Forest tracks, furrowed by wagon wheels, eased his movement between the settlements. Geralt often happened upon carts, some loaded with forestry products and others unladen, on their way to be loaded up. He also met groups of pedestrian wayfarers; there was an astonishing amount of traffic. Even deep in the forest it was seldom completely deserted. Occasionally, the large rump of a woman on all fours gathering berries or other forest fruits emerged above the ferns like the back of a narwhal from the ocean waves. Sometimes, something with a stiff gait and the posture and expression of a zombie mooned about among the trees, turning out to be an old geezer looking for mushrooms. From time to time, something snapped the brushwood with a frenzied yell—it was children, the offspring of the woodsmen and charcoal burners, armed with bows made of sticks and string. It was astonishing how much damage the children were capable of causing in the forest using such primitive weapons. It was horrifying to think that one day these youngsters would grow up and make use of professional equipment.
Ash Burner settlement—where it was also peaceful, with nothing disturbing the work or threatening the workers—took its name, very originally, from the production of potash, a valued agent in the glassmaking and soap-making industries. Potash, the sorcerers explained to Geralt, was obtained from the ash of the charcoal which was burned in the locality. Geralt had already visited—and planned to visit again that day—the neighbouring charcoal burners’ settlement. The nearest one was called Oak Grove and the way there indeed led beside a huge stand of immense oaks several hundred years old. A murky shadow always lay beneath the oaks, even at noon, even in full sun and under a cloudless sky.
It was there by the oaks, less than a week before, that Geralt had first encountered Constable Torquil and his squad.
When men in green camouflage outfits with longbows on their backs galloped out of the oaks and surrounded him from all sides, Geralt first took them for Foresters, members of the notorious volunteer paramilitary unit, who called themselves the Guardians of the Forest, and whose mission was to hunt non-humans—elves and dryads in particular—and murder them in elaborate ways. It sometimes happened that people travelling through the forests were accused by the Foresters of supporting the non-humans or trading with them. They punished the former and the latter by lynching and it was difficult to prove one’s innocence. The encounter by the oaks thus promised to be extremely violent—so Geralt sighed with relief when the green-coated horsemen turned out to be law enforcers carrying out their duties. Their commander, a swarthy character with a piercing gaze, having introduced himself as a constable in the service of the bailiff of Gors Velen, bluntly and brusquely demanded that Geralt reveal his identity, and when he was given it, demanded to see his witcher’s emblem. The medallion with the snarling wolf was not only considered satisfactory proof, but aroused the evident admiration of the guardian of the law. The esteem, so it seemed, also extended to Geralt himself. The constable dismounted, asked the Witcher to do the same, and invited him for a short conversation.
“I am Frans Torquil.” The constable dropped the pretence of a brusque martinet, revealing himself to be a calm, businesslike man. “You, indeed, are the Witcher Geralt of Rivia. The same Geralt of Rivia who saved a woman and child from death in Ansegis a month ago, by killing a man-eating monster.”
Geralt pursed his lips. He had happily already forgotten about Ansegis, about the monster with the plate and the man of whose death he was guilty. He had fretted over that a long time, had finally managed to convince himself that he’d done as much as he could, that he’d saved the other two, and that the monster wouldn’t kill anyone else. Now it all came back.
Frans Torquil could not have noticed the clouds that passed over the Witcher’s brow following his words. And if he had he wasn’t bothered.
“It would appear, Witcher, that we’re patrolling these thickets for the same reasons,” he continued. “Bad things began to happen in the Tukaj Hills after the spring, very unpleasant events have occurred here. And it’s time to put an end to them. After the slaughter in Arches I advised the sorcerers from Rissberg to hire a witcher. They took it to heart, I see, although they don’t like doing as they’re told.”
The constable took off his hat and brushed needles and seeds from it. His headgear was of identical cut to Dandelion’s, only made of poorer quality felt. And instead of an egret’s feather it was decorated with a pheasant’s tail feather.
