And then I will light the fire.
* * *
The old tomcat, called Ginger because of the colour of his coat, died. Ugly. Convulsing in agony, clawing, vomiting blood and pus and suffering from bloody diarrhoea. He meowed, even though he knew it was beneath his dignity. His meow was pitifully weak. He was losing strength quickly.
Ginger knew why he was dying. Or at least figured out what had killed him.
A few days ago a strange freighter entered the harbour at Cintra, an old grimy hulk, which carried on the bow a barely legible inscription “Catriona”. Ginger – obviously - could not read the name. A rat, walking down a mooring rope, came down to the dock. Just one. It was a mangy and dirty looking rat. And it was missing an ear.
Ginger bit the rat. He was hungry, but his instinct stopped his from devouring this abomination. However, several large, black, shiny fleas jumped from the rat and settled in his fur.
‘What happened to this cat?’
‘Probably been poisoned.’
‘Ugh, it stinks! Remove it from here, woman!’
Ginger stiffened and noiselessly opened his bloody mouth. He no longer felt the broom which the lady of the house thanked him with for his eleven years of catching mice. He was expelled from the house, dying in a gutter full of suds and urine. Dying and also wishing those ungrateful people would also fall ill. To suffer as much as he was.
His last wish was soon fulfilled. On a large scale. A scale so large a cat’s mind could not even imagine.
The woman, who expelled Ginger out into the gutter, paused and pulled her skirt up so she could scratch above her knee. It itched.
A flea had bitten her.
* * *
The stars twinkled brightly over Elskerdeg. The sparks from the fire vanished into this background.
‘Neither the peace of Cintra,’ said the elf, ‘nor the more pompous parade at Novigrad can be considered a turning point or milestone. What are their meaning? Governments do not create history with revenues and decrees and no one will accept their authority as truth. One of the brighter manifestation of human arrogance is your so-called historiography, trying to deliver opinions and verdicts on “past events” as you call them. This is typical of you humans, who nature has given an existence as fleeting as that of an insect or an ant, with your ridiculous life-spans under a hundred years. Your fleeting existence is trying to adapt to the complexity of the world. You refuse to take note that history is a process that constantly continues and never ends; it cannot be divided into sections from here to here, from date to date. It is not impossible to define history , let alone change it, by a proclamation by a monarch. Even if you win the war.’
‘Do not undertake a philosophical discourse,’ the pilgrim said. ‘As I said, I am a simple man. I will, however, draw attention to two things. Firstly, a short life protects us against decadence, forcing people to live intensely and fully to take advantage of every moment of life and enjoy it. I speak as a human being, but that same thought probably occurred to the long lived elves who were going off to fight in the Scoia’tael commandos. Correct me if I’m wrong.’
The pilgrim waited a reasonable amount of time, but no one corrected him.
‘Secondly,’ he continued, ‘it seems to me that the governments, thought not being able to change history, can with their interference create the illusion which is quite convincing. They have the tools and the methods.’
‘Oh yes,’ said the elf, turning his face away. ‘The powerful have tools and methods. And there is no arguing with them.’
* * *
The galley, bumped against the rail of the pier that was covered in piles of seaweed and shells. The moorings were thrown. There were shouts, oaths and commands.
Gulls collected garbage that floated on the surface of the water. On the shore a crowd was waiting –mostly soldiers.
‘End of the lines, elves,’ said the Nilfgaardian commander. ‘We are in Dillingen. The soldiers are waiting for you.’
He was right, they were waiting for them.
None of the elves – and certainly not Faoiltiarna – did not believe the assurances that they would receive fair trails and amnesty. The Scoia’tael officers from the Vrihedd brigade did not have any false hopes about the fate that awaited them after the Yaruga. Most were reconciled, stoically accepting it and resigned themselves. They were convinced that nothing else could surprise them.
They were wrong.
They were shoved from the galley. Their chains rattled noisily. They were driven down the pier and led to a boardwalk, between two rows of armed soldiers. There were civilians there too, whose quick eyes jumped from one prisoners face to another.
