The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Thank you,’ she squeaked, ‘for looking after me and my little brother and my mummy. For being kind to us and all that. I picked these flowers for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Zoltan Chivay said.

  ‘You’re kind,’ the little girl added, sticking the end of her plait into her mouth. ‘I don’t believe what auntie said at all. You aren’t filthy little burrowing midgets. And you aren’t a grey-haired misfit from hell. And you, Uncle Dandelion, aren’t a gobbling turkey. Auntie wasn’t telling the truth. And you, Auntie Maria, aren’t a slapper with a bow and arrow. You’re Auntie Maria and I like you. I picked the prettiest flowers for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Milva said in a slightly altered voice.

  ‘We all thank you,’ Zoltan echoed. ‘Hey, Percival, you filthy little burrowing midget, give the child some token as a farewell present. A souvenir. Have you got a spare stone in one of your pockets?’

  ‘I have. Take this, little miss. It’s beryllium aluminium cyclosilicate, popularly known as . . .’

  ‘An emerald,’ the dwarf finished off the sentence. ‘Don’t confuse the child, she won’t remember anyway.’

  ‘Oh, how pretty! And how green! Thank you very, very much!’

  ‘Enjoy it and may it bring you fortune.’

  ‘And don’t lose it,’ Dandelion muttered. ‘Because that little pebble’s worth as much as a small farm.’

  ‘Get away,’ Zoltan said, adorning his cap with the cornflowers the girl had given him. ‘It’s only a stone, nothing special. Take care of yourself, little miss. Let’s go and sit down by the ford to wait for Bruys, Yazon Varda and the others. They ought to stroll by any time now. Strange they haven’t shown up yet. I forgot to get the bloody cards off ’em. I bet they’re sitting somewhere and playing Barrel!’

  ‘The horses need feeding,’ Milva said. ‘And watering. Let’s go towards the river.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll happen upon some home-cooked fare,’ Dandelion added. ‘Percival, take a gander around the camp and put your hooter to use. We’ll eat where the food is tastiest.’

  To their slight amazement, the way down to the river was fenced off and under guard. The peasants guarding the watering place were demanding a farthing per horse. Milva and Zoltan were incandescent, but Geralt, hoping to avoid a scene and the publicity it would lead to, calmed them down, while Dandelion contributed a few coins he dug from the depths of his pocket.

  Soon after Percival Schuttenbach showed up, dour and cross.

  ‘Found any grub?’

  The gnome cleared his nose and wiped his fingers on the fleece of a passing sheep.

  ‘Yes. But I don’t know if we can afford it. They expect to be paid for everything here and the prices will take your breath away. Flour and barley groats are a crown a pound. A plate of thin soup’s two nobles. A pot of weatherfish caught in the Chotla costs the same as a pound of smoked salmon in Dillingen . . .’

  ‘And fodder for the horses?’

  ‘A measure of oats costs a thaler.’

  ‘How much?’ the dwarf yelled. ‘How much?’

  ‘How much, how much,’ Milva snapped. ‘Ask the horses how much. They’ll peg it if we make them nibble grass! And there isn’t any here anyway.’

  There was no way of debating self-evident facts. Attempts at hard bargaining with the peasant selling oats didn’t achieve anything either. He relieved Dandelion of the last of his coins, and was also treated to a few insults from Zoltan, which didn’t bother him in the slightest. But the horses enthusiastically stuck their muzzles into the nosebags.

  ‘Daylight bloody robbery!’ the dwarf yelled, unloading his anger by aiming blows of his staff at the wheels of passing wagons. ‘Incredible that they let us breathe here for nothing, and don’t charge a ha’penny for each inhalation! Or a farthing for a dump!’

  ‘Higher physiological needs,’ Regis declared in utter seriousness, ‘have a price. Do you see the tarpaulin stretched between those sticks? And the peasant standing alongside? He’s peddling the charms of his own daughter. Price open to negotiation. A moment ago I saw him accepting a chicken.’

  ‘I predict a bad end for your race, humans,’ Zoltan Chivay said grimly. ‘Every sentient creature on this earth, when it falls into want, poverty and misfortune, usually cleaves to his own. Because it’s easier to survive the bad times in a group, helping one another. But you, humans, you just wait for a chance to make money from other people’s mishaps. When there’s hunger you don’t share out your food, you just devour the weakest ones. This practice works among wolves, since it lets the healthiest and strongest individuals survive. But among sentient races selection of that kind usually allows the biggest bastards to survive and dominate the rest. Come to your own conclusions and make your own predictions.’

