep, where they had led the girl. He was sure her screams wouldn’t reach here.

  ‘Those black birds are an evil sign,’ Zadarlik pointed to the jackdaws sitting on the walls and roofs. ‘I get a bad feeling from the girl who came in on the black mare. This is ugly business serving the Owl, I tell you. Rumour has it that the Owl is no longer the imperial coroner, but an outlaw like us. That the Emperor has sentenced him to death. And when he is picked up, woe to all who are with him. Woe to us.’

  ‘Ay, ay,’ said a second guard, a bearded man in a hat decorated with feathers. ‘The stake awaits us! Not even the gods can stand before the imperial wrath.’

  ‘Do not worry,’ a third guard casually waved his hand, who had only come to castle Stygga recently with the last group of mercenaries. ‘The Emperor will not care about us, he has other worries. There is talk of a battle somewhere in the north. The Nordlings killed the Imperials, bled them properly.’

  ‘In such a case,’ said another, ‘it is good after all that we hold to the sorcerer and the Owl. Our kind are always better off with someone who has the upper hand.’

  ‘Sure,’ said the newcomer. ‘The Owl is the future. And we’ll go up with him.’

  ‘You idiot,’ said Zadarlik. ‘Do you have sawdust in your head?’

  The black birds took flight. The flapping and squawking were deafening. They darkened the sky and began to circle the castle.

  ‘What the devil?’ yelled one of the guards.

  ‘Open the gate please.’

  Boreas Mun suddenly noticed a strong smell of herbs – mint, sage and thyme. He swallowed and shook his head. He closed his eyes and opened them again. In vain. A skinny man, who looked like grizzled-looking tax collector, stood by his side and did not disappear. He stood smiling with his mouth closed. Boreas felt his hair standing on end, nearly lifting his cap.

  ‘Open the gate, please,’ repeated the smiling man. ‘Immediately. Believe me; it will be better for you.’

  Zadarlik dropped his spear which clattered on the ground. He stood frozen, his lips moving wordlessly. His eyes were empty. The others headed for the gate. They walked like unnaturally stiff puppets. They lifted the latch and opened both doors. Into the courtyard rode four riders.

  One had hair as white as driven snow and a sword in his hands which flickered like lightning. Behind him rode a blond woman who was drawing a bowstring. The third was a pretty young girl with a crooked sabre with which she slashed at Zadarlik.

  Boreas Mun picked up the dropped spear and raised it over his head. The fourth horseman loomed over him like a mountain. On his helmet stretched the wings of a bird of prey. His raised sword glistened.

  ‘Leave him, Cahir,’ the white-haired man said sharply. ‘Save time and blood. Milva, Regis, this way …’

  ‘No, not that way,’ Boreas said, not knowing why he did so. ‘Not that way … That way leads to a blind barbican. You have to go up the stairs to the top of the castle. If you want to save the Lady of the Lake … You must hurry …’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the white-haired man. ‘Thank you, stranger. Regis, did you hear? Lead the way!’

  After a moment there were just dead bodies in the courtyard. And Boreas Mun, still leaning on his spear. He could not release it. His legs were trembling. The jackdaws circling above castle Stygga were squawking and enveloped the towers and bastions like a black cloud.

  * * *

  Vilgefortz listened to the report of the mercenary who had rushed in breathlessly, with a stoic and calm face. But his restless and blinking eye betrayed him.

  'Coming to her aid in the last minute,' he said grinding his teeth, 'I do not believe it. These things do not happen. Or only come to pass in bad plays in little theatres. Make me happy, my good man; tell me it is all a joke.'

  'I have not made any thing up,' the mercenary said indignantly. 'I'm telling the truth! A few people have broken … A whole gang …'

  'Okay, okay,' the wizard interrupted. 'It was a joke, Skellen, personally take care of this matter. You will have the opportunity to show me how much your army is really worth that you hired with my gold.'

  The Owl jumped up and waved his arms nervously.

  'Do not take this lightly, Vilgefortz,' he shouted. 'It seems you do not understand what threatens us! If someone is attacking the castle, they can only be Emhyr's people! And that means …'

  'It does not mean anything,' the sorcerer did not let him finish. 'But I know what you're doing. If my presence gives you courage, then you can stand behind my back. Let's go! That goes for you too, Bonhart!'

  Then he turned his terrible eyes on Ciri.

  'As for you, forget your pointless hope. I know well, who has so unexpectedly appeared in a theatrical attempt to save you. I assure you that I will convert this farce into a scene of horror. Hey, you!' He motioned for one of his minions. 'Put the girl in dimeritium, shut her in a cell with three bolts and do not open the door. Or it is your head. Got it?'

