‘Where’s Caleb Stratton?’ Dandelion asked, looking around.
Zoltan and the others fell silent and grew solemn.
‘Caleb,’ the dwarf finally said, sniffing, ‘is sleeping in a birch wood, far from his beloved peaks and Mount Carbon. When the Blacks overwhelmed us by the Ina, his legs were too slow and he didn’t make it to the forest . . . He caught a sword across the head and when he fell they dispatched him with bear spears. But come on, cheer up, we’ve already mourned him and that’ll do. We ought to be cheerful. After all, you got out of the madness in the camp in one piece. Why, the company’s even grown, I see.’
Cahir inclined his head a little under the dwarf’s sharp gaze, but said nothing.
‘Come on, sit you down,’ Zoltan invited. ‘We’re roasting a lamb here. We happened upon it a few days ago, lonely and sad. We stopped it from dying a miserable death from hunger or in a wolf’s maw by slaughtering it mercifully and turning it into food. Sit down. And I’d like a few words with you, Regis. And Geralt, if you would.’
Two women were sitting behind the woodpile. One of them, who was suckling an infant, turned away in embarrassment at the sight of them approaching. Nearby, a young woman with an arm wrapped in none too clean rags was playing with two children on the sand. As soon as she raised her misty, blank eyes to him the Witcher recognised her.
‘We untied her from the wagon, which was already in flames,’ the dwarf explained. ‘It almost finished the way that priest wanted. You know, the one who was after her blood. She passed through a baptism of fire, nonetheless. The flames were licking at her, scorching her to the raw flesh. We dressed her wounds as well as we could. We covered her in lard, but it’s a bit messy. Barber-surgeon, if you would . . . ?’
‘Right away.’
When Regis tried to peel off the dressing the girl whimpered, retreating and covering her face with her good hand. Geralt approached to hold her still, but the vampire gestured him to stop. He looked deeply into the girl’s vacant eyes, and she immediately calmed down and relaxed. Her head drooped gently on her chest. She didn’t even flinch when Regis carefully peeled off the dirty rag and smeared an intense and strange smelling ointment on her burnt arm.
Geralt turned his head, pointed with his chin at the two women and the two children, and then bored his eyes into the dwarf. Zoltan cleared his throat.
‘We came across the two young ’uns and the women here in Angren,’ he explained in hushed tones. ‘They’d got lost during their escape. They were alone, fearful and hungry, so we took them on board, and we’re looking after them. It just seemed to happen.’
‘It just seemed to happen,’ Geralt echoed, smiling faintly. ‘You’re an incorrigible altruist, Zoltan Chivay.’
‘We all have our faults. I mean, you’re still determined to rescue your girl.’
‘Indeed. Although it’s become more complicated than that . . . .’
‘Because of that Nilfgaardian, who was tracking you and has now joined the company?’
‘Partly. Zoltan, where are those fugitives from? Who were they fleeing? Nilfgaard or the Squirrels?’
‘Hard to say. The kids know bugger all, the women aren’t too talkative and get upset for no reason at all. If you swear near them or fart they go as red as beetroots . . . Never mind. But we’ve met other fugitives – woodmen – and they say the Nilfgaardians are prowling around here. It’s our old friends, probably, the troop that came from the west, from across the Ina. But apparently there are also units here that arrived from the south. From across the Yaruga.’
‘And who are they fighting?’
‘It’s a mystery. The woodmen talked of an army being commanded by a White Queen or some such. That queen’s fighting the Blacks. It’s said she and her army are even venturing onto the far bank of the Yaruga, taking fire and sword to imperial lands.’
‘What army could that be?’
‘No idea,’ Zoltan said and scratched an ear. ‘See, every day some company or other comes through, messing up the tracks with their hooves. We don’t ask who they are, we just hide in the bushes . . .’
Regis, who was dealing with the burns on the girl’s arm, interrupted their conversation.
‘The dressing must be changed daily,’ he said to the dwarf. ‘I’ll leave you the ointment and some gauze which won’t stick to the burns.’
‘Thank you, barber-surgeon.’
‘Her arm will heal,’ the vampire said softly, looking at the Witcher. ‘With time the scar will even vanish from her young skin. What’s happening in the poor girl’s head is worse, though. My ointments can’t cure that.’
