“Not really. No offence, Master Witcher, but you stink to high heaven of it.”
“I haven’t had any contact with blood for—”
“—for about two weeks, I’d say.” The werewolf finished his sentence. “It’s clotted blood, dead blood, you touched someone who was bleeding. There’s also earlier blood, over a month old. Cold blood. Reptile blood. You’ve also bled. Living blood, from a wound.”
“I’m full of admiration.”
“Us werewolves,” said Dussart, standing up proudly, “have a slightly more sensitive sense of smell than you humans.”
“I know,” smiled Geralt. “I know that the werewolf sense of smell is a veritable wonder of nature. Which is why I’ve come to ask you for a favour.”
“Shrews,” said Dussart, sniffing. “Shrews. And voles. Lots of voles. Dung. Lots of dung. Mainly marten. And weasel. Nothing else.”
The Witcher sighed and then spat. He didn’t conceal his disappointment. It was the fourth cave where Dussart hadn’t smelt anything apart from rodents and the predators that hunted them. And an abundance of both the former and latter’s dung.
They moved on to the next opening gaping in the rock wall. Pebbles shifted under their feet and rolled down the scree. It was steep, they proceeded with difficulty and Geralt was beginning to feel weary. Dussart either turned into a wolf or remained in human form depending on the terrain.
“A she-bear,” he said, looking into the next cave and sniffing. “With young. She was there but she’s not any more. There are marmots. Shrews. Bats. Lots of bats. Stoat. Marten. Wolverine. Lots of dung.”
The next cavern.
“A female polecat. She’s on heat. There’s also a wolverine … No, two. A pair of wolverines.
“An underground spring, the water’s slightly sulphurous. Gremlins, a whole flock, probably ten of them. Some sort of amphibians, probably salamanders … Bats …”
An immense eagle flew down from a rocky ledge located somewhere overhead and circled above, crying out repeatedly. The werewolf raised his head and glanced at the mountain peaks. And the dark clouds gliding out from behind them.
“There’s a storm coming. What a summer, when there’s almost not a day without a storm … What shall we do, Master Geralt? Another hole?”
“Another hole.”
In order to reach the next one, they had to pass under a waterfall cascading down from a cliff; not very large, but sufficient to wet them through. The moss-covered rocks were as slippery as soap. Dussart metamorphosed into a wolf to continue. Geralt, after slipping dangerously several times, forced himself onward, cursed and overcame a difficult section on all fours. Lucky Dandelion’s not here, he thought, he’d have turned it into a ballad. The lycanthrope in front in wolfish form with a witcher behind him on all fours. People would have had a ball.
“A large hole, Master Witcher,” said Dussart, sniffing. “Broad and deep. There are mountain trolls there. Five or six hefty trolls. And bats. Loads of bat dung.”
“We’ll go on. To the next one.”
“Trolls … The same trolls as before. The caves are connected.”
“A bear. A cub. It was there, but it’s gone. Not long since.”
“Marmots. Bats. Vampyrodes.”
The werewolf leaped back from the next cave as though he’d been stung.
“A gorgon,” he whispered. “There’s a huge gorgon deep in the cave. It’s sleeping. There’s nothing else apart from it.”
“I’m not surprised,” the Witcher muttered. “Let’s go away. Silently. Because it’s liable to awaken …”
They walked away, looking back anxiously. They approached the next cave, fortunately located away from the gorgon’s lair, slowly, aware that it wouldn’t do any harm to be cautious. It didn’t do any harm, but turned out to be unnecessary. The next few caves didn’t hide anything in their depths other than bats, marmots, mice, voles and shrews. And thick layers of dung.
Geralt was weary and resigned. Dussart clearly was too. But he kept his chin up, you had to grant him that, and didn’t betray any discouragement by word or gesture. But the Witcher didn’t have any illusions. The werewolf had his doubts about the operation’s chances of success. In keeping with what Geralt had once heard and what the old herbalist had confirmed, the steep, eastern cliff of Mount Cremora was riddled with holes, penetrated by countless caves. And indeed, they found countless caves. But Dussart clearly didn’t believe it was possible to sniff out and find the right one, which was an underground passage leading inside the rocky complex of the Citadel.
