The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Then go to him. But stay well away from me.’

  Regis heaved a sigh, showing no intention of moving away.

  ‘I was listening to your conversation with Dandelion and the archer,’ he said, not without a hint of mockery in his voice. ‘I have to admit you’ve got a real talent for winning people over. Though the entire world seems to be out to get you, you disregard the comrades and allies wanting to help you.’

  ‘The world turned upside down. A vampire’s teaching me how to deal with humans. What do you know about humans, Regis? The only thing you know is the taste of their blood. Why am I still talking to you?’

  ‘The world turned upside down,’ the vampire admitted, deadpan. ‘You are talking to me indeed. Perhaps you’d also like to listen to some advice?’

  ‘No. No, I wouldn’t. I don’t need to.’

  ‘True, I’d forgotten. Advice is superfluous to you, allies are superfluous, you’ll get by without any travelling companions. The goal of your expedition is, after all, personal and private. More than that, the nature of the goal demands that you accomplish it alone, in person. The risks, dangers, hardships and constant struggle with doubt must only burden you. For, after all, they are components of the penance, the expiation of guilt you want to earn. A baptism of fire, I’d say. You’ll pass through fire, which burns, but also purges. And you’ll do it alone. For were someone to support you in this, help you, take on even a scrap of that baptism of fire, that pain, that penance, they would, by the same token, impoverish you. They would deprive you of part of the expiation you desire, which would be owed to them for their involvement. After all, it should be your exclusive expiation. Only you have a debt to pay off, and you don’t want to run up debts with other creditors at the same time. Is my logic correct?’

  ‘Surprisingly so, considering you’re sober. Your presence annoys me, vampire. Leave me alone with my expiation, please. And with my debt.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Regis said, arising. ‘Sit and think. But I will give you some advice anyway. A sense of guilt, as well as the need for expiation, for a cleansing baptism of fire, aren’t things you can claim an exclusive right to. Life differs from banking because it has debts which are paid off by running up debts with others.’

  ‘Go away, please.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  The vampire walked off and joined Dandelion and Milva. While Regis changed the dressing the trio debated what to eat. Milva shook the fry from the fish pot and examined the catch critically.

  ‘There’s nothing for it,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to skewer the little tiddlers on twigs and grill them over the embers.’

  ‘No,’ Dandelion demurred, shaking his freshly bandaged head, ‘that isn’t a good idea. There are too few of them, and they won’t fill us up. I suggest we make soup.’

  ‘Fish soup?’

  ‘By all means. We have enough of these tiddlers and we have salt,’ Dandelion said, counting out the list of ingredients on his fingers. ‘We’ve acquired onions, carrots, parsley root and celery. And a cauldron. If we put it all together we end up with soup.’

  ‘Some seasoning would come in handy.’

  ‘Oh.’ Regis smiled, reaching into his bag. ‘No problem there. Basil, pimento, pepper, bay leaves, sage . . .’

  ‘Enough, enough.’ Dandelion raised his hand, stopping him. ‘That’ll do. We don’t need mandrake in the soup. Right, let’s get to work. Clean the fish, Milva.’

  ‘Clean them yourself! Ha! Just because you’ve got a woman in the company, it doesn’t mean she’ll slave for you in the kitchen! I’ll bring the water and start the fire. And you can get yourself covered in guts with those weatherfish.’

  ‘They aren’t weatherfish,’ Regis said. ‘They’re chub, roach, ruff and silver bream.’

  ‘Ah,’ Dandelion said, unable to keep quiet. ‘I see you know your fish.’

  ‘I know lots of things,’ Regis replied neutrally, without boasting. ‘I’ve picked up this and that along the way.’

  ‘If you’re such a scholar,’ Milva said, blowing on the fire again and getting to her feet, ‘use your brain to get these tiddlers gutted. I’m getting the water.’

  ‘Can you manage a full cauldron? Geralt, help her.’

  ‘Course I can.’ Milva snorted. ‘And I don’t need his help. He has his own – personal – issues. No one’s to disturb him!’

  Geralt turned his head away, pretending not to hear. Dandelion and the vampire skilfully prepared the small fry.

  ‘This soup’s going to be thin,’ Dandelion said, hanging the cauldron over the fire. ‘We could do with a bigger fish.’

