The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  When we reached the Yaruga there were already plenty of Nilfgaardians there who had crossed the reconstructed bridge at the Red Timber Port and were continuing the offensive against Angren; and probably further, against Temeria, Mahakam and the Devil only knows where else the Nilfgaardian general staff was planning to attack. Crossing the river right away was out of the question; we had to hide and wait for the army to move on. So for two whole days we hunkered in the riverside osiers, cultivating rheumatism and feeding the mosquitoes. To make matters worse, the weather soon declined: it drizzled, was windy as hell, and our teeth were chattering from the cold. I do not recall such a cold September among the many Septembers engraved in my memory. It was then, my dear reader, having found paper and pencil among the supplies borrowed from the Lyrian convoys, to kill time and forget about our discomforts, that I began to record and immortalise some of our adventures.

  The foul rainy weather and enforced inactivity spoiled our mood and prompted various dark thoughts. Particularly in the Witcher. Geralt had long since begun counting the days separating him from Ciri; and each day we were not on the road pushed him – in his opinion – further and further away from the girl. Now, in the wet osiers, in the cold and rain, the Witcher became gloomier and more evil with each passing hour. I also noticed he was limping heavily, and when he thought no one could see or hear he swore and hissed from the pain. For you ought to know, dear reader, that Geralt had suffered broken bones during the sorcerers’ rebellion on the Isle of Thanedd. The fractures had knitted and been healed thanks to the magical efforts of the dryads of Brokilon Forest, but apparently had not stopped troubling him. Thus the Witcher was suffering, so to say, from both bodily and spiritual pain. It made him absolutely livid, so we steered clear of him.

  And once again he was persecuted by dreams. On the morning of the ninth of September, while he was sleeping off his guard duty, he terrified us all by springing up with a cry and drawing his sword. It looked as though he were in a frenzy, but fortunately it subsided at once.

  He went away, but was soon to return with a gloomy demeanour. He announced, in so many words, that he was breaking up the company with immediate effect and continuing on his way alone, since awful things were occurring somewhere, time was running out, it was becoming dangerous, and he didn’t want to put anyone at risk or take responsibility for anyone. He talked and argued so tediously and unconvincingly that no one wanted to discuss it with him. Even the usually eloquent vampire dismissed him with a shrug, Milva by spitting, and Cahir with the terse reminder that he was responsible for himself, and that as far as risks went he did not carry a sword to give his belt ballast. Afterwards, however, everybody fell silent and stared knowingly at the undersigned, no doubt expecting me to avail myself of the opportunity and go back home. I probably do not have to say that they were most disappointed.

  The incident persuaded us, nonetheless, to discard our lethargy and drove us to a bold deed; that of crossing the Yaruga. I confess that the undertaking aroused my anxiety, for the plan was to swim across at night; to quote Milva and Cahir, ‘hanging on to the horses’ tails’. Even if it had been a metaphor – and I suspect it was not – I somehow could not imagine it for myself or my steed, Pegasus, upon whose tail I would have to depend during the crossing. Swimming, to put it mildly, was – and is – not one of my strong points. Had Mother Nature wanted me to swim, in the act of creation and the process of evolution she would have equipped me with webbed fingers. And the same applied to Pegasus.

  My fears turned out to be in vain, at least with regard to swimming behind a horse’s tail. For we crossed using a different method. Who knows if it was not even more insane? We crossed in a truly impudent manner; beneath the reconstructed bridge at the Red Timber Port, under the very noses of the Nilfgaardian guard and patrols. The undertaking, it turned out, only appeared to be a demented effrontery and mortal gamble, and in reality passed off without a hitch. After the frontline units had crossed the bridge, transport after transport, vehicle after vehicle, flock after flock wandered this way and that. There were also crowds of various kinds, including civilian flotsam and jetsam, among which our company did not stand out at all, nor were we conspicuous. Thus on the tenth day of September we all crossed to the left bank of the Yaruga, only once being hailed by the guard, at whom Cahir, wrinkling his brow imperiously, shouted back something menacing about imperial service, backing up his words with the classically military and ever effective ‘for fuck’s sake’. Before anyone had time to grow curious about us, we were already on the left bank of the Yaruga and deep in the Riverdell forest; for there was only a single highway there, heading south, and neither the direction nor the profusion of Nilfgaardians hanging around it suited us.

