The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘I will remember you, blasphemer!’ he roared, pointing a finger at the dwarf. ‘O heathen kobold! O creature of darkness! How did you come to be here? Perhaps you are in collusion with the vampire? Just wait; we’ll punish the witch and then we’ll interrogate you! But first we’ll try the witch! Horseshoes have already been put on the coals, so we’ll see what the sinner reveals when her hideous skin starts to sizzle! I tell you she will confess to the crimes of witchcraft herself. And what more proof is there than a confession?’

  ‘Oh, she will, she will,’ Hector Laabs said. ‘And were red-hot horseshoes placed against the soles of your feet, reverend, you would surely even confess to immoral coition with a mare. Ugh! You’re a godly man, but you sound like a rascal!’

  ‘Yes, I’m a godly man!’ the priest bellowed, outshouting the intensifying murmurs of the peasants. ‘I believe in divine judgement! And in a divine trial! Let the witch face trial by ordeal . . .’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ the Witcher interrupted loudly, stepping out from the crowd.

  The priest glared at him. The peasants stopped muttering and stared at him with mouths agape.

  ‘Trial by ordeal,’ Geralt repeated to complete silence from the crowd, ‘is utterly certain and utterly just. The verdicts of trial by ordeal are also accepted by secular courts and have their own principles. These rules say that in the case of a charge against a woman, child, old or otherwise enfeebled person a defence counsel may represent them. Am I right, Elder Laabs? So, I hereby offer myself in that role. Mark off the circle. Whomsoever is certain of the girl’s guilt and is not afraid of trial of ordeal should step forward and do battle with me.’

  ‘Ha!’ the priest called, still glaring at him. ‘Don’t be too cunning, noble stranger. Throwing down the gauntlet? It’s clear at once you are a swordsman and a killer! You wish to conduct a trial of ordeal with your criminal sword?’

  ‘If the sword doesn’t suit you, your reverence,’ Zoltan Chivay announced in a drawling voice, standing alongside Geralt, ‘and if you object to this gentleman, perhaps I would be more suitable. By all means, may the girl’s accuser take up a battle-axe against me.’

  ‘Or challenge me at archery,’ Milva said, narrowing her eyes and also stepping forward. ‘A single arrow each at a hundred paces.’

  ‘Do you see, people, how quickly defenders of the witch are springing up?’ the priest screamed, and then turned away and contorted his face into a cunning smile. ‘Very well, you good-for-nothings, I invite all three of you to the trial by ordeal which will soon take place. We shall establish the hag’s guilt, and test your virtue at one and the same time! But not using swords, battle-axes, lances or arrows! You know, you say, the rules? I also know them! See the horseshoes in the coals, glowing white-hot? Baptism of fire! Come, O minions of witchcraft! Whomsoever removes a horseshoe from the fire, brings it to me and betrays no marks of burning, will have proven that the witch is innocent. If, though, the trial of ordeal reveals something else, then it shall be death to all of you and to her! I have spoken!’

  The hostile rumble of Elder Laabs and his group was drowned out by the enthusiastic cries of most of the people gathered behind the priest. The mob had already scented excellent sport and entertainment. Milva looked at Zoltan, Zoltan at the Witcher, and the Witcher first at the sky and then at Milva.

  ‘Do you believe in the Gods?’ he asked in hushed tones.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ the archer snapped back softly, looking at the glowing coals. ‘But I don’t think they’ll want to be bothered by red-hot horseshoes.’

  ‘It’s no more than three paces from the fire to that bastard,’ Zoltan hissed through clenched teeth. ‘I’ll get through it somehow, I worked in a foundry . . . But if you wouldn’t mind praying to your Gods for me. . .’

  ‘One moment,’ Emiel Regis said, placing a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. ‘Please withhold your prayers.’

  The barber-surgeon walked over to the fire, bowed to the priest and the audience, then stooped rapidly and put his hand into the hot coals. The crowd screamed as one, Zoltan cursed and Milva dug her fingers into Geralt’s arm. Regis straightened up, calmly looked down at the white-hot horseshoe he was holding, and walked unhurriedly over to the priest. The priest took a step back, bumping into the peasants standing behind him.

  ‘This was the idea, if I’m not mistaken, your reverence.’ Regis said, holding up the horseshoe. ‘Baptism of fire? If so, I believe the divine judgement is unambiguous. The girl is innocent. Her defenders are innocent. And I, just imagine, am also innocent.’

