The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  Milva turned out to be the least tolerant to the mandrake distillate. She marched with visible difficulty, was sweaty, pale and acted like a bear with a sore head, not even responding to the twittering of the little girl with the plaits who was riding in the black’s saddle. Geralt thus made no attempt to strike up a conversation, not being in the best of shape himself.

  The fog and the adventures of the iron wolf sung in loud – though somewhat morning-after – voices meant that they happened upon a small group of peasants suddenly and without warning. The peasants, however, had heard them much earlier and were waiting, standing motionless among the monoliths sunk into the ground, their grey homespun coats camouflaging them perfectly. Zoltan Chivay barely avoided whacking one of them with his staff, having mistaken him for a tombstone.

  ‘Yo-ho-ho!!’ he shouted. ‘Forgive me, good people! I didn’t notice you. A good day to you! Greetings!’

  The dozen peasants murmured an answer to his greeting in an incoherent chorus, grimly scrutinising the company. The peasants were clutching shovels, picks and six-foot pointed stakes.

  ‘Greetings,’ the dwarf repeated. ‘I presume you’re from the camp by the Chotla. Am I right?’

  Rather than answering, one of the peasants pointed out Milva’s horse to the rest of them.

  ‘That black one,’ he said. ‘See it?’

  ‘The black,’ affirmed another and licked his lips. ‘Oh, yes, the black. Should do the job.’

  ‘Eh?’ Zoltan said, noticing their expressions and gestures. ‘Are you referring to our black steed? What about it? It’s a horse, not a giraffe, there’s nothing to be astonished about. What are you up to, my good fellows, in this burial ground?’

  ‘And you?’ the peasant asked, looking askance at the company. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘We’ve bought this land,’ the dwarf said, looking him straight in the eye and hitting a menhir with his staff, ‘and we’re pacing it out, to check we haven’t been swindled on the acreage.’

  ‘And we’re hunting a vampire!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A vampire,’ the oldest peasant repeated emphatically, scratching his forehead beneath a felt cap stiff with grime. ‘He must have his lair somewhere here, curse him. We have sharpened these here aspen stakes, and now we shall find the scoundrel and run him through, so he will never rise again!’

  ‘And we’ve holy water in a pot the priest gave us!’ another peasant called cheerfully, pointing to the vessel. ‘We’ll sprinkle it on the bloodsucker, make things hot for him!’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ Zoltan Chivay said, with a smile. ‘I see it’s a proper hunt; full scale and well organised. A vampire, you say? Well, you’re in luck, good fellows. We have a vampire specialist in our company, a wi . . .’

  He broke off and swore under his breath, because the Witcher had kicked him hard in the ankle.

  ‘Who saw the vampire?’ Geralt asked, hushing his companions with a telling glance. ‘Why do you think you should be looking for him here?’

  The peasants whispered among themselves.

  ‘No one saw him,’ the peasant in the felt cap finally admitted. ‘Or heard him. How can you see him when he flies at night, in the dark? How can you hear him when he flies on bat’s wings, without a sound?’

  ‘We didn’t see the vampire,’ added another, ‘but there are signs of his ghastly practices. Ever since the moon’s been full, the fiend’s murdered one of our number every night. He’s already torn two people apart, ripped them to shreds. A woman and a stripling. Horrors and terrors! The vampire tore the poor wretches to ribbons and drank all their blood! What are we to do? Stand idly by for a third night?’

  ‘But who says the culprit is a vampire, and not some other predator? Whose idea was it to root around in this burial ground?’

  ‘The venerable priest told us to. He’s a learned and pious man, and thanks be to the Gods he arrived in our camp. He said at once that a vampire was plaguing us. As punishment, for we’ve neglected our prayers and church donations. Now he’s reciting prayers and carrying out all kinds of exorcismums in the camp, and ordered us to search for the tomb where the undead fiend sleeps during the day.’

  ‘What, here?’

  ‘And where would a vampire’s grave be, if not in a burial ground? And anyway it’s an elven burial ground and every toddler knows that elves are a rotten, godless race, and every second elf is condemned to damnation after death! Elves are to blame for everything!’

