The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘How did I know you’d say that?’

  ‘That’s not the point, Madam Fringilla—’ began the vampire. The sorceress didn’t let him finish.

  ‘What is the point then?’ she asked aggressively. ‘That he’s with me? That we are joined by affection? That I don’t want him to leave now? That I don’t want a sense of guilt to destroy him? That same sense of guilt, that atonement, which drove you all onto the road?’

  Regis said nothing. Cahir didn’t speak either. Angoulême watched, clearly not understanding very much.

  ‘If it is written in the scrolls of destiny,’ the sorceress said after a moment, ‘that Geralt will win Ciri back, then it shall happen. Irrespective of whether the Witcher goes into the mountains or whether he stays in Toussaint. Destiny catches up with people. And not the other way around. Do you understand that? Do you understand that, Lord Regis Terzieff-Godefroy?’

  ‘Better than you think, Madam Vigo.’ The vampire twiddled the wooden peg from the sausage. ‘But for me – please forgive me – destiny isn’t a scroll written on by a Great Demiurge, nor the will of heaven, nor the inevitable verdict of some providence or other, but the result of many apparently unconnected facts, events and occurrences. I would be inclined to agree with you that destiny catches up with people . . . and not just people. But the view that it can’t be the other way around doesn’t convince me. For such a view is facile fatalism, a paean praising torpor and indolence, a warm eiderdown and the beguiling warmth of a woman’s loins. In short, life in a dream. And life, Madam Vigo, may be a dream, may also finish as a dream . . . But it’s a dream that has to be dreamed actively. Which is why, Madam Vigo, the road awaits us.’

  ‘Suit yourselves.’ Fringilla stood up, almost as suddenly as Milva a moment earlier. ‘As you wish! Blizzards, frost and destiny await you in the mountain passes. And the expiation you so sorely search for. Suit yourselves! But the Witcher shall stay here. In Toussaint! With me!’

  ‘I think,’ the vampire said calmly, ‘that you are wrong, Madam Vigo. The dream that the Witcher is dreaming, I humbly submit with respect, is an enchanting and beautiful one. But every dream, if dreamed too long, turns into a nightmare. And we awake from such dreams screaming.’

  *

  The nine women sitting around the great round table in Montecalvo Castle were looking fixedly at Fringilla Vigo. At Fringilla, who suddenly began to stammer.

  ‘Geralt left for the Pomerol vineyard on the morning of the eighth of January. And returned . . . at eight in the evening . . . or nine in the morning . . . I don’t know . . . I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘Organise your thoughts,’ Sheala de Tancarville said gently. ‘Please speak more coherently, Madam Vigo. And if part of the story discomfits you, you may simply pass over it.’

  *

  The speckled hen, treading cautiously on its clawed feet, was walking around the kitchen. The smell of chicken broth was in the air.

  The door slammed open. Geralt rushed into the kitchen. He had a bruise and a purple and red scab on his windburned face.

  ‘Come on, company, get packed,’ he announced without unnecessary introductions. ‘We’re riding out! In an hour, and not a moment longer, I want to see you all on the hillock outside the town, by that post. Packed, in the saddle, ready for a long ride and a difficult one.’

  That was enough. It was as though they’d been waiting for this news for a long time, as though they’d been in readiness for a long time.

  ‘I’ll be ready in a flash!’ yelled Milva, leaping up. ‘I’ll be ready in half an hour!’

  ‘I will too.’ Cahir stood up, discarded a spoon and looked closely at the Witcher. ‘But I’d like to know what it is. A whim? A lovers’ tiff? Or are we really leaving?’

  ‘We really are. Angoulême, why are you making faces?’

  ‘Geralt, I—’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not leaving you. I’ve changed my mind. You need looking after, my girl, I can’t let you out of my sight. To horse, I said, get packed and fasten on your saddlebags. And singly, so as not to raise suspicion, outside the town, by the post on the hillock. We’ll meet there in an hour.’

  ‘Without fail, Geralt!’ yelled Angoulême. ‘At fucking last!’

  In the blink of an eye all that was left in the kitchen were Geralt and the speckled hen. And the vampire, who went on calmly slurping chicken broth and dumplings.

  ‘Are you waiting for a special invitation?’ the Witcher asked coldly. ‘Why are you still sitting here? Rather than loading up Draakul the mule? And saying goodbye to the succubus?’