To make matters worse there was a flash of lightning. And a clap of thunder. It began to rain. Geralt had a good mind to spit, swear coarsely and declare the enterprise over. But he overcame the feeling.
“Let’s go on, Dussart. Next hole.”
“As you wish, Master Geralt.”
And suddenly, quite like in a cheap novel, a turning point in the action occurred by the next opening gaping in the rock.
“Bats,” announced the werewolf, sniffing. “Bats and a … cat.”
“A lynx? A wild cat?”
“A cat,” said Dussart, standing up. “An ordinary domestic cat.”
Otto Dussart looked at the small bottles of elixirs with curiosity and watched the Witcher drinking them. He observed the changes taking place in Geralt’s appearance, and his eyes widened in wonder and fear.
“Don’t make me enter that cave with you,” he said. “No offence, but I’m not going. The fear of what might be there makes my hair stand on end.”
“It never occurred to me to ask you to. Go home, Dussart, to your wife and children. You’ve done me a favour, you’ve done what I asked of you, so I can’t demand any more.”
“I’ll wait,” protested the werewolf. “I’ll wait until you emerge.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be coming out,” said Geralt, adjusting the sword on his back. “Or if I’ll come out at all.”
“Don’t say that. I’ll wait … I’ll wait until dusk.”
The cave bottom was carpeted in a dense coat of bat guano. The bats themselves—pot-bellied flittermice—were hanging in whole clusters on the cave ceiling, wriggling and squeaking drowsily. At first, the ceiling was high above Geralt’s head and he could walk along the level bottom tolerably quickly and comfortably. The comfort soon ended, however—first he had to stoop, then stoop lower and lower, and finally nothing remained but to move along on his hands and knees. And ultimately crawl.
There was a moment when he stopped, determined to turn back, when the cramped conditions represented a grave risk of getting stuck. But he could hear the whoosh of water and feel on his face a current of cold air. Aware of the risk, he forced his way through a crack and sighed in relief as it began to open out. All of a sudden, the corridor turned into a chute down which he slid straight into the channel of an underground stream, gushing out from under a rock and disappearing under another. Somewhere above was a weak light, emanating from the same place as cold gusts of air.
The pool the stream vanished into appeared to be totally under water, and the Witcher wasn’t keen on the idea of swimming through, although he suspected it was a sump. He chose a route upstream, against the fast-flowing current, along a ramp leading upwards. Before emerging from the ramp into a great chamber, he was completely drenched and covered in silt from the lime deposits.
The chamber was huge, covered all over with majestic dripstones, draperies, stalagmites, stalactites and stalagnates. The stream flowed along the bottom in a deeply hollowed out meander. There was also a gentle glow of light and a weak draught. There was a faint odour. The Witcher’s sense of smell couldn’t compete with the werewolf’s, but he also smelled what the werewolf had earlier—the faint odour of cat urine.
He stopped for a moment and looked around. The draught pointed to the exit, an opening like a palace portal flanked by pillars of mighty stalagmites. Right alongside he saw a hollow full of fine sand. That hollow was what smelt of cat. He saw n
umerous feline pawprints in the sand.
He slung his sword—which he’d had to remove in the cramped space of the fissure—across his back. And passed between the stalagmites.
The corridor leading gently upwards had a high ceiling and was dry. There were large rocks on the bottom but it was possible to walk. He set off. Until his way was blocked by a door. Robust and typical of a castle.
Until that moment, he hadn’t been at all certain if he was following the right track, had no certainty that he had entered the right cave. The door seemed to confirm his choice.
There was a small opening in the door just above the threshold which had quite recently been carved out. A passage for the cat. He pushed the door—it didn’t budge. But the Witcher’s amulet quivered slightly. The door was magical, protected by a spell. The weak vibration of the medallion suggested, however, that it wasn’t a powerful spell. He brought his face close to the door.
“Friend.”
