The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘I don’t know you!’

  ‘Because you’re naught but a stripling. Me and Trust Me served together years ago, before Nilfgaard came into power here.’

  ‘Well, if you say so . . .’ The fellow hesitated, letting go of his sword hilt. ‘You’d better come inside. It’s all the same to me . . .’

  Skomlik shoved Ciri and another Trapper grabbed her by the collar. They went inside.

  It was gloomy and stuffy, and smelled of smoke and baking. The inn was almost empty – only one of the tables was occupied, standing in a stream of light coming through a small window with some kind of animal skin stretched across it. A small group of men were sitting at the table. The innkeeper was bustling around in the background by the fireplace, clinking beer mugs.

  ‘Good cheer to you, Nissirs!’ boomed Skomlik.

  ‘We don’t shake hands with any old brigands,’ growled a member of the company sitting by the window, who then spat on the floor. Another stopped him with a gesture.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘They’re mates, don’t you recognise them? That’s Skomlik and his Trappers. Welcome, welcome!’

  Skomlik brightened up and walked towards the table, but stopped on seeing his companions staring at the wooden post holding up the roof timbers. At its base, on a stool, sat a slim, fair-haired youth, strangely erect and stiff. Ciri saw that his unnatural position derived from the fact that his hands were twisted behind him and tied together, and his neck was attached to the post by a leather strap.

  ‘May the pox seize me,’ loudly sighed one of the Trappers, the one holding Ciri by the collar, ‘Just look, Skomlik. It’s Kayleigh!’

  ‘Kayleigh?’ Skomlik tilted his head. ‘Kayleigh the Rat? Can’t be!’

  One of the Nissirs sitting at the table, a fat man with hair shorn in an exotic topknot, gave a throaty laugh.

  ‘Might just be,’ he said, licking a spoon. ‘It is Kayleigh, in all his foulness. It was worth getting up at daybreak. We’re certain to get half a mark of florins of good imperial coin for him.’

  ‘You’ve nabbed Kayleigh. Well, well,’ frowned Skomlik. ‘So that Nilfgaardian peasant was telling the truth—’

  ‘Thirty florins, dammit,’ sighed Remiz. ‘Not a bad sum . . . Is Baron Lutz of Tyffi paying?’

  ‘That’s right,’ confirmed the other Nissir, black-haired and black-moustached. ‘The Honourable Baron Lutz of Tyffi, our lord and benefactor. The Rats robbed his steward on the highway; he was so enraged he offered a bounty. And we, Skomlik, will get it; trust me. Ha, just look, boys, how his nose is out of joint! He doesn’t like it that we nabbed the Rat and not him, even though the prefect ordered the gang to be tracked down!’

  ‘Skomlik the Trapper,’ said the fat man with the topknot, pointing his spoon at Ciri, ‘has also caught something. Do you see, Vercta? Some girl or other.’

  ‘I see,’ said the black-moustached man, flashing his teeth. ‘What’s this, Skomlik? Are you feeling the pinch so much you kidnap children for the ransom? What scruff is this?’

  ‘Mind your own business!’

  ‘Who’s touchy?’ laughed the one with the topknot. ‘We only want to check she’s not your daughter.’

  ‘His daughter?’ laughed Vercta, the one with the black moustache. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. You need balls to sire a daughter.’

  The Nissirs roared with laughter.

  ‘Fuck off, you dolts!’ yelled Skomlik, puffed up. ‘All I’ll tell you is this, Vercta. Before Sunday’s past you might be surprised to hear who people will be talking about. You and your Rat, or me and my prize. And we’ll see who’s the more generous: your baron or the imperial prefect of Amarillo!’

  ‘You can kiss my arse,’ declared Vercta contemptuously, and went back to slurping his soup. ‘You, your prefect, your emperor and the whole of Nilfgaard, trust me. And don’t get crabby. I’m well aware Nilfgaard’s been hunting some girl for a week, so hard you can’t see the road for dust. I know there’s a bounty on her. But I don’t give a monkey’s. I have no intention of serving the Nilfgaardians and I curse them. I serve Baron Lutz now. I answer to him; no one else.’

  ‘Unlike you,’ rasped Skomlik, ‘your baron kisses the Nilfgaardian hand and licks Nilfgaardian boots. Which means you don’t have to. So it’s easy for you to talk.’

