فصل 4

CHAPTER FOUR

The misfortune behaved in the eternal manner of misfortunes and hawks – it hung over them for some while waiting for an appropriate moment before it attacked. It chose its moment, when they had passed the few settlements on the Gwenllech and Upper Buina, passed Ard Carraigh and plunged into the forest below, deserted and intersected by gorges. Like a hawk striking, this misfortune’s aim was true. It fell accurately upon its victim, and its victim was Triss.

Initially it seemed nasty but not too serious, resembling an ordinary stomach upset. Geralt and Ciri discreetly tried to take no notice of the stops the enchantress’s ailment necessitated. Triss, as pale as death, beaded with sweat and painfully contorted, tried to continue riding for several hours longer, but at about midday, and having spent an abnormally long time in the bushes by the road, she was no longer in any condition to sit on a saddle. Ciri tried to help her but to no avail – the enchantress, unable to hold on to the horse’s mane, slid down her mount’s flank and collapsed to the ground.

They picked her up and laid her on a cloak. Geralt unstrapped the saddle-bags without a word, found a casket containing some magic elixirs, opened it and cursed. All the phials were identical and the mysterious signs on the seals meant nothing to him.

“Which one, Triss?”

“None of them,” she moaned, with both hands on her belly. “I can’t… I can’t take them.” “What? Why?”

“I’m sensitised—”

“You? A magician?”

“I’m allergic!” she sobbed with helpless exasperation and despairing anger. “I always have been! I can’t tolerate elixirs! I can treat others with them but can only treat myself with amulets.” “Where is the amulet?”

“I don’t know.” She ground her teeth. “I must have left it in Kaer Morhen. Or lost it—” “Damn it. What are we going to do? Maybe you should cast a spell on yourself?” “I’ve tried. And this is the result. I can’t concentrate because of this cramp…” “Don’t cry.”

“Easy for you to say!”

The witcher got up, pulled his saddle-bags from Roach’s back and began rummaging through them. Triss curled up, her face contracted and her lips twisted in a spasm of pain.

“Ciri…”

“Yes, Triss?”

“Do you feel all right? No… unusual sensations?”

The girl shook her head.

“Maybe it’s food poisoning? What did I eat? But we all ate the same thing… Geralt! Wash your hands. Make sure Ciri washes her hands…” “Calm down. Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Ordinary soothing herbs. There’s next to no magic in them so they shouldn’t do you any harm. And they’ll relieve the cramps.” “Geralt, the cramps… they’re nothing. But if I run a fever… It could be… dysentery. Or paratyphoid.” “Aren’t you immune?”

Triss turned her head away without replying, bit her lip and curled up even tighter. The witcher did not pursue the question.

Having allowed her to rest for a while they hauled the enchantress onto Roach’s saddle. Geralt sat behind her, supporting her with both hands, while Ciri rode beside them, holding the reins and leading Triss’s gelding. They did not even manage a mile. The enchantress kept falling from Geralt’s hands; she could not stay in the saddle. Suddenly she started trembling convulsively, and instantly burned with a fever. The gastritis had grown worse. Geralt told himself that it was an allergic reaction to the traces of magic in his witcher’s elixir. He told himself that. But he did not believe it.

“Oh, sir,” said the sergeant, “you have not come at a good time. Indeed, you could not have arrived at a worse moment.” The sergeant was right. Geralt could neither contest it nor argue.

The fort guarding the bridge, where there would usually be three soldiers, a stable-boy, a tollcollector and – at most – a few passers-by, was swarming with people. The witcher counted over thirty lightly armed soldiers wearing the colours of Kaedwen and a good fifty shield bearers, camping around the low palisade. Most of them were lying by campfires, in keeping with the old soldier’s rule which dictates that you sleep when you can and get up when you’re woken. Considerable activity could be seen through the thrown-open gates – there were a lot of people and horses inside the fort, too. At the top of the little leaning lookout tower two soldiers were on duty, with their crossbows permanently at the ready. On the worn bridge trampled by horses’ hooves, six peasant carts and two merchant wagons were parked. In the enclosure, their heads lowered sadly over the mud and manure, stood umpteen unyoked oxen.

“There was an assault on the fort – last night.” The sergeant anticipated his question. “We just got here in time with the relief troops – otherwise we’d have found nothing here but charred earth.” “Who were your attackers? Bandits? Marauders?”

