Blood of Elves

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  Boatbug chuckled. Linus Pitt looked at the witcher with eyes filled with the distaste which befitted someone looking at a white-haired man who has drawn the attention of the law on account of his preference for underage girls.

  “That’s why,” Olsen hawked, “the Temerian customs officers thought it might be some private matters being settled, into which the Guards had been drawn. Like… Well, the girl’s family or her betrothed. So the officers cautiously asked who was behind all this. And they found out. Well, apparently it’s a nobleman with a tongue ready as a chancellor’s, neither poor nor miserly, who calls himself… Rience, or something like that. He’s got a red mark on his left cheek as if from a burn. Do you know anyone like that?”

  Geralt got up.

  “Boatbug,” he said. “I’m disembarking in Acorn Bay.”

  “How’s that? And what about the monster?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “Speaking of problems,” interrupted Olsen, “just look starboard, Geralt. Speak of the devil.”

  From behind an island, from the swiftly lifting mist, loomed a lighter. A black burgee dotted with silver lilies fluttered lazily from its mast. The crew consisted of several men wearing the pointed hats of Temerian Guards.

  Geralt quickly reached into his bag and pulled out both letters – the one from Ciri and the one from Yennefer. He swiftly tore them into tiny shreds and threw them into the river. The customs officer watched him in silence.

  “Whatever are you doing, may I ask?”

  “No. Boatbug, take care of my horse.”

  “You want to…” Olsen frowned. “You intend to—”

  “What I intend is my business. Don’t get mixed up in this or there’ll be an incident. They’re sailing under the Temerian flag.”

  “Bugger their flag.” The customs officer moved his cutlass to a more accessible place on his belt and wiped his enamelled gorget, an eagle on a red background, with his sleeve. “If I’m on board carrying out an inspection, then this is Redania. I will not allow—”

  “Olsen,” the witcher interrupted, grabbing him by the sleeve, “don’t interfere, please. The man with a burned face isn’t on the lighter. And I have to know who he is and what he wants. I’ve got to see him face to face.”

  “You’re going to let them put you in the stocks? Don’t be a fool! If this is a private settling of scores, privately commissioned revenge, then as soon as you get past the islet, on the Whirl, you’ll fly overboard with an anchor round your neck. You’ll be face to face all right, but it’ll be with crabs at the bottom of the river!”

  “They’re Temerian Guards, not bandits.”

  “Is that so? Then just look at their mugs! Besides, I’ll know instantly who they really are. You’ll see.”

  The lighter, approaching rapidly, reached the barge. One of the Guards threw the rope over while another attached the boathook to the railing.

  “I be the skipper!” Boatbug blocked the way as three men leaped on deck. “This is a ship belonging to the Malatius and Grock Company! What…”

  One of the men, stocky and bald, pushed him brusquely aside with his arm, thick as the branch of an oak.

  “A certain Gerald, called Gerald of Rivia!” he thundered, measuring the skipper with his eyes. “Is such a one on board?”

  “No.”

  “I am he.” The witcher stepped over the bundles and packages and drew near. “I am Geralt, and called Geralt. What is this about?”

  “I arrest you in the name of the law.” The bald man’s eyes skimmed over the passengers. “Where’s the girl?”

  “I’m alone.”

  “You lie!”

  “Hold it, hold it.” Olsen emerged from behind the witcher’s back and put his hand on his shoulder. “Keep calm, no shouting. You’re too late, Temerians. He has already been arrested and in the name of the law at that. I caught him. For smuggling. I’m taking him to the guardhouse in Oxenfurt according to orders.”

  “What’s that?” The bald man frowned. “And the girl?”

  “There is no girl here, nor has there been.”

  The Guards looked at each other in uncertain silence. Olsen grinned broadly and turned up his black moustache.

  “You know what we’ll do?” he snorted. “Sail with us to Oxenfurt, Temerians. We and you are simple folk, how are we to know the ins and outs of law? The commandant of the Oxenfurt guardhouse is a wise and worldly man, he’ll judge the matter. You know our commandant, don’t you? Because he knows yours, the one from the Bay, very well. You’ll present your case to him… Show him your orders and seals… You do have a warrant with all the necessary seals, don’t you, eh?”

