The Lady of the Lake

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘I understand, Mister Cranmer,’ Jarre took a stance that he considered military. ‘But do not worry about me; I am not a defeatist…’

  ‘You do not understand shit and do not interrupt me, I have not finished. The last one that was hanged, who stinks already, their only crime was the during a talk with an undercover informer, responded saying – “You are correct my friend, it is not.” Now you can tell me you understand.’

  ‘I understand,’ the boy looked around cautiously. ‘I’ll be careful. But… Mister Cranmer… What is really happening?’

  The dwarf also glanced around carefully.

  ‘The truth,’ he replied in a whisper,’ is that the strength of Field Marshal Menno Coehoorn’s Center Army Group is a hundred thousand men. If there was no rebellion in

  Verden, he would be here. The truth is that neither of our combined armies have enough power to stop Coehoorn. At least not before the strategic line of the Pontar.’

  ‘The river is north of us,’ whispered Jarre.

  ‘Well, you wanted to hear the truth. But remember to keep a lock on your mouth.’

  ‘I’ll be careful. And once I enlist? I have to be careful around the soldiers? In case there is a spy among them?’

  ‘In a combat regiment? Near the front line? On no! Spies are too busy far from the front, because they are afraid of ending up there themselves. Also, if every soldier who protested, complained or cursed was hanged, there would be no one to fight this war. But your mouth, Jarre, as in the case of Ciri, keep it closed. Now come with me, I will escort you to the Commission office.’

  ‘Mister Cranmer,’ Jarre looked with hope at the dwarf. ‘Will you speak for me there?’

  ‘You foolish, dandy! This is the Army! If I recommend you and protect you, it is like having “milksop” embroidered on your back in gold thread. No one will leave you alone in your unit, lad.’

  ‘What about you…’ Jarre asked. ‘Does your unit…’

  ‘Do not even think about it.’

  ‘Because there is only room for dwarves, it that it?’ said the boy bitterly. ‘Not for me?’

  ‘Right.’

  Not for you, thought Dennis Cranmer. Not for you, Jarre. I’m too obliged to Mother Nenneke. Therefore I would like you to return from the war. The Mahakam Volunteer Army is composed of dwarves, volunteers from inferior races and foreigners, they will always be sent into the worst places, the most dangerous sections of the battle. There is no return. To the places when humans would not be sent.

  ‘So what can be arranged,’ Jarre frowned, ‘to get into a good unit?’

  ‘And that, according to you is special, for you to seek?’

  Jarre turned, hearing singing, coming on like a wave in the surf, rising as rapidly as an approaching thunder storm. The singing was loud and strong and hard as steel. He had heard such singing before.

  From the street leading away from the caste, in three columns, marched the condottieri regiment. At their head with the standard covered with horses and skulls, was a man with an aquiline nose and hair in a braid that fell onto his armor.

  ‘Adam “Adieu” Pangratt,’ murmured Dennis Cranmer.

  The condottieri’s singing thundered down the street.

  In counterpoint was the ringing of horseshoes on pavement, which filled the street and soared up to the tops of the houses and far up into the blue sky over the city.

  We do not mourn wives or lovers

  When bleeding on the earth

  Because the coin, shines like the sun

  For this we fight…

  ‘Which unit?’ Jarre said, unable to look away from the cavalry. ‘Hopefully one like this! In one that would be worthwhile…’

  ‘Each one has its own anthem,’ the dwarf broke the silence. ‘But ever soldier must pour out his own blood. Either someone will cry for him or not. In war, son, those who sing and march are equal, the formations are equal. And then, in battle, everyone must face their own destiny. Whether in the Free Company with “Adieu” Pangratt or in the infantry or in the camps… In shiny armor with a proud plume or in a lousy fur coat. With a lush stallion or with a battered shield… each must face his destiny. Well, here we are at the Commission

  office, can you see the sign above the entrance? Make your way over there if you are still thinking of being a soldier. Good luck, Jarre. I’ll see you when this is over.’

  The dwarf’s eyes followed the boy until he disappeared through the door to the inn, occupied by the recruitment box.

  ‘Or maybe I will not see you,’ he added quietly. ‘Who knows what is written. What is chosen.’

  ‘Can you ride? Shoot a bow or crossbow?’

