Fysh spat over the side. Van Vliet scratched the back of his head.
“It wasn’t what we planned,” he finally mumbled. “A different one mistakenly fell into our hands … A she-fox too, but a different one … And kidnapped by quite another vixen. Mr. Fysh bought her … from some soldiers who tricked the maid out of a she-fox. To begin with we thought it was Xymena, just transformed … But Xymena was seven years old and blonde, and this one’s almost twelve and dark-haired …”
“We took her, even though she was the wrong one,” Fysh forestalled the Witcher. “Why should elven spawn mature into an even worse monster? And in Novigrad we might be able to sell her to a menagerie; after all she’s a curiosity, a savage, a half she-fox, raised in the forest by a vixen … An animal park will surely shower us with coin …”
The Witcher turned his back on him.
“Captain, steer towards the bank!”
“Not so fast,” growled Fysh. “Hold your course, Pudlorak. You don’t give the commands here, Witcher.”
“I appeal to your good sense, Mr. van Vliet.” Geralt ignored him. “The girl should be freed immediately and set down on the bank. Otherwise you’re doomed. The aguara won’t abandon her child. And is already certainly following you. The only way to stop her is to give up the girl.”
“Don’t listen to him,” said Fysh. “Don’t let him frighten you. We’re sailing on the river, on wide, deep water. What can some fox do to us?”
“And we have a witcher to protect us,” added Petru Cobbin derisively. “Armed with invisible swords! The celebrated Geralt of Rivia won’t take fright before any old she-fox!”
“I don’t know, myself,” the glove-maker mumbled, his eyes sweeping from Fysh to Geralt and Pudlorak. “Master Geralt? I’ll be generous with a reward in Novigrad, I’ll repay you handsomely for your exertions … If you’ll only protect us.”
“I’ll protect you by all means. In the only way possible. Captain, to the bank.”
“Don’t you dare!” Fysh blanched. “Not a step towards the afterpeak, or you’ll regret it! Cobbin!”
Petru Cobbin tried to seize Geralt by the collar, but was unable to because Addario Bach—up to that moment calm and taciturn—entered the fray. The dwarf kicked Cobbin vigorously behind the knee. Cobbin lurched forward into a kneeling position. Addario Bach leaped on him, gave him a tremendous punch in the kidney and then on the side of the head. The giant slumped onto the deck.
“So what if he’s a big ’un?” said the dwarf, his gaze sweeping around the others. “He just makes a louder bang when he hits the ground.”
Fysh’s hand was hovering near his knife, but a glance from Addario Bach made him think better of it. Van Vliet stood open-mouthed. Like Captain Pudlorak and the rest of the crew.
Petru Cobbin groaned and peeled his head from the deck.
“Stay where you are,” the dwarf advised him. “I’m neither impressed by your corpulence, nor the tattoo from Sturefors. I’ve done more damage to bigger fellows than you and inmates of harder prisons. So don’t try getting up. Geralt, do what’s necessary.
“If you’re in any doubt,” he turned to the others, “the Witcher and I are saving your lives this very moment. Captain, to the bank. And lower a boat.”
The Witcher descended the companionway, tugged open first one, then another door. And stopped dead. Behind him Addario Bach swore. Fysh also swore. Van Vliet groaned.
The eyes of the skinny girl sprawled limply on a bunk were glazed. She was half-naked, quite bare from the waist downwards, her legs spread obscenely. Her neck was twisted unnaturally. And even more obscenely.
“Mr. Parlaghy …” van Vliet stammered out. “What … What have you done?”
The bald individual sitting over the girl looked up at them. He moved his head as though he couldn’t see them, as though he were searching for the origin of the glove-maker’s voice.
“Mr. Parlaghy!”
“She was screaming …” muttered the man, his double chin wobbling and his breath smelling of alcohol. “She started screaming …”
“Mr. Parlaghy …”
“I meant to quiet her … Only quiet her.”
“But you’ve killed her.” Fysh stated a fact. “You’ve simply killed her!”
Van Vliet held his head in his hands.
“And what now?”
“Now,” the dwarf told him bluntly, “we’re well and truly fucked.”