  The bald man just stared grimly at the customs officer.

  “I don’t have the time or the inclination to go to Oxenfurt!” he suddenly bawled. “I’m taking the rogue to our shore and that’s that! Stran, Vitek! Get on with it, search the barge! Find me the girl, quick as a flash!”

  “One minute, slow down.” Olsen was not perturbed by the yelling and drew out his words slowly and distinctly. “You’re on the Redanian side of the Delta, Temerians. You don’t have anything to declare, by any chance, do you? Or any contraband? We’ll have a look presently. We’ll do a search. And if we do find something then you will have to take the trouble to go to Oxenfurt for a while, after all. And we, if we wish to, we can always find something. Boys! Come here!”

  “My daddy,” squeaked Everett all of a sudden, appearing at the bald man’s side as if from nowhere, “is a knight! He’s got an even bigger blade than you!”

  In a flash, the bald man caught the boy by his beaver collar and snatched him up from the deck, knocking his feathered hat off. Wrapping his arm around the boy’s waist he put the cutlass to his throat.

  “Move back!” he roared. “Move back or I’ll slash the brat’s neck!”

  “Evereeeeett!” howled the noblewoman.

  “Curious methods,” said the witcher slowly, “you Temerian Guards use. Indeed, so curious that it makes it hard to believe you’re Guards.”

  “Shut your face!” yelled the bald one, shaking Everett, who was squealing like a piglet. “Stran, Vitek, get him! Fetter him and take him to the lighter! And you, move back! Where’s the girl, I’m asking you? Give her to me or I’ll slaughter this little snot!”

  “Slaughter him then,” drawled Olsen giving a sign to his men and pulling out his cutlass. “Is he mine or something? And when you’ve slaughtered him, we can talk.”

  “Don’t interfere!” Geralt threw his sword on the deck and, with a gesture, held back the customs officers and Boatbug’s sailors. “I’m yours, liar-guard, sir. Let the boy go.”

  “To the lighter!” The bald man retreated to the side of the barge without letting Everett go, and grabbed a rope. “Vitek, tie him up! And all of you, to the stern! If any of you move, the kid dies!”

  “Have you lost your mind, Geralt?” growled Olsen.

  “Don’t interfere!”

  “Evereeeett!”

  The Temerian lighter suddenly rocked and bounced away from the barge. The water exploded with a splash and two long green, coarse paws bristling with spikes like the limbs of a praying mantis, shot out. The paws grabbed the Guard holding the boathook and, in the wink of an eye, dragged him under water. The bald Guard howled savagely, released Everett, and clung onto the ropes which dangled from the lighter’s side. Everett plopped into the already-reddening water. Everybody – those on the barge and those on the lighter – started to scream as if possessed.

  Geralt tore himself away from the two men trying to bind him. He thumped one in the chin then threw him overboard. The other took a swing at the witcher with an iron hook, but faltered and drooped into Olsen’s hands with a cutlass buried to the hilt in his ribs.

  The witcher leaped over the low railing. Before the water – thick with algae – closed in over his head, he heard Linus Pitt, the Lecturer of Natural History at the Academy of Oxenfurt, shout, “What is that? What species?
No such animal exists!”

  He emerged just by the Temerian lighter, miraculously avoiding the fishing spear which one of baldy’s men was jabbing at him. The Guard didn’t have time to strike him again before he splashed into the water with an arrow in his throat. Geralt, catching hold of the dropped spear, rebounded with his legs against the side of the boat, dived into the seething whirlpool and forcefully jabbed at something, hoping it was not Everett.

  “It’s impossible!” he heard the Master Tutor’s cries. “Such an animal can’t exist! At least, it shouldn’t!”

  I agree with that last statement entirely, thought the witcher, jabbing the aeschna’s armour, bristling with its hard bumps. The corpse of the Temerian Guard was bouncing up and down inertly in the sickle-shaped jaws of the monster, trailing blood. The aeschna swung its flat tail violently and dived to the bottom, raising clouds of silt.