  ‘Elves and barber-surgeons,’ said Zoltan, nodding his head seriously. ‘That’s true. Every child knows that. That camp you were talking about, is it far from here?’

  ‘Why, no . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell them too much, Father,’ said an unshaven peasant with a shaggy fringe, the one who had previously been unfriendly. ‘The devil only knows who they are; they’re a queer-looking band. Come on, let’s get to work. Let them give us the horse and they can go on their way.’

  ‘Right you are,’ the older peasant said. ‘Let’s not dilly-dally, time’s getting on. Hand over the horse. That black one. We need it to search for the vampire. Get that kid off the saddle, lassie.’

  Milva, who had been staring at the sky with a blank expression all along, looked at the peasant and her features hardened dangerously.

  ‘Talking to me, yokel?’

  ‘What do you think? Give us the black, we need it.’

  Milva wiped her sweaty neck and gritted her teeth, and the expression in her tired eyes became truly ferocious.

  ‘What’s this all about, good people?’ the Witcher asked, smiling and trying to defuse the tense situation. ‘Why do you need this horse? The one you are so politely requesting?’

  ‘How else are we going to find the vampire’s grave? Everybody knows you have to ride around a cemetery on a black colt, as it will stop by the vampire’s grave and will not be budged from it. Then you have to dig up the vampire and stab him with an aspen stake. Don’t argue with us, for we’re desperate. It’s a matter of life and death here. We have to have that black horse!’

  ‘Will another colour do?’ Dandelion asked placatingly, holding out Pegasus’s reins to the peasant.

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Pity for you, then,’ Milva said through clenched teeth. ‘Because I’m not giving you my horse.’

  ‘What do you mean you won’t? Didn’t you hear what we said, wench? We have to have it!’

  ‘You might. But I don’t have to give it to you.’

  ‘We can solve this amicably,’ Regis said in a kind voice. ‘If I understand rightly, Miss Milva is reluctant to hand over her horse to a stranger . . .’

  ‘You could say that,’ the archer said, and spat heartily. ‘I cringe at the very thought.’

  ‘Both the wolves have eaten much and the sheep have not been touched,’ the barber-surgeon recited calmly. ‘Let Miss Milva mount the horse herself and carry out the necessary circuit of the necropolis.’

  ‘I’m not going to ride around the graveyard like an idiot!’

  ‘And no one’s asking you to, wench!’ said the one with the shaggy fringe. ‘This requires a bold and strong blade; a maid’s place is in the kitchen, bustling around the stove. A wench may come in handy later, true enough, because a virgin’s tears are very useful against a vampire; for if you sprinkle a vampire with them he burns up like a firebrand. But the tears must be shed by a pure and untouched wench. And you don’t quite look the part, love. So you’re not much use for anything.’

  Milva took a quick step forward and her right fist shot out as fast as lightning. There was a crack and the peasant’s head lurched backwards, which meant his bristly throat and chin created an excellent target. The girl took another step and struck straight ahead with the heel of her open hand, increasing the force of the blow with a twist of her hips and shoulders. The peasant staggered backwards, tripped over his own feet and keeled over, banging the back of his head with an audible thud against the menhir.

  ‘Now
you see what use I am,’ the archer said, in a voice trembling with fury, rubbing her fist. ‘Who’s the blade now, and whose place is in the kitchen? Truly, there’s nothing like a fist-fight, which clears everything up. The bold and strong one is still on his feet, and the pussy and the milksop is lying on the ground. Am I right, yokels?’

  The peasants didn’t hurry to answer, but looked at Milva with their mouths wide open. The one in the felt cap knelt down by the one on the ground and slapped him gently on his cheek. In vain.

  ‘Killed,’ he wailed, raising his head. ‘Dead. How could you, wench? How could you just up and kill a man?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ Milva whispered, lowering her hands and blenching frightfully. And then she did something no one expected.

  She turned away, staggered, rested her forehead against the menhir and vomited violently.

  ‘What’s up with him?’

  ‘Slight concussion,’ the barber-surgeon replied, standing up and fastening his bag. ‘His skull’s in one piece. He’s already regained consciousness. He remembers what happened and he knows his own name. That’s a good sign. Miss Milva’s intense reaction was, fortunately, groundless.’