  ‘Easy, now,’ said the Nissir in a placatory manner. ‘That wasn’t against you; trust me. It’s fine that you found the wench Nilfgaard’s searching for, and I’m glad you’ll get the reward and not those bloody Nilfgaardians. And you serve the prefect? No one chooses his own master; it’s them that chooses, ain’t it? Come on, sit down with us, we’ll have a drink since we’re all here together.’

  ‘Aye, why not,’ agreed Skomlik. ‘But first give us a bit of twine. I’ll tie the wench to the post next to your Rat, all right?’

  The Nissirs roared with laughter.

  ‘Look at ’im, the terror of the borderland!’ cackled the fat one with the topknot. ‘The armed forces of Nilfgaard! Bind ’er up, Skomlik, bind ’er up good and tight. But use an iron chain, because your important captive is likely to break her bonds and smash your face in before she escapes. She looks so dangerous, I’m trembling!’

  Even Skomlik’s companions snorted with suppressed laughter. The Trapper flushed, twisted his belt, and walked over to the table.

  ‘Just to be sure she won’t make a run for it—’

  ‘Do as you bloody want,’ interrupted Vercta, breaking bread. ‘If you want to talk, sit down and get a round in. And hang the wench up by her feet from the ceiling, if you wish. I couldn’t give a shit. It’s just bloody funny, Skomlik. Perhaps she is an important prisoner to you and your prefect, but to me she’s a skinny, frightened kid. Want to tie her up? She can barely stand, never mind escape; trust me. What are you afraid of?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of,’ said Skomlik, pursing his lips. ‘This is a Nilfgaardian settlement. The settlers didn’t exactly greet us with bread and salt, and they said they’ve already got a stake sharpened for your Rat. And the law’s with them, because the prefect issued an edict that any brigands that are caught should be punished on the spot. If you don’t give them their prisoner, they’re ready to sharpen a stake for you too.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said the fat man with the topknot. ‘They’re only fit to scare birds, the rascals. They’d better not interfere with us, because blood will be spilt.’

  ‘We won’t give them the Rat,’ added Vercta. ‘He’s ours and he’s going to Tyffi. And Baron Lutz will put the whole case to rights with the prefect. Let’s not waste our breath. Sit you down.’

  The Trappers, sliding their sword belts around, were happy to join the Nissirs’ table, yelling at the innkeeper and pointing in unison at Skomlik as their sponsor. Skomlik kicked a stool towards the post, yanked Ciri by the arm and pushed her so hard she fell over, banging her shoulder against the knee of the boy who was tied to the post.

  ‘Sit there,’ he snarled. ‘And don’t you dare move, or I’ll thrash you like a dog.’

  ‘You louse,’ growled the stripling, looking at him through half-closed eyes. ‘You fucking . . .’

  Ciri didn’t know most of the words which erupted from the boy’s angry, scowling mouth, but from the change coming over Skomlik’s face she realised they must have been extremely filthy and offensive. The Trapper blanched with rage, took a swing, hit the boy in the face, then seized him by his long, fair hair and shoved him, banging the back of his head against the post.

  ‘Hey!’ called out Vercta, getting up from the table. ‘What’s going on over there?’

  ‘I’ll knock the mangy Rat’s teeth out!’ roared Skomlik. ‘I’ll tear his legs from his arse!’

  ‘Come here and stop your screeching,’ said the Nissir, sitting down, draining his mug of beer in a single draught and wiping his moustache. ‘You can knock your prisoner around all you like, but hands off ours. And you, Kayleigh, don’t play the hero. Sit still and ponder over the scaffo
ld that Baron Lutz is having built. The list of punishments the hangman’s going to perform on you is already written, trust me, and measures three ells. Half the town’s already placing bets about how far down the list you’ll make it. So save your strength, Rat. I’m going to put a small sum on that you won’t let me down and you’ll hold out at least to castration.’

  Kayleigh spat and turned his head away, as much as the strap around his neck would allow. Skomlik hauled up his belt, threw Ciri a baleful glance, sitting perched on the stool, then joined the company at the table, cursing, since all that remained in the jug of beer the innkeeper had brought them were streaks of froth.

  ‘How did you catch Kayleigh?’ he asked, indicating to the innkeeper that he wanted to extend the order. ‘And alive? Because I can’t believe you knocked off the other Rats.’

  ‘To tell the truth,’ answered Vercta, critically examining what he had just picked from his nose, ‘we were lucky. He was all alone. He’d left the gang and nipped over to New Forge for a night with his girlfriend. The village headman knew we weren’t far away and sent word. We got there before sun-up and collared him in the hay; he didn’t even squeal.’