The door opened noiselessly on oiled hinges. As he had accurately guessed, it had been equipped with standard weak magical protection and a basic password, as no one—fortunately for him—had felt like installing anything more sophisticated. It was intended to separate the castle from the cave complex and deter any creatures incapable of using even simple magic.
The natural cave ceased beyond the door—which he wedged open with a stone. A corridor carved out of the rock with pickaxes extended before him.
In spite of all the evidence, he still wasn’t certain. Until the moment he saw light in front of him. The flickering light of a brand or a cresset. And a moment later heard some very familiar laughter. Cackling.
“Buueh-hhhrrr-eeeehhh-bueeeeh!”
The light and cackling, it turned out, were coming from a large room, illuminated by a torch stuck into an iron basket. Trunks, boxes and barrels were piled up against the walls. Bue and Bang were sitting at one of the crates, using barrels as seats. They were playing dice. Bang was cackling, clearly having thrown a higher number.
There was a demijohn of moonshine on the crate. And beside it some kind of snack.
A roast human leg.
The Witcher drew his sword.
“Hello, boys.”
Bue and Bang stared at him open-mouthed for some time. Then they roared and leaped to their feet, knocking over the barrels and snatching up their weapons. Bue a scythe, and Bang a broad scimitar. And charged the Witcher.
They took him by surprise, although he hadn’t expected it to be an easy fight. But he hadn’t expected the misshapen giants to move so fast.
Bue swung his scythe low and had it not been for a jump Geralt would have lost both legs. He barely dodged Bang’s blow, the scimitar striking sparks from the rock wall.
The Witcher was able to cope with fast opponents. And large ones too. Fast or slow, large or small, they all had places sensitive to pain.
And they had no idea how fast a witcher could be after drinking his elixirs.
Bue howled, lacerated on the elbow, and Bang, cut on the knee, howled even louder. The Witcher deceived Bue with a swift spin, jumped over the scythe blade and cut him in the ear with the very tip of his blade. Bue roared, shaking his head, swung the scythe and attacked. Geralt arranged his fingers and struck him with the Aard Sign. Assaulted by the spell, Bue flopped onto his backside on the floor and his teeth rang audibly.
Bang took a great swing with the scimitar. Geralt nimbly ducked under the blade, slashing the giant’s other knee in passing, spun around and leaped at Bue, who was struggling to stand up, cutting him across the eyes. Bue managed to pull his head back, however, and was caught on the brow ridge; blood instantly blinded the ogrotroll. Bue yelled and leaped up, attacking Geralt blindly. Geralt dodged away, Bue lurched towards Bang and collided with him. Bang shoved him away and charged the Witcher, roaring furiously, to aim a fierce backhand blow at him. Geralt avoided the blade with a fast feint and a half-turn and cut the ogrotroll twice, on both elbows. Bang howled, but didn’t release the scimitar, and took another swing, slashing broadly and chaotically. Geralt dodged, spinning beyond the blade’s range. His manoeuvre carried him behind Bang’s back and he had to take advantage of a chance like that. He turned his sword around and cut from below, vertically, right between Bang’s buttocks. The ogrotroll seized himself by the backside, howled, squealed, hobbled, bent his knees and pissed himself.
Bue, blinded, swung his scythe. And struck. But not the Witcher, who had spun away in a pirouette. He struck his comrade, who was still holding himself by the buttocks. And hacked his head from his shoulders. Air escaped from the severed windpipe with a loud hiss, blood burst from the artery like lava erupting from a volcano, high, right up to the ceiling.
Bang stood, gushing blood, like a headless statue in a fountain, held up by his huge, flat feet. But he finally tipped over and fell like a log.
Bue wiped the blood from his eyes. He roared like a buffalo when it finally dawned on him what had happened. He stamped his feet and swung his scythe. He whirled around on the spot, looking for the Witcher. He didn’t find him. Because the Witcher was behind him. On being cut in the armpit he dropped the scythe, attacking Geralt with his bare hands, but the blood had blinded him again and he careered into the wall. Geralt was upon him and slashed.
