*
The Witcher’s doubts regarding Fringilla’s amulet were misplaced and were dispelled in a flash. When he entered the large cavern and approached the stone bridge above the black chasm, the medallion jerked and fluttered on his neck, now not like a sparrow, but like a large, strong bird. A rook, for example.
Geralt froze. The amulet calmed down. He didn’t make the smallest movement, in order that not a single rustle or even loud breath would confuse his ears. He waited. He knew that on the other side of the chasm, beyond the bridge, was whatever was lurking in the darkness. He couldn’t rule out that something might also be hiding behind his back, and that the bridge was meant to be a trap. He had no intention of being caught in it. He waited. Until something happened.
‘Greetings, Witcher,’ he heard. ‘We’ve been waiting here for you.’
The voice emerging from the gloom sounded strange. But Geralt had heard voices like that before, and he knew them. The voices of creatures not accustomed to communicating using speech. Able to use the apparatus of the lungs, diaphragm, windpipe and voice box, these creatures weren’t in complete control of their articulatory apparatus, even when the construction of their lips, palates and tongues were quite similar to those of humans. The words spoken by creatures like that, apart from their strange accent and intonation, were full of sounds unpleasant to the human ear – from hard and nastily barking to hissing and slimily soft.
‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ repeated the voice. ‘We knew you’d come, lured by rumours. That you’d crawl in here, under the ground, to stalk, pursue, torment and murder. You won’t leave here now. You won’t see the sun you’ve come to love so much again.’
‘Show yourself.’
Something moved in the darkness on the far side of the bridge. In one place the gloom seemed to thicken and assume a more or less human form. The creature, it seemed, never remained in the same position or place for a moment, but shifted with the help of swift, nervous and shimmering movements. The Witcher had seen such creatures before.
‘A korred,’ he stated coldly. ‘I might have expected somebody like you here. It’s a wonder I haven’t happened upon you before.’
‘Well, well.’ Derision sounded in the restless creature’s voice. ‘It’s dark, but he recognised me. And do you recognise him? And him? And him?’
Three more creatures emerged from the darkness, as noiselessly as ghosts. One of them, lurking behind the korred’s back, was also humanoid in shape and general appearance, but was shorter, more hunched and more simian. Geralt knew it was a kilmulis.
The two other monsters, as he had rightly suspected, were skulking in front of the bridge, ready to cut off his retreat if he stepped onto it. The first, on the left, scrabbled its claws like a huge spider, stopped moving and shuffled its numerous legs. It was a pryskirnik. The last creature, roughly resembling a candelabra, seemed to slip straight out from the cracked slate wall. Geralt couldn’t guess what it was. A monster like that didn’t feature in any witcher tomes.
‘I don’t want to fight,’ he said, counting a little on the fact that the creatures had begun by talking instead of simply leaping on his back from the darkness. ‘I don’t want to pick a fight with you. But if it comes to it I’ll defend myself.’
‘We’ve taken that into account,’ hissed the korred. ‘Which is why there are four of us. Which is why we lured you here. You’ve driven us to a dog’s life, O roguish witcher. The most beautiful holes in this part of the world, a wonderful place for wintering. We’ve been wintering here almost since the dawn of time. And now you’ve come here hunting, you good-for-nothing. Chasing us, stalking us, killing us for money. We’re putting an end to it. And to you too.’
‘Listen, korred—’
‘Be polite,’ the creature snapped. ‘I can’t stand boorishness.’
‘How should I address—’
‘Mister Schweitzer.’
‘And so, Mister Schweitzer,’ continued Geralt, apparently obediently and meekly, ‘it’s like this. I came here, I admit, as a witcher, with a witcher task. I suggest we pass over the matter. Something has occurred in these vaults, however, which has changed the situation diametrically. I’ve learned something extremely important to me. Something that may change my entire life.’
‘And what results from that?’
‘I must immediately get onto the surface.’ Geralt was a model of calm and patience. ‘I must immediately set off on a long journey, without a moment’s delay. A road which may turn out to be one from which I won’t return. I doubt if I’ll ever be back in these parts—’
‘You want to buy your life like that, witcher?’ hissed Mr Schweitzer. ‘Nothing doing. Your begging is in vain. We have you in our grasp and we won’t let you out of it. We’ll kill you not just for our own sake, but for the sake of our other comrades. For our freedom and your freedom, so to speak.’