  ‘Will this do?’ Cahir said, suddenly emerging from the willows carrying a three-pound pike by the gills. It was still flexing its tail and opening and closing its mouth.

  ‘Oh! What a beauty! Where did you come by that, Nilfgaardian?’

  ‘I’m not a Nilfgaardian. I come from Vicovaro and my name is Cahir—’

  ‘All right, all right, we know all that. Now where did you get the pike?’

  ‘I knocked up a tip-up using a frog as bait. I cast it into a hollow under the bank. The pike took it right away.’

  ‘Experts to a man,’ Dandelion said, shaking his bandaged head. ‘Pity I didn’t suggest steak, you would have conjured up a cow. But let’s make a start on what we’ve got. Regis, chuck all the fry into the cauldron, heads and tails and all. And the pike needs to be nicely dressed. Know how to, Nilf— Cahir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get to work then. Geralt, dammit, do you plan to sit there sulking for much longer? Peel the vegetables!’

  The Witcher got up obediently and joined them, but stayed ostentatiously well away from Cahir. Before he had time to complain that there wasn’t a knife, the Nilfgaardian – or possibly the Vicovarian – gave him his, taking another from his bootleg. Geralt took it, grunting his thanks.

  The teamwork was carried out efficiently. The cauldron full of fingerlings and vegetables was soon bubbling and frothing. The vampire dextrously skimmed off the froth using a spoon Milva had whittled. Once Cahir had dressed and divided up the pike, Dandelion threw the predator’s tail, fins, spine and toothed head into the cauldron and stirred.

  ‘Mmm, it smells delicious. Once it’s all boiled down, we’ll strain off the waste.’

  ‘What, through our footwraps?’ Milva said with a grimace, as she whittled another spoon. ‘How can we strain it without a sieve?’

  ‘But my dear Milva,’ smiled Regis. ‘Don’t say that! We can easily replace what we don’t have with what we do. It’s purely a matter of invention and positive thinking.’

  ‘Go to hell with your smart-arsed chatter, vampire.’

  ‘We’ll sieve it through my hauberk,’ Cahir said. ‘Not a problem, it can be rinsed out afterwards.’

  ‘It should be rinsed out before, too,’ Milva declared, ‘or I won’t eat it.’

  The sieving was carried out efficiently.

  ‘Now throw the pike into the broth, Cahir,’ Dandelion instructed. ‘Smells delicious. Don’t add any more wood, it just needs to simmer. Geralt, where are you shoving that spoon! You don’t stir it now!’

  ‘Don’t yell. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Ignorance’ – Regis smiled – ‘is no justification for ill-conceived actions. When one doesn’t know or has doubts it’s best to seek advice . . .’

  ‘Shut up, vampire!’ Geralt said, stood up and turned his back on them. Dandelion snorted.

  ‘He’s taken offence, look at him.’

  ‘That’s him all over,’ Milva said, pouting. ‘He’s all talk. If he doesn’t know what to do, he just talks and gets offended. Haven’t you lot caught on yet?’

  ‘A long time ago,’ Cahir said softly.

  ‘Add pepper,’ Dandelion said, licking the spoon and smacking his lips. ‘And some more salt. Ah, now it’s just right. Take the cauldron off the heat. By thunder, it’s hot! I don’t have any gloves . . .’

  ‘I have,’ Cahir said.
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  ‘And I,’ Regis said, seizing the cauldron from the other side, ‘don’t need any.’

  ‘Right,’ said the poet, wiping the spoon on his trousers. ‘Well, company, be seated. Enjoy! Geralt, are you waiting for a special invitation? For a herald and a fanfare?’

  They sat crowded around the cauldron on the sand and for a long time all that could be heard was dignified slurping, interrupted by blowing on spoons. After half of the broth had been eaten, the cautious fishing out of pieces of pike began, until finally their spoons were scraping against the bottom of the cauldron.

  ‘Oh, I’m stuffed,’ Milva groaned. ‘It wasn't a bad idea with that soup, Dandelion.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Regis agreed. ‘What do you say, Geralt?’

  ‘I say “thank you”,’ the Witcher said, getting up with difficulty and rubbing his knee, which had begun to torment him again. ‘Will that do? Or do you want a fanfare?’