Geralt said nothing. Regis wiped his hands on a rag.
‘It’s a curse,’ he said in hushed tones, ‘to be able to sense a sickness – the entire essence of it – in the blood, but not be able to treat it . . .’
‘Indeed.’ Zoltan sighed. ‘Patching up the skin is one thing, but when the mind’s addled, you’re helpless. All you can do is give a damn and look after them. . . Thank you for your aid, barber-surgeon. I see you’ve also joined the Witcher’s company.’
‘It just seemed to happen.’
‘Mmm,’ Zoltan said and stroked his beard. ‘And which way will you head in search of Ciri?’
‘We’re heading east, to Caed Dhu, to the druids’ circle. We’re counting on the druids’ help . . .’
‘No help,’ said the girl with the bandaged arm in a ringing, metallic voice. ‘No help. Only blood. And a baptism of fire. Fire purifies. But also kills.’
Zoltan was dumbfounded. Regis gripped his arm tightly and gestured him to remain silent. Geralt, who could recognise a hypnotic trance, said nothing and did not move.
‘He who has spilt blood and he who has drunk blood,’ the girl said, her head still lowered, ‘shall pay in blood. Within three days one shall die in the other, and something shall die in each. They shall die inch by inch, piece by piece . . . And when finally the iron-shod clogs wear out and the tears dry, then the last shreds will pass. Even that which never dies shall die.’
‘Speak on,’ Regis said softly and gently. ‘What can you see?’
‘Fog. A tower in the fog. It is the Tower of Swallows . . . on a lake bound by ice.’
‘What else do you see?’
‘Fog.’
‘What do you feel?’
‘Pain . . .’
Regis had no time to ask another question. The girl jerked her head, screamed wildly, and whimpered. When she raised her eyes there really was nothing but fog in them.
Zoltan, Geralt recalled, still running his fingers over the rune-covered blade, started to respect Regis more after that incident, altogether dropping the familiar tone he normally used in conversations with the barber-surgeon.
Regis requested they did not say a single word to the others about the strange incident. The Witcher was not too concerned about it. He had seen similar trances in the past and tended towards the view that the ravings of people under hypnosis were not prophecy but the regurgitation of thoughts they had intercepted and the suggestions of the hypnotist. Of course in this case it was not hypnosis but a vampire spell, and Geralt mused over what else the girl might have picked up from Regis’s mind, had the trance lasted any longer.
They marched with the dwarves and their charges for half a day. Then Zoltan Chivay stopped the procession and took the Witcher aside.
‘It is time to part company,’ he declared briefly. ‘We have made a decision, Geralt. Mahakam is looming up to the north, and this valley leads straight to the mountains. We’ve had enough adventures. We’re going back home. To Mount Carbon.’
‘I understand.’
‘It’s nice that you want to understand. I wish you and your company luck. It’s a strange company, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘They want to help,’ the Witcher said softly. ‘That’s something new for me. Which is why I’ve decided not to enquire into their motives.’
‘That’s wise,’ Zoltan said, removing
the dwarven sihil in its lacquered scabbard, wrapped in catskins, from his back. ‘Here you go, take it. Before we go our separate ways.’
‘Zoltan . . .’
‘Don’t say anything, just take it. We’ll sit out the war in the mountains. We have no need of hardware. But it’ll be pleasant to recall, from time to time, that this Mahakam-forged sihil is in safe hands and whistles in a just cause. That it won’t bring shame on itself. And when you use the blade to slaughter your Ciri’s persecutors, take one down for Caleb Stratton. And remember Zoltan Chivay and the dwarven forges.’
‘You can be certain I will,’ Geralt said, taking the sword and slinging it across his back. ‘You can be certain I’ll remember. In this rotten world, Zoltan Chivay, goodness, honesty and integrity become deeply engraved in the memory.’
‘That is true,’ the dwarf said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Which is why I won’t forget about you and the marauders in the forest clearing, nor about Regis and the horseshoe in the coals. While we’re talking about reciprocity . . .’
He broke off, coughed, hawked and spat.