  ‘And we all had some sport with his wench,’ cackled the fat one with the topknot. ‘If Kayleigh hadn’t satisfied her that night, there was no harm done. We satisfied her so thoroughly in the morning she couldn’t move her arms or legs!’

  ‘Well, I tell you, you’re incompetent fools,’ declared Skomlik loudly and derisively. ‘You fucked away a pretty penny, you thickheads. Instead of wasting time on the wench, you ought to have heated up a branding iron and made the Rat tell you where his gang were spending the night. You could’ve had the lot of ’em. Giselher, Reef and the rest. The Varnhagens of Sarda offered twenty florins for Giselher a year ago. And for that whore, what’s her name . . . Mistle, wasn’t it? The prefect would give even more after what she did to his nephew at Druigh, when the Rats fleeced that convoy.’

  ‘You, Skomlik,’ grimaced Vercta, ‘were either born stupid, or a hard life has driven all the good sense out of your head. There are six of us. Do you expect me to take on the whole gang with six men, or what? And we won’t miss out on the bounty, either. Baron Lutz will warm Kayleigh’s heels in the dungeons. He’ll take his time, trust me. Kayleigh will sing, he’ll betray their hideouts and base, then we’ll go there in force and number, we’ll surround the gang, and pick them out like crayfish from a sack.’

  ‘Yeah, right. They’ll be waiting for you. They’ll find out you’ve got Kayleigh and lie low in their other hideouts and in the rushes. No, Vercta, you have to stare the truth in the face: you fucked up. You traded the reward for a woman. That’s you all over . . . nothing but fucking on your mind.’

  ‘You’re the fucker!’ Vercta jumped up from the table. ‘If you’re in such a hurry, go after the Rats with your heroes yourself! But beware, because taking on the Rats, Your Honourable Nilfgaardian Lackeyship, isn’t the same as catching young wenches!’

  The Nissirs and Trappers began to trade insults with each other. The innkeeper quickly brought them more beer, snatching the empty jug from the hand of the fat one with the topknot, who was aiming it at Skomlik. The beer quickly took the heat out of the quarrel, cooled their throats and calmed their tempers.

  ‘Bring us victuals!’ yelled the fat one to the innkeeper. ‘Scrambled egg and sausage. Beans, bread and cheese!’

  ‘And beer!’

  ‘What are you goggling at, Skomlik? We’re in the money today! We fleeced Kayleigh of his horse, his pouch, his trinkets, his sword, his saddle and sheepskin, and we sold everything to the dwarves!’

  ‘We sold his wench’s red shoes as well. And her beads!’

  ‘Ho, ho, enough to buy a few rounds, indeed! Glad to hear it!’

  ‘Why are you so glad? We’ve got beer money, not you. All you can do is wipe the snot from your prisoner’s nose or pluck lice from her! The size of the purse reflects the class of prisoner, ha, ha!’

  ‘You sons of bitches!’

  ‘Ha, ha, sit down. I was jesting, shut your trap!’

  ‘Let’s drink to settle our differences! The drinks are on us!’

  ‘Where’s that scrambled egg, innkeeper, a plague on you! Quickly!’

  ‘And bring us that beer!’

  Huddled on the stool, Ciri raised her head, meeting Kayleigh’s furious green eyes staring at her from under his tousled fringe of fair hair. A shudder passed through her. Kayleigh’s face, though not unattractive, was evil, very evil. Ciri could see that this boy, although not much older than her, was capable of anything.

  ‘The gods must have sent you to me,’ whispered the Rat, piercing her with his green stare. ‘Just think. I don’t believe in them, but they sent you. Don’t look around, you little fool. You have to help me . . . Listen carefully, scumbag . . .’

  Ciri huddled down even more and lowered her head.

  ‘Listen,’ hissed Kayleigh, indeed flashing his teeth like a rat. ‘In a moment, when the innkeeper passes, you’ll call him . . . Listen to me, by the devil . . .’

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘They’ll beat me . . .’

  Kayleigh’s mouth twisted, and Ciri realised that being beaten by Skomlik was by no means the worst thing she might encounter. Although Skomlik was huge, and Kayleigh thin and bound, she sensed instinctively which of them she ought to fear more.

  ‘If you help me,’ whispered the Rat, ‘I’ll help you. I’m not alone. I’ve got comrades who don’t abandon a friend in need . . . Get it? And when my comrades arrive, when it all kicks off, I can’t stay tied up to this post. Those scoundrels will carve me up . . . Listen carefully, dammit. I’ll tell you what you’re to do . . .’