“There’s no cause for alarm!” Fysh punched the railing hard. “We’re on the river, on the deep water. The banks are far away. Even if—which I doubt—the she-fox is following us, she can’t endanger us on the water.”
“Master Witcher?” Van Vliet timidly raised his eyes. “What say you?”
“The aguara is stalking us,” Geralt repeated patiently. “There is no doubt about that. If anything is doubtful, it’s the expertise of Mr. Fysh, whom I would ask to remain silent in relation to that. Things are as follows, Mr. van Vliet: had we freed the young she-fox and left her on land, the aguara might have let up on us. But what is done, is done. And now only flight can save us. The miracle that the aguara didn’t attack you earlier shows indeed that fortune favours fools. But we may not tempt fate any longer. Hoist all the sails, captain. As many as you have.”
“We can also raise the lower topsail,” Pudlorak said slowly. “The wind’s in our favour—”
“And if …” van Vliet cut him off. “Master Witcher? Will you defend us, sir?”
“I’ll be straight, Mr. van Vliet. Ideally, I’d leave you. Along with Parlaghy, the very thought of whom turns my stomach, and who’s below deck, getting plastered over the corpse of the child he killed—”
“I’d also be inclined to do that,” interjected Addario Bach, looking upwards. “For, to paraphrase the words of Mr. Fysh about non-humans: the more harm happens to idiots, the greater the benefits to the judicious.”
“I’d leave Parlaghy to the mercy of the aguara. But the code forbids me. The witcher code doesn’t permit me to act according to my own wishes. I cannot abandon anyone in peril of death.”
“Witcher nobility!” snorted Fysh. “As though no one had ever heard of your villainy! But I support the idea of a swift escape. Unfurl all the canvas, Pudlorak, sail onto the shipping route and let’s beat it!”
The captain issued his orders and the deckhands set about the rigging. Pudlorak himself headed for the bow, and after a moment of consideration Geralt and the dwarf joined him. Van Vliet, Fysh and Cobbin were quarrelling on the afterdeck.
“Mr. Pudlorak?”
“Yes?”
“Why is the ship so named? And that pretty unusual figurehead? Was it meant to persuade the priests to finance you?”
“The cutter was launched as Melusine.” The captain shrugged. “With a figurehead that suited the name and pleased the eye. Then they were both changed. Some said it was all about sponsorship. Others that the Novigradian priests were constantly accusing van Vliet of heresy and blasphemy, so he wanted to kiss their … Wanted to curry favour with them.”
The Prophet Lebioda’s prow cut through the water.
“Geralt?”
“What, Addario?”
“That she-fox … I mean the aguara … From what I’ve heard she can change shape. She can appear as a woman, but may also assume the form of a fox. Just like a werewolf?”
“Not exactly. Werewolves, werebears, wererats and similar creatures are therianthropes, humans able to shapeshift. The aguara is an antherion. An animal—or rather a creature—able to assume the form of a human.”
“And its powers? I’ve heard incredible stories … The aguara is said to be able to—”
“I hope we’ll get to Novigrad before the aguara shows us what she’s capable of,” the Witcher interrupted.
“And if—”
“It’d be better to avoid the ‘if.’”
The wind sprang up. The sails fluttered.
“The sky’s growing darker,” said Addario Bach, pointing. �
�And I think I detected some distant thunder.”
The dwarf’s hearing served him well. After barely a few moments it thundered again. This time they all heard it.
“A squall’s approaching!” yelled Pudlorak. “On the deep water, it’ll capsize us! We must flee, hide, protect ourselves from the wind! All hands to the sails, boys!”
He shoved the steersman out of the way and took the helm himself.
“Hold on! Hold on, every man!”
The sky over starboard had turned a dark indigo. Suddenly a gale blew in, whipping the trees on the steep riverbank, tossing them around. The crowns of the larger trees swayed, the smaller ones bent over. A cloud of leaves and entire branches, even large boughs, were blown away. Lightning flashed blindingly, and almost at the same moment a piercing crack of thunder reverberated. Another crash followed it almost immediately. And a third.
