The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

‘But, Colonel, is that wise, to go yourself—’

  ‘That’s an order!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘It’s sheer lunacy, Colonel!’ the commander of the reconnaissance outshouted the rush of the gallop. ‘We might run into some elven patrol—’

  ‘Don’t talk! Lead on!’

  The small troop galloped hard down the gorge, flashed like the wind down the stream’s valley and rushed into a forest. Here they had to slow down. The undergrowth impeded riding, and furthermore they were indeed in danger of suddenly happening upon reconnaissance troops or pickets, which the Nilfgaardians had undoubtedly sent. The party of mercenaries had admittedly stolen up on the enemy from the flank, not head on, but the flanks were certainly also guarded. The game was thus as risky as hell. But Pretty Kitty liked games like that. And there wasn’t a soldier in the entire Free Company who wouldn’t have followed her. All the way to hell.

  ‘It’s here,’ said the commander of the reconnaissance. ‘The tower.’

  Julia Abatemarco shook her head. The tower was crooked, ruined, bristling with broken beams forming a latticework through which the wind, blowing from the west, played as though on a tin whistle. It wasn’t known who had built the tower here, in a wilderness, or why. But it was apparent it had been built a long time before.

  ‘It won’t collapse?’

  ‘Certainly not, Colonel.’

  ‘Sir’ wasn’t used among the mercenaries of the Free Company. Or ‘madam’. Only rank. Julia climbed to the top of the tower, almost running up. The reconnaissance commander only joined a minute later, panting like a bull covering a heifer. Leaning on the crooked railing, Pretty Kitty surveyed the valley using a telescope, sticking her tongue between her lips and sticking out her shapely rear. The reconnaissance commander felt a quiver of excitement at the sight. He quickly controlled himself.

  ‘Ard Feainn, there’s no doubt.’ Julia Abatemarco licked her lips. ‘I can also see Elan Trahe’s Daerlanians, there are also elves from the Vrihedd Brigade, our old friends from Maribor and Mayena . . . Aha! There are also the Death’s Heads, the famous Nauzicaa Brigade. I can also see the flames on the pennants of the Deithwen armoured division. And a white standard with a black alerion, the sign of the Alba Division . . .’

  ‘You recognise them,’ murmured the reconnaissance commander, ‘as though they were friends . . . Are you so well-informed?’

  ‘I’m a graduate of the military academy,’ Pretty Kitty cut him off. ‘I’m a qualified officer. Good, I’ve seen what I wanted to see. Let’s return to the company.’

  *

  ‘The 4th and 3rd Horse are making for us,’ said Julia Abatemarco. ‘I repeat, the whole of the 4th Horse and probably the whole of the cavalry of the 3rd Army. A cloud of dust was rising into the sky behind the standards that I saw. By my reckoning, forty thousand horse are heading this way in those three columns. And maybe more. Perhaps—’

  ‘Perhaps Coehoorn has divided up the Centre Army Group,’ finished Adam ‘Adieu’ Pangratt, leader of the Free Company. ‘He only took the 4th Horse and the cavalry from the 3rd, without infantry, in order to move quicker . . . Ha, Julia, were I in the place of Constable Natalis or King Foltest—’

  ‘I know,’ Pretty Kitty’s eyes flashed. ‘I know what you’d do. Have you sent runners to them?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Natalis is nobody’s fool. Perhaps, tomorrow—’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Adieu didn’t let her finish. ‘And I even think that will happen. Spur your horse, Julia. I want to show you something.’

  They rode a few furlongs, quickly, pulling a long way ahead of the rest of the soldiers. The sun was almost touching the hills in the west, the wetland forests cloaked the valley in a long shadow. But enough could be seen for Pretty Kitty to guess at once what Adieu Pangratt had meant to show her.

  ‘Here,’ Adieu confirmed her speculation, standing up in the stirrups. ‘I would engage the enemy here tomorrow. If the command of the army were mine.’

  ‘Nice terrain,’ agreed Julia Abatemarco. ‘Level, hard, smooth . . . There’s room to form up . . . Hmmm . . . From those hills to those fishponds there . . . It’ll be some three miles . . . That hill, there, is a perfect command position . . .’

