‘Do my eyes fail me or what?’ Okultich screwed up his face. ‘At the head of the second regiment . . . A woman? Do those soldiers of fortune fight under the command of a woman?’
‘She’s a woman,’ confirmed the landsknecht. ‘But not just any woman. That’s Julia Abatemarco, who they call Pretty Kitty. She’s some warrior! Under her command the mercenaries demolished the Black Cloaks and elven troops at Mayena, even though only twice five hundred of them assailed three thousand.’
‘I’ve heard,’ said Pike in a strange, repulsively obsequious, but at the same time malicious, tone, ‘that the victory didn’t count for much, that the ducats spent on the mercenaries went down the drain. Nilfgaard regrouped and gave our boys a thrashing, and a sound one. And encircled Mayena again. And perhaps they’ve already captured the stronghold? And perhaps they’re already heading here? Perhaps they’ll be here any day? Perhaps those corrupt mercenaries were bribed with Nilfgaardian gold long ago? And perhaps—’
‘And perhaps,’ interrupted the landsknecht, enraged, ‘you want a punch in the face, you churl? Beware, for running down our army is punished by the noose! So shut your trap, while I’m in a good mood!’
‘Oooh!’ The bruiser Klaproth, mouth wide open, defused the situation. ‘Oooh, look! Look at those funny short-arses!’
An infantry formation armed with halberds, guisarmes, battle-axes, flails and morning stars marched along the road, to the dull thud of drums, the fierce hooting of bagpipes and the shrill whistling of fifes. Dressed in fur cloaks, mail shirts and pointed pot helmets, the soldiers were indeed extremely short.
‘Dwarves from the mountains,’ explained the first landsknecht. ‘One of the Mahakam Volunteer Foot.’
‘I thought,’ said Okultich, ‘that the dwarves weren’t with us, but against us. That those foul short-arses had betrayed us and were in league with the Black Cloaks—’
‘You thought?’ The landsknecht glanced at him piteously. ‘Using what, I wonder? If you swallowed a cockroach with your soup, dolt, you’d have more intelligence in your guts than in your head. Those marching there are one of the dwarven foot regiments that Brouver Hoog, the headman of Mahakam, has sent us as succour. Most of them have also seen action, suffered great losses, so they’ve been withdrawn to Vizima to regroup.’
‘The dwarves are a valiant folk,’ confirmed Melfi. ‘When one of them thumped me in the ear in the tavern in Ellander at Samhain it rang until Yule.’
‘The dwarven regiment is the last in the column.’ The landsknecht shaded his eyes with a hand. ‘That’s the end of the march. The road will soon be empty. Let’s prepare to set off, for it’s almost noon.’
*
‘So many military folk are marching south,’ said the seller of amulets and remedies, ‘that there’s surely going to be a great war. Great misfortune will fall on the people! Great defeats on the armies! Thousands of folk will die from fire and sword. So consider, gentlemen, that this comet, which can be seen in the sky every night, trails a fiery red tail behind it. If a comet’s tail is blue or pale, it heralds cold ailments: chills, pleurisy, phlegm and catarrh, and such aquatic misfortunes as floods, downpours or long periods of rainy weather. While a red colour indicates that it’s a comet of fevers, blood and fire, and also of the iron which springs from the fire. Dreadful, dreadful defeats will befall the people! Great pogroms and massacres will happen. As it says in the prophecy: corpses will pile up to a height of a dozen ells, wolves shall howl on the desolate ground, and men will kiss other men’s footsteps . . . Oh woe to us!’
‘Why to us?’ the landsknecht interrupted coolly. ‘The comet is flying high. It can also be seen from Nilfgaard, not to mention the Ina valley, whence, they say, Menno Coehoorn is approaching. The Black Cloaks are also looking at the sky and also see the comet. Why, then, should we not assume that it foretells their defeat and not ours? That their corpses will be piled up?’
‘That’s right!’ snapped the other landsknecht. ‘Woe to them, to the Black Cloaks.’
‘You’ve worked it out elegantly, gentlemen.’
‘Certainly.’
*
They passed by the forest surrounding Vizima and entered meadows and pastures. Entire herds of horses were grazing there, of various kinds: cavalry, harness, and draught horses. There was next to no grass on the meadows, it being March, but there were wagons and barracks full of hay.