‘I won’t just never return here,’ Geralt continued patiently, ‘but I shall cease my witcher activities. I shall never kill any of you again—’
‘You lie! You lie from fear!’
‘But—’ Geralt wasn’t to be interrupted this time either ‘—I must, as I’ve said, get out of here right away. So you have two alternatives to choose from. Firstly, you’ll believe in my sincerity, and I leave you here. Or secondly, I leave here over your dead bodies.’
‘Or thirdly,’ the korred rasped, ‘you’ll be the dead body.’
The Witcher’s sword rasped as he drew it from the scabbard on his back.
‘Not the only one,’ he said unemotionally. ‘Certainly not the only one, Mister Schweitzer.’
The korred was silent for some time. The kilmulis was rocking and rasping behind his back. The pryskirnik was bending and straightening its limbs. The candelabra was changing its shape. Now it looked like a misshapen Christmas tree with two huge glowing eyes.
‘Give us some proof,’ the korred said at last, ‘of your sincerity and good will.’
‘What?’
‘Your sword. You claim you’ll give up being a witcher. A witcher is his sword. Throw it into the chasm. Or break it. Then we’ll let you out.’
For a moment Geralt stood without moving. The water dripping from the walls and ceiling could be heard in the silence. Then slowly, without hurrying, he jammed his sword vertically and deeply into a rocky cleft. And broke the blade with a powerful blow of his boot. The blade shattered with a whine whose echo sounded in the caverns.
Water dripped from the walls, dribbling down them like tears.
‘I can’t believe it,’ the korred said slowly. ‘I can’t believe anyone would be that stupid.’
They all fell on him, instantly, without any shouting, noises or commands. Mister Schweitzer was the first to lope across the bridge, his claws extended and baring fangs that wouldn’t have shamed a wolf.
Geralt let him come closer, then twisted his hips and slashed, hacking through his throat and lower jaw. The next moment he was on the bridge and cutting open the kilmulis with a powerful blow. He crouched and fell to the ground, just in time, and the attacking candelabra flew over his head, barely scratching his jacket with its talons. The Witcher dodged away from the pryskirnik, from its thin legs flashing like scythes. A blow from one of them hit him on the side of the head. Geralt danced, making a feint and encircling himself with a sweeping slash. The pryskirnik leaped again, but missed. It crashed against the barrier and smashed it, tumbling into the chasm with a hail of stones. Until that moment it hadn’t emitted the merest sound, but now it howled as it hurtled into the chasm. The howling gradually faded.
They attacked him from two sides – from one the candelabra, from the other the kilmulis, which, although wounded and gushing blood, had managed to stand up. The Witcher jumped onto the balustrade of the bridge, felt shifting stones grinding against each other and the whole bridge shuddering. He balanced, slipped out of reach of the candelabra’s clawed feet and found himself behind the kilmulis’s back. The kilmulis didn’t hav
e a neck, so Geralt slashed it in the temple. But the monster’s skull was like iron, so he had to hack it a second time. He lost too much time doing it.
He was hit in the head, the pain exploded in his skull and eyes. He whirled around, defending himself with a parry, feeling blood pouring from under his hair, trying hard to understand what had happened. He dodged another blow of the claws and understood. The candelabra had changed shape – it was now attacking with its improbably extended legs.
That had a flaw. Now its centre of gravity and balance was disrupted. The Witcher ducked under the legs, drawing closer. The candelabra, seeing what was afoot, fell on its back like a cat, sticking out its rear legs, which were just as taloned as its fore legs. Geralt jumped over it, slashing mid-leap. He felt the blade cut flesh. He hunched up, turned and cut once more, dropping to his knee. The creature screamed and threw its head forward violently, savagely snapping its massive teeth just in front of the Witcher’s chest. Its huge eyes shone in the darkness. Geralt shoved it back with a powerful blow of the sword pommel and cut from close range, removing half its skull. Even without that half the strange creature, which didn’t feature in any witcher tomes, still snapped its teeth for a good few seconds. Then it died, with a terrible, almost human sigh.