The next moment, presaged by a growing swooshing noise, the rain came lashing down. They could see nothing beyond the wall of water. The Prophet Lebioda rocked and danced on the waves, rolling and pitching sharply every few seconds. On top of that everything was creaking. It seemed to Geralt that each plank was groaning. Each plank was living its own life and moving, so it seemed, totally independently of the others. He feared that the cutter would simply disintegrate. The Witcher repeated to himself that it was impossible, that the ship had been constructed to sail even rougher waters, and that after all they were on a river, not an ocean. He repeated it to himself, spitting water and tightly clutching the rigging.
It was difficult to tell how long it lasted. Finally, though, the rocking ceased, the wind stopped raging, and the heavy downpour churning up the water eased off, becoming rain, then drizzle. At that moment, they saw that Pudlorak’s manoeuvre had succeeded. The captain had managed to shelter the cutter behind a tall, forested island where the gale didn’t toss them around so much. The raincloud seemed to be moving away, the squall dying down.
Fog rose from the water.
Water was dripping from Pudlorak’s drenched cap and running down his face. In spite of that the captain didn’t remove it. He probably never did.
“Blood and thunder!” he said, wiping the drops from his nose. “Where has it taken us? Is it a distributary? Or an old river bed? The water is almost still …”
“But the current’s still carrying us.” Fysh spat into the water and watched the spittle flow past. He’d lost his straw hat; the gale must have blown it off.
“The current is weak, but it’s carrying us,” he repeated. “We’re in an inlet between some islands. Hold the course, Pudlorak. It must finally take us to the deep water.”
“I reckon the waterway is to the north,” said the captain, stooping over the compass. “So we ought to take the starboard branch. Not the port, but the starboard …”
“Where do you see branches?” asked Fysh. “There’s one river. Hold the course, I say.”
“A moment ago there were two,” Pudlorak insisted. “But maybe I had water in me eyes. Or it was that fog. Very well, let the current carry us. It’s just that—”
“What now?”
“The compass. It’s pointing completely … No, no, it’s all right. I couldn’t see it clearly. Water was dripping onto the glass from my cap. We’re sailing.”
“So, let’s sail.”
The fog was growing denser and thinner by turns, and the wind had completely died down. It had grown very warm.
“The water,” Pudlorak said. “Can you smell it? It has a different kind of smell. Where are we?”
The fog lifted and they saw dense undergrowth on the banks, which were strewn with rotten tree trunks. Instead of the pines, firs and yews covering the islands, there were now bushy river birches and tall cypresses, bulbous at the base. The trunks of the cypresses were entwined around with climbing trumpet vines, whose garish red flowers were the only vibrant feature among the brownish green swampy flora. The water was carpeted in duckweed and was full of water weed, which the Prophet parted with its prow and dragged behind it like a train. The water was cloudy and indeed gave off a hideous, somehow rank odour. Large bubbles rose up from the bottom. Pudlorak was at the helm by himself again.
“There may be shallows,” he said, suddenly becoming anxious. “Hey, there! Leadsman fore!”
They sailed on, borne by the weak current, never leaving the marshy landscape. Or rotten stench. The deckhand at the prow yelled monotonously, calling out the depth.
“Take a look at this, Master Witcher,” said Pudlorak, stooping over the compass and tapping the glass.
“At what?”
“I thought the glass was steamed up … But if the needle hasn’t gone doolally, we’re sailing eastwards. Meaning we’re going back. Where we came from.”
“But that’s impossible. We’re being carried by the current. The river—”
He broke off.
A huge tree, its roots partly exposed, hung over the water. A woman in a long, clinging dress was standing on one of the bare boughs. She was motionless, looking at them.
“The wheel,” said the Witcher softly. “The wheel, captain. Towards that bank. Away from the tree.”
The woman vanished. And a large fox slunk along the bough, dashed away and hid in the thicket. The animal seemed to be black and only the tip of its bushy tail white.
“She’s found us.” Addario Bach had also seen her. “The vixen has found us …”
“Blood and thunder—”
“Be quiet, both of you. Don’t spread panic.”
They glided on. Watched by pelicans from the dead trees on the banks.