  ‘He’s always like that,’ the poet said, waving a hand. ‘Take no notice of him. You’re lucky, anyway. I was around when he was fighting with that Yennefer of his; the wan beauty with ebony hair.’

  ‘Be discreet,’ the vampire admonished Dandelion, ‘and don’t forget he has problems.’

  ‘Problems,’ said Cahir, stifling a burp, ‘are there to be solved.’

  ‘Of course they are,’ Dandelion replied. ‘But how?’

  Milva snorted, making herself more comfortable on the hot sand.

  ‘The vampire is a scholar. He’s sure to know.’

  ‘It’s not about knowledge, but about the skilful examination of the circumstances,’ Regis said calmly. ‘And when the circumstances are examined, we come to the conclusion that we are facing an insoluble problem. The entire undertaking has no chance of success. The likelihood of finding Ciri amounts to zero.’

  ‘But you can’t say that,’ Milva jibed. ‘We should think positively and use investigation. It’s like it was with that sieve. If we don’t have something, we find a replacement. That’s how I see it.’

  ‘Until recently,’ the vampire continued, ‘we thought Ciri was in Nilfgaard. Reaching the destination and rescuing her – or abducting her – seemed beyond our powers. Now, after hearing Cahir’s revelations, we have no idea where Ciri is. It’s hard to talk about invention when we have no idea where we should be directing it.’

  ‘What are we to do, then?’ Milva said, bridling. ‘The Witcher insists on going south . . .’

  ‘For him’ – Regis laughed – ‘the points of the compass have no great importance. It’s all the same to him which one he chooses, as long as he’s not idle. That is truly a witcher’s principium. The world is full of evil, so it’s sufficient to stride ahead, and destroy the Evil encountered on the way, in that way rendering a service to Good. The rest takes care of itself. To put it another way: being in motion is everything, the goal is nothing.’

  ‘Baloney,’ Milva commented. ‘I mean, Ciri’s his goal. How can you say she’s nothing?’

  ‘I was joking,’ the vampire admitted, winking at Geralt’s back, which was still turned away from them. ‘And not very tactfully. I apologise. You’re right, dear Milva. Ciri is our goal. And since we don’t know where she is, it would make sense to find that out and direct our activities accordingly. The case of the Child of Destiny, I observe, is simply pulsating with magic, fate and other supernatural elements. And I know somebody who is extremely knowledgeable about such matters and will certainly help us.’

  ‘Ah,’ Dandelion said, delighted. ‘Who’s that? Where are they? Far from here?’

  ‘Closer than the capital of Nilfgaard. In actual fact, really quite close. In Angren. On this bank of the Yaruga. I’m talking about the Druids’ Circle, which has its seat in the forests of Caed Dhu.’

  ‘Let’s go without delay!’

  ‘Don’t any of you,’ Geralt said, annoyed, ‘think you should ask me my opinion?’

  ‘You?’ Dandelion said, turning around. ‘But you haven’t got a clue what you’re doing. You even owe the soup you gobbled down to us. Were it not for us, you’d be hungry. We would be too, had we waited for you to act. That cauldron of soup was the result of cooperation. Of teamwork. The joint efforts of a fellowship united by a common goal. Get it, friend?’

  ‘How could he get it?’ Milva said, grimacing. ‘He’s just “me, me, by myself, all alone”. A lone wolf! But you can see he’s no hunter, that he’s a stranger to the forest. Wolves don’t hunt alone! Never! A lone wolf, ha, what twaddle, foolish townie nonsense. But he doesn’t understand that!’

  ‘Oh, he does, he does,’ Regis cut in, smiling through pursed lips, as was his custom.

  ‘He only looks stupid,’ Dandelion confirmed. ‘But I do keep hoping he’ll finally decide to strain his grey matter. Perhaps he’ll come to some useful conclusions. Perhaps he’ll realise the only activity that’s worth doing alone is wanking.’

  Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach remained tactfully silent.

  ‘The hell with all of you,’ the Witcher finally said, sticking his spoon into his bootleg. ‘The hell with all of you, you cooperative fellowship of idiots, united by a common goal which none of you understand. And the hell with me too.’

  This time the others, following Cahir’s example, also remained tactfully silent. Dandelion, Maria Barring, also known as Milva, and Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy.