  ‘Sh . . . sh . . . show me your hand . . .’ the priest mumbled. ‘Is it not burnt?’

  The barber-surgeon smiled his usual smile, with pursed lips, then moved the horseshoe to his left hand, and showed his right hand, totally unharmed, first to the priest, and then, holding it up high, to everyone else. The crowd roared.

  ‘Whose horseshoe is it?’ Regis asked. ‘Let the owner take it back.’

  No one came forward.

  ‘It’s a devilish trick!’ the priest bellowed. ‘You are a sorcerer yourself, or the devil incarnate!’

  Regis threw the horseshoe onto the ground and turned around.

  ‘Carry out an exorcism on me then,’ he suggested coldly. ‘You are free to do so. But the trial of ordeal has taken place. I have heard, though, that to question its verdict is heresy.’

  ‘Perish. Be gone!’ the priest shrieked, waving an amulet in front of the barber-surgeon’s nose and tracing cabbalistic signs with his other hand. ‘Be gone to the abyss of hell, devil! May the earth be riven asunder beneath you . . .’

  ‘That is enough!’ Zoltan shouted angrily. ‘Hey, people! Elder Laabs! Do you intend to stand and watch this foolishness any longer? Do you intend . . . ?’

  The dwarf’s voice was drowned out by a piercing cry.

  ‘Niiiilfgaaaaaard!’

  ‘Cavalry from the west! Horsemen! Nilfgaard are attacking! Every man for himself!’

  In one moment the camp was transformed into total pandemonium. The peasants charged towards their wagons and shelters, knocking each other down and trampling on each other. A single, great cry rose up into the sky.

  ‘Our horses!’ Milva yelled, making room around herself with punches and kicks. ‘Our horses, Witcher! Follow me, quickly!’

  ‘Geralt!’ Dandelion shouted. ‘Save me!’

  The crowd separated them, scattered them like a great wave and carried Milva away in the blink of an eye. Geralt, gripping Dandelion by the collar, didn’t allow himself to be swept away, for just in time he caught hold of the wagon which the girl accused of witchcraft was tied to. The wagon, however, suddenly lurched and moved off, and the Witcher and the poet fell to the ground. The girl jerked her head and began to laugh hysterically. As the wagon receded the laughter became quieter and was then lost among the uproar.

  ‘They’ll trample us!’ Dandelion shouted from the ground. ‘They’ll crush us! Heeeelp!’

  ‘’Kiiin’ ’ell!’ Field Marshal Windbag squawked from somewhere out of sight.

  Geralt raised his head, spat out some sand and saw a chaotic scene.

  Only four people did not panic, although to tell the truth one of them simply had no choice. That was the priest, unable to move owing to his neck being held in the iron grip of Hector Laabs. The two other individuals were Zoltan and Percival. The gnome lifted up the priest’s robe at the back with a rapid movement, and the dwarf, armed with the pincers, seized a red-hot horseshoe from the fire and dropped it down the saintly man’s long johns. Freed from Laabs’s grip, the priest shot straight ahead like a comet with a smoking tail, but his screams were drowned in the roar of the crowd. Geralt saw Laabs, the gnome and the dwarf about to congratulate one another on a successful ordeal by fire when another wave of panic-stricken peasants descended upon them. Everything disappeared in clouds of dust. The Witcher could no longer see anything, though neither did he have time to watch since he was busy rescuing Dandelion, whose legs had been swept
from under him again by a stampeding hog. When Geralt bent down to lift the poet up, a hay rack was thrown straight on his back from a wagon rattling past. The weight pinned him to the ground, and before he was able to throw it off a dozen people ran across it. When he finally freed himself, another wagon overturned with a bang and a crash right alongside, and three sacks of wheaten flour – costing a crown a pound in the camp – fell onto him. The sacks split open and the world vanished in a white cloud.

  ‘Get up, Geralt!’ the troubadour yelled. ‘Get on your blasted feet!’

  ‘I can’t,’ the Witcher groaned, blinded by the precious flour, seizing in both hands his knee, which had been shot through by an overwhelming pain. ‘Save yourself. Dandelion . . .’

  ‘I won’t leave you!’

  Gruesome screams could be heard from the western edge of the camp, mixed up with the thud of iron-shod hooves and the neighing of horses. The screaming and tramping of hooves intensified suddenly, and the ringing, clanging and banging of metal striking against metal joined it.