They will carry out the selection, thought Faoiltiarna. He was not mistaken. The chances of his scarred face being overlooked were not possible.
‘Isengrim Faoiltiarna. The Iron Wolf. What a nice surprise!’
The soldiers dragged him out of the crowd of prisoners.
‘Va Faill,’ Coinneach Da Reo called after him, who was also identified and dragged off by other men who wore the bade of the red eagle of Redania. ‘Se’ved, caerme se dea!’
‘You’ll see him,’ growled the civilian who had picked out Faoiltiarna, ‘but only in hell! They are already waiting for him in Drakenborg. Wait! Isn’t that Riordain? Take him!’
The next to be selected was Angus Bri Cri.
They had only selected three of them. Only three.
Faoiltiarna realised what was happening and suddenly, to his surprise, he began to feel afraid.
‘Va Faill!’ Angus Bri Cri shouted, as he was dragged away with his other brethren. ‘Va Faill, fraeren!’
A soldier pushed him brutally.
They did not take them far. They came to a hut close to the marina. Just off the dock, which swayed with a forest of masts.
The civilian nodded. Faoiltiarna was pushed up against a pole, under a beam over which they had thrown a rope. They began to attach an iron hook to the rope. Riordain and Angus sat beside him on a bench.
‘Mister Riordain, Mister Bri Cri,’ said the civilian coldly. ‘You have been covered by the amnesty. The court has decided to be gracious. Justice must be satisfied, however,’ he added without waiting for a response. ‘for the families for those you have killed. The verdict has been handed down.’
Both elves did not have time to scream. From behind them a noose was thrown around their necks and pulled. They fell off of the bench and were dragged across the floor. With their hands cuffed they were unable to loosen the ropes. Executioners knelt on their chests. Knives flashed, drawing blood. The noose was not able to mute the sounds that made hair stand on end.
It took a long time. It always did.
‘Your verdict, Mister Faoiltiarna,’ said a third civilian to the elf, ‘has come with an additional specialty. Something extra …’
Faoiltiarna was not going to wait for any specialty. The locked handcuffs, which he had worked on for the last two nights, now opened as if by magic.
A terrible blow from the heavy chain toppled both of the soldiers guarding him. Faoiltiarna next jumped up and hit a civilian in the face with his chains, then jumped through a small window covered in cobwebs, sweeping away the glass and frame, and leaving remains of his blood and shreds of his clothes.
He clattered onto the planks of the pier. He tumbled, rolled and dived into the water, among the fishing boats and barges. The thick chains which were still attached to his right wrist, dragged him to the bottom. Faoiltiarna fought with all his strength to fight for his life, that until recently he thought he hadn’t cared about.
‘Catch him!’ the soldiers tore out of the shed. ‘Catch him! Kill him!’
‘There!’ shouted others, coming from further down the pier. ‘To the boats!’
‘Shoot him!’ shouted the civilian hoarsely, trying to stem the blood with both hands that flowed from his eye. ‘Kill him!’
He heard the click of crossbows. Gulls flew past, squealing.
* * *
‘Hurray!’ The parade was lengthening and the multitudes of Novigrad were showing symptoms of fatigue and hoarseness. ‘Hurray!’
‘Glory to the kings!’
Philippa Eilhart looked around, making sure that no one unauthorised was listening and leaned in towards Dijkstra.
‘What did you want to talk to me about?’
The spy also looked around.
‘The assassination of King Vizimir in July last year.’
‘I’m listening’
‘The half-elf who murdered the king,’ Dijkstra lowered his voice even more, ‘was definitely crazy. But he was not alone.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Quiet,’ hissed Dijkstra. ‘Hush, Phil.’
‘Do not call me Phil. Do you have evidence? What? From where?’
‘You’d be surprised, Phil, if I told you where. When can I expect an audience with Your Ladyship?’
Philippa Eilhart’s eyes were like two black bottomless lakes.