‘See that?’ Okultich licked his lips. ‘Eh, fine little horses! And no one’s guarding them! There for the taking—’
‘Shut your trap,’ hissed Pike and obsequiously directed his gap-toothed grin at the landsknechts. ‘He, gentlemen, has always dreamed of serving in the cavalry, which is why he looks at those steeds so greedily.’
‘In the cavalry!’ snorted the first landsknecht. ‘What fantasies has the churl! He’ll sooner be a stable boy, gathering muck from under the horses with a pitchfork and wheeling it out on a barrow.’
‘That’s right, sire!’
They went on, and soon reached a causeway running beside ponds and ditches. And suddenly they saw the red tiles of the towers of Vizima castle looming over the lake above the tops of alders.
‘Well, we’re almost there,’ said the merchant. ‘Can you smell it?’
‘Uurgh!’ Melfi grimaced. ‘What a stench! What’s that?’
‘Probably soldiers on the royal coin who died of hunger,’ muttered Pike behind their backs, making sure the landsknechts didn’t hear.
‘Almost makes your eyes water, doesn’t it?’ laughed one of them. ‘Aye, thousands of military folk have wintered here, and military folk have to eat, and when they eat they defecate. Nature has ordered things thus and there’s nothing you can do about it! And what’s been shat out is carted to these ditches and dumped, without even being buried. In the winter, while the frost kept the shit frozen, you could stand it, but from the spring . . . Ugh!’
‘And more and more fresh soldiers are arriving and adding to the old heap.’ The other landsknecht also spat. ‘And can you hear that great buzzing? It’s flies. There are swarms of them, an uncommon thing for early spring! Cover your gobs with whatever you can, for they’ll get into your eyes and mouths, the bastards. And briskly. The quicker we pass by, the better.’
*
They passed the ditches, but didn’t manage to lose the stench. On the contrary, Jarre would have sworn that the closer to the town they were, the worse the fug was. Except it was more varied, richer in scale and hue. The military camps and tents surrounding the castle stank. The huge field hospital stank. The crowded and busy suburbs stank, the embankment stank, the gate stank, the berm stank, the small squares and streets stank, the walls of the great castle towering over the town stank. Fortunately, the nostrils quickly became accustomed and it soon made no difference to them if it was dung, or rotten meat, or cat’s piss, or another field kitchen.
There were flies everywhere. They buzzed annoyingly, getting into the eyes, ears and nose. They couldn’t be driven away. It was easier to squash them on the face. Or chew them up.
When they had just exited the shadow of the gatehouse, their eyes were struck by a huge mural depicting a knight with his finger aimed at them. The writing beneath the mural asked in huge letters: WHAT ABOUT YOU? HAVE YOU SIGNED UP?
‘All right, all right,’ mumbled the landsknecht. ‘Unfortunately.’
There were plenty of similar murals. You could have said there was a mural on every wall. It was generally the knight with his finger, but there was also often a solemn Mother Country with grey hair blowing around, against a background of burning villages and babies on Nilfgaardian pikes. There were also images of elves with bloodied knives in their teeth.
Jarre suddenly looked around and found they were alone: he, the landsknechts and the merchant. There wasn’t any sign of Pike, Okultich, the peasants from the draft or Melfi.
‘Yes, yes,’ the first landsknecht confirmed his speculation, eyeing him closely. ‘Your comrades scrammed at the first opportunity, they scar
pered around the first corner. And do you know what I’ll tell you, lad? It’s good that your paths have diverged. Don’t strive for them to converge again.’
‘Shame about Melfi,’ muttered Jarre. ‘He’s a good lad at heart.’
‘Everyone chooses his destiny. And you, come with us. We’ll show you where to sign up.’
They entered a square in the middle of which stood a pillory on a stone platform. Townspeople and soldiers greedy for amusement were gathered around the pillory. A handcuffed convict, who had just been hit in the face with a lump of mud, spat and wept. The crowd roared with laughter.
‘Hey!’ yelled the landsknecht. ‘Look who they’ve put in the stocks. Why, it’s Fuson! I wonder what for?’
‘For farming,’ a fat burgher in a wolf skin and felt cap hurried to explain.
‘For what?’
‘For farming,’ the fat man repeated with emphasis. ‘For what he sowed.’
