‘Remain silent. They are coming back.’
Hooves pounded and someone whistled shrilly. Someone yelled, cried, and issued an order to turn around. Ciri pricked up her ears.
‘Ride away,’ she murmured. ‘They have abandoned the pursuit. And they failed to capture the horses.’
’That's good.’
‘We won’t be able to capture them either. Will you be able to walk?’
‘I won’t need to.’ He smiled, showing her a rather cheap looking bracelet on his wrist. ‘I bought this glittering thing alongside the horse. It’s magical. The mare has carried it from childhood. If I rub it, like now, it's as if I call her. As if she hears my voice. And she comes running here. It will take a while, but she will come. With a bit of luck, your mare will come with her.’
‘And without a bit of luck? You ride off alone?’
‘Falka,’ he said in a grave tone. ‘I would not be able to ride off alone, I need your help. You will need to keep me in the saddle. I’m starting to lose feeling in my toes. I might lose consciousness. Listen up: This gulch leads to a valley with a stream. Ride upstream, to the north. Bring me to a place called Tegamo. We’ll need to find someone there who can pull the iron out of my back, because without that I will die or become paralyzed.’
‘Is that the nearest town?’
‘No. The nearest is Jealousy, about twenty miles downstream along the valley in the opposite direction. But you cannot ride there.’
‘Why?’
‘You absolutely cannot ride there,’ he repeated, grimacing. ‘because it's not about me but about you. Jealousy means death for you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t need to. Trust me.’
‘You told Giselher…’
‘Forget Giselher. If you want to live, forget them all.’
‘Why?’
‘Stay with me. I keep my promises, Snow Queen. I'm going to outfit you with emeralds… cover you with them…’
‘Indeed, a great time for jokes.’
‘It is always time for jokes.’
Hotsporn suddenly embraced her, pressed her shoulder to the ground and began to unbutton her blouse. Without ceremony, but without haste.
Ciri pushed away his hand. ‘Indeed,’ she growled. ‘A great time for that too!’
‘But any time is good. Especially for me, now. I told you, it’s the backbone. Tomorrow's problems can fix themselves… What are you doing? Oh, damn…’
This time she had pushed him away strongly. Too strongly. Hotsporn turned pale, bit his lips, moaned in pain.
‘I'm sorry. But if someone is injured, they must lie still.’
‘The proximity of your body lets me forget the pain.’
‘Stop it, damn it!’
‘Falka… Have pity on a suffering person.’
‘You will suffer if you do not take your hands away. Immediately!’
‘Quiet… The bandits might hear us… Your skin is like satin… stop fighting it, for heaven’s sake.’
Oh, what the hell, Ciri thought. Why do I have to attach importance to it? I'm curious. I’m allowed to be curious. My feelings have nothing to do with it. I will treat him in terms of usefulness and nothing else. And forget about him without fuss.
She gave herself to his touch and the pleasant sensation that it brought with it. She turned her head, but then thought it would appear like excessive modesty and false shame – she would not be thought of as a seduced innocent. She looked him straight in the eyes, but then stopped as it appeared like excessive daring and challenging – another impression she did not want to give. So she simply closed her eyes, threw her arms around his neck and helped him with the buttons, because he was having trouble and wasting time.
The contact of fingers was followed by the contact of lips. She was on the verge of forgetting the whole world, when Hotsporn suddenly stopped moving. For a while she lay patiently, reminding herself that he was wounded and the wound was probably bothering him. But he took too long. His saliva began to dry on her nipples.
‘Hey, Hotsporn? Did you fall asleep?’
Something was running down her chest and side. She touched it with her fingers. Blood.
‘Hotsporn!’ She pushed him away. ‘Hotsporn, are you dead?’
A silly question, she thought. It is obvious. It is obvious that he is dead.
* * *
‘He died with his head on my breast.’ Ciri turned her head to the side. The red embers in the fireplace seemed to reflect on her disfigured cheek. Or perhaps she was blushing. Vysogota was not sure.
‘The only thing I felt back then,’ she added, her face still turned away, ‘was disappointment. Does that shock you?’
‘No. Not anymore.’