The soldier shook his head, spat and looked at Ciri and Triss, huddled in the saddle.

“Come inside,” he said, “your Enchantress is going to fall out of her saddle any minute now. We already have some wounded men there; one more won’t make much difference.” In the yard, in an open, roofed shelter, lay several people with their wounds dressed with bloodied bandages. A little further, between the palisade fence and a wooden well with a sweep, Geralt made out six still bodies wrapped in sacking from which only pairs of feet in worn, dirty boots protruded.

“Lay her there, by the wounded men.” The soldier indicated the shelter. “Oh sir, it truly is bad luck she’s sick. A few of our men were hurt during the battle and we wouldn’t turn down a bit of magical assistance. When we pulled the arrow out of one of them its head stuck in his guts. The lad will peter out by the morning, he’ll peter out like anything… And the enchantress who could have saved him is tossing and turning with a fever and seeking help from us. A bad time, I say, a bad time—” He broke off, seeing that the witcher could not tear his eyes from the sacking-wrapped bodies.

“Two guards from here, two of our relief troops and two… two of the others,” he said, pulling up a corner of the stiff material. “Take a look, if you wish.” “Ciri, step away.”

“I want to see, too!” The girl leaned out around him, staring at the corpses with her mouth open.

“Step away, please. Take care of Triss.”

Ciri huffed, unwilling, but obeyed. Geralt came closer.

“Elves,” he noted, not hiding his surprise.

“Elves,” the soldier confirmed. “Scoia’tael.”

“Who?”

“Scoia’tael,” repeated the soldier. “Forest bands.”

“Strange name. It means ‘Squirrels’, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Yes, sir. Squirrels. That’s what they call themselves in elvish. Some say it’s because sometimes they wear squirrel tails on their fur caps and hats. Others say it’s because they live in the woods and eat nuts. They’re getting more and more troublesome, I tell you.” Geralt shook his head. The soldier covered the bodies again and wiped his hands on his tunic.

“Come,” he said. “There’s no point standing here. I’ll take you to the commandant. Our corporal will take care of your patient if he can. He knows how to sear and stitch wounds and set bones so maybe he knows how to mix up medicines and what not too. He’s a brainy chap, a mountain-man. Come, witcher.” In the dim, smoky toll-collector’s hut a lively and noisy discussion was underway. A knight with closely cropped hair wearing a habergeon and yellow surcoat was shouting at two merchants and a greeve, watched by the toll-collector, who had an indifferent, rather gloomy expression, and whose head was wrapped in bandages.

“I said, no!” The knight thumped his fist on the rickety table and stood up straight, adjusting the gorget across his chest. “Until the patrols return, you’re not going anywhere! You are not going to roam the highways!” “I’s to be in Daevon in two days!” the greeve yelled, shoving a short notched stick with a symbol branded into it under the knight’s nose. “I have a transport to lead! The bailiff’s going to have me head if it be late! I’ll complain to the voivode!” “Go ahead and complain,” sneered the knight. “But I advise you to line your breeches with straw before you do because the voivode can do a mean bit of arse-kicking. But for the time being I give the orders here – the voivode is far away and your bailiff means no more to me than a heap of dung. Hey, Unist! Who are you bringing here, sergeant? Another merchant?” “No,” answered the sergeant reluctantly. “A witcher, sir. He goes by the name Geralt of Rivia.” To Geralt’s astonishment, the knight gave a broad smile, approached and held a hand out in greeting.

“Geralt of Rivia,” he repeated, still smiling. “I have heard about you, and not just from gossip and hearsay. What brings you here?” Geralt explained what brought him there. The knight’s smile faded.

“You have not come at a good time. Or to a good place. We are at war here, witcher. A band of Scoia’tael is doing the rounds and there was a skirmish yesterday. I am waiting here for relief forces and then we’ll start a counterattack.” “You’re fighting elves?”

“Not just elves! Is it possible? Have you, a witcher, not heard of the Squirrels?” “No. I haven’t.”