‘Soon, Dijkstra.’
Bells rang. The crowd cheered hoarsely. The troops marched. The petals of flowers fell like snowflakes on the pavement of Novigrad.
* * *
'Are you still writing?'
Ori Reuven flinched and made a splash. He had served Dijkstra for nineteen years, but he was still not used to the stealthy movements of his boss, his sudden appearance and where or how he did it.
'Good evening, ahem, ahem, my lord …'
'Shadow People,' Dijkstra read the front of the manuscript that he had taken from the table. 'Or the story of His Majesty's Secret Service, written by Oribasius Giafranco Paolo Reuven, law grad … Oh, Ori. At your age, such nonsense …'
'Ahem, ahem …'
'I came to say goodbye, Ori.'
Reuven looked at him in amazement.
'You see, my faithful friend,' said the spy, without waiting for the clerk to cough, 'I am old, and besides that, I am stupid. I said a word to one person. Only one. And only one word. It was one word too many, and one person too many. Pay attention, Ori. Do you hear?'
Ori Reuven rolled his astonished eyes and shook his head. Dijkstra was silent for a moment.
'You do not hear,' he said after a moment. 'And I hear them. In the corridors. Rats running around the city of Tretogor. Here we have them. Approaching on their soft little paws.'
* * *
They emerged from the darkness of the shadows. Black, masked and fast as rats. The guards and sentries in the antechamber succumbed without a cry to the lightning strikes of their stilettos with narrow angular edges.
Blood ran over the floor of the Palace of Tretogor, on its swept and stain wooden floors, seeping into the rare carpets from Vengerberg.
They came down all corridors, leaving a trail of corpses.
'There,' said one, pointing to a door. His voice was muffled by a scarf that covered his face up to his eyes. 'Through there. Through the office where old Reuven works.'
'There is no escape,' said the one who was in charge, his eyes shone through the velvet masks openings. 'Behind the desk is a blind room, it does not even have a window.'
'All the corridors are covered. All the doors and all the windows. He cannot escape. He is in our trap.'
'Forward!'
The door swung open and weapons gleamed.
'Death! Death to the murderous torturer!'
'Ahem, ahem?' Ori Reuven rolled his myopic and fearful eyes. 'What do you want? How can I, ahem, ahem, help you, gentlemen?'
The murderers went to the door to Dijkstra's private chamber rushing around the room like rats, penetrating every nook and cranny. They flew over the floor, picking at tapestries, painting and panels. With their stilettos they tore the curtains and upholstery.
'He's gone!' shouted one, running from the office. 'He's gone!'
'Where is he?' asked the leader, leaning over Ori and drilling him with a look from behind the holes of his black mask. 'Where is that bloody dog?'
'Not here,' said Ori Reuven, without fear. 'You can see that for yourself.'
'Where is he? Speak up! Where is he?'
'I don't know, ahem, ahem,' Ori coughed. 'Am I my brother's keeper?'
'You will die, old man!'
'I am an old man. I'm sick. And very tired. Ahem, ahem. I do not have any fear of your knifes.'
The murderers left the room at a run. And disappeared as quickly as they appeared.
They did not kill Ori Reuven. They were following orders. And among those orders where nothing concerning Ori Reuven.
Oribasius Giafranco Paolo Reuven, spent six years in various prisons, interrogated repeatedly by successive judges, who questioned him on various topics, which often did not seem to make any sense.
After six years he was released. At that time he was very ill. Scurvy had left him without teeth, anaemia hairless, glaucoma sightless and asthma without breath.
During the interrogation they broke the fingers on both hands.
He lived for less than a year in the wild. He died in a temple hospice. In misery. Forgotten.
The manuscript of his book Shadow People, or the story of His Majesty's Secret Service disappeared without a trace.
* * *
The sky was getting light to the east, the tops of the trees had a pale aura that heralded dawn.
There had been silence around the bonfire for a long time. the pilgrim, the elf and the tracker watched the dying fire and said nothing.
