The Tower of Fools

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “My name is Reinmar of Bielawa,” began Reynevan. And because no one was interrupting him, he continued, “My brother, Piotr of Bielawa, was murdered. The murder was ordered by the brothers Stercza but carried out by Kunz Aulock and his gang. Thus I have no reason to like them. I heard in Kromolin that there is no love lost between you and them, either, so I’m following you to inform you that the Sterczas were in the settlement and fled on hearing of your arrival there. They rode south, across the ford. I say and do all this owing to my hatred for the Sterczas. I’m unable to take my revenge on them by myself. My hope for that lies with your company. I don’t want anything else. If I am in error… Forgive me and let me go on my way.”

  He took a deep breath, tired by the hurried oration he had delivered. The Raubritters’ horses snorted, their harnesses clanked, and the lanterns wove ghastly, dancing shadows from the darkness.

  “Reinmar of Bielawa,” snorted Fryczko of Nostitz. “Dammit, it looks as though we’re distantly related.”

  Vitelozzo Gaetani swore in Italian.

  “On our way,” Hayn of Czirne suddenly barked. “You, m’Lord Bielawa, by me. Close by me.”

  He didn’t even order for me to be searched, thought Reynevan, riding on. He didn’t check if I have a hidden weapon. And ordered me to ride beside him. It’s another test. And a trap.

  A lantern had been hung up and was swaying on a roadside willow, a cunning trick to mislead any pursuers and make them believe that the troop was a long way in front of them. Czirne took down the lantern, held it up and shone it on Reynevan.

  “An honest face,” he commented. “A sincere, honest countenance. It turns out that appearances aren’t deceptive and he speaks the truth. An enemy of the Sterczas, are you?”

  “Yes, Lord Czirne.”

  “Reinmar of Bielawa, is it?”

  “It is.”

  “Everything is clear. Right, seize him. Disarm him and tie him up. Put a noose around his neck. Look lively!”

  “Lord Czirne…” stammered Reynevan, already being held by strong arms. “What…? What…?”

  “There’s a bishop’s significavit out on you, young man,” Hayn of Czirne pronounced carelessly, “and a bounty for turning you in alive. You see, the Inquisition is hunting you. Spells or heresy, it’s actually all one to me. But you’ll ride to the Dominican monastery in fetters.”

  “Let me go…” Reynevan grunted as the rope bit painfully into his wrists. “Please, Lord Czirne… You’re a knight, after all… And I must… I am hurrying… To the lady I love!”

  “Aren’t we all.”

  “But you hate my foes! The Sterczas and Aulock!”

  “True,” admitted the Raubritter. “I hate those whoresons. But I, young man, am not such a savage. I’m a European. I won’t let my likes and dislikes influence important decisions.”

  “But… Lord Czirne—”

  “To horse, gentlemen.”

  “Lord Czirne… I—”

  “Lord Nostitz!” Hayn interrupted forcefully. “You say he’s your kin. Please silence him, m’lord.”

  Reynevan received such a punch in the ear that he saw stars and his head was thrown forward almost to the horse’s mane.

  After that he said nothing.

  The sky in the east lightened, heralding the dawn. It became even colder. Reynevan, arms bound, was shivering from cold and fear in equal measure. Nostitz had to bring him to task several times with a jerk of the rope.

  “What are we going to do with him?” Vitelozzo Gaetani suddenly asked. “Must we drag him with us all the way over the mountains? Or do we weaken the unit by giving him an escort to Świdnica? Eh?”

  “I don’t know yet.” A note of impatience sounded in Hayn of Czirne’s voice. “I’m thinking.”

  “Is the bounty worth all this?” asked the Italian, continuing to press. “And is the bounty much less for him dead?”

  “What matters to me isn’t the bounty,” growled Czirne, “but good relations with the Holy Office. And that’s enough talk! I said I’m thinking.”

  Reynevan could tell that they were now riding along a road by the change in the sound and the rhythm of hooves hitting the ground. He assumed it was the highway to Frankenstein, the largest town in the locality. He had lost his bearings, though, and was unable to deduce if they were riding towards the town or away from it. He decided not to kick himself, for the moment, or dwell on his own stupidity, and began to think feverishly, devising stratagems and plans for his escape.

