The bowstring slapped. One of the three brave men howled, leaned over the balustrade and plummeted downwards onto the flags of the courtyard. At the sight, courage immediately deserted the others. They fell to the floor and pressed themselves against it. Those who had arrived were in no hurry to come out onto the gallery and expose themselves to Milva’s shooting.
With one exception.
Milva measured him up at once. Short, slim, swarthy. With a bracer on his left forearm rubbed to a shine and an archer’s glove on his right hand. She saw him lift a shapely composite bow with a profiled, carved riser, saw him tauten it smoothly. She saw the bowstring – tightened to its full draw – cross his swarthy face, saw the red-feathered fletching touch his cheek. She saw him aim carefully.
She tossed her bow up, tightened it smoothly, already aiming as she did so. The bowstring touched her face, the feather of the fletching the corner of her mouth.
*
‘Harder, harder, Marishka. All the way to your cheek. Twist the bowstring with your fingers, so the arrow doesn’t fall from the rest. Hand tight against your cheek. Aim! Both eyes open! Now hold your breath. Shoot!’
The bowstring, in spite of the woollen bracer, stung her left forearm painfully.
Her father was about to speak when he was seized by a coughing fit. A heavy, dry, painful coughing fit. He’s coughing worse and worse, thought Marishka Barring, lowering her bow. More and more horribly, and more and more often. He started coughing yesterday as he was aiming at a buck. And for dinner there was only boiled pigweed. I can’t stand boiled pigweed. I hate hunger. And poverty.
Old Barring sucked in air, wheezing gratingly.
‘Your arrow passed a span from the bull’s eye, lass! A whole span! And I’ve told you, ain’t I, not to twitch when you’re letting the bowstring go? And you’re hopping about like a slug’s crawled into your arse crack. And you take too long aiming. You’re shooting with a weary arm! That’s how you waste arrows!’
‘But I hit the target! And not a span at all, but half a span from the bull’s eye.’
‘Don’t talk back! How the Gods punished me by sending me a clod of a lass instead of a son!’
‘I ain’t a clod!’
‘We’ll soon find out. Shoot one more time. And mark what I told you. You’re to stand like you were sunk into the ground. Aim and shoot swiftly. Why are you making faces?’
‘Because you’re badmouthing me.’
‘It’s my fatherly right. Shoot.’
She drew back the bow, sullen and close to tears. He noticed.
‘I love you, Marishka,’ he said softly. ‘Always mind that.’
She released the bowstring when the fletching had barely touched the corner of her mouth.
‘Well done,’ said her father. ‘Well done, lass’
And coughed horribly, wheezingly.
*
The swarthy archer from the gallery died outright. Milva’s arrow struck him below his left armpit and penetrated deep, more than halfway up the shaft, shattering his ribs, pulverising his lungs and heart.
The swarthy archer’s red-feathered arrow, released a split second, earlier, struck Milva low in the belly and exited at the back, having shattered her pelvis and pulverised her intestines and arteries.
The archer fell to the floor as though rammed.
Geralt and Cahir shouted with one voice. Heedless that at the sight of Milva’s collapse the marksmen from the gallery had once again picked up their bows, they jumped out from the portico protecting them, grabbed the archer and dragged her back, scornful of the hail of arrows. One of the arrowheads rang against Cahir’s helmet. Another, Geralt would have sworn, parted his hair.
Milva left behind her a broad and glistening trail of blood. In the blink of an eye a huge pool had appeared in the place they laid her down. Cahir cursed, his hands shaking. Geralt felt despair overcoming him. And fury.
‘Auntie,’ howled Angoulême. ‘Auntie, don’t diiiiiieeeee!’
Maria Barring opened her mouth, coughed horrifyingly, spitting blood onto her chin.
‘I love you too, Papa,’ she said quite distinctly.
And died.
*
The shaven-headed acolytes couldn’t cope with the struggling and yelling Ciri, and lackeys rushed to help them. One, kicked between the legs, leaped back, bent over double, and fell to his knees, grabbing his crotch and gasping spasmodically for air.
But that only infuriated the others. Ciri was punched in the neck and slapped in the face. They knocked her over, someone kicked her hard in the hip and someone else sat down on her shins. One of the bald acolytes, a young character with evil green and gold eyes, kneeled on her chest, dug his fingers into her hair and tugged it hard. Ciri howled.