Elskerdeg was again silent. The howling spectre had moved on, tired of howling at them, having finally understood that the three individuals sitting around the fire had seen too many horrors to worry about a single spectre.
'If we are to travel together,' Boreas Mun said suddenly, his eyes still lingering on the embers of the fire, glowing ruby-red, 'we ought to overcome our misgivings. Leave behind everything that happened. the world has changed. We have a new life ahead of us. Something ends, something begins … We hoped …'
He paused and coughed. He was not used to talking about these things and was afraid of ridicule. But his companions were not taking it as a joke or laughing. On the contrary, Boreas felt warmth emanating from them.
'We hoped that beyond Elskerdeg Pass,' he continued, 'that the we will be safer in Zerrikania or Haakland. We expect a long and dangerous journey. If we are going to explore it together … we must overcome our misgivings. My name is Boreas Mun.'
The pilgrim with the brimmed hat stood, straightening his powerful frame, and shook the outstretched hand towards him. The elf also rose. A strange grimace appeared on his macabre disfigured face.
After shaking hands with the tracker, the pilgrim and the elf also shook hands.
'The world has changed,' said the pilgrim. 'Something ends. I'm Sigi Reuven.'
'Something begins,' the elf with the scarred face grimaced in what, according to all indications, was a smile. 'My name is … Wolf Isengrim.'
They shook hands quickly. forcefully, even with abruptness.
For a moment it seemed like a preamble to a battle, more than a gesture of harmony. But only for a moment. The wood in the fire threw up sparks, celebrating the event with lively fireworks.
'The evil take me,' grinned Boreas Mun, 'if it's not the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'
…As well as many of the other faithful, St. Philippa was also besmirched with betraying the Kingdom, inducing riots and plotting a coup. Willemer, a heretic and sectarian, unlawfully appointed himself the title of archpriest, and ordered St. Philippa to be thrown into a dark dungeon, and to plague her with cold and hunger, until she confessed to her sins of which she was accused and repented. Also various instruments of torture were used to try and break her spirit. But ST. Philippa with distain, spit in his face and accused him of sodomy.
The heretic had her disrobed and whipped her with barbed wire and placed sharp splinters under her nails. While unceas
ingly preaching about his faith and denouncing the Goddess. But St. Philippa laughed at him and recommended to him to heal his sick mind.
Willemer then gave the order to have her taken to the rack and stretched, while tearing her body with sharp hooks and burning her with candles. Although thus tormented, St. Philippa showed no weakness in body and indeed her resistance and endurance seemed almost superhuman. The executioner’s arms went limp and with fear they retreated from her. Then the filthy heretic, Willemer, began to threaten them and told them to continue the torment. They burned St. Philippa with red-hot irons, pulled her limbs out of their joints and pulled at her breasts with blacksmith tongs. And although she passed away from this torment, she confessed nothing.
The shameless heretic Willemer, we read in the books of our holy fathers, later suffered for this punishment and it was that lice and worms began to eat him alive, his entrails rotted away and he died miserably. His carcass carried with it a foul stench and nobody wanted to bury him, and so he was dropped in a swamp.
For the suffering and death of St. Philippa the eternal memory of a martyr’s crown rightfully belongs. Let us give the Great Mother Goddess praise for her lessons and teachings. Amen.
The Life of St. Philippa, Martyr of Mons Calvus, from the Book of Martyrs compiled in the Breviary of Tretogor, for the contemplation of the holy fathers and mothers.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
They galloped at breakneck speeds like madmen. They rode through vibrant spring days. The horses were flying, and people who were toiling, straightened their bent necks and backs and could not believe their eyes – did they just see riders or ghosts?
They galloped at night, in the dark, damp nights and through the warm rain. People awoke in bed and looked around terrified, fighting against the pain that grew in them, in their throats and chests. They jumped out of bed at the sound of the pounding of the shutters, the crying of the children and the howls of the dogs. They peered through the windows, not believing their eyes – were these riders or ghosts?
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 06] Page 45