  Ciri lowered her head even further. Her lips quivered.

  The Trappers and the Nissirs were devouring the scrambled eggs, and smacking their lips like wild boars. The innkeeper stirred something in a cauldron and brought another jug of beer and a loaf of rye bread to the table.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ squeaked Ciri obediently, blanching slightly. The innkeeper stopped, looked at her in a friendly way, and then looked around at the revellers.

  ‘Can I give her some food, sir?’

  ‘Bugger off!’ yelled Skomlik indistinctly, flushing and spitting scrambled eggs. ‘Get away from her, you bloody spit-turner, before I wrench your legs off! None of that! And you sit still, you gadabout, or I’ll—’

  ‘Hey, Skomlik, are you sodding crazy, or what?’ interrupted Vercta, struggling to swallow a slice of bread piled high with onions. ‘Look at him, boys, the skinflint. He stuffs himself on other people’s money, but stints on a young girl. Give her a bowl, innkeeper. I’m paying, and I decide who gets it and who doesn’t. And if anyone doesn’t like it, he may get a smack in his bristly chops.’

  Skomlik flushed even more, but said nothing.

  ‘That’s reminded me,’ added Vercta. ‘We must feed the Rat, so he won’t collapse on the road, or the baron would flay us alive, trust me. The wench can feed him. Hey, innkeeper! Knock up some grub for them! And you, Skomlik, what are you grumbling about? What’s not to your liking?’

  ‘She needs to be watched,’ said the Trapper, nodding at Ciri, ‘because she’s a strange kind of bird. Were she a normal wench, then Nilfgaard wouldn’t be chasing after her, nor the prefect offering a reward . . .’

  ‘We can soon find out if she’s ordinary or not,’ chuckled the fat one with the topknot. ‘We just need to look between her legs! How about it, boys? Shall we take her to the barn for a while?’

  ‘Don’t you dare touch her!’ snapped Skomlik. ‘I won’t allow it!’

  ‘Oh, really? Like we’re going to ask you!’

  ‘I’m putting the bounty and my head on the line, to deliver her there in one piece! The prefect of Amarillo—’

  ‘Fuck your prefect. We’re paying for your drinks and you’re denying us some fun? Hey, Skomlik, don’t be a cheapskate! And you won’t get into trouble, never fear, nor will you miss out
on the reward! You’ll deliver her in one piece. A wench isn’t a fish bladder, it doesn’t pop from being squeezed!’

  The Nissirs burst into loud chuckles. Skomlik’s companions chimed in. Ciri shuddered, went pale and raised her head. Kayleigh smiled mockingly.

  ‘Understand now?’ he hissed from his faintly smiling mouth. ‘When they get drunk, they’ll start on you. They’ll rape you. We’re in the same boat. Do what I told you. If I escape, you will too . . .’

  ‘Grub up!’ called the innkeeper. He didn’t have a Nilfgaardian accent. ‘Come and get it, miss!’

  ‘A knife,’ whispered Ciri, taking the bowl from him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A knife. And fast.’

  ‘If it’s not enough, take more!’ said the innkeeper unnaturally, sneaking a glance at the diners and putting more groats into the bowl. ‘Be off with you.’

  ‘A knife.’

  ‘Be off or I’ll call them . . . I can’t . . . They’ll burn down the inn.’

  ‘A knife.’

  ‘No. I feel sorry for you, missy, but I can’t. I can’t, you have to understand. Go away . . .’

  ‘No one,’ she said, repeating Kayleigh’s words in a trembling voice, ‘will get out of here alive. A knife. And fast. And when it all starts, get out of here.’

  ‘Hold the bowl, you clod!’ yelled the innkeeper, turning to shield Ciri with his body. He was pale and his jaws were chattering slightly. ‘Nearer the frying pan.’

  She felt the cold touch of a kitchen knife, which he was sliding into her belt, covering the handle with her jacket.

  ‘Very good,’ hissed Kayleigh. ‘Sit so that you’re covering me. Put the bowl on my lap. Take the spoon in your left hand and the knife in your right. And cut through the twine. Not there, idiot. Under my elbow, near the post. Be careful, they’re watching.’

  Ciri’s throat went dry. She lowered her head almost to the bowl.

  ‘Feed me and eat yourself.’ The green eyes staring from half-closed lids hypnotised her. ‘And keep cutting. As if you meant it, little one. If I escape, you will too . . .’