‘Geralt, we robbed a merchant near Dillingen. A wealthy man, who’d got rich as a hawker. We waylaid him after he’d loaded his gold and jewels onto a wagon and fled the city. He defended his property like a lion and was yelling for help, so he took a few blows of an axe butt to the pate and became as quiet as a lamb. Do you remember the chest we lugged along, then carried on the wagon, and finally buried in the earth by the River O? Well, it contained his goods. Stolen loot, which we intend to build our future on.’
‘Why are you telling me this, Zoltan?’
‘Because I reckon you were still being misled by false appearances not so long ago. What you took for goodness and integrity was rottenness hidden under a pretty mask. You’re easy to deceive, Witcher, because you don’t look into motives. But I don’t want to deceive you. So don’t look at those women and children . . . don’t take the dwarf who’s standing in front of you as virtuous and noble. Before you stands a thief, a robber and possibly even a murderer. Because I can’t be certain the hawker we roughed up didn’t die in the ditch by the Dillingen highway.’
A lengthy silence followed, as they both looked northwards at the distant mountains enveloped in clouds.
‘Farewell, Zoltan,’ Geralt finally said. ‘Perhaps the forces, the existence of which I’m slowly becoming convinced about, will permit us to meet again one day. I hope our paths cross again. I’d like to introduce Ciri to you, I’d like her to meet you. But even if it never happens, know that I won’t forget you. Farewell, dwarf.’
‘Will you shake my hand? Me, a thief and a thug?’
‘Without hesitation. Because I’m not as easy to deceive as I once was. Although I don’t enquire into people’s motives, I’m slowly learning the art of looking beneath masks.’
Geralt swung the sihil and bisected a moth that was flying past.
After parting with Zoltan and his group, he recalled, we happened upon a group of wandering peasants in the forest. Some of them took flight on seeing us, but Milva stopped a few by threatening them with her bow. The peasants, it turned out, had been captives of the Nilfgaardians not long before. They had been forced to fell cedar trees, but a few days ago their guards had been attacked and overcome by a unit of soldiers who freed them. Now they were going home. Dandelion insisted they describe their liberators. He pushed them aggressively and asked sharp questions.
‘Those soldiers,’ the peasant repeated, ‘they serve the White Queen. They’re giving the Black infantry a proper hiding! They said they’re carrying out baboon attacks on the enemy’s rear lines.’
‘What?’
‘I’m telling you, aren’t I? Baboon attacks.’
‘Bollocks to those baboons,’ Dandelion said, grimacing and waving a hand. ‘Good people . . . I asked you what banners the army were bearing.’
‘Divers ones, sire. Mainly cavalry. And the infantry were wearing something crimson.’
The peasant picked up a stick and described a rhombus in the sand.
‘A lozenge,’ Dandelion, who was well versed in heraldry, said in astonishment. ‘Not the Temerian lily, but a lozenge. Rivia’s coat of arms. Interesting. It’s two hundred miles from here to Rivia. Not to mention the fact that the armies of Lyria and Rivia were utterly annihilated during the fighting in Dol Angra and at Aldersberg, and Nilfgaard has since occupied the country. I don’t understand any of this!’
‘That’s normal,’ the Witcher interrupted. ‘Enough talking. We need to go.’
‘Ha!’ the poet cried. He had been pondering and analysing the information extracted from the peasants the whole time. ‘I’ve got it! Not baboons – guerrillas! Partisans! Do you see?’
‘We see.’ Cahir nodded. ‘In other words, a Nordling partisan troop is operating in the area. A few units, probably formed from the remains of the Lyrian and Rivian armies, which were defeated at Aldersberg in the middle of July. I heard about that battle while I was with the Squirrels.’
‘I consider the news heartening,’ Dandelion declared, proud he had been able to solve the mystery of the baboons. ‘Even if the peasants had confused the heraldic emblems, we don’t seem to be dealing with the Temerian Army. And I don’t think news has reached the Rivian guerrillas about the two spies who recently cheated Marshal Vissegerd’s gallows. Should we happen upon those partisans we have a chance to lie our way out of it.’
‘Yes, we have a chance . . .,’ Geralt agreed, calming the frolicking Roach. ‘But, to be honest, I’d prefer not to try our luck.’