  At our first camp in the forests of Riverdell I was also visited at night by a strange dream. Unlike Geralt’s it was not about Ciri, but the sorceress Yennefer. The dream was curious, unsettling; Yennefer, in black and white as usual, was hovering in the air above a huge, grim mountain castle, and from below other sorceresses were shaking their fists and hurling abuse at her. Yennefer swirled the long sleeves of her dress and flew away, like a black albatross, over the boundless sea, straight into the rising sun. From that moment the dream transformed into a nightmare. On awaking the details vanished from my memory, and there remained only vague, not very sensible, images, but they were ghastly: of torture, screaming, pain, fear and death . . . In a word: horror.

  I did not share that dream with Geralt. Not a word did I breathe of it. And rightly so, as it later turned out.

  *

  ‘She was called Yennefer! Yennefer of Vengerberg. And she was a most famous sorceress! May I not live to see the dawn if I lie!’

  Triss Merigold shuddered and turned, trying to see through the crowd and blue smoke densely filling the tavern’s main chamber. She finally rose from the table, somewhat regretfully abandoning a fillet of sole in anchovy butter, a local speciality and a genuine delicacy. She was not roaming the taverns and inns of Bremervoord to eat delicacies, however, but to obtain information. Apart from that, she had to watch her figure.

  The crowd of people she had to squeeze among was already dense and tight; in Bremervoord people loved stories and passed up no opportunity to listen to new ones. And the sailors who visited there in great numbers never disappointed; they always had a fresh new repertoire of sea tales. Naturally, the vast majority were invented, but that didn’t make the slightest difference. A tale is a tale. And has its own rules.

  The woman who was telling the story – and who had mentioned Yennefer – was a fisherwoman from the Isles of Skellige; stout, broad-shouldered, with close-cropped hair, and – like her four companions – dressed in a waistcoat of narwhal skin, worn to a sheen.

  ‘It were the nineteenth day of the month of August, in the morning after the second night of the full moon,’ the islander began, raising a mug of ale to her lips. Her hand, Triss noticed, was the colour of old brick, and her exposed, knotty arm must easily have measured twenty inches in girth. Triss’s waist measured twenty-two.

  ‘At the crack of dawn,’ the fisherwoman continued, her eyes sweeping over her audience’s faces, ‘our smack put to sea, into the sound ‘twixt An Skellig and Spikeroog, to the oyster grounds, where we usually set our salmon gillnets. We made great haste, for a storm were nigh, the heavens darkening cruelly from the West. We ‘ad to pluck the salmon from the nets quick, for otherwise, as you knows yoursel’, when at last, after a storm, you can venture forth to sea, only rotten, chewed heads remain in the nets, and all the catch is for naught.’

  Her audience, residents of Bremervoord and Cidaris in the main, mostly living from the sea and dependent on it for their existence, nodded and murmured their understanding. Triss usually saw salmon in the form of pink slices, but also nodded and murmured, because she didn’t want to stand out. She was there incognito, on a secret mission.

  ‘We sail into port . . .’ the fisherwoman went on, draining her mug and indicating tha
t one of the listeners could buy her another. ‘We sail in and are a-emptyin’ the nets and blow me if Gudrun, Sturla’s daughter, doesn’t start yelling at the top of her voice! And pointing to starboard! We look, and summat’s flying through the air, and it ain’t a bird! My heart stopped for a tick, for at once I’m thinking it’s a wyvern or young gryphon, they sometimes fly over Spikeroog, true enough, but generally in the winter, usually with a west wind a-blowing. But meanwhile that black thing, if it don’t splash into the water! And a wave shoves it! Direckly into our nets. It gets tangled up in the net and splashes around in the water like a seal, then all of us – we were eight fishwives in all – catch the net and heave it on board! And do our gobs fall open! Blow me if it ain’t a woman! In a black gown, as black as any crow. She’s all caught up in the net, ‘twixt two salmon, of which one – as I live and breathe – must of weighed almost three stone!’