  'As you command, my Lord.'

  * * *

  The entered a corridor, the corridor came to a large room filled with sculptures, a real lapidarium. Nobody was in the room, just a few servants that fled at the sight of them.

  They race down a flight of stairs. Cahir kicked down a door. Angouleme burst into the room with a war cry, her sabre knocking the helmet from an empty suit of armour that she had taken for a sentry by the door. W
hen she realised her mistake, she broke out laughing.

  'Heh, heh, heh. Look …'

  'Angouleme!' Geralt shouted. 'Don't just stand there! Continue!'

  Opposite them was a door, beyond which they perceived silhouettes. Milva without thinking twice, tensed her bow and shot an arrow. Someone screamed and the door crashed shut. Geralt heard the sound of a bolt sliding home.

  'Come on, come on!' he shouted. 'There is no time to waste!'

  'Witcher,' Regis said. 'It makes no sense in running around blindly. I'll … I'll make a reconnaissance flight.'

  'Fly.'

  The vampire disappeared, as if the wind had carried him away. Geralt had no time to marvel.

  Again they met men, armed this time. Cahir and Angouleme rushed towards them shouting, but their opponents ran. More than anything, it seemed, thanks to Cahir's imposing winged helmet.

  They ran into a gallery surrounding an inner lobby. The door on the opposite side of the gallery was scarcely twenty paces away when the walkway on the opposite side was swarmed with people. Cries echoed. And arrows hissed.

  'Take cover,' cried the witcher.

  Arrows fell like a veritable hailstorm. The feathers hummed and the tips tore into the pavement raising sparks, and reduced the stucco walls to a fine powder.

  'Get down! Over the railing!'

  They fell to the ground, each with cover, behind decorative columns with carved floral motifs. However, not without injury. The witcher heard Angouleme scream. He turned and saw that she was holding her arm. From her sleeve blood was seeping.

  'Angouleme!'

  'It's nothing! The arrow pierced me cleanly!' the girl said, her voice trembling slightly, confirming what he had seen. If the tip had chipped a bone, Angouleme would have fainted from shock.

  The archers, launching their arrows from the end of the gallery, called for reinforcements. Some ran around the sides, looking for better shooting angles. Geralt cursed and calculated the distance to the archway. It did not look good. But staying where they were meant death.

  'We have to get the hell out of here!' he shouted. 'Listen up! Cahir, help Angouleme!'

  'They are going to mow us down!'

  'We have to go! There is no choice!'

  'No!' Milva exclaimed, rising with her bow in hand. She stood up and took a firing position. She looked like a statue, a marble Amazon with her bow. The archers in the gallery shouted.

  Milva released the bowstring.

  One of the archers flew backwards and smashed against the wall, and where he slumped to the ground, the red spot splashed to the plaster resembled an octopus. From around the gallery sounded a cry, a roar of anger, rage and horror.

  'The Great Sun …' Cahir whistled. Geralt squeezed his arm.

  'Let's go! Help Angouleme!'

  From the gallery, a shower of arrows fell upon Milva. The archer did not flinch when one arrow showered her in a cloud of plaster dust, or jump when marble fragments shattered around her. She quietly released the bowstring. A new cry and another archer collapsed like a puppet, spraying his fellows with brains and blood.

  'Now!' Geralt cried, watching the guards flee from the gallery, and fall to the floor, taking cover from the incoming missiles.

  Only the three bravest returned fire. An arrow hit the wall and dusted Milva's hair in lime powder. The archer blew a strand of hair from her eyes and readied her bow.

  'Milva,' Geralt called after Cahir and Angouleme had run to safety. 'Enough! Run!'

  'Just one more,' said the archer, with the feather of the arrow at the corner of her mouth.

  The bowstring hummed. One of the brave three screamed in pain, leaned over the rail and fell against the pavement of the patio. Seeing this, the other two faltered. They fell to the ground and huddled. Those who were rushing into the gallery were apparently reluctant and stayed in safe shelter from Milva's arrows.

  With one exception.

  Milva evaluated him on sight. Not very tall, dark complexion, brunette. With a glossy protector on his left forearm and a glove on his right hand. The girl saw that his compound bow was beautifully crafted, with a fitted handle and a curved staff as it tightened smoothly. She could she how tense the chord was as it crossed his swarthy face, she saw the arrow's feathers touch his cheek. She saw that he measured exactly.

  Milva readied her bow, strung it deftly, and aimed. The string came up to her face, one of the feathers grazed the corner of her mouth.

  * * *

  'Harder, harder, Maria, to the mouth. Move your fingers on the bowstring so the arrow does not come loose from the notch. Let your hand rest on your jaw. Aim! Both eyes open! Hold your breath! Shoot!'