  The Witcher looked at the archer, who was sitting at the foot of the menhir with her eyes staring into the distance.

  ‘She isn’t a delicate maiden, prone to that sort of emotion,’ he muttered. ‘I’d be more inclined to blame yesterday’s hooch.’

  ‘She’s puked before,’ Zoltan broke in softly. ‘The day before yesterday, at the crack of dawn. While everyone was still asleep. I think it’s because of those mushrooms we scoffed in Turlough. My guts gave me grief for two days.’

  Regis looked at the Witcher from under his greying eyebrows with a strange expression on his face, smiled mysteriously, and wrapped himself in his black, woollen cloak. Geralt went over to Milva and cleared his throat.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Rough. How’s the yokel?’

  ‘He’ll be fine. He’s come round. But Regis won’t let him get up. The peasants are making a cradle and we’ll carry him to the camp between two horses.’

  ‘Take mine.’

  ‘We’re using Pegasus and the chestnut. They’re more docile. Get up, it’s time we hit the road.’

  The enlarged company now resembled a funeral procession and crawled along at a funereal pace.

  ‘What do you think about this vampire of theirs?’ Zoltan Chivay asked the Witcher. ‘Do you believe their story?’

  ‘I didn’t see the victims. I can’t comment.’

  ‘It’s a pack of lies,’ Dandelion declared with conviction. ‘The peasants said the dead had been torn apart. Vampires don’t do that. They bite into an artery and drink the blood, leaving two clear fang marks. The victim quite often survives. I’ve read about it in a respectable book. There were also illustrations showing the marks of vampire bites on virgins’ swanlike necks. Can you confirm that, Geralt?’

  ‘What do you want me to confirm? I didn’t see those illustrations. I’m not very clued up about virgins, either.’

  ‘Don’t scoff. You can’t be a stranger to vampire bite marks. Ever come across a case of a vampire ripping its victim to shreds?’

  ‘No. That never happens.’

  ‘In the case of higher vampires – never, I agree,’ Emiel Regis said softly. ‘From what I know alpors, katakans, moolas, bruxas and nosferats don’t mutilate their victims. On the other hand, fleders and ekimmas are pretty brutal with their victims’ remains.’

  ‘Bravo,’ Geralt said, looking at him in genuine admiration. ‘You didn’t leave out a single class of vampire. Nor did you mention any of the imaginary ones, which only exist in fairy-tales. Impressive knowledge indeed. You must also know that ekimmas and fleders are never encountered in this climate.’

  ‘What happened, then?’ Zoltan snorted, swinging his ashen staff. ‘Who mutilated that woman and that lad in this climate, then? Or did they mutilate themselves in a fit of desperation?’

  ‘The list of creatures that may have been responsible is pretty long. Beginning with a pack of feral dogs, quite a common affliction during times of war. You can’t imagine what dogs like that are capable of. Half the supposed victims of chaotic monsters can actually be chalked up to packs of wild farmyard curs.’

  ‘Does that mean you rule out monsters?’

  ‘Not in the least. It may have been a striga, a harpy, a graveir, a ghoul . . .’

  ‘Not a vampire?’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘The peasants mentioned some priest or other,’ Percival Schuttenbach recalled. ‘Do priests know much about vampires?’

  ‘Some are expert on a range of subjects, to quite an advanced level, and their opinions are worth listening to, as a rule. Sadly, that doesn’t apply to all of them.’

  ‘Particularly the kind that roam around forests with fugitives,’ the dwarf snorted. ‘He’s most probably some kind of hermit, an illiterate anchorite from the wilderness. He dispatched a peasant expedition to your burial ground, Regis. Have you never noticed a single vampire while you were gathering mandrake there? Not even a tiny one? A teeny-weeny one?’

  ‘No, never,’ the barber-surgeon gave a faint smile. ‘But no wonder. A vampire, as you’ve just heard, flies in the dark on bat’s wings, without making a sound. He’s easy to miss.’