“Where have you been these past two years? Beyond the seas? Here, in Kaedwen, the Scoia’tael have made sure everybody’s talking about them, they’ve seen to it only too well. The first bands appeared just after the war with Nilfgaard broke out. The cursed non-humans took advantage of our difficulties. We were fighting in the south and they began a guerrilla campaign at our rear. They counted on the Nilfgaardians defeating us, started declaring it was the end of human rule and there would be a return to the old order. ‘Humans to the sea!’ That’s their battle cry, as they murder, burn and plunder!” “It’s your own fault and your own problem,” the greeve commented glumly, tapping his thigh with the notched stick, a mark of his position. “Yours, and all the other noblemen and knights. You’re the ones who oppressed the non-humans, would not allow them their way of life, so now you pay for it. While we’ve always moved goods this way and no one stopped us. We didn’t need an army.” “What’s true is true,” said one of the merchants who had been sitting silently on a bench. “The Squirrels are no fiercer than the bandits who used to roam these ways. And who did the elves take in hand first? The bandits!” “What do I care if it’s a bandit or an elf who runs me through with an arrow from behind some bushes?” the toll-collector with the bandaged head said suddenly. “The thatch, if it’s set on fire above my head in the night, burns just the same. What difference does it make who lit the fire-brand? You say, sir, that the Scoia’tael are no worse than the bandits? You lie. The bandits wanted loot, but the elves are after human blood. Not everyone has ducats, but we all have blood running through our veins. You say it’s the nobility’s problem, greeve? That’s an even greater folly. What about the lumberjacks shot in the clearing, the tar-makers hacked to pieces at the Beeches, the refugee peasants from the burned down hamlets, did they hurt the non-humans? They lived and worked together, as neighbours, and suddenly they got an arrow in the back… And me? Never in my life have I harmed a non-human and look, my head is broken open by a dwarf’s cutlass. And if it were not for the soldiers you’re snapping at, I would be lying beneath an ell of turf—” “Exactly!” The knight in the yellow surcoat thumped his fist against the table once again. “We are protecting your mangy skin, greeve, from those, as you call them, oppressed elves, who, according to you, we did not let live. But I will say something different – we have emboldened them too much. We tolerated them, treated them as humans, as equals, and now they are stabbing us in the back. Nilfgaard is paying them for it, I’d stake my life, and the savage elves from the mountains are furnishing them with arms. But their real support comes from those who always lived amongst us – from the elves, half-elves, dwarves, gnomes and halflings. They are the ones who are hiding them, feeding them, supplying them with volunteers—” “Not all of them,” said another merchant, slim, with a delicate and noble face – in no way a typical merchant’s features. “The majority of non-humans condemn the Squirrels, sir, and want nothing to do with them. The majority of them are loyal, and sometimes pay a high price for that loyalty. Remember the burgomaster from Ban Ard. He was a half-elf who urged peace and co-operation. He was killed by an assassin’s arrow.” “Aimed, no doubt, by a neighbour, some halfling or dwarf who also feigned loyalty,” scoffed the knight. “If you ask me, none of them are loyal! Every one of them— Hey there! Who are you?” Geralt looked around. Ciri stood right behind him casting her huge emerald eyes over everyone. As far as the ability to move noiselessly was concerned, she had clearly made enormous progress.

“She’s with me,” he explained.

“Hmmm…” The knight measured Ciri with his eyes then turned back to the merchant with the noble face, evidently considering him the most serious partner in the discussion. “Yes, sir, do not talk to me about loyal non-humans. They are all our enemies, it’s just that some are better than others at pretending otherwise. Halflings, dwarves and gnomes have lived amongst us for centuries – in some sort of harmony, it would seem. But it sufficed for the elves to lift their heads, and all the others grabbed their weapons and took to the woods too. I tell you, it was a mistake to tolerate the free elves and dryads, with their forests and their mountain enclaves. It wasn’t enough for them, and now they’re yelling: ‘It’s our world! Begone, strangers!’. By the gods, we’ll show them who will be gone, and of which race even the slightest traces will be wiped away. We beat the hides off the Nilfgaardians and now we will do something about these rogue bands.” “It’s not easy to catch an elf in the woods,” said the witcher. “Nor would I go after a gnome or dwarf in the mountains. How large are these units?” “Bands,” corrected the knight. “They’re bands, witcher. They can count up to a hundred heads, sometimes more. They call each pack a ‘commando’. It’s a word borrowed from the gnomes. And in saying they are hard to catch you speak truly. Evidently you are a professional. Chasing them through the woods and thickets is senseless. The only way is to cut them off from their supplies, isolate them, starve them out. Seize the non-humans who are helping them firmly by the scruff of their necks. Those from the towns and settlements, villages and farms—” “The problem is,” said the merchant with noble features, “that we still don’t know which of the non-humans are helping them and which aren’t.” “Then we have to seize them all!”