‘But they’re your countrymen, Witcher,’ Regis said. ‘I mean, they call you Geralt of Rivia.’
‘A slight correction,’ he replied coldly. ‘I call myself that to make my name sound fancier. It’s an addition that inspires more trust in my clients.’
‘I see,’ the vampire said, smiling. ‘And why exactly did you choose Rivia?’
‘I drew sticks, marked with various grand-sounding names. My witcher preceptor suggested that method to me, although not initially. Only after I’d insisted on adopting the name Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. Vesemir thought it was ridiculous; pretentious and idiotic. I dare say he was right.’
Dandelion snorted loudly, looking meaningfully at the vampire and the Nilfgaardian.
‘My full name,’ Regis said, a little piqued by the look, ‘is authentic. And in keeping with vampire tradition.’
‘Mine too,’ Cahir hurried to explain. ‘Mawr is my mother’s given name, and Dyffryn my great-grandfather’s. And there’s nothing ridiculous about it, poet. And what’s your name, by the way? Dandelion must be a pseudonym.’
‘I can neither use nor betray my real name,’ the bard replied mysteriously, proudly putting on airs. ‘It’s too celebrated.’
‘It always sorely annoyed me,’ added Milva, who after being silent and gloomy for a long while had suddenly joined in the conversation, ‘when I was called pet names like Maya, Manya or Marilka. When someone hears a name like that they always think they can pinch a girl’s behind.’
It grew dark. The cranes flew off and their trumpeting faded into the distance. The breeze blowing from the hills subsided. The Witcher sheathed the sihil.
It was only this morning. This morning. And all hell broke loose in the afternoon.
We should have suspected earlier, he thought. But which of us, apart from Regis, knew anything about this kind of thing? Naturally everyone noticed that Milva often vomited at dawn. But we all ate grub that turned our stomachs. Dandelion puked once or twice too, and on one occasion Cahir got the runs so badly he feared it was dysentery. And the fact that the girl kept dismounting and going into the bushes, well I took it as a bladder infection . . .
I was an ass.
I think Regis realised the truth. But he kept quiet. He kept quiet until he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. When we stopped to make camp in a deserted woodmen’s shack, Milva led him into the forest, spoke to him at length and at times in qui
te a loud voice. The vampire returned from the forest alone. He brewed up and mixed some herbs, and then abruptly summoned us all to the shack. He began rather vaguely, in his annoying patronising manner.
‘I’m addressing all of you,’ Regis said. ‘We are, after all, a fellowship and bear collective responsibility. The fact that the one who bears ultimate responsibility . . . direct responsibility, so to speak . . . is probably not with us doesn’t change anything.’
‘Spit it out,’ Dandelion said, irritated. ‘Fellowship, responsibility . . . What’s the matter with Milva? What’s she suffering from?’
‘She’s not suffering from anything,’ Cahir said softly.
‘At least not strictly speaking,’ Regis added. ‘Milva’s pregnant.’
Cahir nodded to show it was as he suspected. Dandelion, however, was dumbstruck. Geralt bit his lip.
‘How far gone is she?’
‘She declined, quite rudely, to give any dates at all, including the date of her last period. But I’m something of an expert. The tenth week.’
‘Then refrain from your pompous appeals to direct responsibility,’ Geralt said sombrely. ‘It’s not one of us. If you had any doubts at all in this regard, I hereby dispel them. You were absolutely right, however, to talk about collective responsibility. She’s with us now. We have suddenly been promoted to the role of husbands and fathers. So let’s listen carefully to what the physician says.’
‘Wholesome, regular meals,’ Regis began to list. ‘No stress. Sufficient sleep. And soon the end of horseback riding.’
They were all quiet for a long time.
‘We hear you, Regis,’ Dandelion finally said. ‘My fellow husbands and fathers, we have a problem.’
‘It’s a bigger problem than you think,’ the vampire said. ‘Or a lesser one. It all depends on one’s point of view.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well you ought to,’ Cahir muttered.
‘She demanded,’ Regis began a short while later, ‘that I prepare and give her a strong and powerful . . . medicament. She considers it a remedy for the problem. Her mind is made up.’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 103