  Dandelion forcefully protested, giving examples of even greater scams and self-seeking among the dwarves, but Zoltan and Percival drowned him out, simultaneously and loudly imitating with their lips the long-drawn-out sounds which accompany farting, by both races considered an expression of disdain for one’s adversary’s arguments in a dispute.

  The sudden appearance of a small group of peasants led by their friend the vampire hunter, the old chap in the felt cap, brought an end to the quarrel.

  ‘It’s about Cloggy,’ one of the peasants said.

  ‘We aren’t buying anything,’ the dwarf and the gnome snapped in unison.

  ‘The one whose head you split open,’ another peasant quickly explained. ‘We were planning to get him married off.’

  ‘We’ve got nothing against that,’ Zoltan said angrily. ‘We wish him and his new bride all the best. Good health, happiness and prosperity.’

  ‘And lots of little Cloggies,’ Dandelion added.

  ‘Just a moment,’ the peasant said. ‘You may laugh, but how are we to get him hitched? For ever since you whacked him in the head he’s been totally dazed, and can’t tell day from night.’

  ‘It isn’t that bad,’ Milva grunted, eyes fixed on the ground. ‘He seems to be doing better. That is, much better than he was early this morning.’

  ‘I’ve got no idea how Cloggy was early this morning,’ the peasant retorted. ‘But I just saw him standing in front of an upright thill saying what a beauty she was. But never mind. I’ll say it briefly: pay up the blood money.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When a knight kills a peasant he must pay blood money. So says the law.’

  ‘I’m not a knight!’ Milva yelled.

  ‘That’s one thing,’ Dandelion said in her defence. ‘And for another, it was an accident. And for a third, Cloggy’s alive, so blood money’s out of the question. The most you can expect is compensation, namely redress. But for a fourth, we’re penniless.’

  ‘So hand over your horses.’

  ‘Hey,’ Milva said, her eyes narrowing malevolently. ‘You must be out of your mind, yokel. Mind you don’t go too far.’

  ‘Motherrfuccckkerr!’ Field Marshal Windbag squawked.

  ‘Ah, the bird’s hit the nail on the head,’ Zoltan Chivay drawled, tapping his axe, which was stuck into his belt. ‘You ought to know, tillers of the soil, that I also don’t have the best opinion about the mothers of individuals who think of nothing but profit, even if they plan to make money out of their mate’s cracked skull. Be off with you, people. If you go away forthwith, I promise I won’t come after you.’

  ‘If you don’t want to pay, let the authorities arbitrate.’

  The dwarf ground his teeth and was just reaching for his battle-axe when Geralt seized him by the elbow.

  ‘Calm down. How do you want to solve this problem? By killing them all?’

  ‘Why kill them right away? It’s enough to cripple them good and proper.’

  ‘That’s enough, darn it,’ the Witcher hissed, and then turned to the peasant. ‘These authorities you were talking about; who are they?’

  ‘Our camp elder, Hector Laabs, the headman from Breza, one of the villages that was burnt down.’
<
br />   ‘Lead us to him, then. We’ll come to some agreement.’

  ‘He’s busy at present,’ the peasant announced. ‘He’s sitting in judgement on a witch. There, do you see that crowd by the maple? They’ve caught a hag who was in league with a vampire.’

  ‘Here we go again,’ Dandelion snorted, spreading his arms. ‘Did you hear that? When they aren’t digging up cemeteries they’re hunting witches, supposedly vampires’ accomplices. Folks, perhaps instead of ploughing, sowing and harvesting, you’ll become witchers.’

  ‘Joke as much as you like,’ the peasant said, ‘and laugh all you want, but there’s a priest here and priests are more trustworthy than witchers. The priest said that vampires always carry out their practices in league with witches. The witch summons the vampire and points out the victim to him, then blinds everyone’s eyes so they won’t see anything.’

  ‘And it turned out it was indeed like that,’ a second one added. ‘We were harbouring a treacherous hag among us. But the priest saw through her witchcraft and now we’re going to burn her.’