“Ah.” The merchant smiled. “I understand. I’ve heard that somewhere before. Take everyone by the scruff of their neck and throw them down the mines, into enclosed camps, into quarries. Everyone. The innocent, too. Women and children. Is that right?” The knight raised his head and slammed his hand down on his sword hilt.

“Just so, and no other way!” he said sharply. “You pity the children, yet you’re like a child yourself in this world, dear sir. A truce with Nilfgaard is a very fragile thing, like an egg-shell. If not today then the war might start anew tomorrow, and anything can happen in war. If they defeated us, what do you think would happen? I’ll tell you what – elven commandos would emerge from the forests, they’d emerge strong and numerous and these ‘loyal elements’ would instantly join them. Those loyal dwarves of yours, your friendly halflings, do you think they are going to talk of peace, of reconciliation then? No, sir. They’ll be tearing our guts out. Nilfgaard is going to deal with us through their hands. And they’ll drown us in the sea, just as they promise. No, sir, we must not pussyfoot around them. It’s either them or us. There’s no third way!” The door of the hut squeaked and a soldier in a bloodied apron stood in the doorway.

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” he hawked. “Which of you, noble sirs, be the one who brought this sick woman here?” “I did,” said the witcher. “What’s happened?”

“Come with me, please.”

They went out into the courtyard.

“It bodes not well with her, sir,” said the soldier, indicating Triss. “Firewater with pepper and saltpetre I gave her – but it be no good. I don’t really…” Geralt made no comment because there was nothing to say. The magician, doubled over, was clear evidence of the fact that firewater with pepper and saltpetre was not something her stomach could tolerate.

“It could be some plague.” The soldier frowned. “Or that, what’s it called… Zintery. If it were to spread to our men—” “She is a wizard,” protested the witcher. “Wizards don’t fall sick…”

“Just so,” the knight who had followed them out threw in cynically. “Yours, as I see, is just emanating good health. Geralt, listen to me. The woman needs help and we cannot offer such. Nor can I risk an epidemic amongst my troops. You understand.” “I understand. I will leave immediately. I have no choice – I have to turn back towards Daevon or Ard Carraigh.” “You won’t get far. The patrols have orders to stop everyone. Besides, it is dangerous. The Scoia’tael have gone in exactly that direction.” “I’ll manage.”

“From what I’ve heard about you” – the knight’s lips twisted – “I have no doubt you would. But bear in mind you are not alone. You have a gravely sick woman on your shoulders and this brat…” Ciri, who was trying to clean her dung-smeared boot on a ladder rung, raised her head. The knight cleared his throat and looked down. Geralt smiled faintly. Over the last two years Ciri had almost forgotten her origins and had almost entirely lost her royal manners and airs, but her glare, when she wanted, was very much like that of her grandmother. So much so that Queen Calanthe would no doubt have been very proud of her granddaughter.

“Yeeessss, what was I…” the knight stammered, tugging at his belt with embarrassment. “Geralt, sir, I know what you need to do. Cross beyond the river, south. You will catch up with a caravan which is following the trail. Night is just around the corner and the caravan is certain to stop for a rest. You will reach it by dawn.” “What kind of caravan?”

“I don’t know.” The knight shrugged. “But it is not a merchant or an ordinary convoy. It’s too orderly, the wagons are all the same, all covered… A royal bailiff’s, no doubt. I allowed them to cross the bridge because they are following the Trail south, probably towards the fords on the Lixela.” “Hmmm…” The witcher considered this, looking at Triss. “That would be on my way. But will I find help there?” “Maybe yes,” the knight said coldly. “Maybe no. But you won’t find it here, that’s for sure.” They did not hear or see him as he approached, engrossed as they were in conversation, sitting around a campfire which, with its yellow light, cadaverously illuminated the canvas of the wagons arranged in a circle. Geralt gently pulled up his mare and forced her to neigh loudly. He wanted to warn the caravan, which had set up camp for the night, wanted to temper the surprise of having visitors and avoid a nervous reaction. He knew from experience that the release mechanisms on crossbows did not like nervous moves.

