‘How do you plan to do it?’
‘I’m an officer, don’t forget. Climb up that pier and onto the bridge!’
On the bridge, Cahir demonstrated that he was indeed experienced at bringing panicked soldiers under control.
‘Where are you going, scum? Where are you going, bastards?’ he yelled. Each roar was accompanied by a punch, as he knocked a fleeing soldier down onto the bridge’s boards. ‘Stop! Stop, you fucking swine!’
Some – but far from all – of the fleeing soldiers stopped, terrified by the roaring and flashing of the sword Cahir was whirling dramatically. Others tried to sneak behind his back. But Geralt had already drawn his sword and joined the spectacle.
‘Where are you going?’ he shouted, catching one of the soldiers in his tracks in a powerful grip. ‘Where? Stand fast! Get back there!’
‘Nilfgaard, sire!’ the soldier screamed. ‘It’s a bloodbath! Let me go!’
‘Cowards!’ Dandelion roared in a voice Geralt had never heard, as he clambered onto the bridge. ‘Base cowards! Chickenhearts! Would you flee to save your skins? To live out your days in ignominy, you varlets?’
‘They are too many, Sir Knight! We stand no chance!’
‘The centurion’s fallen . . .’ another of them moaned. ‘The decurions have taken flight! Death is coming!’
‘We must run!’
‘Your comrades,’ Cahir yelled, brandishing his sword, ‘are still fighting on the bridgehead and at the port! They are still fighting! Dishonour will be his who does not go to their aid! Follow me!’
‘Dandelion,’ the Witcher hissed. ‘Get down onto the island. You and Regis will have to get Milva onto the left bank somehow. Well, what are you waiting for?’
‘Follow me, boys!’ Cahir repeated, whirling his sword. ‘Follow me if the Gods are dear to you! To the timber port! Death to the dogs!’
About a dozen soldiers shook their weapons and took up the cry, their voices expressing very varied degrees of conviction. About a dozen of the men who had already run away turned back in shame and joined the ragtag army on the bridge. An army which was suddenly being led by the Witcher and the Nilfgaardian.
They might really have set off for the timber port, but the bridgehead was suddenly black with the cavalrymen’s cloaks. The Nilfgaardians broke through the defence and forced their way onto the bridge. Horseshoes thudded on the planking. Some of the soldiers who had been stopped darted away, others stood indecisively. Cahir cursed. In Nilfgaardian. But no one apart from the Witcher paid any attention to it.
‘What has been started must be finished,’ Geralt snapped, gripping his sword tightly. ‘Let’s get them! We have to spur our men into action.’
‘Geralt,’ Cahir said, stopping and looking at him uncertainly. ‘Do you want me to . . . to kill my own? I can’t . . .’
‘I don’t give a shit about this war,’ the Witcher said, grinding his teeth. ‘This is about Milva. You joined the company, so make a choice. Follow me or join the black cloaks. But do it quickly.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
And so it was that a witcher and a Nilfgaardian roared savagely, whirled their swords and leapt forward together without a second thought – two brothers in arms, two allies and comrades – in an encounter with their common foe, in an uneven battle. And that was their baptism of fire. A baptism of shared fighting, fury, madness and death. They were going to their deaths, the two of them. Or so they thought. For they could not know that they would not die that day, on that bridge over the River Yaruga. They did not know that they were both destined for other deaths, in other places and times.
The Nilfgaardians had silver scorpions embroidered on their sleeves. Cahir slashed two of them with quick blows of his long sword, and Geralt cut up two more with blows of his sihil. Then he jumped onto the bridge’s railing, running along it to attack the rest. He was a witcher and keeping his balance was a trifle to him, but his acrobatic feat astonished the attackers. And amazed they died, from blows of his dwarven blade, which cut through their hauberks as though they were made of wool, their blood splashing the bridge’s polished timbers.
Seeing their commanders’ valour the now larger army on the bridge raised a cheer, a roar which expressed returning morale and a growing fighting spirit. And so it was that the previously panicked fugitives attacked the Nilfgaardians like fierce wolves, slashing with swords and battle-axes, stabbing with spears and halberds and striking with clubs and maces. The railing broke and horses plunged into the river with their black-cloaked riders. The roaring army hurtled onto the bridgehead, pushing their chance commanders ahead of them, not letting Geralt and Cahir do what they wanted to do. For they wanted to withdraw quietly, return to help Milva and flee to the left bank.