The korred was twitching convulsively in a pool of blood.
The Witcher stood over it.
‘I cannot believe,’ he said, ‘that someone could be so stupid as to be taken in by such a simple illusion as the one with the broken sword.’
He wasn’t certain if the korred was conscious enough to understand. But actually he didn’t care.
‘I warned you,’ he said, wiping off the blood that was pouring down his cheek. ‘I warned you I had to get out of here.’
Mister Schweitzer trembled violently, wheezed, whistled and gnashed his teeth. Then fell silent and stopped moving.
Water dripped from the walls and ceiling.
*
‘Are you satisfied, Regis?’
‘I am now.’
‘In that case . . .’ The Witcher stood. ‘Go on. Run off and pack. And be quick.’
‘It won’t take me very long. Omnia mea mecum porto.’
‘What?’
‘I have very little luggage.’
‘So much the better. Outside the town in half an hour.’
‘I’ll be there.’
*
He’d underestimated her. She caught him in the act. He only had himself to blame. Rather than rushing, he could have ridden around the back of the palace and left Roach in the larger stables there, the one for the errant knighthood, staff and servants, and where his company also kept their horses. He hadn’t done that, but had used the ducal stables owing to haste and habit. And he might have guessed there would be somebody in the stable who would inform on him.
She was walking from stall to stall, kicking the straw. She was wearing a short lynx-skin coat, a white satin blouse, a black equestrian skirt and high boots. The horses snorted, sensing the anger emanating from her.
‘Well, well,’ she said on seeing him, flexing the riding crop she was holding. ‘We’re bolting! Without saying goodbye. For the letter which is probably lying on my table is no farewell. Not after what we had. I imagine some extremely important arguments explain and justify your behaviour.’
‘They do. Sorry, Fringilla.’
‘“Sorry, Fringilla”,’ she repeated, sneering furiously. ‘How curt, how economical, how unpretentious, with such attention to style. The letter you left for me, I’m absolutely certain, is doubtless edited just as elegantly. Without excess lavishness as regards ink.’
‘I must ride,’ he uttered. ‘You can guess why. And for whose sake. Please forgive me. I intended to flee stealthily and silently, because . . . I didn’t want you to try and come after me.’
‘Your fears were groundless,’ she drawled, bending the crop. ‘I wouldn’t have gone after you even if you’d asked me, grovelling at my feet. Oh, no, Witcher. Ride alone, die alone, freeze alone in the mountain passes. I have no obligations towards Ciri. And towards you? Do you know how many have begged for what you had? And for what you’re now contemptuously rejecting, tossing away?’
‘I’ll never forget you.’
‘Oh,’ she hissed. ‘You don’t know how much I feel like making sure you really won’t. Even if not using magic, then using this whip!’
‘You won’t do it.’
‘You’re right, I won’t. I wouldn’t be able to. I shall behave as befits a scorned and spurned lover. Classically. I shall walk away with my head high. With dignity and pride. Swallowing back the tears. Then I’ll howl into a pillow. And then I’ll bed another!’
By the end she was almost screaming.
He said nothing. Neither did she.
‘Geralt,’ she said finally, in quite a different voice. ‘Stay with me.
‘I think I love you,’ she said, seeing he was delaying his answer. ‘Stay with me. I implore you. I’ve never asked anyone nor thought I ever would. But I ask you.’
‘Fringilla,’ he answered after a while. ‘You’re a woman a man can only dream about. My fault, my only fault, is that I don’t have the nature of a dreamer.’
‘You are,’ she said a moment later, biting her lip, ‘like an angler’s hook, which once it’s stuck in, can only be pulled out with blood and flesh. Well, I’ve only got myself to blame. I knew what I was doing, playing around with a dangerous toy. Luckily, I also know how to cope with the effects. In that respect I have an advantage over the rest of the female species.’
He didn’t comment.
‘In any case,’ she added, ‘a broken heart, although it hurts greatly, a lot more than a broken arm, heals much, much more quickly.’
He didn’t comment that time, either. Fringilla contemplated the bruise on his cheek.
‘How was my amulet? Does it work well?’
‘It’s quite simply wonderful. Thank you.’
She nodded.