  The fisherwoman from Skellige blew the froth from her refilled mug and took a deep draught. None of the listeners commented or expressed any disbelief, although not even the oldest among them could remember a salmon of such impressive weight being landed.

  ‘The black-haired woman in the net,’ the islander continued, ‘is coughing, spitting seawater and thrashing about, and Gudrun, who’s expecting, is frantically yelling “It’s a kelpie! A kelpie! A havfrue!” But any fool could see it weren’t no kelpie, for a kelpie would of ripped up the net long since; and besides, what monster would let itself be a-lugged onto a fishing smack? And it ain’t no havfrue neither, for it don’t ‘ave a fishy tail, and a mermaid always ‘as one! And it fell into the sea from the sky, didn’t it, and who’s seen a kelpie or havfrue flying in the sky? But Skadi, Una’s daughter, she’s always hasty, so she starts yelling “Kelpie!” too and ups and grabs the gaff! And aims at the net with it! And there’s a blue flash from the net and Skadi squeals! The gaff goes left, she goes right, strike me down if I’m lying, she throws three somersets and bangs arse-down on the deck! Ha, turns out a sorceress in a net’s worse than a jellyfish, a scorpena or a numbing eel! And on top o’ that the witch starts cursing something ‘orrible! And the net starts a-hissing, a-stinking and a-steaming, as she works ‘er magic inside! We sees it won’t be no picnic . . .’

  The islander drained her mug and wasted no time in reaching for the next one.

  ‘Ain’t no picnic–’ she belched loudly, and wiped her nose and mouth ‘–to catch a witch in a net! We can feel – as I live and breathe – that the magic’s making the smack roll harder. No time to ‘ang around! Britta, Karen’s daughter, presses the net with ‘er foot, and I grabs an oar and whack! Whack!! Whack!!!’

  The ale splashed high and spilled over the table, and several mugs fell on the floor. The listeners wiped their cheeks and brows, but none of them uttered a word of complaint or admonishment. A tale is a tale. And has its own rules.

  ‘The witch understood who she were up agin’.’ The fisherwoman stuck out her ample bosom and gazed around defiantly. ‘And that you can’t fool around with the fishwives of Skellige! She said she were surrenderin’ to us willin’ like, and vowed not to cast any charms or incantations. And gave ‘er name as Yennefer of Vengerberg.’

  Her listeners murmured. Barely two months had passed since the events on the Isle of Thanedd, and the names of the traitors bribed by Nilfgaard were remembered. The name of the celebrated Yennefer too.

  ‘We takes ‘er,’ the fisherwoman continued, ‘to jarl Crach an Craite in Kaer Trolde on Ard Skellig. Never seen her after that. The jarl was away on an expedition, but they said when he returned he first received the witch harshly, but later treated her polite and courteous. Hmm . . . And I was just waiting to see what kind of surprise the sorceress would conjure up for me for whacking her with an oar. I thought she’d badmouth me before the jarl. But no. Never said a word, never complained, I know that. Honrable witch. Afterwards, when she killed herself I even felt sorry for ‘er . . .’

  ‘Yennefer’s dead?’ Triss screamed, so overwhelmed she forgot about the importance of remaining incognito and the secrecy of her mission. ‘Yennefer of Vengerberg’s dead?’

  ‘Aye, she’s dead,’ the fisherwoman said, finishing her beer. ‘Dead as a doornail. Killed ‘erself with her own charms, making magic spells. Didn’t ‘appen long since, last day of August, just ‘fore the new moon. But that’s quite another story . . .’

  *

  ‘Dandelion! You’re asleep in the saddle!’

  ‘I’m not asleep. I’m thinking creatively!’

  *

  So we rode, dear reader, through the forests of Riverdell, heading East, towards Caed Dhu, searching for the druids who were meant to help us to find Ciri. I shall tell you how it went. Before that, though, for the sake of historical truth, I shall write a little about our company and each of its members.