  ‘You’re right. And there, look, in the centre, there’s one more small lake or fishpond. It’s sparkling over there. It can be taken advantage of . . . That little river is suitable for a border, because although it’s small, it’s marshy . . . What’s that river called, Julia? We rode that way yesterday, didn’t we? Do you remember?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten. I think it’s the Halter. Or something like that.’

  *

  Whoever knows those parts can easily imagine the whole thing, while to those who are less well travelled I shall reveal that the left wing of the royal army reached the place where today the settlement of Brenna is located. At the time of the battle there was no settlement, for the year before it had been sent up in smoke by the Squirrel elves and had burned down to the ground. For there, on the left wing, stood the Redanian royal corps, which the Count of Ruyter was commanding. And there were eight thousand foot and frontline horse in that corps.

  The centre of the royal formation stood beside a hill later to be named Gallows Hill. There, on the hill, stood with their detachment King Foltest and Constable Jan Natalis, having a prospect of the whole battlefield from high up. Here the main forces of our army were gathered – twelve thousand brave Temerian and Redanian infantrymen formed in four great squares, protected by ten cavalry companies, standing right at the northern end of the fishpond, called Golden Pond by local folk. The central formation, meanwhile, had a reserve regiment in the second line – three thousand Vizimian and Mariborian foot, over which Voivode Bronibor held command.

  From the southern edge of Golden Pond, however, up to the row of fishponds and a bend in the River Chotla, to the marches a mile wide, stood the right wing of our army, the Volunteer Regiment formed of Mahakam dwarves, eight companies of light horse and companies of the eminent Free Mercenary Company. The condottiero Adam Pangratt and dwarf Barclay Els commanded the right wing.

  Field Marshal Menno Coehoorn deployed the Nilfgaardian Army opposite them, about a mile or two away, on a bare field beyond the forest. Iron—hard men stood there like a black wall, regiment by regiment, company by company, squadron by squadron, endless it seemed, as far as the eye could see. And, from the forest of standards and spears, one could deduce that it was not just a broad but a deep array. For it was an army of six and forty thousand, which few knew about at that time, and just as well, because at the sight of that Nilfgaardian might many hearts sank somewhat.

  And hearts started to beat beneath the breastplates of even the bravest, started to beat like hammers, for it became patent that a heavy and bloody battle would soon begin and many of those who stood in that array would not see the sunset.

  Jarre, holding his spectacles which were sliding off his nose, read the entire passage of text once again, sighed, rubbed his pate, and then picked up a sponge, squeezing it a little and rubbing out the last sentence.

  The wind soughed in the leaves of a linden tree and bees buzzed. The children, as children will, tried hard to outshout another.

  A ball which had rolled across the grass came to rest against the foot of the old man. Before he managed to bend over, clumsy and ungainly, one of his grandchildren flashed past like a little wolf cub, grabbing the ball in full flight. He knocked the table, which began to rock, and Jarre saved the inkwell from falling over with his right hand, holding down the sheets of paper with the stump of his left.

  The bees buzzed, heavy with tiny yellow balls of acacia pollen.

  Jarre took up his writing again.

  The morning was cloudy, but the sun broke through the clouds and its height clearly signalled the passing of the hours. A wind got up; pennants fluttered and flapped like flocks of birds taking flight. And Nilfgaard stood on, stood on, until everyone began to wonder why
Marshal Menno Coehoorn did not give his order to march forward . . .

  *

  ‘When?’ Menno Coehoorn raised his head from the maps and turned his gaze on his commanders. ‘When, you ask, will I give the order to begin?’

  No one said anything. Menno quickly looked his commanders up and down. The most anxious and nervous seemed to be those who were going to remain in reserve – Elan Trahe, commander of the 7th Daerlanian, and Kees van Lo of the Nauzicaa Brigade. Ouder de Wyngalt, the marshal’s aide-de—camp, who had the least chance of active involvement in the fighting, was also nervous.

  Those who were to strike first looked composed, why, even bored. Markus Braibant was yawning. Lieutenant General Rhetz de Mellis-Stoke kept sticking his little finger in his ear, pulling it out and looking at it, as though really expecting to find something worthy of his attention. Oberst Ramon Tyrconnel, the young commander of the Ard Feainn Division, whistled softly, fixing his gaze on a point on the horizon known only to him. Oberst Liam aep Muir Moss of the Deithwen Division turned the pages of his ever-present slim volume of poetry. Tibor Eggebracht of the Alba Heavy Lancers scratched the back of his neck with the end of a riding crop.