“I’ve been guarding law and order in the Hills for a long time,” he continued, looking Geralt in the eyes. “Without wishing to boast, I’ve captured many a villain and bedecked many a tall tree with them. But what’s been going on lately … That requires an additional person; somebody like you. Somebody who is well-versed in spells and knows about monsters, who isn’t scared of a beast or a ghost or a dragon. And so, right well, we shall guard and protect folk together. I for my meagre salary, you for the sorcerers’ purse. I wonder if they pay you well for this work?”
Five hundred Novigradian crowns, transferred in advance to my bank account. Geralt had no intention of revealing that. The sorcerers of Rissberg bought my services and my time for that sum. Fifteen days of my time. And when fifteen days have passed, irrespective of what happens, the same amount will be transferred again. A handsome sum. More than satisfactory.
“Aye, they’re surely paying a good deal.” Frans Torquil quickly realised he wouldn’t be receiving an answer. “They can afford to. And I’ll tell you this: no money here is too much. For this is a hideous matter, Witcher. Hideous, dark and unnatural. The evil that raged here came from Rissberg, I swear. As sure as anything, something’s gone awry in the wizards’ magic. Because that magic of theirs is like a sack of vipers: no matter how tightly it’s tied up, something venomous will always crawl out.”
The constable glanced at Geralt. That glance was enough for him to understand that the Witcher would tell him nothing, no details of his agreement with the sorcerers.
“Did they acquaint you with the details? Did they tell you what happened in Yew Trees, Arches and Rogovizna?”
“More or less.”
“More or less,” Torquil repeated. “Three days after Beltane, the Yew Trees settlement, nine woodcutters killed. Middle of May, a sawyers’ homestead in Arches, twelve killed. Beginning of June, Rogovizna, a colony of charcoal burners. Fifteen victims. That’s the state of affairs, more or less, for today, Witcher. For that’s not the end. I give my word that it’s not the end.”
Yew Trees, Arches, Rogovizna. Three mass crimes. And thus not an accident, not a demon who broke free and fled, whom a bungling goetic practitioner was unable to control. It was premeditated, it has all been planned. Someone has thrice imprisoned a demon in a host and sent it out thrice to murder.
“I’ve seen plenty.” The constable’s jaw muscles worked powerfully. “Plenty of battlefields, plenty of corpses. Robberies, pillages, bandits’ raids, savage family revenge and forays, even one wedding that six corpses were carried out of, including the groom. But slitting tendons to then butcher the lame? Scalping? Biting out throats? Tearing apart someone alive, dragging their guts out of their bellies? And finally building pyramids from the heads of the slaughtered? What are we facing here, I ask? Didn’t the wizards tell you that? Didn’t they explain why they need a witcher?”
What do sorcerers from Rissberg need a witcher for? So much so that he needs to be forced by blackmail to co-operate? For the sorcerers could have coped admirably with any demon or any host themselves, without any great difficulty. Fulmen sphaericus or Sagitta aurea—the first two spells of many that spring to mind—could have been used on an energumen at a distance of a hundred paces and it’s doubtful if it would survive the treatment. But no, the sorcerers prefer a witcher. Why? The answer’s simple: a sorcerer, confrater or comrade has become an energumen. One of their colleagues invokes demons and lets them enter him and runs around killing. He’s already done it three times. But the sorcerers can’t exactly shoot ball lightning at a comrade or
run him through with a golden arrowhead. They need a witcher to deal with a comrade.
There was something Geralt couldn’t and didn’t want to tell Torquil. He couldn’t and didn’t want to tell him what he’d told the sorcerers in Rissberg. And which they had shrugged off. As you would something inconsequential.
“You’re still doing it. You’re still playing at this, as you call it, goetia. You invoke these creatures, summon them from their planes, behind closed doors. With the same tired old story: we’ll control them, master them, force them to be obedient, we’ll set them to work. With the same inevitable justification: we’ll learn their secrets, force them to reveal their mysteries and arcana, and thus we’ll redouble the power of our own magic, we’ll heal and cure, we’ll eliminate illness and natural disasters, we’ll make the world a better place and make people happier. And it inevitably turns out that it’s a lie, that all you care about is power and control.”