  ‘What else,’ the Witcher muttered. ‘Very well, we’ll take a look at your court. And we’ll talk to the elder about the accident that befell the unfortunate Cloggy. We’ll think about suitable compensation. Right, Percival? I’ll wager that we’ll find another pebble in one of your pockets. Lead on, good people.’

  The procession set off towards a spreading maple. The ground beneath it was indeed teeming with excited people. The Witcher, having purposely slowed his pace, tried to strike up a conversation with one of the peasants, who looked reasonably normal.

  ‘Who’s this witch they’ve captured? Was she really engaged in black magic?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ the peasant mumbled, ‘I couldn’t say. That wench is a waif, a stranger. To my mind, she’s not quite right in the head. Grown-up, but still only plays with the nippers, as if she was a child herself; ask her something and she won’t say a word. Everyone says she consorted with a vampire and hexed people.’

  ‘Everyone except the suspect,’ said Regis, who until then had been walking quietly beside the Witcher. ‘Because she, if asked, wouldn’t utter a word. I’m guessing.’

  There was not enough time for a more detailed investigation, because they were already under the maple. They made their way through the crowd, not without the help of Zoltan and his ashen staff.

  A girl of about sixteen had been tied to the rack of a wagon laden with sacks, her arms spread wide apart. The girl’s toes barely reached the ground. Just as they arrived, her shift and blouse were torn away to reveal thin shoulders. The captive reacted by rolling her eyes and loosing a foolish combination of giggling and sobbing.

  A fire had been started directly alongside the wagon. Someone had fanned the coals well and someone else had used pincers to place some horseshoes in the glowing embers. The excited cries of the priest rose above the crowd.

  ‘Vile witch! Godless female! Confess the truth! Ha, just look at her, people, she’s overindulged in some devilish herbs! Just look at her! Witchery is written all over her countenance!’

  The priest who spoke those words was thin and his face was as dark and dry as a smoked fish. His black robes hung loosely on his skinny frame. A sacred symbol glistened on his neck. Geralt didn’t recognise which deity it represented, and anyway he wasn’t an expert. The pantheon, which in recent times had been growing quickly, did not interest him much. The priest must, however, have belonged to one of the newer religious sects. The older ones were concerned with more useful matters than catching girls, tying them to wagons and inciting superstitious mobs against them.

  ‘Since the dawn of time woman has been the root of all evil! The tool of Chaos, the accomplice in a conspiracy against the world and the human race! Woman is governed only by carnal lust! That is why she so willingly serves demons, in order to slake her insatiable urges and her unnatural wantonness!’

  ‘We’ll soon learn more about women,’ Regis muttered. ‘This a phobia, in a pure clinical form. The devout man must often dream about a vagina dentata.’

  ‘I’ll wager it’s worse,’ Dandelion murmured. ‘I’m absolutely certain that even when he’s awake he dreams about a regular toothless one. And the semen has affected his brain.’

  ‘But it’s this feeble-minded girl who will have to pay for it.’

  ‘Unless we can find someone,’ Milva growled, ‘who’ll stop that black-robed ass.’

  Dandelion looked meaningfully and hopefully at the Witcher, but Geralt avoided his gaze.

  ‘And of what, if not female witchery, are our current calamities and misfortunes the result?’ the priest continued to yell. ‘For no one else but the sorceresses betrayed the kings on the Isle of Thanedd and concocted the assassination of the King of Redania! Indeed, no one else but the elven witch of Dol Blathanna is sending Squirrels after us! Now you see to what evil the familiarity with sorceresses has led us! And the tolerance of their vile practices! Turning a blind eye to their wilfulness, their impudent hubris, their wealth! And who is to blame? The kings! The vainglorious kings renounced the Gods, drove away the priests, took away their offices and seats on councils, and showered the loathsome sorceresses with honours and gold! And now we all suffer the consequences!’

  ‘Aha! There lies the rub,’ Dandelion said. ‘You were wrong, Regis. It was all about politics and not vaginas.’

  ‘And about money,’ Zoltan Chivay added.

  ‘Verily,’ the priest roared, ‘I say unto you, before we join battle with Nilfgaard, let us first purge our own house of these abominations! Scorch this abscess with a white-hot iron! Subject it to a baptism of fire! We shall not allow any woman who dabbles in witchcraft to live!’