  ‘Geralt,’ Regis said calmly, giving himself a second helping from the tureen. ‘I need as long to say goodbye to the succubus as you do to your raven-haired beauty. Assuming you have any intention of saying goodbye to her. And just between you and I, you can send the youngsters to get packed by shouting, hastening and making a fuss. I deserve something else, if only for reasons of age. A few words of explanation, please.’

  ‘Regis—’

  ‘An explanation, Geralt. The quicker you begin the better. Yesterday morning, in accordance with your agreement, you met the steward of Pomerol vineyard at the gate . . .’

  *

  Alcides Fierabras, the black-bearded steward of the Pomerol vineyard he’d met in The Pheasantry on Yule Eve, was waiting for the Witcher at the gate, with a mule, and he in turn was dressed and equipped as though planning to journey far, far away, to the ends of the earth, beyond the Solveiga Gate and the Elskerdeg pass.

  ‘It’s close, but as a matter of fact it isn’t,’ he responded to Geralt’s sour remark. ‘You are, sire, a visitor from the wide world. Our little Toussaint may seem a backwater to you, you think you can toss a hat from one border to the other, and a dry one, to boot. Well, you’re mistaken. It’s quite a long way to Pomerol vineyard, which is where we’re headed, and if we arrive by noon it’ll be a success.’

  ‘So it’s a mistake,’ the Witcher said dryly, ‘for us to be setting off so tardily.’

  ‘Well, maybe it is.’ Alcides Fierabras glowered at him and blew into his whiskers. ‘But I knew not that you were the kind who was inclined to start at daybreak. For that’s rare among grand lords.’

  ‘I’m not a grand lord. Let’s be off, steward, sir, let’s not waste time on idle chatter.’

  ‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’

  They took a shortcut through the town. At first Geralt wanted to protest, afraid of getting stuck in the familiar crowded backstreets. But Steward Fierabras, it turned out, knew better both the town and the times when the streets wouldn’t be crowded. They rode quickly and without difficulty.

  They entered the town square and passed the scaffold. And the gallows, displaying a hanged man.

  ‘A perilous thing,’ the steward nodded, ‘to make rhymes and sing airs. Particularly in public.’

  ‘Judgements are harsh here,’ said Geralt, realising what it was about. ‘Elsewhere you’re pilloried at most for a lampoon.’

  ‘Depends who the lampoon’s about,’ commented Alcides Fierabras soberly. ‘And on the rhymes. Our Lady Duchess is good and endearing, but when she’s irritated . . .’

  ‘You can’t stifle a song, as a friend of mine says.’

  ‘Not a song. But a singer you can, sir.’

  They crossed the town and left through the Coopers’ Gate straight into the valley of the Blessure, whose rapids were briskly splashing and foaming. The snow in the fields was only in furrows and hollows, but it was quite cold.

  They were passed by a detachment of knights, heading no doubt towards the Pass of Cervantes, to the border watchtower of Vedette. Suddenly all they could see were colourful gryphons, lions, hearts, lilies, stars, crosses, chevrons and other heraldic trifles painted on shields and embroidered on cloaks and caparisons. Hooves drummed, pennants flapped, and a song resounded about the fortunes of a knight and his beloved who married another instead of waiting for him.

  Geralt followed the detachment with
his eyes. The sight of the knights errant reminded him of Reynart de Bois-Fresnes, who’d just returned from service and was recuperating in the arms of his townswoman, whose husband, a merchant, didn’t return morning or night, probably having been held up somewhere on his journey by swollen rivers, forests full of beasts and other turmoil of the elements. The Witcher wouldn’t have dreamed of tearing Reynart away from his lover’s embrace, but sincerely regretted not postponing the contract with Pomerol vineyard to a later date. He’d grown fond of the knight and missed his company.

  ‘Let’s ride, Master Witcher.’

  ‘Let us ride, Master Fierabras.’

  They rode upstream along the highway. The Blessure wound and meandered, but there was an abundance of small bridges so they didn’t have to go out of their way.

  Steam belched from the nostrils of Roach and the mule.

  ‘What do you think, Mr Fierabras, will the winter last long?’

  ‘There were frosts at Samhain. And the saying goes, “When at Samhain there’s ice, dress warm and nice”.’

  ‘I see. And your vines? Won’t the winter damage them?’