The campers leaped up and, despite his warning, performed numerous agitated movements. Most of them, he saw at once, were dwarves. This reassured him somewhat – dwarves, although extremely irascible, usually asked questions first in situations such as these and only then aimed their crossbows.

“Who’s that?” shouted one of the dwarves hoarsely and with a swift, energetic move, prised an axe from a stump by the campfire. “Who goes there?” “A friend.” The witcher dismounted.

“I wonder whose,” growled the dwarf. “Come closer. Hold your hands out so we can see them.” Geralt approached, holding his hands out so they could be seen even by someone afflicted with conjunctivitis or night blindness.

“Closer.”

He obeyed. The dwarf lowered his axe and tilted his head a little.

“Either my eyes deceive me,” he said, “or it’s the witcher Geralt of Rivia. Or someone who looks damn like him.” The fire suddenly shot up into flames, bursting into a golden brightness which drew faces and figures from the dark.

“Yarpen Zigrin,” declared Geralt, astonished. “None other than Yarpen Zigrin in person, complete with beard!” “Ha!” The dwarf waved his axe as if it were an osier twig. The blade whirred in the air and cut into a stump with a dull thud. “Call the alarm off! This truly is a friend!” The rest of the gathering visibly relaxed and Geralt thought he heard deep sighs of relief. The dwarf walked up to him, holding out his hand. His grip could easily rival a pair of iron pincers.

“Welcome, you warlock,” he said. “Wherever you’ve come from and wherever you’re going, welcome. Boys! Over here! You remember my boys, witcher? This is Yannick Brass, this one’s Xavier Moran and here’s Paulie Dahlberg and his brother Regan.” Geralt didn’t remember any of them, and besides they all looked alike, bearded, stocky, practically square in their thick quilted jerkins.

“There were six of you,” one by one he squeezed the hard, gnarled hands offered him, “if I remember correctly.” “You’ve a good memory,” laughed Yarpen Zigrin. “There were six of us, indeed. But Lucas Corto got married, settled down in Mahakam and dropped out of the company, the stupid oaf. Somehow we haven’t managed to find anybody worthy of his place yet. Pity, six is just right, not too many, not too few. To eat a calf, knock back a barrel, there’s nothing like six—” “As I see,” with a nod Geralt indicated the rest of the group standing undecided by the wagons, “there are enough of you here to manage three calves, not to mention a quantity of poultry. What’s this gang of fellows you’re commanding, Yarpen?” “I’m not the one in command. Allow me to introduce you. Forgive me, Wenck, for not doing so straight away but me and my boys have known Geralt of Rivia for a long time – we’ve a fair number of shared memories behind us. Geralt, this is Commissar Vilfrid Wenck, in the service of King Henselt of Ard Carraigh, the merciful ruler of Kaedwen.” Vilfrid Wenck was tall, taller than Geralt and near twice the dwarf’s height. He wore an ordinary, simple outfit like that worn by greeves, bailiffs or mounted messengers, but there was a sharpness in his movements, a stiffness and sureness which the witcher knew and could faultlessly recognise, even at night, even in the meagre light of the campfire. That was how men accustomed to wearing hauberks and belts weighed down with weapons moved. Wenck was a professional soldier. Geralt was prepared to wager any sum on it. He shook the proffered hand and gave a little bow.

“Let’s sit down.” Yarpen indicated the stump where his mighty axe was still embedded. “Tell us what you’re doing in this neighbourhood, Geralt.” “Looking for help. I’m journeying in a threesome with a woman and youngster. The woman is sick. Seriously sick. I caught up with you to ask for help.” “Damn it, we don’t have a medic here.” The dwarf spat at the flaming logs. “Where have you left them?” “Half a furlong from here, by the roadside.”

“You lead the way. Hey, you there! Three to the horses, saddle the spare mounts! Geralt, will your sick woman hold up in the saddle?” “Not really. That’s why I had to leave her there.”

“Get the sheepskin, canvas sheet and two poles from the wagon! Quick!” Vilfrid Wenck, crossing his arms, hawked loudly.