Tzara, it was obvious, was spoiling to retaliate, but Pinety held him back.
“Regarding creatures from behind closed doors,” Geralt continued, “creatures we are calling—for convenience—‘demons,’ you certainly know the same as we witchers do. Which we found out a long time ago, which is written about in witcher registers and chronicles. Demons will never, ever reveal any secrets or arcana to you. They will never let themselves be put to work. They let themselves be invoked and brought to our world for just one reason: they want to kill. Because they enjoy it. And you know that. But you allow them in.”
“Perhaps we’ll pass from theory to practice,” said Pinety after a very long silence. “I think something like that has also been written about in witcher registers and chronicles. And it is not moral treatises, but rather practical solutions we expect from you, Witcher.”
“Glad to have met you.” Frans Torquil shook Geralt’s hand. “And now to work, patrolling. To guard, to protect folk. That’s what we’re here for.”
“We are.”
Once in the saddle, the constable leaned over.
“I’ll bet,” he said softly, “that you’re most aware of what I’m about to tell you. But I’ll say it anyway. Beware, Witcher. Be heedful. You don’t want to talk, but I know what I know. The wizards sure as anything hired you to fix what they spoiled themselves, to clear up the mess they made. But if something doesn’t go right, they’ll be looking for a scapegoat. And you have all the makings of one.”
The sky over the forest began to darken. A sudden wind blew up in the branches of the trees. Distant thunder rumbled.
“If it’s not storms, it’s downpours,” said Frans Torquil when they next met. “There’s thunder and rain every other day. And the result is that when you go looking for tracks they’re all washed away by the rain. Convenient, isn’t it? As though it’s been ordered. It too stinks of sorcery—Rissberg sorcery, to be precise. It’s said that wizards can charm the weather. Raise up a magical wind, or enchant a natural one to blow whichever way they want. Chase away clouds, stir up rain or hail, and unleash a storm, too, as if on cue. When it suits them. In order, for example, to cover their tracks. What say you to that, Geralt?”
“Sorcerers, indeed, can do much,” he replied. “They’ve always controlled the weather, from the First Landing, when apparently only Jan Bekker’s spells averted disaster. But to blame mages for all adversities and disasters is probably an exaggeration. You’re talking about natural phenomena, after all, Frans. It’s simply that kind of season. A season of storms.”
He spurred on his mare. The day was already drawing to a close, and he intended to patrol a few more settlements before dusk. First, the nearest colony of charcoal burners, located in a clearing called Rogovizna. Pinety had been with him the first time he was there.
To the Witcher’s amazement, instead of the site of the massacre being a gloomy, godforsaken wilderness, it turned out to be a place of intense work, full of people. The charcoal burners—who called themselves “smokers”—were labouring on the building site of a new kiln used for burning charcoal. The charcoal kiln was a dome of wood, not some random heap by any means, but a meticulously and evenly arranged mound. When Geralt and Pinety arrived at the clearing they found the charcoal burners covering the mound with moss and carefully topping it with soil. Another charcoal kiln, built earlier, was already in operation, meaning it was smoking copiously. The entire clearing was enveloped in eye-stinging smoke and an acrid resinous smell attacked the nostrils.
“How long ago …” the Witcher coughed. “How long ago, did you say, was—?”
“Exactly a month ago.”
“And people are working here as if nothing happened?”
“There’s great demand for charcoal,” explained Pinety. “Charcoal is the only fuel that can achieve a high enough temperature for smelting. The furnaces near Dorian and Gors Velen couldn’t function without it, and smelting is the most important and most promising branch of industry. Because of demand, charcoal burning is a lucrative job, and economics, Witcher, is like nature and abhors a vacuum. The massacred smokers were buried over there, do you see the graves? The sand is still a fresh yellow colour. And new workers replaced them. The charcoal kiln’s smoking, and life goes on.”