  “Heeeyy!” somebody screamed from the front. “Heeeyy!”

  Lanterns flashed, picking out of the darkness the angular outlines of wagons and the silhouettes of riders.

  “He’s here,” said Czirne quietly. “Punctual and at the agreed place—I approve of men like that. But appearances can be deceptive. Weapons at the ready. Signore Gaetani, remain at the rear and be vigilant. Lord Nostitz, keep an eye on your kinsman. The rest follow me. Heeeyy! Greetings!”

  The lantern from the opposite direction was dancing to the rhythm of a horse’s steps. Three horsemen were approaching. One was stout, wearing a heavy, loose-fitting coat that also covered his steed’s rump, accompanied by two crossbowmen, identical to Czirne’s bowmen, wearing brigantines, kettle hats and iron collars.

  “Sir Hayn of Czirne?”

  “Master Hanusz Throst?”

  “I like reliable and punctual men,” said the man in the coat. “I see that our mutual friends weren’t exaggerating when giving their opinion and recommendation. I’m content to see you and pleased to be collaborating. We may set off, I believe?”

  “My collaboration is worth a hundred guilders,” replied Czirne. “Our mutual friends cannot have failed to mention that.”

  “Certainly, but not in advance,” snorted the man in the overcoat. “You can’t have thought, sir, that I would agree to that. I am a merchant, a man of affairs, and in business the service comes first, the payment second. Your service: to escort me safely across the Silver Pass to Broumov. If you accomplish that, you will be paid. A hundred guilders, to the haler.”

  “It had better be thus,” said Hayn of Czirne, with heavy emphasis. “Verily it had, Master Throst. Do you convey anything in the wagons, may I ask?”

  “Goods,” Throst replied calmly. “What kind is my business. As is the man who will pay for them.”

  “Naturally.” Czirne nodded. “Indeed, it is enough for me to know that you are a trader like those other men—Fabian Pfefferkorn, Mikołaj Neumarkt and the others.”

  “It is probably best that you do not know more. We’ve conversed too much already—it’s time we left. Why linger at a crossroads, tempting the Devil?”

  “You are right.” Czirne reined his horse around. “We will not stay here. Give the sign, let the wagons roll. And regarding the Devil, fear not. The demon that has recently been prowling around Silesia customarily strikes from a bright sky at high noon. Verily, as the priests say, daemonium meridianum, the demon that strikes at noon. But all around us, see for yourself: darkness.”

  The merchant spurred his horse and caught up with the Raubritter’s black.

  “In that demon’s shoes,” he said a moment later, “I’d change my customs, because it has become too familiar and predictable. And that psalm also mentions the darkness. Do you not remember? Negotio perambulans in tenebris…”

  “Had I known you were in such fright,” there was amusement in Czirne’s dour voice, “I’d have raised my fee to at least a hundred and fifty guilders.”

  “I’ll pay it,” said Throst so quietly that Reynevan barely heard him. “One hundred and fifty guilders, cash in hand, Lord Czirne. On safe arrival. For it is true that I am afeared. An alchemist in Racibórz wrote me a horoscope, foretold from chicken’s entrails… It revealed that death lurks above me…”

  “Do you believe in such things?”

  “Until recently—no.”

  “And now?”

  “And now,” the merchant said firmly, “I’m taking my le
ave of Silesia. A word to the wise is sufficient; I don’t want to end up like Pfefferkorn and Neumarkt. I’m going to Bohemia; no demon will get his hands on me there.”

  “Indeed.” Hayn of Czirne nodded. “Not there. Even demons are afraid of the Hussites.”

  “I’m heading for Bohemia,” Throst repeated. “And it is your task to deliver me there safely.”

  Czirne didn’t reply. The wagons rattled, the axles and hubs creaking on ruts.

  They left the trees for open space, where it became even colder and foggier. Reynevan heard the swoosh of water over stones.

  “The River Węża.” Czirne pointed. “Less than a mile to the pass. Huzza! Drive on, driiive on!”