  He heard a thin cry. Everett, stirring the water like a little dog, had caught hold of baldy’s legs as he was trying to climb on to the lighter by the ropes hanging down the side. The ropes gave way and both the Guard and the boy disappeared with a gurgle under the surface of the water. Geralt threw himself in their direction and dived. The fact that he almost immediately came across the little boy’s beaver collar was nothing but luck. He tore Everett from the entangled algae, swam out on his back and, kicking with his legs, reached the barge.

  “Here, Geralt! Here!” He heard cries and shouts, each louder than the other: “Give him here!”, “The rope! Catch hold of the rope!”, “Pooooox!”, “The rope! Geraaalt!”, “With the boathook, with the boathook!”, “My booyyyy!”.

  Someone tore the boy from his arms and dragged him upwards. At the same moment, someone else caught Geralt from behind, struck him in the back of the head, covered him over with his bulk and pushed him under the water. Geralt let go of the fishing spear, turned and caught his assailant by the belt. With his other hand he tried to grab him by the hair but in vain. It was baldy.

  Both men emerged, but only for an instant. The Temerian lighter had already moved a little from the barge and both Geralt and baldy, locked in an embrace, were in between them. Baldy caught Geralt by the throat; the witcher dug a thumb in his eye. The Guard yelled, let go and swam away. Geralt could not swim – something was holding him by the leg and dragging him into the depths. Next to him, half a body bounced to the surface like a cork. And then he knew what was holding him; the information Linus Pitt yelled from the barge deck was unnecessary.

  “It’s an anthropod! Order Amphipoda! Group Mandibulatissimae!”

  Geralt violently thrashed his arms in the water, trying to yank his leg from the aeschna’s claws as they pulled him towards the rhythmical snap of its jaws. The Master Tutor was correct once again. The jaws were anything but small.

  “Grab hold of the rope!” yelled Olsen. “The rope, grab it!”

  A fishing spear whistled past the witcher’s ear and plunged with a smack into the monster’s algae-ridden armour as it surfaced. Geralt caught hold of the shaft, pressed down on it, bounced forcefully away, brought his free leg in and kicked the aeschna violently. He tore himself away from the spiked paws, leaving his boot, a fair part of his trousers and a good deal of skin behind. More fishing spears and harpoons whizzed through the air, most of them missing their mark. The aeschna drew in its paws, swished its tail and gracefully dived into the green depths.

  Geralt seized the rope which fell straight onto his face. The boathook, catching him painfully in the side, caught him by the belt. He felt a tug, rode upwards and, taken up by many hands, rolled over the railing and tumbled on deck dripping with water, slime, weeds and blood. The passengers, barge crew and customs officers crowded around him. Leaning over the railings, the dwarf with the fox furs and Olsen were firing their bows. Everett, wet and green with algae, his teeth clattering, sobbed in his mother’s arms explaining to everybody that he hadn’t meant to do it.

  “Geralt!” Boatbug yelled at his ear, “are you dead?”

  “Damn it…” The witcher spat out seaweed. “I’m too old for this sort of thing… Too old…”

  Nearby, the dwarf released his bowstring and Olsen roared joyously.

  “Right in the belly! Ooh-ha-ha! Great shot, my furry friend! Hey, Boratek, give him back his money! He deserves a tax reduction for that shot!”

  “Stop…” wheezed the witcher, attempting in vain to stand up. “Don’t kill them all, damn it! I need one of them alive!”

  “We’ve left one,” the customs officer assured him. “The bald one who was bickering with me. We’ve shot the rest. But baldy is over there, swimming away. I’ll fish him out right away. Give us the boathooks!”

  “Discovery! A great discovery!” shouted Linus Pitt, jumping up and down by the barge side. “An entirely new species unknown to science! Absolutely unique! Oh, I’m so grateful to you, witcher! As of today, this species is going to appear in books as… As Geraltia maxiliosa pitti!”

  “Master Tutor,” Geralt groaned, “if you really want to show me your gratitude, let that damn thing be called Everetia.”

  “Just as beautiful,” consented the scholar. “Oh, what a discovery! What a unique, magnificent specimen! No doubt the only one alive in the Delta—”

  “No,” uttered Boatbug suddenly and grimly. “Not the only one. Look!”