“We’re on the trail,” Yarpen Zigrin said sharply, without looking at him. “You don’t refuse help on the Trail.” “Damn it.” Yarpen removed his palm from Triss’s forehead. “She’s as hot as a furnace. I don’t like it. What if it’s typhoid or dysentery?” “It can’t be typhoid or dysentery,” Geralt lied with conviction, wrapping the horse blankets around the sick woman. “Wizards are immune to those diseases. It’s food poisoning, nothing contagious.” “Hmm… Well, all right. I’ll rummage through the bags. I used to have some good medicine for the runs, maybe there’s still a little left.” “Ciri,” muttered the witcher, passing her a sheepskin unstrapped from the horse, “go to sleep, you’re barely on your feet. No, not in the wagon. We’ll put Triss in the wagon. You lie down next to the fire.” “No,” she protested quietly, watching the dwarf walk away. “I’m going to lie down next to her. When they see you keeping me away from her, they won’t believe you. They’ll think it’s contagious and chase us away, like the soldiers in the fort.” “Geralt?” the enchantress moaned suddenly. “Where… are we?”

“Amongst friends.”

“I’m here,” said Ciri, stroking her chestnut hair. “I’m at your side. Don’t be afraid. You feel how warm it is here? A campfire’s burning and a dwarf is just going to bring some medicine for… For your stomach.” “Geralt,” sobbed Triss, trying to disentangle herself from the blankets. “No… no magic elixirs, remember…” “I remember. Lie peacefully.”

“I’ve got to… Oooh…”

The witcher leaned over without a word, picked up the enchantress together with her cocoon of caparisons and blankets, and marched to the woods, into the darkness. Ciri sighed.

She turned, hearing heavy panting. Behind the wagon appeared the dwarf, hefting a considerable bundle under his arm. The campfire flame gleamed on the blade of the axe behind his belt; the rivets on his heavy leather jerkin also glistened.

“Where’s the sick one?” he snarled. “Flown away on a broomstick?”

Ciri pointed to the darkness.

“Right.” The dwarf nodded. “I know the pain and I’ve known the same nasty complaint. When I was younger I used to eat everything I managed to find or catch or cut down, so I got food poisoning many a time. Who is she, this Enchantress?” “Triss Merigold.”

“I don’t know her, never heard of her. I rarely have anything to do with the Brotherhood anyway. Well, but it’s polite to introduce oneself. I’m called Yarpen Zigrin. And what are you called, little goose?” “Something other than Little Goose,” snarled Ciri with a gleam in her eyes.

The dwarf chuckled and bared his teeth.

“Ah.” He bowed with exaggeration. “I beg your forgiveness. I didn’t recognise you in the darkness. This isn’t a goose but a noble young lady. I fall at your feet. What is the young lady’s name, if it’s no secret?” “It’s no secret. I’m Ciri.”

“Ciri. Aha. And who is the young lady?”

“That,” Ciri turned her nose up proudly, “is a secret.”

Yarpen snorted again.

“The young lady’s little tongue is as sharp as a wasp. If the young lady will deign to forgive me, I’ve brought the medicine and a little food. Will the young lady accept it or will she send the old boor, Yarpen Zigrin, away?” “I’m sorry…” Ciri had second thoughts and lowered her head. “Triss really does need help, Master… Zigrin. She’s very sick. Thank you for the medicine.” “It’s nothing.” The dwarf bared his teeth again and patted her shoulder amicably. “Come on, Ciri, you help me. The medicine has to be prepared. We’ll roll some pellets according to my grandmother’s recipe. No disease sitting in the guts will resist these kernels.” He unwrapped the bundle, extracted something shaped like a piece of turf and a small clay vessel. Ciri approached, curious.

“You should know, Ciri,” said Yarpen, “that my grandmother knew her medicine like nobody’s business. Unfortunately, she believed that the source of most disease is idleness, and idleness is best cured through the application of a stick. As far as my siblings and I were concerned, she chiefly used this cure preventively. She beat us for anything and for nothing. She was a rare old hag. And once when, out of the blue, she gave me a chunk of bread with dripping and sugar, it was such a surprise that I dropped it in astonishment, dripping down. So my gran gave me a thrashing, the nasty old bitch. And then she gave me another chunk of bread, only without the sugar.” “My grandmother,” Ciri nodded in understanding, “thrashed me once, too. With a switch.” “A switch?” The dwarf laughed. “Mine whacked me once with a pickaxe handle. But that’s enough reminiscing, we have to roll the pellets. Here, tear this up and mould it into little balls.” “What is it? It’s sticky and messy… Eeeuuggh… What a stink!”