  The vampire Regis was more than four hundred years old. If he was not lying, it meant he was the oldest of us all. Of course, it might have been poppycock, but who could check? I preferred to suppose that our vampire was being truthful, for he had also declared that he had given up drinking people’s blood irrevocably and for good. Owing to that declaration we fell asleep more calmly in our camps. I noticed that in the beginning, Milva and Cahir would fearfully and anxiously feel their necks after awaking, but they quickly stopped doing that. The vampire Regis was – or seemed to be – an utterly honourable vampire. If he said he would not drink their blood, then he would not.

  He did possess flaws, however, which did not result at all from his vampiric nature. Regis was an intellectual, and liked to demonstrate it. He had the annoying habit of giving statements and truths with the tone and expression of a prophet, to which we swiftly stopped reacting, since the statements he gave were either genuine truths, or sounded like the truth, or could not be proved, which, in essence, amounted to the same thing. But what was truly unbearable was Regis’s habit of answering a question before the person asking had finished formulating it – why, occasionally even before the questioner had begun formulating it. I always took that seeming expression of supposed high intelligence more as an expression of boorishness and arrogance; and those qualities, which suit university or courtly circles, are hard to bear in a companion with whom one travels stirrup by stirrup, day in day out, and who sleeps under the same blanket at night. Serious squabbles did not, however, occur, owing to Milva. Unlike Geralt and Cahir, whose inborn opportunism evidently allowed them to adapt to the vampire’s mannerism, and even led them to compete with him in that regard, the archer Milva preferred simple and unpretentious solutions. When Regis, for the third time, gave her an answer to a question as she was halfway through asking, she cursed him roundly, using words and expressions capable of making even a hoary mercenary blush in embarrassment. Surprisingly enough it worked; the vampire lost his annoying mannerism in the blink of an eye. The conclusion thus being that the most effective defence against intellectual domination is roundly to affront the domineering intellectual.

  Milva, it seems to me, had been greatly affected by her tragic accident – and loss. I write ‘it seems to me’ for I am aware that being a man I cannot imagine what such a loss means for a woman. Though I am a poet and a man of the quill, even my educated and trained imagination betrays me here and I can do nothing.

  The archer swiftly regained her physical fitness, which could not be said for her mental state. It often happened that she would not utter a word throughout the whole day, from dawn to dusk. She would disappear and remain isolated, which worried everyone somewhat. Until finally a crisis occurred. Milva released the tension like a dryad or a she-elf; violently, impulsively and not very comprehensibly. One morning, in front of our eyes, she drew a knife and without a word cut off her plait just above her shoulders. ‘It doesn’t befit me, for I’m not a maiden,’ she said, seeing our jaws hanging open. ‘But nor am I a widow,’ she added, ‘so that’s the end of my mourning.’ From that moment on she was her old self; brusque, biting, mouthy and inclined to use un
parliamentary language. From which we happily concluded that she had come through the crisis.

  The third – and no less curious – member of the company was the Nilfgaardian, who kept trying to prove he was not one. He was called, so he claimed, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach . . .

  *

  ‘Cahir Mawr Dyffryn, son of Ceallach,’ Dandelion declared, pointing his pencil at the Nilfgaardian, ‘I have reconciled myself with many things which I don’t like, and actually can’t stand, in this honourable company. But not with everything! I can’t bear it when people look over my shoulder when I’m writing! And I don’t intend to put up with it!’

  The Nilfgaardian moved away from the poet, and after a moment’s thought seized his saddle, sheepskin and blanket and dragged them over to Milva, who was dozing.

  ‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘Forgive my obtrusiveness, Dandelion. I glanced involuntarily, out of pure curiosity. I thought you were creating a map or drawing up some tallies—’

  ‘I’m not a bookkeeper!’ the poet said, losing his temper and standing up. ‘Nor am I a cartographer! But even if I were, it doesn’t justify taking a sly look at my notes!’