  The carpet of water lilies adhering to the nearby islet trembled and rocked violently. They saw a wave and then an enormous, long body resembling a rotting log, swiftly paddling its many limbs and snapping its jaws. The bald man looked back, howled horrifically and swam away, stirring up the water with his arms and legs.

  “What a specimen, what a specimen,” Pitt quickly noted, thrilled no end. “Prehensile cephalic limbs, four pairs of chelae… Strong tail-fan… Sharp claws…”

  The bald man looked back again and howled even more horribly. And the Everetia maxiliosa pitti extended its prehensile cephalic limbs and swung its tail-fan vigorously. The bald man surged the water in a desperate, hopeless attempt to escape.

  “May the water be light to him,” said Olsen. But he did not remove his hat.

  “My daddy,” rattled Everett with his teeth, “can swim faster than that man!”

  “Take the child away,” growled the witcher.

  The monster spread its claws, snapped its jaws. Linus Pitt grew pale and turned away.

  Baldy shrieked briefly, choked and disappeared below the surface. The water throbbed dark red.

  “Pox.” Geralt sat down heavily on the deck. “I’m too old for this sort of thing… Far, far too old…”

  * * *

  What can be said? Dandilion simply adored the town of Oxenfurt.

  The university grounds were surrounded by a wall and around this wall was another ring – that of the huge, loud, breathless, busy and noisy townlet. The wooden, colourful town of Oxenfurt with its narrow streets and pointed roofs. The town of Oxenfurt which lived off the Academy, off its students, lecturers, scholars, researchers and their guests, who lived off science and knowledge, off what accompanies the process of learning. In the town of Oxenfurt, from the by-products and chippings of theory, practice, business and profit were born.

  The poet rode slowly along a muddy, crowded street, passing workshops, studios, stalls, shops small and large where, thanks to the Academy, tens of thousands of articles and wonderful things were produced and sold which were unattainable in other corners of the world where their production was considered impossible, or pointless. He passed inns, taverns, stands, huts, counters and portable grills from which floated the appetising aromas of elaborate dishes unknown elsewhere in the world, seasoned in ways not known elsewhere, with garnishes and spices neither known of nor used anywhere else. This was Oxenfurt, the colourful, joyful, noisy and sweet-smelling town of miracles into which shrewd people, full of initiative, had turned dry and useless theories drawn little by little from the university. It was also a town of amusements, constant festivities, permanent holidays and incessant rev
elry. Night and day the streets resounded with music, song, and the clinking of chalices and tankards, for it is well known that nothing is such thirsty work as the acquisition of knowledge. Although the chancellor’s orders forbade students and tutors to drink and play before dusk, drinking and playing took place around the clock in Oxenfurt, for it is well known that if there is anything that makes men thirstier than the acquisition of knowledge it is the full or partial prohibition of drinking.

  Dandilion smacked his lips at his bay gelding and rode on, making his way through the crowds roaming the streets. Vendors, stall-holders and travelling charlatans advertised their wares and services loudly, adding to the confusion which reigned all around them.

  “Squid! Roast squid!”

  “Ointment for all spots’n’boils! Only sold here! Reliable, miraculous ointment!”

  “Cats, mouse-catching, magic cats! Just listen, my good people, how they miaow!”

  “Amulets! Elixirs! Philtres, love potions, guaranteed aphrodisiacs! One pinch and even a corpse will regain its vigour! Who’ll buy, who’ll buy?”

  “Teeth extracted! Almost painless! Cheap, very cheap!”

  “What do you mean by cheap?” Dandilion was curious as he bit into a stick-skewered squid as tough as a boot.

  “Two farthings an hour!”

  The poet shuddered and spurred his gelding on. He looked back surreptitiously. Two people who had been following in his tracks since the town hall stopped at the barber-shop pretending to ponder over the price of the barber’s services displayed on a chalkboard. Dandilion did not let himself be deceived. He knew what really interested them.

  He rode on. He passed the enormous building of the bawdy-house The Rosebud, where he knew refined services either unknown or simply unpopular in other corners of the world were offered. For some time his rational mind struggled against his character and that desire to enter for an hour. Reason triumphed. Dandilion sighed and rode on towards the university trying not to look in the direction of the taprooms from which issued the sounds of merriment.