  ‘We shall not allow it! Burn her at the stake!’ yelled the crowd.

  The girl who was bound to the wagon laughed hysterically and rolled her eyes.

  ‘All right, all right, easy does it,’ said a lugubrious peasant of immense size who until that moment had been silent, and around whom was gathered a small group of similarly silent men and several grim-faced women. ‘We’ve only heard squawking so far. Everyone’s capable of squawking, even crows. We expect more from you, venerable father, than we would from a crow.’

  ‘Do you refute my words, Elder Laabs? The words of a priest?’

  ‘I’m not refitting anything,’ the giant replied, then he spat on the ground and hitched up a pair of coarse britches. ‘That wench is an orphan and a stray, no family of mine. If it turns out that she is in league with a vampire, take her and kill her. But while I’m the elder of this camp, only the guilty will be punished here. If you want to punish her, first establish her guilt.’

  ‘That I shall!’ the priest screamed, giving a sign to his stooges, the same ones who had previously put the horseshoes into the fire. ‘I’ll show you incontrovertibly! You, Laabs, and everyone else present here!’

  His stooges brought out a small, blackened cauldron with a curved handle from behind the wagon and set it on the ground.

  ‘Here is the proof!’ the priest roared, kicking the cauldron over. A thin liquid spilt onto the ground, depositing some small pieces of carrots, some strips of unrecognisable greens and several small bones onto the sand. ‘The witch was brewing a magic concoction! An elixir which enabled her to fly through the air to her vampire-lover. To have immoral relations with him and hatch more iniquities! I know the ways and deeds of sorcerers and I know what that decoct is made of! The witch boiled up a cat alive!’

  The crowd oohed and aahed in horror.

  ‘Ghastly,’ Dandelion said, shuddering. ‘Boiling a creature alive? I felt sorry for the girl, but she went a bit too far . . .’

  ‘Shut your gob,’ Milva hissed.

  ‘Here is the proof!’ the priest yelled, holding up a small bone he had removed from the steaming puddle. ‘Here is the irrefutable proof! A cat’s bone!’

  ‘That’s a bird’s bone,’ Zoltan Chivay said coldly, squinting. ‘It’s a jay’s, I would say, or a
pigeon’s. The girl cooked herself some broth, and that’s that!’

  ‘Silence, you pagan imp!’ the priest roared. ‘Don’t blaspheme, or the Gods will punish you at the hands of the pious! The brew came from a cat, I tell you!’

  ‘From a cat! Without doubt a cat!’ the peasants surrounding the priest yelled. ‘The wench had a cat! A black cat! Everyone knew she did! It followed her around everywhere! And where is that cat now? It’s gone! Gone into the pot!’

  ‘Cooked! Boiled up as a potion!’

  ‘Right you are! The witch has cooked up the cat into a potion!’

  ‘No other proof is needed! Into the fire with the witch! But first torture her! Let her confess everything!’

  ‘’Kin’ ’ell!’ Field Marshal Windbag squawked.

  ‘It’s a shame about that cat,’ Percival Schuttenbach suddenly said in a loud voice. ‘It was a fine beast, sleek and fat. Fur shining like anthracite, eyes like two chrysoberyls, long whiskers, and a tail as thick as a mechanical’s tool! Everything you could want in a cat. He must have caught plenty of mice!’

  The peasants fell silent.

  ‘And how would you know, Master Gnome?’ someone asked. ‘How do you know what the cat looked like?’

  Percival Schuttenbach cleared his nose and wiped his fingers on a trouser leg.

  ‘Because he’s sitting over there on a cart. Right behind you.’

  The peasants all turned around at once, muttering as they observed the cat sitting on a pile of bundles. The cat, meanwhile, utterly unconcerned about being the centre of attention, stuck a hind leg up in the air and got down to licking his rump.

  ‘Thus it has turned out,’ Zoltan Chivay said, breaking the silence, ‘that your irrefutable proof is a load of crap, reverend. What will the next proof be? Perhaps a she-cat? That would be good. Then we’ll put them together, they’ll produce a litter and not a single rodent will come within half an arrow’s shot of the granary.’

  Several peasants snorted, and several others, including Elder Laabs, cackled openly. The priest turned purple with rage.