A battle was still raging at the timber port. The Nilfgaardians had surrounded and cut off the soldiers – who had not yet fled – from the bridge. Those in turn were defending themselves ferociously behind barricades built from cedar and pine logs. At the sight of the reinforcements the handful of soldiers raised a joyful cry. A little too hastily, however. The tight wedge of reinforcements swept the Nilfgaardians off the bridge. But now a flanking cavalry counter-attack began on the bridgehead. Had it not been for the barricades and timber port’s woodpiles, which inhibited both escape and the cavalry’s momentum, the infantry would have been scattered in an instant. Pressed against the woodpiles, the soldiers took up a fierce fight.
For Geralt it was something he did not know, a completely new kind of fighting. Swordsmanship was out of the question, it was simply a chaotic melee; a ceaseless parrying of blows falling from every direction. However, he continued to take advantage of the rather undeserved privilege of being the commander; the soldiers crowded around him covering his flanks, protected his back and cleared the area in front of him, creating space for him to strike and mortally wound. But it was becoming more and more cramped. The Witcher and his army found themselves fighting shoulder to shoulder with the bloody and exhausted handful of soldiers – mainly dwarven mercenaries – defending the barricade. They fought, surrounded on all sides.
And then came fire.
One side of the barricade, located between the timber port and the bridge, had been a huge pile of pine branches, as spiky as a hedgehog, an unsurmountable obstacle to horses and infantry. Now that pile was on fire; someone had thrown a burning brand into it. The defenders retreated, assaulted by flames and smoke. Crowded together, blinded, hampering each other, they began to die under the blows of the attacking Nilfgaardians.
Cahir saved the day. Making use of his military experience, he did not allow the soldiers gathering around him on the barricade to be surrounded. He had been cut off from Geralt’s group, but was now returning. He had even managed to acquire a horse in a black caparison, and now, hacking in all directions with his sword, he charged at the flank. Behind him, yelling wildly, halberdiers and spearmen in red-lozenged tunics forced their way into the gap.
Geralt put his fingers together and struck the burning pile with the Aard Sign. He did not expect any great effect, since he had been forced to make do without his witcher elixirs for several weeks. But he succeeded nonetheless. The pile of branches exploded and fell apart, showering sparks around.
‘Follow me!’ he roared, slashing a Nilfgaardian’s temple when the man was trying to push his way onto the barricade. ‘Follow me! Through the fire!’
And so they set off, scattering the still-burning pyre with their spears, throwing the flaming brands they had picked up with their bare hands at the Nilfgaardian horses.
A baptism of fire, the Witcher thought, furiously striking and parrying blows. I was meant to pass through fire for Ciri. And I’m passing through fire in a battle which is of no interest to me at all. Which I don’t understand in any way. The fire that was meant to purify me is just scorching my hair and face.
The blood he was splattered with hissed and steamed.
‘Onward, comrades! Cahir! To me!’
&nb
sp; ‘Geralt!’ Cahir shouted, sweeping another Nilfgaardian from the saddle. ‘To the bridge! Force your way through to the bridge! We’ll close ranks . . .’
He did not finish, for a cavalryman in a black breastplate, without a helmet, with flowing, bloodied hair, galloped at him. Cahir parried a blow of the rider’s long sword, but was thrown from his horse, which sat down on its haunches. The Nilfgaardian leant over to pin him to the ground with his sword. But he did not. He stayed his thrust. The silver scorpion on his breastplate flashed.
‘Cahir!’ he cried in astonishment. ‘Cahir aep Ceallach!’
‘Morteisen . . .’ no less astonishment could be heard in the voice of Cahir, spread-eagled on the ground.
A dwarven mercenary running alongside Geralt in a blackened and charred tunic with a red lozenge didn’t waste time being astonished by anything. He plunged his bear spear powerfully into the Nilfgaardian’s belly, unseating the enemy with the impetus of the blow. Another leapt forward, stamping on the fallen cavalryman’s black breastplate with a heavy boot, and thrust his spear’s blade straight into his throat. The Nilfgaardian wheezed, puking blood and raking the sand with his spurs.