  ‘It’s been colder.’

  They rode on in silence.

  ‘Look there,’ said Fierabras, pointing. ‘There in the valley lies the village of Fox Holes. Pots grow in the fields there, wonder of wonders.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Pots. They grow in the bosom of the earth, just like that, a pure trick of nature, without any human help at all. Like spuds or turnips grow elsewhere, in Fox Holes pots grow. Of all shapes and kinds.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘As I live and breathe. For which reason Fox Holes has an agreement with the village of Dudno in Maecht. Because there, so the stories go, the earth bears forth pot lids.’

  ‘Of all shapes and kinds?’

  ‘Precisely, Master Witcher.’

  They rode on. In silence. The Blessure sparkled and foamed on the rocks.

  *

  ‘And look over yonder, Master Witcher, the ruins of the ancient burgh of Dun Tynne. That burgh was the witness to dreadful scenes, if one is to believe the stories. Walgerius, who they called the Cuckold, killed his faithless wife, her lover, her mother, her sister and her brother. Cruelly and bloodily. And then sat down and cried, no one knows why . . .’

  ‘I’ve heard about that.’

  ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah. Meaning the story has travelled widely.’

  ‘Precisely, Master Steward.’

  *

  ‘And that slender tower, beyond that burgh, over there?’ The Witcher pointed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Over there? That’s a temple.’

  ‘To which godhead?’

  ‘Who’d remember that?’

  ‘Very true. Who would?’

  *

  Around noon they saw the vineyard, hillsides gently falling towards the Blessure, bristling with evenly pruned vines, now misshapen and woefully leafless. At the top of the highest hill, lashed by the wind, were the soaring towers, squat keep and barbican of Pomerol Castle.

  Geralt was interested to see that the road leading to the castle was well-used, no less furrowed by hooves and wheel rims than the main highway. It was evident that people often turned off the highway towards Pomerol Castle. He stopped his questions until he noticed at the foot of the castle a dozen or so wagons with horses and covered in tarpaulins, sturdy and well-made vehicles used for transporting goods long distances.

  ‘Merchants,’ explained the steward when asked. ‘Wine merchants.’

  ‘Merchants?’ Geralt was surprised. ‘How’s that? I thought the mountain passes were covered in snow, and Toussaint cut off from the world. How could the merchants get here?’

  ‘There are no bad roads for a merchant,’ said steward Fierabras gravely. ‘At least not for those who treat their trade seriously. They observe the principle, Master Witcher, that since the end is justified, the means must be found.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Geralt said slowly. ‘An apposite principle worthy of imitation. In any situation.’

  ‘Without doubt. But in truth, some of the traders have been stuck here since autumn, unable to leave. But they don’t lose heart. They say, “Why, who cares, in the spring of the year we’ll be here first, before the competition shows up.” With them they call it positive thinking.’

  ‘It would be hard to fault that principle either,’ nodded Geralt. ‘One thing still interests me, Master Steward. Why do the merchants stay here, in the middle of nowhere, and not in Beauclair? Isn’t the duchess keen on putting them up? Perhaps she disdains merchants?’

  ‘Not at all,’ answered Fierabras. ‘The Lady Duchess always invites them, while they graciously decline. And stay among the vineyards.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Beauclair, they say, is naught but feasts, balls, junkets, boozing and amour. A fellow, they say, only grows idle and stupid, and wastes time, instead of thinking about trade. And one should think about what’s really important. About the goal guiding us. Without let up. Not distract your thinking on mere bagatelles. Then, and only then, is the intended goal achieved.’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Fierabras,’ the Witcher said slowly. ‘I’m content with our shared journey. I’ve gained a great deal from our conversations. Truly a great deal.’

  *

  Contrary to the Witcher’s expectations they didn’t ride to Pomerol Castle, but a little further, to a prominence beyond the valley, where another castle rose, somewhat smaller and much more neglected. The castle was called Zurbarrán. Geralt was thrilled at the prospect of the upcoming work. Zurbarrán, dark and toothed with crumbling crenellations, looked the epitome of an enchanted ruin, and was no doubt teeming with witchcraft, marvels and monsters.

  Inside, in the courtyard, instead of marvels and monsters he saw around a dozen people preoccupied with tasks as enchanted as rolling barrels, planing planks and nailing them together. It smelled of fresh timber, fresh lime, stale cat, sour wine and pea soup. The pea soup was served out soon after.