‘Ha, now, if you’ll excuse me, you’ve dropped a clanger like a bull dumping on a threshing floor,’ laughed the landsknecht. ‘I know Fuson, he’s a shoemaker, the son of a shoemaker, and the grandson of a shoemaker. He’s never ploughed, nor sown, nor harvested in his life. You’re exaggerating, I say, with that sowing, you really are.’
‘That’s the bailiff’s own words!’ said the burgher crossly. ‘He’s to stand in the pillory until twilight for sowing! For the villain sowed after being goaded on by Nilfgaard and for Nilfgaardian silver pennies . . . He sowed some strange crops, in truth. Foreign, I’ll warrant . . . Let me think . . . Aha! Defeatism!’
‘Yes, yes!’ called the vender of amulets. ‘I’ve heard tell of it! Nilfgaardian spies and elves are spreading the plague, spoiling wells, springs and brooks with various poisons and using devil’s trumpet, hemlock, lepra and defeatism.’
‘Aye,’ the burgher in the wolf skin nodded. ‘They hung two elves yesterday. Most probably for poisoning.’
*
‘Round that corner—’ the landsknecht pointed ‘—is the tavern where the conscription committee sits. A big canvas sheet is stretched out there with the Temerian lilies on it, which you know, of course, lad. You’ll find it without any difficulty. Look after yourself. May we meet again in better times, God willing. Farewell to you, too, merchant, sir.’
The merchant cleared his throat loudly.
‘Noble gentlemen,’ he said, rooting around in his chests and boxes, ‘let me, as proof of my gratitude . . . for your help. . .’
‘Don’t trouble yourself, good fellow,’ said the landsknecht with a smile. ‘We helped and that’s that, don’t mention it . . .’
‘Perhaps a miraculous ointment against lumbago?’ The merchant dug something out from the bottom of a box. ‘Perhaps a universal and reliable medicine for bronchitis, gout, paralysis, dandruff and scrofula? Perhaps a resinous balsam for bee, viper and vampire bites? Perhaps a talisman to protect you from the effects of the stare of the evil eye?’
‘And do you have, perhaps,’ the landsknecht asked seriously, ‘something to protect one from the effects of bad vittles?’
‘I do!’ beamed the merchant. ‘This is a most effective remedy made from magical roots, flavoured with aromatic herbs. Three drops after a meal should suffice. Please, take it, noble gentlemen.’
‘Thanks. Farewell, sir. Farewell to you, too, lad. Good luck!’
‘Honest, politic and courteous,’ commented the merchant, when the soldiers had disappeared into the crowd. ‘You don’t encounter such as them every day. Well, but you turned out al right too, young master. What then can I give you? An amulet against lightning? A bezoar? A turtle’s shell effective against witches’ spells? Ha, I also have a corpse’s tooth for fumigation and a bit of dried devil’s dung, it’s good to wear it in your right shoe . . .’
Jarre tore his gaze away from some people doggedly cleaning a slogan from the wall of a building: DOWN WITH THE SODDING WAR.
‘Leave it, sir,’ he said. ‘Time I went . . .’
‘Ha,’ cried the merchant, taking a small, heart-shaped brass medallion from the box. ‘This ought to suit you, young man, it’s just right for young people. It’s a great rarity, the only one I have. It’s a magical amulet. It makes the wearer never forget his love, even though time and countless miles separate them. Look, it opens here, and inside is a leaf of thin papyrus. Suffice to write on the leaf the name of your beloved in magical red ink, which I have, and she will not forget, not change her heart, not betray you or cast you aside. Well?’
‘Hmfff . . .’ Jarre blushed slightly. ‘I don’t really know . . .’
‘What name—’ the merchant dipped a stick in the magical ink ‘—am I to write?’
‘Ciri. I mean, Cirilla.’
‘There. Take it.’
‘Jarre! What are you doing here, by a hundred devils?’
Jarre whirled around. I had hoped, he thought mechanically, that I was leaving my whole past behind me, that everything would now be new. But I almost unceasingly keep bumping into old acquaintances.
‘Mr Dennis Cranmer . . .’
A dwarf in a heavy overcoat, cuirass, iron vambraces and tall fox fur hat with a tail cast a crafty glance over the boy, the merchant and then again over the boy.
‘What are you,’ he asked again sharply, ruffling his eyebrows, beard and moustache, ‘doing here, Jarre?’
For a moment the boy considered lying, and to lend credence entangling the kind merchant into the false version. But he almost immediately rejected the idea. Dennis Cranmer, who had once served in the guard of the Duke of Ellander, enjoyed the reputation of a dwarf whom it was hard to deceive. And it wasn’t worth trying.