“It’s mouldy oil-meal bread. Excellent medicine. Roll it into little balls. Smaller, smaller, they’re for a magician, not a cow. Give me one. Good. Now we’re going to roll the ball in medicine.” “Eeeeuuuugggghh!”

“Stinks?” The dwarf brought his upturned nose closer to the clay pot. “Impossible. Crushed garlic and bitter salt has no right to stink, even if it’s a hundred years old.” “It’s foul, uugghh. Triss won’t eat that!”

“We’ll use my grandmother’s method. You squeeze her nose and I’ll shove the pellets in.” “Yarpen,” Geralt hissed, emerging abruptly from the darkness with the magician in his arms. “Watch out or I’ll shove something down you.” “It’s medicine!” The dwarf took offence. “It helps! Mould, garlic…”

“Yes,” moaned Triss weakly from the depths of her cocoon. “It’s true… Geralt, it really ought to help…” “See?” Yarpen nudged Geralt with his elbow, turning his beard up proudly and pointing to Triss, who swallowed the pellets with a martyred expression. “A wise magician. Knows what’s good for her.” “What are you saying, Triss?” The witcher leaned over. “Ah, I see. Yarpen, do you have any angelica? Or saffron?” “I’ll have a look, and ask around. I’ve brought you some water and a little food—” “Thank you. But they both need rest above all. Ciri, lie down.”

“I’ll just make up a compress for Triss—”

“I’ll do it myself. Yarpen, I’d like to talk to you.”

“Come to the fire. We’ll broach a barrel—”

“I want to talk to you. I don’t need an audience. Quite the contrary.” “Of course. I’m listening.”

“What sort of convoy is this?”

The dwarf raised his small, piercing eyes at him.

“The king’s service,” he said slowly and emphatically.

“That’s what I thought.” The witcher held the gaze. “Yarpen, I’m not asking out of any inappropriate curiosity.” “I know. And I also know what you mean. But this convoy is… hmm… special.” “So what are you transporting?”

“Salt fish,” said Yarpen casually, and proceeded to embellish his lie without batting an eyelid. “Fodder, tools, harnesses, various odds and ends for the army. Wenck is a quartermaster to the king’s army.” “If he’s quartermaster then I’m a druid,” smiled Geralt. “But that’s your affair – I’m not in the habit of poking my nose into other people’s secrets. But you can see the state Triss is in. Let us join you, Yarpen, let us put her in one of the wagons. Just for a few days. I’m not asking where you’re going because this trail goes straight to the south without forking until past the Lixela and it’s a ten-day journey to the Lixela. By that time the fever will have subsided and Triss will be able to ride a horse. And even if she isn’t then I’ll stop in a town beyond the river. Ten days in a wagon, well covered, hot food… Please.” “I don’t give the orders here. Wenck does.”

“I don’t believe you lack influence over him. Not in a convoy primarily made up of dwarves. Of course he has to bear you in mind.” “Who is this Triss to you?”

“What difference does it make in this situation?”

“In this situation – none. I asked out of an inappropriate curiosity born of the desire to start new rumours going around the inns. But be that as it may, you’re mighty attracted to this enchantress, Geralt.” The witcher smiled sadly.

“And the girl?” Yarpen indicated Ciri with his head as she wriggled under the sheepskin. “Yours?” “Mine,” he replied without thinking. “Mine, Zigrin.”

The dawn was grey, wet, and smelled of night rain and morning mist. Ciri felt she had slept no more than a few minutes, as though she had been woken up the very minute she laid her head down on the sacks heaped on the wagon.

Geralt was just settling Triss down next to her, having brought her in from another enforced expedition into the woods. The rugs cocooning the enchantress sparkled with dew. Geralt had dark circles under his eyes. Ciri knew he had not closed them for an instant – Triss had run a fever through the night and suffered greatly.

“Did I wake you? Sorry. Sleep, Ciri. It’s still early.”

“What’s happening with Triss? How is she?”