‘I understand. I’m trying to tell everything without glossing over anything, without twisting anything, and without hiding anything. Although I sometimes feel like it, especially the latter.’ She sniffed and wiped her eye with her thumb.
‘I've covered him with branches and stones. Somehow, I’m not sure. It was dark and I had to spend the night there. The bandits were still in the area searching. When I heard their cries and I was sure that they were no ordinary bandits. But, I didn’t know who they were chasing – me or him. So I had to sit still. All through the night. Until dawn. Beside the body. Brrr.’
‘At dawn,’ she continued, after a while, ‘no signs of the bandits remained and I could get on the road. I already had a mount. The magic bracelet, which I had taken from Hotsporn, actually worked. The black mare returned. Now she belonged to me. That was my gift. There is such a custom on the Skellig Islands, you know? A girl’s first lover gives her an expensive gift. What did it matter that mine had died before he could be my lover?’
* * *
The mare stamped her front feet on the ground, whinnied, and turned to one side, as if she wanted to be admired. Ciri could not suppress a sigh of admiration when she saw her neck, straight and slim but very muscular, the small, well-shaped forehead, the high withers, and the admirably well-proportioned physique.
Ciri approached the mare cautiously and showed her the bracelet on her wrist. The mare snorted and pricked her ears up, but allowed Ciri to take the bridle and stroke her velvety nose.
‘Kelpie’ said Ciri. ‘You're as black and smart as a Kelpie from the sea. You are magical like a Kelpie. So you shall be called Kelpie. And I couldn't care less whether it is over the top or not.’
The mare snorted, pricked her ears up, and flicked her silky tail, which reached to her ankles. Ciri, who was used to riding in a high saddle, shortened the stirrup straps and stroked the unusually shallow, wooden framed saddle with no saddle horn. She put a boot in the stirrup, and grasped the horse by the mane. ‘Calm down, Kelpie.’
Contrary to appearances, the saddle was quite comfortable. And for obvious reasons, much lighter than the usual cavalry saddles.
‘Now,’ said Ciri as she patted the mare's warm neck, ‘we'll see if you're fiery as well. Whether you're a real thoroughbred or just a mix-breed. What do you think of a gallop of twenty miles, Kelpie?’
* * *
If someone managed to sneak through the night and find the deeply hidden hut with a moss thatched roof amidst the swamps, and if they peeked through the cracks in the shutters, they would have seen a gray-bearded old man listening to the story of a teenage girl with green eyes and ash-blond hair.
They would have seen that the remains of the embers in the hearth were bright and lively, as if in anticipation of what was to be told.
But that was not possible. No one could see that. The cabin of old Vysogota was well hidden in the reeds of the marsh. In an eternally shrouded fog desert that no one dared enter.
* * *
‘The valley with the stream was even and well suited for riding, so Kelpie ran like a whirlwind. Of course, I did not ride upstream, but downstream. I had remembered the curious name: Jealousy. I recalled what Hotsporn said to Giselher in the station. I knew why
he had warned me about the town. An ambush was waited for the Rats in Jealousy. As soon as Giselher had dismissed the offer of amnesty and work for the guild, Hotsporn had specifically reminded him of the bounty hunter who had taken up quarters in the town. He knew that the Rats would swallow the bait. That they would ride to the town and to calamity. I had to get to the vicinity of Jealousy, intercept them, and warn them. Convince them to turn around. Save them all. Or at least Mistle.’
‘I can imagine,’ muttered Vysogota, ‘that you did not succeed.’
‘At the time,’ she said flatly, ‘I thought a couple of divisions, armed to the teeth, waited in Jealousy. I didn't even dream that the ambush might be a single man…’
She paused, gazing into the darkness.
‘I had no idea what kind of man that was.’
* * *
Birka was once a prosperous village. It had a charming and extremely picturesque location – its yellow straw and red-tiled rooftops crowded close together in the middle of a valley with steep, wooded slopes, which changed their colour depending on the season. Especially in autumn, the sight of Birka pleased the aesthetic eye or sensitive heart.