  ‘It’s a battle!’ the poet shouted. ‘It’s war!’

  ‘Who’s fighting who?’ Geralt asked, trying desperately to clean the flour and chaff from his eyes. Not far away something was on fire, and they were engulfed by a wave of heat and a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. The hoofbeats rose in their ears and the earth shuddered. The first thing he saw in the cloud of dust were dozens of horses’ fetlocks crashing up and down. All around him. He fought off the pain.

  ‘Get under the wagon! Hide under the wagon, Dandelion, or they’ll trample us!’

  ‘Let’s stay still . . .’ the poet whimpered, flattened against the ground. ‘Let’s just lie here . . . I’ve heard a horse will never tread on a person lying on the ground . . .’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Geralt exhaled, ‘if every horse has heard that. Under the wagon! Quickly!’

  At that moment one of the horses, unaware of human proverbs, kicked him in the side of the head as it thundered by. Suddenly all the constellations of the firmament flashed red and gold in the Witcher’s eyes, and a moment later the earth and the sky were engulfed in impenetrable darkness.

  The Rats sprang up, awoken by a long-drawn-out scream that boomed with an intensifying echo around the walls of the cave. Asse and Reef seized their swords and Iskra swore loudly as she banged her head on a rocky protrusion.

  ‘What is it?’ Kayleigh yelled. ‘What’s happening?’

  It was dark in the cave even though the sun was shining outside – the Rats had been sleeping off a night spent in the saddle, fleeing from pursuers. Giselher shoved a brand into the glowing embers, lit it, held it up and walked over to where Ciri and Mistle were sleeping, as usual away from the rest of the gang. Ciri was sitting with her head down and Mistle had her arm around her.

  Giselher lifted the flaming brand higher. The others also approached. Mistle covered Ciri’s naked shoulders with a fur.

  ‘Listen, Mistle,’ the leader of the Rats said gravely. ‘I’ve never interfered with what you two do in a single bed. I’ve never said a nasty or mocking word. I always try to look the other way and not notice. It’s your business and your tastes, and nobody else’s, as long as you do it discreetly and quietly. But this time you went a little too far.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Mistle exploded. ‘Are you trying to say that . . . ? She was screaming in her sleep! It was a nightmare!’

  ‘Don’t yell. Falka?’

  Ciri nodded.

  ‘Was your dream so dreadful? What was it about?’

  ‘Leave her in peace!’

  ‘Give it a rest, Mistle. Falka?’

  ‘Someone, someone I once knew,’ Ciri stammered, ‘was being trampled by horses. The hooves . . . I felt them crushing me . . . I felt his pain . . . In my head and knee . . . I can still feel it. I’m sorry I woke you up.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ Giselher said, looking at Mistle’s stern expression. ‘You two deserve the apology. Forgive me. And the dream? Why, anybody could have dreamed that. Anybody.’

  Ciri closed her eyes. She wasn’t certain if Giselher was right.

  He was awoken by a kick.

  He was lying with his head against a wheel of the overturned cart, with Dandelion hunched up alongside him. He had been kicked by a foot soldier in a padded jacket and a round helmet. A second stood beside him. They were both holding the reins of horses, the saddles of which were hung with crossbows and shields.

  ‘Bloody millers or what?’

  The other soldier shrugged. Geralt saw that Dandelion couldn’t take his eyes off the shields. Geralt himself had already noticed that there were lilies on them. The emblem of the Kingdom of Temeria. Other mounted crossbowmen – who were swarming around nearby – also bore the same arms. Most of them were busy catching horses and stripping the dead. The latter mainly wore black Nilfgaardian cloaks.

  The camp was still a smoking ruin after the attack, but peasants who had survived and hadn’t fled very far were beginning to reappear. The mounted crossbowmen with Temerian lilies were rounding them up with loud shouts.

  Neither Milva, Zoltan, Percival nor Regis were anywhere to be seen.

  The hero of the recent witchcraft trial, the black tomcat, sat alongside the cart, dispassionately looking at Geralt with his greenish-golden eyes. The Witcher was a little surprised, since ordinary cats couldn’t bear his presence. He had no time to reflect on this unusual phenomenon, since one of the soldiers was prodding him with the shaft of his lance.

  ‘Get up, you two! Hey, the grey-haired one has a sword!’