  Pebbles clattered and grated beneath the horseshoes and wheel rims, and soon the water was splashing and foaming around the horses’ feet. The little river was shallow but rapid.

  Hayn of Czirne suddenly stopped in the middle of the ford, motionless in the saddle. Vitelozzo Gaetani reined his horse around.

  “What is it?”

  “Quiet. Not a word.”

  They saw before they heard anything. What they saw was white foam splashing up from the hooves of two horses charging at them along the bed of the Węża. Only later did they see the silhouettes of two riders with cloaks billowing out like ghastly wings.

  “To arms!” yelled Czirne, jerking out his sword. “To arms! Crossbows!”

  They were struck by a wind, a sudden, elemental, howling gale, lashing their faces. And then they were struck by a deranged cry.

  “Adsumus! Adsuuumuuuus!”

  The bowstrings of crossbows clanged; bolts sang. Someone screamed. And a moment later, the horsemen were splashing upon them, falling on them like a hurricane, smiting with swords, felling and trampling them. Everything swirled and seethed, the night torn apart by cries, yells, thuds and the clank of iron, the squealing and neighing of horses. Fryczko of Nostitz tumbled into the river along with his struggling steed and an esquire splashed into the water, felled by a sword blow. One of the bowmen howled and the howl turned into a wheeze.

  “Adsuuumuuuus!”

  As Hanusz Throst fled, he turned around in the saddle and screamed to see behind him a grinning horse’s face, and behind it a black shape in a hood. It was the last thing he saw on this Earth. A slender sword blade stabbed him in the face between eye and nose, crunching into his skull. The merchant went rigid, his arms flapped and he tumbled onto the stones.

  “Adsumus!” the black horseman yelled triumphantly. “In nomine Tuo!”

  The black-clothed horsemen spurred their horses and galloped into the darkness. Hayn of Czirne gave chase, flung himself from his saddle and seized one of them. They fell into the water and leaped to their feet at once, their swords whistling and clanging together. They fought ferociously, standing knee-deep in the foaming river, streams of sparks shooting from their blades.

  The black knight stumbled. Czirne, the old fox, couldn’t let a chance like that go by. He swung and struck him in the head, his heavy Passau blade slicing through the hood, cleaving and lifting up the helmet. Czirne saw in front of him a visage covered in blood, as white as death, grimacing ghoulishly, and knew at once he would never forget that sight. The wounded man roared and charged, refusing to fall down, although he should have. Czirne swore, grabbed his sword in both hands and slashed once again with a powerful twist of the hips, slicing flatly into his neck. Black blood gushed out as the man’s head fell onto his shoulder and lolled there, probably only held on by a scrap of skin. And the headless knight walked on, brandishing his sword and splashing gore around.

  One of the bowmen screamed in terror and two others bolted in panic. Hayn of Czirne did not retreat. He swore terribly and impiously, steadied himself on his feet and smote again, this time severing the head completely and hacking off almost the entire arm. The black knight tumbled over into the shallow water by the bank, his limbs flailing, thrashing and kicking convulsively. It was a long time before he stopped moving.

  Panting heavily, Hayn of Czirne pushed away from his knees the corpse of a crossbowmen in a brigantine turning in the current.

  “What was that?” he finally asked. “What by Lucifer was that?”

  “May Jesus be merciful,” mumbled Fryczko of Nostitz next to Czirne. “May Jesus be merciful…”

  The Węża River burbled melodiously over the stones.

  Meanwhile, Reynevan was fleeing, and he rode as though he’d done nothing his entire life except gallop in shackles. And he was galloping wonderfully, his bound wrists hooked firmly over the pommel, his head buried in the mane, his knees gripping the horse’s sides with all his might, pounding so hard the earth trembled and the air howled in his ears. The horse—dear creature—appeared to know what was afoot, stretched out its neck and gave its all, proving that for the last five or six years it hadn’t been fed on oats for nothing. Horseshoes struck the hardened ground, bushes and high grass parting while branches lashed against him. Pity Dzierżka of Wirsing can’t see this, thought Reynevan, although he knew his equestrian skills at that moment were rather limited to managing to stay in the saddle. But, he thought at once, that’s still plenty.

