It sank into the thicket and pressed the segmented carapace of its abdomen to the ground. The vibrations in the ground became more and more distinct. The impulses from the idr’s feelers and bristles formed themselves into an image. Into a plan. The idr now knew where to approach its victim from, where to cross its path, how to force it to flee, how to swoop on it from behind with a great leap, from what height to strike and lacerate with its razor-sharp mandibles. Within it the vibrations and impulses were already arousing the joy it would experience when its victim started struggling under its weight, arousing the euphoria that the taste of hot blood would induce in it. The ecstasy it would feel when the air was rent by a scream of pain. It trembled slightly, opening and closing its pincers and pedipalps.
The vibrations in the ground were very distinct and had also diversified. The idr now knew there was more than one victim – probably three, or perhaps four. Two of them were shaking the ground in a normal way; the vibrations of the third suggested a small mass and weight. The fourth, meanwhile – provided there really was a fourth – was causing irregular, weak and hesitant vibrations. The idr stopped moving, tensed and extended its antennae above the grass, examining the movements of the air.
The vibrations in the ground finally signalled what the idr had been waiting for. Its quarry had separated. One of them, the smallest, had fallen behind. And the fourth – the vague one – had disappeared. It had been a fake signal, a false echo. The idr ignored it.
The smallest target moved even further away from the others. The trembling in the ground was more intense. And closer. The idr braced its rear limbs, pushed off and leaped.
*
The little girl gave an ear-splitting scream. Rather than running away, she had frozen to the spot. And was screaming unremittingly.
*
The Witcher darted towards her, drawing his sword mid-leap. And realised at once that something was wrong. That he’d been tricked.
The man pulling a handcart loaded with faggots screamed and shot six feet up into the air in front of Geralt’s eyes, blood spraying copiously from him. He fell, only to immediately fly up again, this time in two pieces, each spurting blood. He’d stopped screaming. Now the woman was screaming piercingly and, like her daughter, was petrified and paralysed by fear.
Although he didn’t believe he would, the Witcher managed to save her. He leaped and pushed hard, throwing the blood-spattered woman from the path into the forest, among the ferns. And realised at once that this time, too, it had been a trick. A ruse. For the flat, grey, many-limbed and incredibly quick shape was now moving away from the handcart and its first victim. It was gliding towards the next one. Towards the still shrieking little girl. Geralt sped after the idr.
Had she remained where she was, he would have been too late. But the girl demonstrated presence of mind and bolted frantically. The grey monster, however, would easily have caught up with her, killed her and turned back to dispatch the woman, too. That’s what would have happened had it not been for the Witcher.
He caught up with the monster and jumped, pinning down one of its rear limbs with his heel. If he hadn’t jumped aside immediately he would have lost a leg – the grey creature twisted around with extraordinary agility, and its curved pincers snapped shut, missing him by a hair’s breadth. Before the Witcher could regain his balance the monster sprang from the ground and attacked. Geralt defended himself instinctively with a broad and rather haphazard swing of his sword that pushed the monster away. He hadn’t wounded it, but now he had the upper hand.
He sprang up and fell on the monster, slashing backhand, cleaving the carapace of the flat cephalothorax. Before the dazed creature came to its senses, a second blow hacked off its left mandible. The monster attacked, brandishing its limbs and trying to gore him with its remaining mandible like an aurochs. The Witcher hacked that one off too. He slashed one of the idr’s pedipalps with a swift reverse cut. Then hacked at the cephalothorax again.
*
It finally dawned on the idr that it was in danger. That it must flee. Flee far from there, take cover, find a hiding place. It only lived to kill. In order to kill it must regenerate. It must flee . . . Flee . . .
*
The Witcher didn’t let it. He caught up with it, stepped on the rear segment of the thorax and cut from above with a fierce blow. This time, the carapace gave way, and viscous, greenish fluid gushed and poured from the wound. The monster flailed around, its limbs thrashing the ground chaotically.
Geralt cut again with his sword, this time completely severing the flat head from the body.
He was breathing heavily.
It thundered in the distance. The growing wind and darkening sky heralded an approaching storm.
*
Right from their very first encounter, Albert Smulka, the newly appointed district reeve, reminded Geralt of a swede – he was stout, unwashed, thick-skinned and generally pretty dull. In other words, he didn’t differ much from all the other district clerks Geralt had dealt with.