So it was up to the time when the settlement changed its name. It happened like this:
A young elven farmer from the nearby colony of elves fell madly in love with the daughter of the miller of Birka. The easygoing miller's daughter laughed at the advances of the elf, but spread her charms with neighbours, acquaintances and even a relative. So the people began to mock the Elf and his blind love. The elf broke – quite atypical for an elf – and unleashed his anger and vengeance in a horrible way. One night, when there was a favourably strong wind, he lit a fire and burned Birka to the ground.
Burned out and ruined, the villagers lost their courage. Some wandered the world; others fell into sloth and booze. The money collected for the reconstruction was embezzled and drank away. The town now offered an image of poverty and misery: it was a collection of ugly and haphazardly cobbled together shacks under the bare and blackened valley slope. Before the fire, Birka had an oval shape with a small square in the middle. Now, the few reasonably well reconstructed homes, stores and distilleries formed something like a long street. At the end of the street they worked together to build the inn, ‘The Chimera's Head’, whose landlady was a widow of the blaze.
And for seven years, no one had used the name of Birka. Instead they called it Flame, or Zeal, or simply Jealousy.
The Rats rode along the street of Jealousy. It was a cold, overcast, gloomy morning.
The people rushed into their houses and hid themselves in shacks and mud huts. Everyone who had shutters slammed them shut with a bang. Everyone who had a door locked and barricaded it. Everyone who still had liquor drank to give them courage. The Rats were riding at a walk, ostentatiously slow, stirrup to stirrup. Their faces were painted with indifference and contempt, but their squinting eyes vigilantly watched every window, porch and corner.
‘A single crossbow bolt!’ Giselher warned loudly, so that all could hear him. ‘A single twang of a tendon, and there will be a massacre!’
‘And once again your town will meet flames!’ added Spark in a full, high soprano. ‘There will be nothing left but earth and water!’
Certainly some of the people had crossbows, but no one was willing test whether the Rats were talking in the wind or not.
The Rats dismounted. They crossed the fifty or sixty steps that separated them from The Chimera's Head on foot, side by side, with a rhythmic ringing and jingling of spurs, jewellery and clothing ornaments.
Three locals, who had been soothing their hangovers with beer on the porch of the inn, disappeared at the sight of them.
‘If he's in there’, muttered Kayleigh. ‘We shouldn't have waited. We shouldn't have rested, but should have broken in at night and…’
‘You're stupid.’ Spark bared her little teeth. ‘If we want the bards to sing songs about it, we can’t do it at night and in the dark. The people must see it! The morning is best, because everyone is still sober, isn't that right, Giselher?’
Giselher did not answer. He picked up a rock, took aim and sent it crashing against the door. ‘Come out, Bonhart!’
‘Come out, Bonhart!’ The Rats repeated in chorus. ‘Come out, Bonhart!’
Steps echoed from inside. Slow and heavy. Mistle felt a chill run down her spine.
Bonhart appeared at the door.
The Rats instinctively took a step back, dug the high heels of their boots into the ground, and moved their hands to their hilts. The bounty hunter had his sword tucked under his arm, so he had his hands free – in one he was holding a peeled egg, in the other a crust of bread.
He moved to the railing slowly, looking down on them from above. He stood on the porch, and he was huge. Gigantic, though thin as a ghoul.
He stared at them, his watery eyes wandering over each of them one by one. He bit a piece of the egg, followed by a piece of the bread.
‘And where is Falka?’ He said vaguely. A crumb of yolk fell out of his mouth.
* * *
‘Run, Kelpie! Run, Beautiful! Run as fast as you can!’
The black mare whinnied loudly and bent her head forward at a breakneck gallop. Even though gravel went flying out from under them, her hooves barely seemed to touch the ground.
* * *
Bonhart stretched lazily, his leather jerkin creaking, then slowly tightened his moose-leather gloves and adjusted them carefully. ‘Well, what is it?’ He grimaced. ‘You want to kill me, yes? Why?’
‘Yes, for Toadstool,’ said Kayleigh.
‘And for fun’, added Spark.
‘And so we have peace,’ put in Reef.
‘Aah,’ said Bonhart slowly. ‘And so it goes! And if I promise to give you peace, will you let me go on my way?’