  That thought came to him perhaps a little too soon, because at that moment, the horse decided to clear a fallen tree. And it jumped quite gracefully, except for that fact that there was a hollow beyond the tree trunk. The impact weakened Reynevan’s grip and he flew into a patch of burdock which was fortunately so abundant and tall that it at least partly broke his fall. But the collision with the ground winded him and he curled up in a ball, groaning.

  He had no time to uncurl himself. Vitelozzo Gaetani, who had been chasing him, dismounted.

  “Trying to flee?” he wheezed. “From me? You worm!”

  He aimed a kick at him but didn’t complete it. Scharley appeared as if from nowhere, pushed him in the chest and treated him to his favourite kick below the knee. The Italian only staggered, then drew his sword and gave a mighty backhand swing. The penitent nimbly dodged the blade and unsheathed his own weapon, a curved sabre. He swung it diagonally, the sabre whistling in his hand like a lightning bolt and hissing like a viper.

  Gaetani wasn’t frightened by Scharley’s fencing skills and jumped at the penitent, wielding his sword and yelling savagely. Their weapons clanged together. Three times. The fourth time, the Italian wasn’t quick enough to parry the blow from the much quicker sabre. The blade nicked his cheek and blood splashed on him. It was a small wound, and perhaps he would have fought on, but Scharley didn’t give him a chance. He jumped forward and slammed him between the eyes with the pommel of his sword. Gaetani tumbled among the burdock, howling as he fell.

  “Figlio di puttana!”

  “Apparently,” said Scharley, wiping his blade on a leaf. “But what to do—you can’t choose your mother.”

  “I don’t want to spoil the amusement,” said Samson, emerging from the fog with three horses, including Reynevan’s wheezing and foaming bay, “but could we get out of here? And at a gallop, perhaps?”

  The milky curtain fell apart as the mist rose, dispelled in the blaze of the sun shining through the clouds. The world, hitherto plunged in a chiaroscuro of long shadows, suddenly brightened up, glistening and blazing with colour like one of Giotto’s frescos.

  The red tiles of the towers of nearby Frankenstein glistened.

  “And now,” said Samson, after feasting his eyes, “to Ziębice.”

  “To Ziębice,” Reynevan said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s head for Ziębice. My friends… How can I repay you?”

  “We’ll think about it,” promised Scharley. “But for the moment… Get off your horse.”

  Reynevan did as he was told. He knew what to expect. He wasn’t wrong.

  “Reinmar of Bielawa,” said Scharley in a dignified and solemn voice. “Repeat after me: I’m an ass!”

  “I’m an ass—”

  “Louder!”

  God’s creatures inhabiting the area that were j
ust waking up—from harvest mice and fire-bellied toads to yellowhammers and pied flycatchers, crossbills and salamanders—heard Reynevan shout at the top of his voice: “I am an ass!”

  “I’m an ass,” Reynevan repeated after Scharley. “An utter pillock, a fool, a moron, an idiot and a clown worthy of being locked up in the Narrenturm! Whatever I think up turns out to be the height of idiocy. Whatever I do exceeds those heights. I solemnly vow to improve. It is my good fortune—fortune which is utterly undeserved—to have friends who don’t leave me in the lurch. I have friends I can always rely upon. Because friendship…”

  The sun rose higher and flooded the fields in a golden blaze.

  “Friendship is a great and beautiful thing!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  In which our heroes happen upon a very European tournament in Ziębice. For Reynevan, however, contact with Europe turns out to be very disagreeable. Painful, even.

  They were already near enough to Ziębice to admire—in all their glory—the imposing walls and towers looming up from behind a wooded hill. Farmers were labouring in the fields and meadows, the pastures were dotted with sheep and the meadows around the ponds were white with geese. The hallmarks of prosperity were visible everywhere.

  “A pleasant land,” said Samson. “A hardworking, affluent region.”

  “And a law-abiding one,” said Scharley, pointing at gibbets groaning under the weight of hanged men. Alongside, to the delight of crows, a dozen corpses were rotting on stakes and bones shone white on breaking wheels. “It’s clear that the law means law here and justice means justice.”