  ‘No, Commissioner. But I can control font and calligraphy. I know ancient runes… I know Elder Tongue…’

  ‘Are you skilled with the sword? Using a spear?’

  ‘I’ve read the history of wars. Writings by Marshal Pelligram. And Roderick de Novembre…’

  ‘Can you at least cook?’

  ‘Not well… But I can count…’

  The recruiter rolled his eyes and waved his hand.

  ‘More intellects. How many more will we get? Write him some papers for the PFI. You will serve in the PFI, young man. Take the papers to the south end of town, to the Maribor gate, next to the lake.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘You should have no problems with it. Next!’

  ‘Hey, Jarre! Wait!’

  ‘Melfi?’

  ‘It sure is,’ said the journeyman cooper, staggering and leaning against a wall. ‘Brrr, I’m sick…’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What do I know? Heh, heh! Nothing! We celebrated a bit. We drank to the defeat of the Nilfgaardians. Oh, Jarre, I’m glad to see you. I thought we had lost you somewhere… My friend…’

  Jarre stepped back like someone had slapped him. The cooper not only reeked of dirty beer and brandy, but also onions, garlic and the devil knew what else. It was unbearable.

  ‘Where did they go,’ he asked mockingly, ‘your great comrades?’

  ‘Let the devil take them,’ Melfi grinned. ‘You know why I came, Jarre? Because that Pike was not a good person.’

  ‘Bravo. Good for you.’

  ‘So you see,’ Melfi continued, not noticing Jarre’s taunt. ‘I was not easy to fool. Do you know why he came to Vizima? Do you think he wanted to join the army? You’d be wrong! You would not believe what he is up to.’

  ‘I’d believe it.’

  ‘He needed horses and uniforms,’ Melfi concluded triumphantly. ‘He wanted to steal them here, because he had an idea of going on bandit raids dressed as a soldier.’

  ‘He’ll end up on the gallows.’

  ‘I should say so,’ said the Cooper, leaning against the wall, unbuttoning his pants. ‘I’m sorry for Ograbek and Milton, the stupid straw heads let themselves be deceived by Pike and they’ll end up on the gallows as well. Do you know about yours, Jarre?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Where are you assigned?’ Melfi asked while urinating on the whitewashed wall. ‘I’ve been sent to the Maribor gate. On the south side of town. Where are you going to?’

  ‘Also, there.’

  ‘Ha!’ the Cooper jumped a few times then buttoned his pants. ‘We will fight together?’

  ‘I think not,’ Jarre said with an air of superiority. ‘I have been assigned to the unit according to my qualifications. The FPI.’

  ‘Of course,’ Melfi hiccupped and burped his hideous drunken breath again. ‘You’re a scholar! You would certainly have an important position. But what can you do? Meanwhile we can continue to walk for a time together. After all, we have to go the same way to the south side of the city.’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘I don’t think this is it,’ said Jarre, looking at the tents surrounding a courtyard, where the dust stirred around the feet of a company practicing maneuvers with long sticks on their shoulders. Each
person, the young man realized, had a bundle of hay bound to their right leg and a bundle of straw on their left.

  ‘I think we took a wrong turn, Melfi.’

  ‘Straw! Hay!’ they could hear the roars from the courtyard from a sergeant who was addressing the ragged mob. ‘Straw! Hay! Pick up the pace, or I’ll whore your mother!’

  ‘There is a flag over the tent,’ Melfi said. ‘See for yourself, Jarre. These are the same lilies you told us about on the road. There is a flag? Yes. There is a camp? Yes. This indicates we are in the right place.’

  ‘Maybe for you. But certainly not for me.’

  ‘Look, there is someone over by the fence. Let’s go ask them.’

  Then everything started to happen quickly.

  ‘New recruits?’ yelled the sergeant. ‘Give me your papers! Why the hell are you standing there next to each other! March! Left I said, not right! Trot, trot! Halt, fuck and about-face! Listen and remember! Go to the Master of Supplies! Collect your weapons! Chain shirt, tabard, pike, helmet and dagger! Then back here for drills! Be ready at sunset! Break ranks! Go!’