At the same moment the Witcher received a blow in the base of his spine with something very heavy and very hard. His knees buckled beneath him. Falling, he heard a great, triumphant roar. He saw the horsemen in black cloaks fleeing into the trees. He heard the bridge thundering beneath the hooves of the cavalry arriving from the left bank, carrying a banner with an eagle surrounded by red lozenges.
And thus, for Geralt, ended the great battle for the bridge on the Yaruga. A battle which later chroniclers did not, of course, even mention.
‘Don’t worry, my lord,’ the field surgeon said, tapping and feeling the Witcher’s back. ‘The bridge is down. We aren’t in danger of being attacked from the other bank. Your comrades and the woman are also safe. Is she your wife?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, and I thought . . . For it’s always dreadful, sire, when pregnant women suffer in wars . . .’
‘Be silent. Not a word about it. What are those banners?’
‘Don’t you know who you were fighting for? Who would have thought such a thing were possible . . . That’s the Lyrian Army. See, the black Lyrian eagle and the red Rivian lozenges. Good, I’m done here. It was only a bump. Your back will hurt a little, but it’s nothing. You’ll recover.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I should be thanking you. Had you not held the bridge, Nilfgaard would have slaughtered us on the far bank, forcing us back into the water. We wouldn’t have been able to flee from them . . . You saved the queen! Well, farewell, sire. I have to go, others need me to tend to their wounds.’
‘Thanks.’
He sat on a log in the port, weary, sore and apathetic. Alone. Cahir had disappeared somewhere. The golden-green Yaruga flowed between the piers of the ruined bridge, sparkling in the light of the sun, which was setting in the west.
He raised his head, hearing steps, the clatter of horseshoes and the clanking of armour.
‘This is he, Your Majesty. Let me help you dismount . . .’
‘Thtay away.’
Geralt lifted up his eyes. Before him stood a woman in a suit of armour, a woman with very pale hair, almost as pale as his own. He saw that the hair was not fair, but grey, although the woman’s face did not bear the marks of old age. A mature age, indeed. But not old age.
The woman pressed a batiste handkerchief with lace hems to her lips. The handkerchief was heavily blood-stained.
‘Rise, sire,’ one of the knights standing alongside whispered to Geralt. ‘And pay homage. It is the Queen.’
The Witcher stood up. And bowed, overcoming the pain in his lower back.
‘Did you thafeguard the bridge?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The woman took the handkerchief away from her mouth and spat blood. Several red drops fell on her ornamented breastplate.
‘Her Royal Highness Meve, Queen of Lyria and Rivia,’ said a knight in a purple cloak decorated with gold embroidery, standing beside the woman, ‘is asking if you led the heroic defence of the bridge on the Yaruga?’
‘It just seemed to happen.’
‘Theemed to happen?’ the queen said, trying to laugh, but not having much success. She scowled, swore foully but indistinctly, and spat again. Before she had time to cover her mouth he saw a nasty wound, and noticed she lacked several teeth. She caught his eye.
‘Yes,’ she said behind her handkerchief, looking him in the eye. ‘Thome thon-of-a-bitch thmacked me right in the fathe. A trifle.’
‘Queen Meve,’ the knight in the purple cloak announced, ‘fought in the front line, like a man, like a knight, opposing the superior forces of Nilfgaard! The wound hurts, but does not shame her! And you saved her and our corps. After some traitors had captured and hijacked the ferryboat, that bridge became our only hope. And you defended it valiantly . . .’
‘Thtop, Odo. What ith your name, hero?’
‘Mine?’
‘Certainly,’ the knight in purple said, looking at him menacingly. ‘What is the matter with you? Are you wounded? Injured? Were you struck in the head?’
‘No.’
‘Then answer the Queen! You see, do you not, that she is wounded in the mouth and has difficulty speaking!’
‘Thtop that, Odo.’
The purple knight bowed and then glanced at Geralt.
‘Your name?’
Very well, he thought. I’ve had enough of this. I will not lie.
‘Geralt.’
‘Geralt from where?’