  ‘And easy to see one where it isn’t and has never been,’ Geralt confirmed. ‘When I was younger, I wasted my time and energy several times chasing after delusions and superstitions which had been seen and colourfully described by an entire village, including the headman. Once I spent two months living in a castle which was supposedly haunted by a vampire. There was no vampire. But they fed me well.’

  ‘No doubt, however, you have experienced cases when the rumours about vampires were well founded,’ Regis said, not looking at the Witcher. ‘In those cases, I presume, your time and energy were not wasted. Did the monsters die by your sword?’

  ‘It has been known.’

  ‘In any event,’ Zoltan said, ‘the peasants are in luck. I think we’ll wait in that camp for Munro Bruys and the lads, and a rest won’t do you any harm either. Whatever killed the woman and the boy, I don’t fancy its chances when the Witcher turns up in the camp.’

  ‘While we’re at it,’ Geralt said, pursing his lips, ‘I’d rather you didn’t bruit who I am and what my name is. That particularly applies to you, Dandelion.’

  ‘As you wish,’ the dwarf nodded. ‘You must have your reasons. Lucky you’ve forewarned us, because I can see the camp.’

  ‘And I can hear it,’ Milva added, breaking a lengthy silence. ‘They’re making a fearful racket.’

  ‘The sound we can hear,’ Dandelion said, playing the wiseacre, ‘is the everyday symphony of a refugee camp. As usual, scored for several hundred human throats, as well as no fewer bovine, ovine and anserine ones. The solo parts are being performed by women squabbling, children bawling, a cock crowing and, if I’m not mistaken, a donkey, who someone’s poked in the backside with a thistle. The title of the symphony is: A human community fights for survival.’

  ‘The symphony, as usual, can be heard and smelled,’ Regis observed, quivering the nostrils of his noble nose. ‘This community – as it fights for survival – gives off the delicious fragrance of boiled cabbage, a vegetable without which survival would apparently be impossible. The characteristic olfactory accent is also being created by the effects of bodily functions, carried out in random places, most often on the outskirts of the camp. I’ve never understood why the fight for survival manifests itself in a reluctance to dig latrines.’

  ‘To hell with your smart-arsed chatter,’ said Milva in annoyance. ‘Three dozen fancy words when three will do: it stinks of shit and cabbage!’

  ‘Shit and cabbage always go hand in hand,’ Percival Schuttenbach said pithily. ‘One drives the other. It’s perpetuum mobile.’

  No sooner had they set foot in the noisy and foul-smelling camp, among th
e campfires, wagons and shelters, than they became the centre of interest of all the fugitives gathered there, of which there must have been at least two hundred, possibly even more. The interest bore fruit quickly and remarkably; someone suddenly screamed, someone else suddenly bellowed, someone suddenly flung their arms around someone else’s neck, someone began to laugh wildly, and someone else to sob wildly. There was a huge commotion. At first it was difficult to work out what was happening among the cacophony of men, women and children screaming, but finally all was explained. Two of the women from Kernow who had been travelling with them had found, respectively, a husband and a brother, whom they had believed to be dead or to missing without trace in the turmoil of war. The delight and tears seemed to be never-ending.

  ‘Something so banal and melodramatic,’ Dandelion said with conviction, indicating the moving scene, ‘could only happen in real life. If I tried to end one of my ballads like that, I would be ribbed mercilessly.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Zoltan confirmed. ‘Nonetheless, banalities like these gladden the heart, don’t they? One feels more cheerful when fortune gives one something, rather than only taking. Well, we’ve got rid of the womenfolk. We guided them and guided them and finally got them here. Come on, no point hanging around.’

  For a moment, the Witcher felt like suggesting they delay their departure. He was counting on one of the women deciding it would be fitting to express a few words of gratitude and thanks to the dwarf. He abandoned that idea, though, when he saw no sign of it happening. The women, overjoyed at being reunited with their loved ones, had completely forgotten about Geralt and his company.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Zoltan said, looking at him keenly. ‘To be covered in blossom out of gratitude? Or anointed with honey? Let’s clear off; there’s nothing for us here.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right.’

  They didn’t get far. A squeaky little voice stopped them in their tracks. The freckle-faced little girl with the plaits had caught them up. She was out of breath and had a large posy of wild flowers in her hand.