‘No, you gray dog, we will not.’ Mistle smiled charmingly. ‘We know you. We know that you do give anything to anyone and that you will creep after us and wait for an opportunity to stick a knife in our backs. Come out!’
‘Gently, gently.’ Bonhart smiled, pulling his mouth as wide as the menacing gray moustache above it. ‘There is always time to dance, don’t get excited. First, I'll make you an offer, Rats. I'll leave the choice to you, and then you can do whatever you want.’
‘What are you mumbling there, old geezer?’ Kayleigh cried and tensed slightly. ‘Speak more clearly!’
Bonhart nodded and scratched his leg. ‘There is a bounty on you, Rats. A considerable bounty. And yes, I must make a living.’
Spark hissed like a wildcat and glared at him with wildcat eyes.
Bonhart folded his arms across his chest and moved the sword into his armpit. ‘A considerable bounty,’ he repeated, ‘if you are dead and a little more if you are alive. Frankly, it is all the same to me. I have nothing against you personally. Just yesterday I was thinking that I would like to kill you for fun and entertainment, but you came here yourselves and saved me trouble, and that touches my heart. So I leave you the choice. How do you prefer I take you – alive or dead?’
Kayleigh clenched his jaw and Mistle leaned forward, ready to pounce.
Giselher grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘He wants to make us angry,’ he whispered. ‘Let the bastard talk.’
Bonhart snorted. ‘Well?’ He repeated. ‘Alive or dead? I suggest the former. Because as you know: It is much, much less painful.’
On cue, the Rats drew their weapons. Giselher swung his blade and froze in fencing posture. Mistle spat. ‘Come here, you skeleton’ she said with apparent calm. ‘Come on, you bastard. We'll stab you like an old mutt.’
‘Thus you have chosen death.’ Bonhart stared at something far away, over the rooftops, then slowly drew his sword and threw away the scabbard. He came down from the porch without haste, his spurs jingling.
The Rats quickly spread across the width of the road. Kayleigh went furthest to the left, almost to the wall of a distillery. Next to him was Spark, her thin lips curled
into her usual, terrible smile. Mistle, Asse and Reef went to the right. Giselher remained in the centre and scrutinized the bounty hunter with squinted eyes.
‘Very well, Rats.’ Bonhart looked around the street, looked up to the sky, raised his sword and spit on the edge. ‘If we going to dance, let’s dance. Play music!’
They jumped at one other like wolves, lightning-fast, silently and without warning. Blades whizzed through the air and the small street echoed with the mournful clang of steel. At first, all you could hear was swords clashing, sighs, moans, and heavy breathing.
And then, suddenly and unexpectedly, the Rats began to scream. And to die.
Reef was the first thrown out of the fray, he bounced back against a wall and his blood splattered the dirty white mortar. Then Asse broke off from the group with tottering steps, doubled over and fell on his side, writhing and clutching his knee.
Bonhart spun and leapt like a top, surrounded by the flashing and whistling of blades. The Rats backed away from him, sprang forward, struck again, and backed away again, angry, stubborn, merciless. And unsuccessful. Bonhart parried, struck, parried, struck, attacked, attacked relentlessly, leaving no breathing space, setting the tempo. The Rats could only fall back. And die.
Spark, taken in the neck, fell in the mud and curled up like a kitten, blood spurting from her aorta to her calves and knees. The bounty hunter beat back Mistle's and Giselher's wide, sweeping attacks, then he spun around and, with a lightning-quick strike from his sword tip, slit Kayleigh open – from collarbone to hip. Kayleigh dropped his sword, but did not notice – he just crouched and grabbed his chest and abdomen with both hands, blood gushing from under his palms. Bonhart dodged Giselher's blow with another spin, parried Mistle's attack and dealt another blow to Kayleigh, which turned one side of his head into scarlet pulp. The light-haired rat fell apart and left a puddle of blood mixing with the dirt road.
Mistle and Giselher hesitated for a moment. Instead of fleeing, they shouted with one voice, wildly and furiously, and pounced on Bonhart.
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05] Page 7