They dismounted. The smokers were too busy to pay them any attention. If anyone was showing them interest it was the women and children, a few of whom were running among the shacks.
“Indeed.” Pinety guessed the question before the Witcher could ask it. “There are also children among those under the burial mound. Three. And three women. And nine men and youths. Follow me.”
They walked between cords of seasoning timber.
“Several men were killed on the spot, their heads smashed in,” the sorcerer said. “The rest of them were incapacitated and immobilised, the heel cords of their feet severed with a sharp instrument. Many of them, including all the children, had their arms additionally broken. The captives were then murdered. Their throats were torn apart, they were eviscerated and their chests ripped open. Their backs were flayed and they were scalped. One of the women—”
“Enough.” The Witcher looked at the black patches of blood, still visible on the birch trunks. “That’s enough, Pinety.”
“You ought to know who—what—you’re dealing with.”
“I already do.”
“And so just the final details. Some of the bodies were missing. All the dead were decapitated. And the heads arranged in a pyramid, right here. There were fifteen heads and thirteen bodies. Two bodies disappeared.
“The dwellers of two other settlements, Yew Trees and Arches, were murdered in almost identical fashion,” the sorcerer continued after a short pause. “Nine people were killed in Yew Trees and twelve in Arches. I’ll take you there tomorrow. We still have to drop in at New Tarworks today, it’s not far. You’ll see what the manufacture of pitch and wood tar looks like. The next time you have to rub wood tar onto something you’ll know where it came from.”
“I have a question.”
“Yes?”
“Did you really have to resort to blackmail? Didn’t you believe I’d come to Rissberg of my own free will?”
“Opinions were divided.”
“Whose idea was it to throw me into a dungeon in Kerack, then release me, but still threaten me with the court? Who came up with the idea? It was Coral, wasn’t it?”
Pinety looked at him. For a long time.
“Yes,” he finally admitted. “It was her idea. And her plan. To imprison, release and threaten you. And then finally have the case dismissed. She sorted it out immediately after you left. Your file in Kerack is now as clean as a whistle. Any other questions? No? Let’s ride to New Tarworks then, and have a look at the wood tar. Then I’ll open the teleportal and we’ll return to Rissberg. In the evening, I’d like to pop out for a spot of fly-fishing. The mayflies are swarming, the trout will be feeding … Have you ever angled, Witcher? Does hunting attract you?”
“I hunt when I have an urge for a fish. I always carr
y a line with me.”
Pinety was silent for a long time.
“A line,” he finally uttered in a strange tone. “A line, with a lead weight. With many little hooks. On which you skewer worms?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Nothing. It was a needless question.”
He was heading towards Pinetops, the next charcoal burner settlement, when the forest suddenly fell silent. The jays were dumbstruck, the cries of magpies went silent all of an instant, the drumming of a woodpecker suddenly broke off. The forest had frozen in terror.
Geralt spurred his mare to a gallop.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The charcoal kiln in Pinetops was close to a logging site, as the charcoal burners used woody debris left over after felling. The burning had begun a short time before and foul-smelling, yellowish smoke was streaming from the top of the dome, as though from a volcano’s crater. The smell couldn’t mask the odour of death hanging over the clearing.
Geralt dismounted. And drew his sword.
He saw the first corpse, without head or feet, just beside the charcoal kiln; blood spurting over the soil covering the mound. Not far away lay three more bodies, unrecognisably mutilated. Blood had soaked into the absorbent forest sand, leaving darkening patches.
Two more cadavers—those of a man and a woman—were lying nearer to the centre of the clearing and the campfire encircled by stones. The man’s throat had been torn out so savagely his cervical vertebrae were visible. The upper part of the woman’s body was lying in the embers of the fire, smeared in groats from an upturned cooking pot.
A little further away, by a woodpile, lay a child; a little boy, of perhaps five years old. He had been rent in two. Somebody—or rather something—had seized him by both legs and torn them apart.
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