  The bowstring, despite her protector, painfully bit into her left forearm.

  Her father wanted to say something, but fell into a fit of coughing - dry, crisp, torturous. The cough was getting worse, thought Maria Barring as she lowered the bow. Worse and more often. He coughed yesterday, just as I aimed at a deer. And for lunch we had boiled cabbage. I hate boiled cabbage. I hate being hungry. And misery.

  The older Barring gasped and wheezed harshly.

  'You hit an inch from the center, oaf! A whole inch! I told you not to move or drop the bow! And you sit there wiggling as if someone had put a snail in your ass. And you spend too long aiming. You'll get weary hands, just shoot! Or you'll keep wasting arrows!'

  'I hit it! And not a whole inch, but barely half a span from the center!'

  'Do not argue! The gods punished me when they sent me you instead of a son and moreover, awkward as a boob!'

  'I'm not a boob!'

  'Well, show me. Shoot again. And learn from what I've said. No wiggling, like you're stuck in the ground. Aim and shoot without hesitation. Why are you crying?'

  'Because you scrutinize me.'

  'It's a father's right. Shoot.'

  She tightened the bow. She was crying. He saw it.

  'I love you Maria,' he said softly. 'Never forget that.'

  She let go of the string, the feathers barely touched the corner of her mouth.

  Good,' said her father. 'Good, my daughter.'

  He began to cough in a terrible, rattling way.

  * * *

  The black archer was killed on the spot. Milva's arrow struck him under the left arm and penetrated deeply, more than halfway down the shaft, shattering ribs, and smashing the lungs and heart.

  He fired a fraction of a second earlier and the red feathered arrow struck Milva low in the abdomen. It tore into her guts and severed an artery and shattered her pelvis. The archer fell to the floor as if hit by a battering ram.

  Geralt and Cahir cried out with one voice. Aware that the Milva was down, the archers in the gallery once again jumped up and fired a hail of arrows. One of the arrows hit Cahir's helmet. A second, Geralt swore, combed his hair.

  Milva left behind her a large, shiny trail of blood. In the place where she lay, in a blink of an eye, it had grown into a puddle on the floor. Cahir cursed, his hands were shaking. Geralt felt overwhelmed by despair. And rage.

  'Auntie!' howled Angouleme. 'Auntie, don't die!'

  Maria Barring opened her mouth, coughed horribly and spit blood down her chin.

  'I love you too, Dad,' she said clearly.

  And she died.

  * * *

  Vilgefortz's shaved minions could not cope with the struggling and screaming Ciri. Some servants had to go to their aid. One received an accurate kicked that made him recoil, knees bent and clinging with both hands to his groin.

  But this only served to infuriate the others. Ciri received a punch in the neck and a slap in the face. She turned and another one gave her a kick in the hip and someone sat on her legs. One of the bald minions and a young man knelt on her chest, fingers tangling in her hair and pulling hard. Ciri howled.

  The minion also howled. Ciri saw blood drip from his bald skull, staining the white outfit with a macabre drawing.

  A second later the lab became a hell. The furniture as ove
rturned with a crash. The strident pops and cracks from glasses bursting mixed with the hellish howls of the confused people. The decoctions, filters, elixirs, extracts and other magical substances spilled onto the tables and the ground, mixing and combining. Some, contacting, hissed and burst forth in clouds of yellow smoke. The room was immediately filled with a caustic stench.

  Amid the smoke and tears produced by the stench, Ciri looked in shock at the thing that moved about the laboratory. A black figure resembling a gigantic bat. She saw the bat hook the minions in flight and releasing them high in the air, yelling as they fell. Before her eyes, it snapped up one of the servants that was trying to get away and slammed it against a table, where he began to howl and shake, spraying blood on retorts, stills, beakers and flasks.

  A fluid from some broken container sprayed a lamp. It hissed, and the lamp exploded. Ciri had t dodge the fireball headed at her face. She clenched her teeth to keep from screaming.

  In the steel chair, which was prepared for her, sat a slender, gray-haired main in a black jacket. He gritted his fangs into the neck of a young minion, which rested on his knees and sucked his blood. The bald man groaned and his limbs twitched convulsively.

  Pallid blue flames danced on the tables. Flasks, retorts and stills exploded in the heat, one after the other.

  The vampire drew his fangs away from his victim's throat and look at Ciri with onyx black eyes.

  'The opportunity arises, he said, as if in explanation, 'when you just can't resist the drink.'

  'Do not fear,' he smiled where he saw her expression. 'Do not worry, Cri. I'm glad I found you. My name is Emiel Regis and I, although you may find it incredible, am a friend of the witcher Geralt. I came to this castle with him.'