The acolyte also howled. And goggled. Ciri saw streams of blood gushing from his shaven head, staining his white laboratory coat with a macabre design.
The next second, hell broke loose in the laboratory.
Overturned furniture banged. The high-pitched cracking and crunching of breaking glass merged with the hellish moaning of people. The decocts, philtres, elixirs, extracts and other magical substances spilling over the tables and floor mixed up and combined, some of them hissing on contact and belching clouds of yellow smoke. The room was instantly filled with a pungent stench.
Amidst the smoke, through tears brought on by the smell of burning, Ciri saw to her horror a black shape resembling an enormous bat dashing around the laboratory at an incredible speed. She saw the bat in flight slashing the men and saw them falling over screaming. In front of her eyes a lackey trying hard to flee was picked up from the floor and flung onto a table, where he thrashed around, splashed blood, and finally croaked among smashed retorts, alembics, test tubes and flasks.
The mixture of spilled liquids splashed onto a lamp. It hissed, stinking, and flames suddenly exploded in the laboratory. A wave of heat dispersed the smoke. She clenched her teeth so as not to scream.
A slender, grey-haired man dressed elegantly in black was sitting on the steel chair meant for her. The man was calmly biting and sucking on the neck of the shaven-headed acolyte slumped over his knee. The acolyte squealed shrilly and twitched convulsively, his extended legs and arms jerking rhythmically.
Corpse-blue flames were dancing on the metal table-top. Retorts and flasks exploded with a thud, one after another.
The vampire tore his pointed fangs from his victim’s neck and fixed his agate-black eyes on Ciri.
‘There are occasions,’ he said in an explanatory tone, licking blood from his lips, ‘when it’s simply impossible not to have a drink.
‘Don’t fear,’ he smiled, seeing her expression. ‘Don’t fear, Ciri. I’m glad I found you. My name’s Emiel Regis. I am, although it may seem strange to you, a comrade of the Witcher Geralt. I came here with him to rescue you.’
An armed mercenary rushed into the blazing laboratory. Geralt’s comrade turned his head towards him, hissed and bared his fangs. The mercenary howled horrifyingly. The howling went on for a long time before it faded into the distance.
Emiel Regis threw the acolyte’s body, motionless and soft as a rag, from his knee, stood up and stretched just like a cat.
‘Who’d have thought it?’ he said. ‘Just some runt, and what good blood inside him! What hidden talents! Come with me, Cirilla, I’ll take you to Geralt.’
‘No,’ mumbled Ciri.
‘You don’t have to be afraid of me.’
‘I’m not,’ she protested, bravely fighting with her teeth which insisted on chattering. ‘That’s not what it’s about . . . But Yennefer is imprisoned here somewhere. I have to free her as quickly as possible. I’m afraid that Vilgefortz . . . Mr . . .’
‘Emiel Regis.’
‘Warn Geralt, good sir, that Vilgefortz is here. He’s a sorcerer. A powerful sorcerer. Geralt has to be on his guard.’
*
‘You’re to be on your guard,’ repeated Regis, looking at Milva’s body. ‘Becaus
e Vilgefortz is a powerful mage. Meanwhile, she’s setting Yennefer free.’
Geralt swore.
‘Come on!’ he yelled, trying to revive the low spirits of his companions with a shout. ‘Let’s go!’
‘Let’s go.’ Angoulême stood up and wipe away her tears. ‘Let’s go! It’s time to kick a few fucking arses!’
‘I feel such strength inside me I could probably lay waste to this entire castle,’ hissed the vampire, smiling gruesomely.
The Witcher glanced at him suspiciously.
‘Don’t go that far,’ he said, ‘But force your way through to the upper floor and make a bit of a racket to draw their attention away from me. I’ll try to find Ciri. It wasn’t good, it wasn’t good, vampire, that you left her alone.’
‘She demanded it,’ Regis explained calmly. ‘Using a tone and attitude that ruled out any discussion. She astonished me, I admit.’
‘I know. Go to the upper floor. Look after yourselves! I’ll try to find her. Her, or Yennefer.’