  Made hungry by the journey, the wind and the cold, they ate briskly and in silence. They were accompanied by steward Fierabras’s subordinate, introduced to Geralt as Szymon Gilka. They were served by two fair-haired women with plaits two ells long. They both sent the Witcher such suggestive glances he decided to hasten to his work.

  Szymon Gilka hadn’t seen the monster. He only knew of its appearance second-hand.

  ‘It was as black as pitch, but when it crawled across the wall, the bricks could be seen through it. Like jelly it was, see, Master Witcher, or some sort of snot, if you’ll excuse me. And it had long thin limbs, and a great number of them, eight or even more. And Yontek stood, stood and watched until at last he had a brainwave and shouted out loud “Die, perish!” and then threw in an exorcism: “Croak, you bastard, by God!” Then the beastie hop, hop, hop! Hopped away and that’s all we saw of it. Bolted into the cave mouth. Then the lads said, “If there’s a monster, give us a bonus for toiling in dangerous conditions, and if you don’t we’ll complain to the guild.” And I says, your guild can kiss my—’

  ‘When was the monster first seen?’ Geralt interrupted.

  ‘’Bout three days since. Bit before Yule.’

  ‘You said—’ the Witcher looked at the steward ‘—before Lammas.’

  Alcides Fierabras blushed in the places not covered by his beard. Gilka snorted.

  ‘Aye, aye, Master Steward, if you want to steward you should come here more often and not just polish a chair with your arse in your office in Beauclair. That’s what I think—’

  ‘I’m not interested in what you think,’ interrupted Fierabras. ‘We’re talking about the monster.’

  ‘But I’ve already said it. Everything what happened.’

  ‘Weren’t there any victims? Was no one attacked?’

  ‘No. But last year a farmhand disappeared without trace. Some say a monster dragged him into the c
hasm and finished him off. Others, meanwhile, say it weren’t no monster, but that the farmhand made a cowardly escape off his own bat, because of debts and alley money and main tents. Because he, mark you, played the bones hard, and on top of that was shafting the miller’s daughter, and that miller’s daughter rushed to the courts, and the courts ordered the farmhand to pay main tents—’

  ‘Did the monster attack anyone else?’ Geralt unceremoniously interrupted his discourse. ‘Did anyone else see it?’

  ‘No.’

  One of the serving women, pouring Geralt more of the local wine, brushed his ear with her breast, then winked encouragingly.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Geralt quickly. ‘No point idling time away talking. Take me to these cellars.’

  *

  Fringilla’s amulet, unfortunately, didn’t live up to the hopes pinned on it. Geralt didn’t believe for a moment that the polished chrysoprase mounted in silver would replace his witcher’s wolf medallion. In any case, Fringilla hadn’t given any such promises. She had assured him, however – with great conviction – that after melding with the psyche of the wearer the amulet was capable of various things, including warning of danger.

  Nonetheless, either Fringilla’s spells hadn’t worked, or Geralt and the amulet differed in the matter of what constituted danger. The chrysoprase perceptibly twitched when, as they walked to the cellars, they crossed the path of a large, ginger cat sauntering across the courtyard with its tail in the air. Indeed, the cat must have received some kind of signal, for it fled, meowing dreadfully.

  When, though, the Witcher went down into the cellars it kept vibrating annoyingly, but in dry, well-ordered and clean vaults where the only danger was the wine in huge barrels. Someone who had lost their self-control and was lying with their mouth open under the spigot would be in danger of serious over-drinking. And nothing else.

  The medallion didn’t twitch, however, when Geralt abandoned the service part of the cellars and descended down a series of steps and drifts. The Witcher had worked out long before that there were ancient mines under most of the vineyards in Toussaint. When the vines had been planted and started to bear fruit and generate better profits, exploitation of the mines must have ceased, and the mines abandoned, their corridors and galleries partly modified into wine cellars and stores. Pomerol and Zurbarrán castles stood over a disused slate mine. It was riddled with drifts and holes, and a moment’s inattention would have been enough for one to end up at the bottom of one of them with a compound fracture. Some of the holes were covered by rotten planks covered with slate powder and thus hardly differed from the floor. An incautious step onto something like that would have been dangerous – so the medallion ought to have given him a warning. It didn’t.