  ‘Drop your weapon!’ the other one shouted, attracting the attention of the rest. ‘Drop your sword on the ground. Right now, or I’ll stick you with my glaive.’

  Geralt obeyed. His head was ringing.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Travellers,’ Dandelion said.

  ‘Sure you are,’ the soldier snorted. ‘Are you travelling home? After fleeing from your standard and throwing away your uniforms? There are plenty of travellers like that in this camp, who’ve taken fright at Nilfgaard and lost the taste for army bread! Some of them are old friends of ours. From our regiment!’

  ‘Those travellers can expect another trip now,’ his companion cackled. ‘A short one! Upwards on a rope!’

  ‘We aren’t deserters!’ the poet yelled.

  ‘We’ll find out who you are. When you account for yourselves to the officer.’

  A unit of light horse led by several armoured cavalrymen with splendid plumes on their helmets emerged from the ring of mounted crossbowmen.

  Dandelion looked closely at the knights, brushed the flour off himself and tidied up his clothing, then spat on a hand and smoothed down his dishevelled hair.

  ‘Geralt, keep quiet,’ he forewarned. ‘I’ll parley with them. They’re Temerian knights. They defeated the Nilfgaardians. They won’t do anything to us. I know how to talk to the knighthood. You have to show them they aren’t dealing with commoners, but with equals.’

  ‘Dandelion, for the love of . . .’

  ‘Never fear, everything will be fine. I have a lot of experience in talking to the knighthood and the nobility; half of Temeria know me. Hey, out of our way, servants, step aside! I wish to speak with your superiors!’

  The soldiers looked on hesitantly, and then raised their couched lances and made room. Dandelion and Geralt moved towards the knights. The poet strode proudly, bearing a lordly expression which was somewhat out of place considering his frayed and flour-soiled tunic.

  ‘Stop!’ one of the armoured men yelled at him. ‘Not another step! Who are you?’

  ‘Who should I tell?’ Dandelion said, putting his hands on his hips. ‘And why? Who are these well-born lords, that they oppress innocent travellers?’

  ‘You don’t ask the questions, riffraff! You answer them!’

  The troubadour inclined his head and looked at the coats of arms on the knights’ shields and tabards.

  ‘Three red hearts on a golden fiel
d,’ he observed. ‘That means you are an Aubry. There’s a three-pointed label on the shield’s chief, so you must be the eldest son of Anzelm Aubry. I know your pater well, good Sir Knight. And you, strident Sir Knight, what do you have on your silver shield? A black stripe between two gryphons’ heads? The Papebrock family’s coat of arms, if I’m not mistaken, and I am rarely mistaken in matters of this kind. The stripe, they say, illustrates the acuity possessed by that family’s members.’

  ‘Will you bloody stop,’ Geralt groaned.

  ‘I’m the celebrated poet Dandelion!’ the bard said, puffing himself up and paying no attention to the Witcher. ‘No doubt you’ve heard of me? Lead me, then, to your commander, to the seigneur, for I’m accustomed to speaking with equals!’

  The knights did not react, but their facial expressions became more and more uncongenial and their iron gloves gripped their decorated bridles more and more tightly. Dandelion clearly hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Well, what’s the matter with you?’ he asked haughtily. ‘What are you staring at? Yes, I’m talking to you, Sir Black Stripe! Why are you making faces? Did someone tell you that if you narrow your eyes and stick your lower jaw out you look manly, doughty, dignified and menacing? Well, they deceived you. You look like someone who hasn’t had a decent shit for a week!’

  ‘Seize them!’ yelled the eldest son of Anzelm Aubry – the bearer of the shield with three hearts – to the foot soldiers. The Black Stripe from the Papebrock family spurred his steed.

  ‘Seize them! Bind the blackguards!’

  They walked behind the horses, pulled by ropes attaching their wrists to the pommels. They walked and occasionally ran, because the horsemen spared neither their mounts nor their captives. Dandelion fell over twice and was dragged along on his belly, yelling pathetically. He was stood up again and urged on roughly with the lance shaft. And then driven on once more. The dust choked and blinded them, making their eyes water and their noses tingle. Thirst parched their throats.

  Only one thing was encouraging; the road they were being driven along was heading south. Geralt was thus journeying in the right direction at last and pretty quickly, at that. He wasn’t happy, though. Because he had imagined the journey would be altogether different.