  ‘Wait,’ Jarre said looking insecure, ‘Because I think I have another assignment…’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘Excuse me, Officer,’ Jarre blushed. ‘I just want to prevent any mistake… The Commissioner clearly… Explicitly talked about an allocation to the PFI, so I…’

  ‘You’re home, boy’ snorted the sergeant, disarmed a bit by being called “officer”. ‘This is your assignment. Welcome to the Poor Fucking Infantry.’

  ‘Why,’ wondered Rocco Hildebrandt, ‘do we still have to pay you, gentlemen soldiers? We have already paid all the taxes on time.’

  ‘Do you hear this shrimp,’ Pike said grinning to his cronies on stolen horses. ‘He said he already paid. And they think that that was everything. It’s like the turkey who was pondering Sunday. But had his head cut off on Saturday!’

  Okultich, Klaproth, Milton and Ograbek broke out in laughter. The joke was after all a front. And the fun was about to start.

  Rocco saw the disgusting, sticky eyes of the ravagers and looked around. On the threshold of the cottage was Incarvilia Hildebrandt, his wife and his two daughters, Aloe and Yasmin.

  Pike and his company looked at the halfling women, smiling lasciviously. Yes, without a doubt, this promised to be great fun.

  From out of a hedge on the other side of the road approached Hildebrandt’s niece, Impatientia Vanderbeck, affectionately known as Impi. She was a truly beautiful girl. The bandit’s smiles became even more disgusting.

  ‘Come,’ Pike urged the halfling. ‘Bring out food for us and the horses and take it to the barn. We do not want to be stuck here after dark. We want to visit the neighboring villages today.’

  ‘Why do we have to pay and give you what is ours?’ Rocco Hildebrandt’s voice trembled slightly, but still remained stubborn and tenacious. ‘You say it is for the army, for our defense. And who will protect us from hunger? We have already paid for the winter quarters and the contribution to the army, and the tax for each person and assessment for our lands, and rates and a tax on wagons and signposts and the devil knows what else! And as if this was not enough, four from our settlement, among them my own son, have been enlisted into the army. A relative of mine, Milo Vanderbeck, known as Rusty, is a field surgeon in the army and an important person. We have fulfilled their obligations. What are we to pay again? And why?’

  Pike continually watched the wife of the halfling, Incarvilia Hildebrandt of Biberveldt. And the plump daughters, Aloe and Yasmin. Also the cute Impi Vanderbeck, who looked like a doll in a green dress. At Sam Hofmeier and his grandfather, and old man Holofernes. The grandmother Petunia, pecking viciously at her garden bed with a hoe. At the other halflings in the village, mainly women and youths, looking anxiously from behind houses and fences.

  ‘You ask why?’ Pike hissed, leading forward in his saddle, looking into the eyes of the frightened halfling. ‘I’ll tell you why. Because you are mangy halfling, a runt, a stranger. You are inhuman and it is the will of the gods that you are beaten and killed. Because I cannot wait to see this rat hole burn and see you and your bitch scurry about. Because we are five humans and you are a handful of cowards. Now do you know why?’

  ‘Now I know,’ Rocco Hildebrandt said slowly. ‘Get away from here, big people. Go far away. We will not give you anything.’

  Pike sat up and reached for the sword hanging on his saddle.

  ‘Strike!’ he shouted. ‘Kill them.’

  With a movement, faster than the eye could follow, Rocco Hildebrandt bent down to his wheelbarrow, took out a crossbow hidden under some mats and shot his attacker with a bolt right into his open mouth. Incarvilia Hildebrandt, born a Biberveldt, whipped her hands through the air and threw a sickle which neatly cut through Milton’s larynx. The country boy a son of a servant began to vomit blood and flipped over the back of his horse, legs waving. Ograbek, emitting a scream, and fell face down under the hooves of his horse, in his belly up to the wooden handle was stuck grandfather Holofernes knife. The burly Klaproth started to club the old man, but flew out of his saddle, squealing terribly, hit straight in the eye with a skewer flung by Impiana Vanderbeck. Okultich wheeled his horse and tried to flee, but grandmother Petunia jumped up and sliced her hoe into his thigh. Okultich roared and fell, his foot still stuck in the stirrup, his frightened horse dragged him through hedges and over sharp sticks. The dragged robber roared and howled and after him raced grandmother Petunia with her hoe and Impiana with a crooked knife for grafting trees. Old man Holofernes blew his nose loudly through his fingers.