‘From nowhere.’
‘Has no one bethtowed a knighthood on you?’ Meve asked, once more decorating the sand beneath her feet with a red splash of saliva mixed with blood.
‘I beg your pardon? No, no. Nobody has. Your Majesty.’
Meve drew her sword.
‘Kneel.’
He obeyed, still unable to believe what was happening. He was still thinking of Milva and the route he had chosen for her, fearing the swamps of Ysgith.
The queen turned to the Purple Knight.
‘You will thpeak the formula. I am toothleth.’
‘For outstanding valour in the fight for a just cause,’ the Purple Knight recited with emphasis. ‘For showing proof of virtue, honour and loyalty to the Crown, I, Meve, by grace of the Gods the Queen of Lyria and Rivia, by my power, right and privilege dub you a knight. Serve us faithfully. Bear this blow, shirk not away from pain.’
Geralt felt the touch of the blade on his shoulder. He looked into the queen’s pale green eyes. Meve spat thick red gore, pressed the handkerchief to her face, and winked at him over the lace.
The Purple Knight walked over to her and whispered something. The Witcher heard the words: ‘predicate’, ‘Rivian lozenges’, ‘banner’ and ‘virtue’.
‘That ith tho,’ Meve said, nodding. She spoke more and more clearly, overcoming the pain and sticking her tongue in the gap left by missing teeth. ‘You held the bridge with tholdierth of Rivia, valiant Geralt of nowhere. It jutht theemed to happen, ha, ha. Well, it hath come to me to give you a predicate for that deed: Geralt of Rivia. Ha, ha.’
‘Bow, sir knight,’ the Purple Knight hissed.
The freshly dubbed knight, Geralt of Rivia, bowed low, so that Queen Meve, his suzerain, would not see the smile – the bitter smile – that he was unable to resist.
The Tower of the Swallow
Dedication
To Dun Dâre they came at dead of night For to seek the witcher maid
They ringed the hamlet from all sides And sealed it with a barricade
Seize her they would in perfidy
But their plans were all in vain
Ere the sun arose on the frozen road
Three dozen brigands lay slain
A beggar’s song about the frightful massacre which took place in Dun Dâre on Samhain Eve
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘I can give you everything you desire,’ said the fortune-teller. ‘Riches, power and influence, fame and a long and happy life. Choose.’
‘I wish for neither riches nor fame, neither power nor influence,’ rejoined the witcher girl. ‘I wish for a horse, as black and swift as a nightly gale. I wish for a sword, as bright and keen as a moonbeam. I wish to overstride the world on my black horse through the black night. I wish to smite the forces of Evil and Darkness with my luminous blade. This I would have.’
‘I shall give you a horse, blacker than the night and fleeter than a nightly gale,’ vowed the fortune-teller. ‘I shall give you a sword, brighter and keener than a moonbeam. But you demand much, witcher girl, thus you must pay me dearly.’
‘With what? For I have nothing.’
‘With your blood.’
Flourens Delannoy, Fairy Tales and Stories
CHAPTER ONE
As is generally known, the Universe – like life – describes a wheel. A wheel on whose rim eight magical points are etched, making a complete turn; the annual cycle. These points, lying on the rim in pairs directly opposite each other, include Imbolc, or Budding; Lughnasadh, or Mellowing; Beltane, or Blooming; and Samhain, or Dying. Also marked on the wheel are the two Solstices, the winter one called Midinvaerne and Midaëte, for the summer. There are also the two Equinoxes – Birke, in spring, and Velen, in autumn. These dates divide the circle into eight parts – and so in the elven calendar the year is also divided up like that.
When they landed on the beaches in the vicinity of the Yaruga and the Pontar, people brought with them their own calendar, based on the moon, which divided the year into twelve months, giving the farmer’s annual working cycle – from the beginning, with the markers in January, until the end, when the frost turns the sod into a hard lump. But although people divided up the year and reckoned dates differently, they accepted the elven wheel and the eight points around its rim. Adopted from the elven calendar, Imbolc and Lughnasadh, Samhain and Beltane, both Solstices and both Equinoxes became important holidays, sacred tides for human folk. They stood out from the other dates as a lone tree stands out in a meadow.
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