‘Would seem to be true,’ said the reeve. ‘Nought like a witcher for dealing with troubles. Jonas, my predecessor, couldn’t speak highly enough of you,’ he continued a moment later, not waiting for any reaction from Geralt. ‘To think, I considered him a liar. I mean that I didn’t completely lend credence to him. I know how things can grow into fairy tales. Particularly among the common folk, with them there’s always either a miracle or a marvel, or some witcher with superhuman powers. And here we are, turns out it’s the honest truth. Uncounted people have died in that forest beyond the little river. And because it’s a shortcut to the town the fools went that way . . . to their own doom. Heedless of warnings. These days it’s better not to loiter in badlands or wander through forests. Monsters and man-eaters everywhere. A dreadful thing has just happened in the Tukaj Hills of Temeria – a sylvan ghoul killed fifteen people in a charcoal-burners’ settlement. It’s called Rogovizna. You must have heard. Haven’t you? But it’s the truth, cross my heart and hope to die. It’s said even the wizardry have started an investigation in that there Rogovizna. Well, enough of stories. We’re safe here in Ansegis now. Thanks to you.’
He took a coffer from a chest of drawers, spread out a sheet of paper on the table and dipped a quill in an inkwell.
‘You promised you’d kill the monster,’ he said, without raising his head. ‘Seems you weren’t having me on. You’re a man of your word, for a vagabond . . . And you saved those people’s lives. That woman and the lass. Did they even thank you? Express their gratitude?’
No, they didn’t. The Witcher clenched his jaw. Because they haven’t yet fully regained consciousness. And I’ll be gone before they do. Before they realise I used them as bait, convinced in my conceited arrogance that I was capable of saving all three of them. I’ll be gone before it dawns on the girl, before she understands I’m to blame for her becoming a half-orphan.
He felt bad. No doubt because of the elixirs he’d taken before the fight. No doubt.
‘That monster is a right abomination.’ The reeve sprinkled some sand over the paper, and then shook it off onto the floor. ‘I had a look at the carcass when they brought it here . . . What on earth was it?’
Geralt wasn’t certain in that regard, but didn’t intend to reveal his ignorance.
‘An arachnomorph.’
Albert Smulka moved his lips, vainly trying to repeat the word.
‘Ugh, meks no difference, when all’s said and done. Did you dispatch it with that sword? With that blade? Can I take a look?’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘Ha, because it’s no doubt enchanted. And it must be dear . . . Quite something . . . Well, here we are jawing away and time’s passing. The task’s been executed, time for payment. But first the formalities. Make your mark on the bill. I mean, put a cross or some such.’
The Witcher took the bill from Smulka and held it up to the light.
‘Look at ’im.’ The reeve shook his head, grimacing. �
�What’s this, can he read?’
Geralt put the paper on the table and pushed it towards the official.
‘A slight error has crept into the document,’ he said, calmly and softly. ‘We agreed on fifty crowns. This bill has been made out for eighty.’
Albert Smulka clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them.
‘It isn’t an error.’ He also lowered his voice. ‘Rather, a token of gratitude. You killed the monster and I’m sure it was an exacting job . . . So the sum won’t astonish anyone . . .’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Pull the other one. Don’t play the innocent. Trying to tell me that when Jonas was in charge he never made out bills like this? I swear I—’
‘What do you swear?’ Geralt interrupted. ‘That he inflated bills? And went halves with me on the sum the royal purse was deprived of?’
‘Went halves?’ the reeve sneered. ‘Don’t be soft, witcher, don’t be soft. Reckon you’re that important? You’ll get a third of the difference. Ten crowns. It’s a decent bonus for you anyway. For I deserve more, if only owing to my function. State officials ought to be wealthy. The wealthier the official, the greater the prestige to the state. Besides, what would you know about it? This conversation’s beginning to weary me. You signing it or what?’
The rain hammered on the roof. It was pouring down outside. But the thunder had stopped; the storm had moved away.
Copyright
This edition first published in Great Britain in 2020 by Gollancz
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company
Blood of Elves Copyright © Andrzej Sapkowski 1994
Blood of Elves English Translation Copyright © Danusia Stok 2008
Time of Contempt Copyright © Andrzej Sapkowski 1995
Time of Contempt English Translation Copyright © David French 2013
Baptism of Fire Copyright © Andrzej Sapkowski 1996
Baptism of Fire English Translation Copyright © David French 2014
The Tower of the Swallow Copyright © Andrzej Sapkowski 1997
The Tower of the Swallow English Translation Copyright © David French 2016
The Lady of the Lake Copyright © Andrzej Sapkowski 1999
The Lady of the Lake English Translation Copyright © David French 2017
Blood of Elves originally published in Polish as Krew Elfow
Time of Contempt originally published in Polish as Czas Pogardy
Baptism of Fire originally published in Polish as Chrzest Ognia
The Tower of the Swallow originally published in Polish as Wieża Jaskółki
The Lady of the Lake originally published in Polish as Pani Jeziora
This publication has been funded by the Book Institute -
The © POLAND Translation Program
Published by arrangement with the Patricia Pasqualini Literary Agency.
The moral right of Andrzej Sapkowski to be identified as the author of these works, and the moral right of Danusia Stok and David French to be identified as the translators of these works, has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (eBook) 978 1 473 23246 4
www.gollancz.co.uk
The Saga of the Witcher Page 209