  The whole episode – from Pike screaming to grandfather Holofernes blowing his nose – took about as long as it would take to say – “Halflings are extremely fast and agile and can flawless hurl missiles of all kinds.”

  Rocco sat on the steps of the cottage. Beside him sat his wife Incarvilia. Their daughters went to help Sam Hofmeier strip the slain and wounded.

  Impiana came back with her green dress pulled back to the elbows. Grandmother Petunia also came back, she walked slowly, panting and groaning and leaning on her hoe.

  Oh, our grandmother is getting older and aging, Rocco thought.

  ‘Where should we bury the robbers, Mister Rocco?’ asked Sam Hofmeier.

  Rocco Hildebrandt took his wife in his arms and looked at the sky.

  ‘In the birch grove,’ he said,’ along with the ones who have come before them.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The sensational adventures of Mister Malcolm Guthrie of Braemore have achieved great notoriety in the pages of the largest newspapers, even the London “Daily Mail” has dedicate a few lines in the “Bizarre” section. Since we know that only a small number of our subscribers read press releases issued south of Tweed, we will recall the said event. On March 10th this year Mister Malcolm Guthrie went with a fishing rod to Loch Glascarnoch. There Mister Guthrie saw out of the mist and nothingness (sic) from the lake appeared a girl with a scar on her face (sic), riding a black mare (sic), accompanied by a white unicorn (sic). The girl approached the stunned Mister Guthrie and spoke to him in a language that Mister Guthrie described as, and I quote “French, I think, or a dialect of another continent.” However, as Mister Guthrie does not speak French or any other dialect from anther continent, he could not talk to the girl. The girl and the unicorn disappeared, to quote Mister Guthrie again “Like a golden dream.”

  Editor Review: The dream of Mister Guthrie was a golden color like the color of single malt whiskey, which we learned from a reliable source that he used to drink regularly and which fully explains the visions of white unicorns, white mice and monsters from Scottish lakes. But the main question we want to ask Mister Guthrie is - What were you doing with a fishing rod on the shores of Lock Glascarnoch four days after the ban on fishing?

  Inverness Weekly, March 18, 1906

  The wind picked up, clouds rushed from the west and gradually enveloped the constellatio
ns. The Dragon vanished, the Lady Winter and then the Seven Goats. Finally the Eye disappeared, the constellation that shone the brightest.

  The dome of the sky gleamed along the horizon briefly with lightning. It was joined by a dull thunder clap. The storm grew more violent, throwing dust and dry leaves into her eyes.

  The unicorn whinnied and sent another mental signal.

  We must not waste time. Our only hope is a quick getaway. At the right place and the right time. Hurry Star Eyes.

  I am the Lady of the Worlds. I am of the Elder Blood. I am from the blood of Lara Dorren, the daughter of Shiadhal.

  Ihuarraquax whinnied again, urging her to hurry. Kelpie whinnied as well. Ciri pulled on a pair of gloves.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she said.

  A buzz sounded in her ears. A glow. And then darkness.

  The curses of the Fisher King, while he pulled and twisted on a rope on his boat trying to free it from the tangled web at the bottom of the lake, broke the silence of the afternoon. The oars, which were loose, rattled softly. Nimue coughed impatiently and Condwiramurs turned, leaving the window and leaned back over the prints. There was one print that drew the eye more than the other. A girl with ruffled hair, sitting on a prancing horse. Next to her was a white unicorn.

  ‘Perhaps for this part of the legend,’ mused the adept, ‘the historians had no objection and just recognized it as a fictional story or a metaphor. But the artists and painters, took a liking to this episode. Look, here is a picture with Ciri with a unicorn. Here is Ciri with a unicorn on a cliff above the sea, here on a narcotic induced landscape, and here under two moons.’

  Nimue was silent.

  ‘In short,’ Condwiramurs threw the prints onto the table, ‘Ciri and the unicorn from all sides. Ciri and the unicorn in the labyrinth of worlds, Ciri and the unicorn in the abyss of time…’

  ‘Ciri and the unicorn,’ interrupted Nimue, looking out the window at the lake, to the boat with the Fisher King. “Ciri and the unicorn appearing out of nothingness like ghosts and hanging over a lake, a lake that unites time and places like a bridge, all the time different and yet always the same?’