‘I want to join up.’
He knew what the next question would be.
‘Did Nenneke give you permission?’
He didn’t have to answer.
‘You bolted.’ Dennis Cranmer nodded his beard. ‘You simply fled from the temple. And Nenneke and the priestesses are tearing their hair out . . .’
‘I left a letter,’ muttered Jarre. ‘Mr Cranmer, I couldn’t . . . I had to . . . It wasn’t right to stay there idly, when the enemy are in the marches . . . At a dangerous moment for the fatherland . . . And what’s more she . . . Ciri . . . Mother Nenneke didn’t want to agree at all, although she’s sent three quarters of the girls from the temple to the army, she didn’t allow me . . . And I couldn’t . . .’
‘So you did a runner.’ The dwarf frowned sternly. ‘By a hundred bloody demons, I ought to tie you up with a stick under your knees and send you to Ellander by courier post! Order you locked up in the oubliette under the castle until the priestesses come to collect you! I ought to . . .’
He panted angrily.
‘When did you last eat, Jarre? When did you last have hot vittles in your gob?’
‘Really hot? Three . . . No, four days ago.’
‘Come with me.’
*
‘Eat slower, son,’ Zoltan Chivay, one of Dennis Cranmer’s comrades cautioned him. ‘It isn’t healthy to guzzle your food so quickly, without chewing properly. Where are you rushing to? Believe me, no one’s going to take it away from you.’
Jarre wasn’t so sure about that. A fist-fight duel was taking place right then in the main room of The Shaggy Bear inn. Two stocky dwarves, as wide as stoves, were punching each other so loudly it thudded, amidst the roars of their comrades from the Volunteer Regiment and the applause of the local prostitutes. The floor was shaking, furniture and pots were falling, and drops of blood from smashed noses were spraying around like rain. Jarre was just waiting for one of the fighters to sprawl across the officers’ table and bang into the wooden plate of pork knuckle, the great bowl of steamed peas and the earthenware mugs. He quickly swallowed a piece of fatty meat he had bitten off, assuming that what he swallowed was his.
‘I don’t really get it, Dennis.’ Another dwarf, called Sheldon Skaggs, didn’t even turn his head when one of the fighters almost caught him with a right hook. ‘Since t
his boy’s a priest, how can he join up? Priests aren’t allowed to shed blood.’
‘He’s a student at the temple, not a priest.’
‘I’ve never been bloody able to understand those tortuous human superstitions. Well, but it doesn’t do to mock other people’s beliefs. The conclusion, though, is that this young man here, although brought up in a temple, has nothing against spilling blood. Particularly Nilfgaardian blood. Eh, what, young man?’
‘Let him eat in peace, Skaggs.’
‘I’m happy to answer . . .’ Jarre swallowed a mouthful of pork knuckle and shoved a handful of peas into his mouth. ‘It’s like this: you can spill blood in a just war. In the defence of higher reasons. That’s why I’m signing up . . . The motherland is calling . . .’
‘You can see for yourselves—’ Sheldon Skaggs swept his gaze over his companions ‘—how much truth there is in the statement that humans are a race similar to and related to us, that we come from a common root, both us, and them. The best proof is, here, sitting before us, wolfing down peas. In other words: you can come across loads of similar stupid zealots among young dwarves.’
‘Especially after the Mayena battle,’ remarked Zoltan Chivay coolly. ‘Tons more volunteers always sign up after a victorious battle. The rush will stop when news spreads of Menno Coehoorn’s army marching up the Ina, leaving behind only earth and water.’
‘As long as a rush in the other direction doesn’t start,’ muttered Cranmer. ‘I somehow don’t trust volunteers. Interesting that every second deserter is a volunteer.’
‘How can you . . .’ Jarre almost choked. ‘How can you suggest something like that, sir? I’m joining up for ideological reasons . . . To fight a just and legitimate war . . . The motherland . . .’
One of the fighting dwarves fell from a blow that, it seemed to the boy, shook the very foundations of the building, the dust rising a yard in the air from gaps in the floorboards. This time, the fallen dwarf, rather than leaping up and whacking his adversary, lay, clumsily twitching his limbs, prompting associations of a huge beetle flipped on its back.
Dennis Cranmer stood up.
The Saga of the Witcher Page 176