*
He found her, and quite quickly.
He ran into them all of a sudden, completely unexpectedly coming around a bend in a corridor. He saw. And the sight made the adrenaline prick the veins on the backs of his hands.
Several lackeys were dragging Yennefer along the corridor. The sorceress was dishevelled and shackled in chains, which didn’t stop her kicking and struggling and swearing like a trooper.
Geralt didn’t let the lackeys get over their astonishment. He only struck once, with one short thrust from the elbow. The man howled like a dog, staggered, smashed his head with a clank and a thud against a suit of plate armour standing in an alcove, and slid down it, smearing blood over the steel plates.
The remaining ones – there were three of them – released Yennefer and leaped aside. Apart from the fourth, who seized the sorceress by the hair and held a knife to her throat, just above her dimeritium collar.
‘Don’t come any closer!’ he howled. ‘I’ll slit her throat! I’m not joking!’
‘Neither am I.’ Geralt swung his sword around and looked the thug in the eyes. That was enough for him. He released Yennefer and joined his companions. All of them were now holding weapons. One of them wrenched an antique but menacing-looking halberd from a panoply on the wall. All of them, crouching, were vacillating between attack and defence.
‘I knew you’d come,’ said Yennefer straightening up proudly. ‘Geralt, show these scoundrels what a witcher’s sword can do.’
She raised her cuffed hands high, tautening the links of the chain.
Geralt grasped his sihill in both hands, tilted his head slightly and aimed. And smote. So swiftly no one saw the movement of the blade.
The links fell onto the floor with a clank. One of the servants gasped. Geralt grasped the hilt more tightly and moved his index finger under the cross guard.
‘Stand still, Yen. Head slightly to one side, please.’
The sorceress didn’t even flinch. The sound of metal being struck by the sword was very faint.
The dimeritium collar fell down beside the manacles. Only a single, tiny drop appeared on Yennefer’s neck.
She laughed, massaging her wrists. And turned towards the lackeys. None of them could endure her gaze.
The one with the halberd placed the antique weapon gingerly on the floor, as though afraid it would clank.
‘Let Tawny Owl,’ he mumbled, ‘fight someone like that himself. My life is dear to me.’
‘They ordered us,’ muttered another, withdrawing. ‘They ordered us . . . We were captive . . .’
‘After all, we weren’t rude to you, madam . . . in your prison . . .’ a third licked his lips. ‘Testify to that . . .’
‘Begone,’ said Yennefer. Freed from the dimeritium manacles, erect, with her head proudly raised, she looked like a Titaness. Her unruly black mane seemed to reach up to the vault.
The lackeys fled. Furtively and without looking back. Having shrunk to her normal dimensions, Yennefer fell on Geralt’s neck.
‘I knew you’d come for me,’ she murmured, searching for his mouth with hers. ‘That you’d come, whatever might happen.’
‘Let’s go,’ he said after a moment, gasping for air. ‘Now for Ciri.’
‘Ciri,’ she said. And a second later a menacing violet glow lit up in her eyes.
‘And Vilgefortz.’
*
A man with a crossbow came around the corner, yelled and shot, aiming at the sorceress. Geralt leaped as though propelled by a spring, brandished his sword and the deflected bolt flew right over the crossbowman’s head, so close he had to crouch. He didn’t manage to straighten up, though, for the Witcher leaped forward and filleted him like a carp. Two more were still standing in the corridor, also holding crossbows. They also fired, but their hands were shaking too much to find the target. The next moment the Witcher was upon them and they were both dead.
‘Which way, Yen?’
The sorceress focused, closing her eyes.
‘That way. Up those stairs.’
‘Are you sure it’s the right way?’
‘Yes.’
They were attacked by thugs just around the bend in the corridor, not far from a portal decorated with an archivolt. There were more than ten of them, and they were armed with spears, partizans and corseques. They were even determined and fierce. In spite of that it didn’t take long. Yennefer stabbed one of them in the centre of the chest at once with a fiery arrowhead shot from her hand. Geralt whirled in a pirouette and fell among the others, the dwarven sihill flashing and hissing like a snake. Once four had fallen the rest fled, the corridors echoing with their clanking and stamping.
‘Everything in order, Yen?’