Bue obviously didn’t know an artery had been severed. And that he ought to have died long ago. He roared and spun around on the spot, waving his arms about. Until his knees crumpled beneath him and he dropped down in a pool of blood. Now kneeling, he roared and carried on swinging, but quieter and quieter and more drowsily. In order to end it, Geralt went in close and thrust his sword under Bue’s sternum. That was a mistake.
The ogrotroll groaned and grabbed the blade, cross guard and the Witcher’s hand. His eyes were already misting over, but he didn’t relax his grip. Geralt put a boot against his chest, braced himself and tugged. Bue didn’t let go even though blood was spurting from his hand.
“You stupid whoreson,” drawled Pastor, entering the cavern and aiming at the Witcher with his double-limbed lathe arbalest. “You’ve come here to die. You’re done for, devil’s spawn. Hold him, Bue!”
Geralt tugged. Bue groaned, but didn’t let go. The hunchback grinned and released the trigger. Geralt crouched to evade the heavy bolt and felt the fletching brush against his side before it slammed into the wall. Bue released the sword and—lying on his stomach—caught the Witcher by the legs and held him fast. Pastor croaked in triumph and raised the crossbow.
But didn’t manage to fire.
An enormous wolf hurtled into the cavern like a grey missile. It struck Pastor in the legs from behind in the wolfish style, tearing his cruciate ligaments and popliteal artery. The hunchback yelled and fell over. The bowstring of the released arbalest clanged and Bue rasped. The bolt had struck him right in the ear and entered up to the fletching. And the bolt protruded from his other ear.
Pastor howled. The wolf opened its terrible jaws and seized him by the head. The howling turned into wheezing.
Geralt pushed away the finally dead ogrotroll from his legs.
Dussart, now in human form, stood up over Pastor’s corpse and wiped his lips and chin.
“After forty-two years of being a werewolf,” he said, meeting the Witcher’s gaze, “it was about time I finally bit someone to death.”
“I had to come,” Dussart said, explaining his actions. “I knew, Master Geralt, that I had to warn you.”
“About them?” Geralt wiped his blade and pointed to the lifeless bodies.
“Not only.”
The Witcher entered the room the werewolf was pointing at. And stepped back involuntarily.
The stone floor was black with congealed blood. A black-rimmed hole gaped in the centre of the room. A pile of bodies was heaped up beside it. Naked and mutilated, cut up, quartered, occasionally with the skin flayed off them. It was difficult to estimate how many there were.
The sound of bones being crunched and cracked rose up very audibly
from deep in the hole.
“I wasn’t able to smell it before,” mumbled Dussart, in a voice full of disgust. “I only smelled it when you opened the door down there at the bottom. Let’s flee from here, master. Far from this charnel house.”
“I still have something to sort out here. But you go. I thank you very much for coming to help.”
“Don’t thank me. I owed you a debt. I’m glad I was able to pay it back.”
A spiral staircase led upwards, winding up a cylindrical shaft carved into the rock. It was difficult to estimate precisely, but Geralt roughly calculated that had it been a staircase in a typical tower, he would have climbed to the first—or possibly the second—storey. He had counted sixty-two steps when a door finally barred his way.
Like the one down in the cave, that door also had a passage carved in it for a cat. Unlike the heavy doors in the cave it wasn’t magical and yielded easily after the handle had been pushed down.
The room he entered had no windows and was dimly lit. Beneath the ceiling hung several magical globes, but only one was active. The room stank acridly of chemicals and every possible kind of monstrosity. A quick glance revealed what it contained. Specimen jars, demijohns and flagons on shelves, retorts, glass spheres and tubes, steel instruments and tools—unmistakably a laboratory, in other words.
Large specimen jars were standing in a row on a bookshelf by the entrance. The nearest one was full of human eyeballs, floating in a yellow liquid like mirabelle plums in compote. In another jar, there was a tiny homunculus, no larger than two fists held together. In a third …
A human head was floating in the third jar. Geralt might not have recognised the features, which were distorted by cuts, swelling and discolouration, barely visible through the cloudy liquid and thick glass. But the head was quite bald. Only one sorcerer shaved his head.
Season of Storms Page 27