INTERLUDE
A hundred and twenty-seven years later
“That’ll be Ivalo, miss, yonder, beyond the hillock,” said the merchant, pointing with his whip. “Half a furlong, no more, you’ll be there in a trice. I head eastwards towards Maribor at the crossroads, so the time has come to part. Farewell, may the gods lead you and watch over you on your way.”
“And over you, good sir,” said Nimue, hopping down from the wagon, taking her bundle and the rest of her things and then curtsying clumsily. “My sincere thanks for the ride on your wagon. Back there in the forest … My sincere thanks …”
She swallowed at the memory of the dark forest, deep into which the highway had led her for the last two days. At the memory of the huge, ghastly trees with their twisted boughs, entwined into a canopy above the deserted road. A road where she’d suddenly found herself all alone. At the memory of the horror that had seized her. And the memory of the desire to turn tail and fly. Home. Abandoning the preposterous thought of journeying into the world alone. And banishing that preposterous thought from her memory.
“My goodness, don’t thank me, it’s a trifle,” laughed the merchant. “Anyone would help a traveller. Farewell!”
“Farewell. I wish you a safe journey.”
She stood for a moment at the crossroads, looking at a stone post, polished to a smooth slipperiness by the wind and rain. It must have stood here for ages, she thought. Who knows, perhaps more than a hundred years? Perhaps this post remembers the Year of the Comet? The army of the northern kings, marching to Brenna, and the battle with Nilfgaard?
As every day, she repeated the route she’d learned by heart. Like a magical formula. Like a spell.
Vyrva, Guado, Sibell, Brugge, Casterfurt, Mortara, Ivalo, Dorian, Anchor, Gors Velen.
The town of Ivalo made itself known from a distance. By its noise and foul smell.
The forest ended at the crossroads. Further on, there was only a bare clearing, bristling with tree stumps, stretching out far away towards the horizon and the first buildings. Smoke was trailing everywhere. Rows of iron vats—retorts for making charcoal—were smoking. There was a smell of resin. The nearer the town, the louder grew the noise: a strange metallic clank, making the ground shudder perceptibly beneath her feet.
Nimue entered the town and gasped in amazement. The source of the noise and the shuddering of the ground was
the most bizarre machine she had ever seen. A huge, bulbous copper cauldron with an enormous wheel, whose revolutions drove a piston shining with grease. The machine hissed, smoked, spluttered boiling water and belched steam, then at a certain moment uttered a whistle, a whistle so horrifying and dreadful that Nimue was dumbfounded. But she quickly overcame her fear, even approaching closer and curiously examining the belts which the gears of the hellish machine used to drive the saws in the mill, cutting trunks at incredible speed. She would have continued watching, but her ears began to hurt from the rumbling and grinding of the saws.
She crossed a bridge; the small river below was murky and stank repugnantly, bearing woodchips, bark and flecks of foam. The town of Ivalo, however, which she had just entered, reeked like one great latrine, a latrine, where, to make matters worse, somebody had insisted on roasting bad meat. Nimue, who’d spent the previous week among meadows and forests, began to choke. The town of Ivalo, which marked the end of another stage on her route, had seemed like a resting place to her. Now she knew she wouldn’t tarry any longer than was absolutely necessary. Nor add Ivalo to her store of pleasant recollections.
As usual she sold a punnet of mushrooms and medicinal roots at the market. It didn’t take long; she was now practised, knowing what there was demand for, and whom she should go to with her wares. She pretended to be half-witted, owing to which she had no problem selling, the stallholders vying with each other to outwit the dull girl. She earned little but didn’t waste time. For speed mattered.
The only source of clean water in the vicinity was a well in a narrow little square, and in order to fill her canteen, Nimue had to wait her turn in a lengthy queue. Acquiring provisions for the next stage of her journey went more smoothly. Enticed by the smell, she also bought several stuffed pasties, which on closer inspection seemed suspicious. She sat down by a dairy to eat them while they were still tolerably fit to be consumed without seriously damaging her health. For it didn’t look as though they would continue in that state for long.
Season of Storms Page 21