‘Couldn’t be better.’
Vilgefortz stood beneath the archivolt.
‘I’m impressed,’ he said calmly and resonantly. ‘I really am impressed, Witcher. You’re naive and hopelessly stupid, but your technique is impressive.’
‘Your brigands,’ Yennefer replied just as calmly, ‘have just beaten a retreat, leaving you at our mercy. Hand Ciri over, and we’ll spare your life.’
‘Do you know, Yennefer, that that’s the second such generous offer I’ve had today?’ the sorcerer grinned. ‘Thank you, thank you. And here’s my answer.’
‘Look out!’ yelled Yennefer, jumping aside. Geralt also leaped aside. Just in time. The column of fire shooting from the sorcerer’s outstretched hands transformed the place they had been standing a moment earlier into black and fizzing mud. The Witcher wiped soot and the remains of his eyebrows off his face. He saw Vilgefortz extend a hand. He dived aside and flattened himself against the floor behind the base of a column. There was a boom so loud it hurt their ears, and the whole castle was shaken to its foundations.
*
Booming echoed through the castle, the walls trembled and the chandeliers jingled. A large oil portrait in a gilded frame fell with a great clatter.
The mercenaries who ran up from the vestibule had abject fear in their eyes. Stefan Skellen calmed them with a menacing look, and took them to task with his grim expression and voice.
‘What’s going on there? Talk!’
My Lord Coroner . . .’ wheezed one of them. ‘There’s horror there! There’s demons and devils there . . . They’re shooting unerringly. . . It’s a massacre . . . Death is there . . . It’s red with gore everywhere!’
‘Some ten men have fallen . . . Perhaps more . . . Over yonder . . . Do you hear, sir?’
There was another boom and the castle shook.
‘Magic,’ muttered Skellen. ‘Vilgefortz . . . Well, we shall see. We’ll find out who’s beating whom.’
Another hireling came running. He was pale and covered in plaster. For a long time he couldn’t utter a word, and when he finally spoke his hands trembled and his voice shook.
‘There’s . . . There’s . . . A monster . . . Lord Coroner . . . Like a great, black flittermouse . . . It was tearing people’s heads
off before my very eyes . . . Blood was gushing everywhere! And it was darting around and laughing . . . It had teeth like this!’
‘We won’t escape with our lives . . .’ whispered a voice behind Tawny Owl’s back.
‘Lord Coroner.’ Boreas Mun decided to speak. ‘They are spectres. I saw . . . the young Graf Cahir aep Ceallach. But he’s dead.’
Skellen looked at him, but didn’t say anything.
‘Lord Stefan . . .’ mumbled Dacre Silifant. ‘Who are we to fight here?’
‘They aren’t men,’ groaned one of the mercenaries. ‘They are sorcerers and hellish devils! Human strength cannot cope against such as them . . .’
Tawny Owl crossed his arms on his chest and swept a bold and imperious gaze over the mercenaries.
‘So we shall not get involved in this conflict of hellish forces!’ he announced thunderously and emphatically. ‘Let demons fight with demons, witches with witches, and ghosts with corpses risen from the grave. We won’t interfere with them! We shall wait here calmly for the outcome of the battle.’
The mercenaries’ faces brightened up. Their morale rose perceptibly.
‘That staircase is the only way out,’ Skellen continued in a powerful voice. ‘We’ll wait here. We shall see who tries coming down it.’
A terrible boom resounded from above and mouldings fell from the vault with an audible rustle. There was a stench of sulphur and burning.
‘It’s too dark here!’ called Tawny Owl, thunderously and boldly, to raise his troops’ spirits. ‘Briskly, light whatever you can! Torches, brands! We have to see well whoever appears on those stairs! Fill those iron cressets with some fuel or other!’
‘What kind of fuel, sir?’
Skellen indicated wordlessly what kind.
‘Pictures?’ a mercenary asked in disbelief. ‘Paintings?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ snorted Tawny Owl. ‘Why are you looking like that? Art is dead!’
Frames were splintered and paintings shredded. The well-dried wood and canvas, saturated with linseed oil, caught fire immediately and flared up with a bright flame.
Boreas Mun watched. His mind completely made up.
*
The Saga of the Witcher Page 190