  ‘We shall begin the attack,’ said Coehoorn, ‘as soon as the patrols return. Those hills to the north trouble me, gentlemen. Before we strike I must know what is behind them.’

  *

  Lamarr Flaut was afraid. He was terribly afraid, and the fear was creeping over his innards. It seemed to him he had at least twelve slimy eels covered in stinking mucus in his intestines, doggedly searching for an opening they would be able to escape through. An hour earlier, when the patrol had received its orders and set off, Flaut had hoped deep down that the cool of the morning would drive away the terror, hoped that routine, practised ritual, the hard and severe ceremony of service would quell the fear. He was disappointed. Only now, after an hour had passed and after travelling some five miles, far, dangerously far from his comrades, deep, hazardously deep in enemy territory, close, mortally close to unknown danger, had the fear showed what it was capable of.

  They stopped at the edge of a fir forest, prudently not emerging from behind the large juniper bushes growing at the edge. A wide basin stretched out before them, beyond a belt of low spruces. Fog trailed over the tops of the grass.

  ‘No one,’ judged Flaut. ‘Not a soul. Let’s go back. We’re a little too far already.’

  The sergeant looked at him askance. Far? We’ve barely ridden a mile. And crawling along like lame tortoises, at that.

  ‘It’d be worth,’ he said, ‘having a look beyond that hill, Lieutenant. I reckon the prospect will be better from there. A long way, over both valleys. If someone’s heading that way, we can’t not see them. Well then? Do we ride over, sir? It’s no more than a few furlongs.’

  A few furlongs, thought Flaut. Over open ground, totally exposed. The eels squirmed, violently searching for a way out of his guts. At least one, Flaut felt clearly, was well on its way.

  I heard the clank of a stirrup. The snorting of a horse. Over there, among the vivid green of young pines on a sandy slope. Did something move there? A figure?

  Are they surrounding us?

  A rumour was going around the camp that a few days earlier the mercenaries of the Free Company, having wiped out a patrol of the Vrihedd Brigade in an ambush, had taken an elf alive. It was said they’d castrated him, torn his tongue out and cut off all his fingers . . . And finally gouged out his eyes. Now, they had jeered, you won’t frolic with your elven whore in any fashion. And you won’t even be able to watch her when she frolics with others.

  ‘Well, sir?’ the sergeant cleared his throat. ‘Shall we nip up that hill?’

  Lamarr Flaut swallowed.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘We cannot dally. We’ve ascertained it: there’s no enemy here. We must give a dispatch on it to headquarters. Back we go!’

  *

  Menno Coehoorn listened to the dispatch and raised his head from the maps.

  ‘To your companies,’ he ordered briefly. ‘Mr Braibant, Mr Mellis-Stoke. Attack!’

  ‘Long live the Emperor!’ yelled Tyrconnel and Eggebracht. Menno looked at them strangely.

  ‘To your companies,’ he repeated. ‘May the Great Sun enlighten your glory.’

  *

  Milo Vanderbeck, halfling, field surgeon, known as Rusty, greedily breathed into his nostrils the heady blend of the smells of iodine, ammonia, alcohol, ether and magical elixirs hanging beneath the tent roof. He wanted to enjoy that aroma to the full now, while it was still healthy, pure, virginally uncontaminated and clinically sterile. He knew it wouldn’t stay like that for long.

  He glanced at the operating table – also virginally white – and at the surgical instruments, at the dozens of tools which inspired respect and confidence by the cool and menacing dignity of their cold steel, the pristine cleanliness of the metal sheen, the order and aesthetics of their arrangement.

  His staff – three women – busied themselves around the instruments. Rusty spat and made a correction in his thoughts. One woman and two girls. He spat again. One old, though beautiful and young-looking, grandmother. And two children.

  A sorceress and healer, called Marti Sodergren. And the volunteers. Shani, a student from Oxenfurt. Iola, a priestess from the Temple of Melitele in Ellander.

  I know Marti Sodergren, thought Rusty, I’ve already worked with that beauty more than once. A bit of a nymphomaniac, she’s also prone to hysteria, but that’s nothing, as long as her magic works. Anaesthetic, disinfectant and blood—staunching spells.