‘Where are you riding to?’ she asked in a completely different voice and tone. ‘What did you find out? You know where Vilgefortz is hiding, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Don’t ask me to tell you where that is. I won’t.’
‘I’ll buy that information. Quid pro quo.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘I have information,’ she repeated, ‘that is valuable. And to you quite simply invaluable. I’ll sell it to you in exchange for—’
‘For peace of mind,’ he finished, looking her in the eyes. ‘For the trust I placed in you. A moment ago there was talk of love. And now we’re starting to talk of trade?’
She was silent for a long while. Then she hit her boot violently, hard, with the riding crop.
‘Yennefer,’ she quickly recited, ‘the one whose name you called me several times in the night, in moments of ecstasy, never betrayed you, nor Ciri. She was never an accomplice of Vilgefortz. In order to rescue Cirilla, she fearlessly took an exceptional risk. She suffered a defeat, and fell into Vilgefortz’s hands. She was certainly tortured into the attempts at scanning that took place last autumn. It’s not known if she’s alive. I don’t know any more. I swear.’
‘Thank you, Fringilla.’
‘Now go.’
‘I trust you,’ he said, without moving. ‘And I shall never forget what was between us. I trust you, Fringilla. I won’t stay with you, but I think I loved you too . . . In my own way. Please keep utterly secret what you are about to find out. Vilgefortz’s hideout is in—’
‘Wait,’ she interrupted. ‘You’ll tell me later, you’ll disclose it later. Now, before you leave, say goodbye to me. The way you ought to say goodbye. Not with paltry letters, not with mumbled apologies. Say goodbye to me the way I desire.’
She took off her lynx fur coat and tossed it down on a pile of straw. She violently tore off her blouse, beneath which she was naked. She fell onto the fur, pulling him after her, onto her. Geralt caught her by the nape of her neck, lifted up her skirt, and sudd
enly realised there would be no time to take his gloves off. Fringilla was fortunately not wearing gloves. Or knickers. Even more fortunately she wasn’t wearing spurs either, for soon after the heels of her riding boots were literally everywhere. It doesn’t bear thinking what might have happened had she been wearing spurs.
When she screamed he kissed her. Stifling the scream.
The horses, scenting their furious passion, neighed, stamped and thumped against their stalls until hay and dust fell from the ceiling.
*
‘Rhys-Rhun citadel, in Nazair, by Lake Muredach,’ Fringilla Vigo ended triumphantly. ‘That’s where Vilgefortz’s hide-out is. I got it out of the Witcher before he rode away. We have enough time to overtake him. He has no chance of getting there before April.’
The nine women gathered in the columned chamber of Montecalvo Castle nodded, favouring Fringilla with looks of great appreciation.
‘Rhys-Rhun,’ repeated Philippa Eilhart, baring her teeth in a predatory smile and playing with the sardonyx cameo brooch fastened to her dress. ‘Rhys-Rhun in Nazair. Well, see you soon, Master Vilgefortz . . . See you soon!’
‘When the Witcher gets there,’ hissed Keira Metz, ‘he’ll find rubble which by then won’t even be stinking of ash.’
‘Or dead bodies.’ Sabrina Glevissig smiled enchantingly.
‘Well done, Miss Vigo,’ nodded Sheala. ‘Over three months in Toussaint . . . But it was probably worth it.’
Fringilla Vigo’s eyes swept over the sorceresses sitting at the table. Over Sheala, Philippa and Sabrina Glevissig. Over Keira Metz, Margarita Laux-Antille and Triss Merigold. Over Francesca Findabair and Ida Emean, whose eyes, ringed with garish elven makeup, expressed absolutely nothing. Over Assire var Anahid, whose eyes expressed anxiety and concern.
‘It was,’ she admitted.
Quite sincerely.
*
The sky slowly changed from dark blue to black. An icy gale blew among the vineyards. Geralt fastened his wolf-skin cloak and wrapped a woollen scarf around his neck. And felt wonderful. As usual, love expressed had raised him up to the peak of his physical, psychological and moral powers, had erased all traces of doubt, and his thinking was clear and intense. He only regretted he would be deprived of that wonderful panacea for a long time.
The Saga of the Witcher Page 167