  ‘What a company I ended up with,’ Geralt continued, shaking his head. ‘Brothers in arms! A team of heroes! What have I done to deserve it? A poetaster with a lute. A wild and lippy half-dryad, half-woman. A vampire, who’s about to notch up his fifth century. And a bloody Nilfgaardian who insists he isn’t a Nilfgaardian.’

  ‘And leading the party is the Witcher, who suffers from pangs of conscience, impotence and the inability to take decisions,’ Regis finished calmly. ‘I suggest we travel incognito, to avoid arousing suspicion.’

  ‘Or raising a laugh,’ Milva added.

  The queen replied: ‘Ask not me for mercy, but those whom you wronged with your magic. You had the courage to commit those deeds, now have courage when your pursuers and justice are close at hand. It is not in my power to pardon your sins.’ Then the witch hissed like a cat and her sinister eyes flashed. ‘My end is nigh,’ she shrieked, ‘but yours is too, O Queen. You shall remember Lara Dorren and her curse in the hour of your dreadful death. And know this: my curse will hound your descendants unto the tenth generation.’ Seeing, however, that a doughty heart was beating in the queen’s breast, the evil elven witch ceased to malign her, or try to frighten her with the curse, but began instead to whine for help and mercy like a bitch dog . . .

  The Tale of Lara Dorren, as told by the humans

  . . . but her begging softened not the stony hearts of the Dh’oine, the merciless, cruel humans. So when Lara, now not begging for mercy for herself, but for her unborn child, caught hold of the carriage door, on the order of the queen the thuggish executioner struck with a sword and hacked off her fingers. And when a severe frost descended in the night, Lara breathed her last on the forested hilltop, giving birth to a tiny daughter, whom she protected with the remains of the warmth still flickering in her. And though she was surrounded by the blizzard, the night and the winter, spring suddenly bloomed on the hilltop and feainnewedd flowers blossomed. Even today do those flowers bloom in only two places: in Dol Blathanna and on the hilltop where Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal perished.

  The Tale of Lara Dorren, as told by the elves

  Chapter Six

  ‘I asked you,’ Ciri, who was lying on her back, snapped angrily. ‘I asked you not to touch me.’

  Mistle withdrew her hand and the blade of grass she had been tickling Ciri’s neck with, stretched out beside her and gazed up at the sky, placing both hands under her shaven neck.

  ‘You’ve been acting strangely of late, Young Falcon.’

  ‘I just want you to stop touching me!’

  ‘It’s just for fun.’

  ‘I know,’ Ciri said throu
gh pursed lips. ‘Just for fun. It’s always been “just for fun”. But I’ve stopped enjoying it, do you see? For me it’s no fun any more!’

  Mistle was silent for a long while, lying on her back and staring at the blue sky riven with ragged streaks of cloud. A hawk circled high above the trees.

  ‘Your dreams,’ she finally said. ‘It’s because of your dreams, isn’t it? You wake almost every night screaming. What you once lived through now returns in your dreams. I’m no stranger to such things myself.’

  Ciri did not answer.

  ‘You’ve never told me anything about yourself,’ Mistle said, breaking the silence once again. ‘About what you’ve been through. Or where you’re from. Or if you’ve left anyone behind . . .’

  Ciri brought a hand up swiftly to her neck, but this time it was only a ladybird.

  ‘There were a few people,’ she said quietly, not looking at her companion. ‘I mean, I thought there were . . . People who would find me even here, at the end of the world, if they only wanted to . . . Or if they were still alive. Oh, what do you want of me, Mistle? Do you want me to unbosom myself?’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘Good. Because, surely, it’d just be for fun. Like everything else we share.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Mistle said, turning her head away, ‘why you don’t leave, if being with me is so awful.’

  ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That is a lot.’

  Mistle bit her lip. But before she had time to say anything, there was a whistle. They both sprang to their feet, brushing off pine needles, and ran to their horses.

  ‘The fun’s about to begin,’ said Mistle, leaping into the saddle and drawing her sword. ‘The fun you’ve come to enjoy more than anything, Falka. Don’t think I haven't noticed.’

  Ciri angrily kicked her horse with her heels. They hurtled along the side of a ravine at breakneck speed, already hearing the wild whooping of the remaining Rats rushing out of a thicket on the other side of the highway. The pincers of the ambush were closing.