  Iola. A priestess, or rather a novice. A girl with looks as plain and dull as linen, with long, strong peasant hands. The temple had prevented those hands from becoming tainted by the ugly mark of heavy and dirty slogging on the soil. But it hadn’t managed to disguise their descent.

  No, thought Rusty, I’m not afraid for her, by and large. Those peasant woman’s hands are sure hands, trustworthy hands. Besides, girls from temples seldom disappoint, they don’t cave in at moments of despair, but seek comfort in religion, in their mystical faith. Interestingly, it helps.

  He glanced at red-haired Shani, nimbly threading curved needles with catgut.

  Shani. A child from reeking city backstreets, who made it to the Academy of Oxenfurt thanks to her own thirst for knowledge and the unimaginable sacrifices of her parents in paying her fees. A schoolgirl. A jester. A cheerful scamp. What does she know? How to thread needles? Put on tourniquets? Hold retractors? Ha, the question is: when will the little red—haired student faint, drop the retractors and tumble nose—first into the open belly of a patient being operated on?

  People aren’t very hardy, he thought. I asked to be given an elf woman. Or somebody from my own race. But no. There’s no trust.

  Not towards me either, as a matter of fact.

  I’m a halfling. An unhuman.

  A stranger.

  ‘Shani!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Vanderbeck?’

  ‘Rusty. I mean, to you it’s “Mr Rusty”. What’s this, Shani? And what’s it for?’

  ‘Are you testing me, Mr Rusty?’

  ‘Answer, girl!’

  ‘It’s a raspatory! For stripping the periosteum during amputations! So that the periosteum doesn’t crack under the teeth of the saw, to make the sawing clean and smooth! Satisfied? Did I pass?’

  ‘Quiet, girl, quiet.’

  He raked his fingers through his hair.

  Interesting, he thought. There are four of us doctors here. And each one’s ginger! Is it fate or what?

  ‘Please step outside the tent, girls,’ he beckoned.

  They obeyed, though all of them snorted to themselves. Each in her own way.

  Outside the tent sat a cluster of orderlies enjoying the last minutes of sweet idleness. Rusty cast a severe glance at them, and sniffed to check if they were already plastered.

  A blacksmith, a huge fellow, was bustling around by his table which resembled a torture chamber, a
nd organising his tools which served to pull the wounded out of suits of armour, mail shirts and bent visors.

  ‘In a moment, over there,’ began Rusty without introductions, indicating the field, ‘people will start slaughtering each other. And a moment after that moment the first casualties will appear. Everyone knows what they’re supposed to do, each one of us knows their duties and their place. If everyone obeys what they ought to obey nothing can go wrong. Clear?’

  None of the ‘girls’ commented.

  ‘Over there,’ continued Rusty, pointing again, ‘almost a hundred thousand soldiers will begin to wound each other. In very elaborate ways. There are, including the other two hospitals, twelve of us doctors. Not for all the world will we manage to help all those that are in need. Not even a scanty percentage of those in need. No one expects that.

  ‘But we’re going to treat them. Because it is, excuse the banality, our raison d’être. To help those in need. So we shall banally help as many as we manage to help.’

  Once again no one commented. Rusty turned around.

  ‘We won’t manage to do much more than we’re capable of,’ he said more quietly and more warmly. ‘But we shall all do our best to make sure it won’t be much less.’

  *

  ‘They’ve set off,’ stated Constable Jan Natalis, and wiped his sweaty hand on his hip. ‘Your Majesty, Nilfgaard has set off. They’re heading for us!’

  King Foltest brought his dancing horse, a grey in a trapping decorated with lilies, under control. He turned his beautiful profile, worthy of featuring on coins, towards the constable.

  ‘Then we must receive them with dignity. Constable, sir! Gentlemen!’

  ‘Death to the Black Cloaks!’ yelled the mercenary Adam ‘Adieu’ Pangratt and Graf de Ruyter in unison. The constable looked at them, then straightened up and breathed in deeply.

  ‘To your companies!’

  From a distance the Nilfgaardian war drums thundered dully, crumhorns, oliphants and battle horns wailed. The ground, struck by thousands of hooves, shuddered.

  *

  ‘Here they come,’ said Andy Biberveldt, a halfling and the leader of the convoy, brushing the hair from his small, pointed ear. ‘Any moment . . .’