“Better,” moaned the magician. “Better, but… Listen, Geralt… I’d like to—” “Yes?” The witcher leaned over but Triss was already asleep. He straightened himself, stretched.

“Geralt,” whispered Ciri, “are they going to let us travel on the wagon?” “We’ll see.” He bit his lip. “Sleep while you can. Rest.”

He jumped down off the wagon. Ciri heard the sound of the camp packing up – horses stamping, harnesses ringing, poles squeaking, swingle-trees grating, and talking and cursing. And then, nearby, Yarpen Zigrin’s hoarse voice and the calm voice of the tall man called Wenck. And the cold voice of Geralt. She raised herself and carefully peered out from behind the canvas.

“I have no categorical interdictions on this matter,” declared Wenck.

“Excellent.” The dwarf brightened. “So the matter’s settled?”

The commissar raised his hand a little, indicating that he had not yet finished. He was silent for a while, and Geralt and Yarpin waited patiently.

“Nevertheless,” Wenck said finally, “when it comes to the safe arrival of this caravan, it’s my head on the line.” Again he said nothing. This time no one interrupted. There was no question about it – one had to get used to long intervals between sentences when speaking to the commissar.

“For its safe arrival,” he continued after a moment. “And for its timely arrival. Caring for this sick woman might slow down the march.” “We’re ahead of schedule on the route,” Yarpen assured him, after a significant pause. “We’re ahead of time, Wenck, sir, we won’t miss the deadline. And as for safety… I don’t think the witcher’s company will harm that. The Trail leads through the woods right up to the Lixela, and to the right and left there’s a wild forest. And rumour has it all sorts of evil creatures roam the forest.” “Indeed,” the commissar agreed. Looking the witcher straight in the eye, he seemed to be weighing out every single word. “One can come across certain evil creatures in Kaedwen forests, lately incited by other evil creatures. They could jeopardise our safety. King Henselt, knowing this, empowered me to recruit volunteers to join our armed escort. Geralt? That would solve your problem.” The witcher’s silence lasted a long while, longer than Wenck’s entire speech, interspersed though it had been with regular pauses.

“No,” he said finally. “No, Wenck. Let us put this clearly. I am prepared to repay the help given Lady Merigold, but not in this manner. I can groom the horses, carry water and firewood, even cook. But I will not enter the king’s service as a soldier. Please don’t count on my sword. I have no intention of killing those, as you call them, evil creatures on the order of other creatures whom I do not consider to be any better.” Ciri heard Yarpen Zigrin hiss loudly and cough into his rolled-up sleeve. Wenck stared at the witcher calmly.

“I see,” he stated dryly. “I like clear situations. All right then. Zigrin, see to it that the speed of our progress does not slow. As for you, Geralt… I know you will prove to be useful and helpful in a way you deem fit. It would be an affront to both of us if I were to treat your good stead as payment for aid offered to a suffering woman. Is she feeling better today?” The witcher gave a nod which seemed, to Ciri, to be somewhat deeper and politer than usual. Wenck’s expression did not change.

“That pleases me,” he said after a normal pause. “In taking Lady Merigold aboard a wagon in my convoy I take on the responsibility for her health, comfort and safety. Zigrin, give the command to march out.” “Wenck.”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“Thank you.”

The commissar bowed his head, a bit more deeply and politely, it seemed to Ciri, than the usual, perfunctory politeness required.

Yarpen Zigrin ran the length of the column, giving orders and instructions loudly, after which he clambered onto the coachman’s box, shouted and whipped the horses with the reins. The wagon jolted and rattled along the forest trail. The bump woke Triss up but Ciri reassured her and changed the compress on her forehead. The rattling had a soporific effect and the magician was soon asleep; Ciri, too, fell to dozing.

When she woke the sun was already high. She peered out between the barrels and packages. The wagon she was in was at the vanguard of the convoy. The one following them was being driven by a dwarf with a red kerchief tied around his neck. From conversations between the dwarves, she had gathered that his name was Paulie Dahlberg. Next to him sat his brother Regan. She also saw Wenck riding a horse, in the company of two bailiffs.

Roach, Geralt’s mare, tethered to the wagon, greeted her with a quiet neigh. She couldn’t see her chestnut anywhere or Triss’s dun. No doubt they were at the rear, with the convoy’s spare horses.

Geralt was sitting on the coachman’s box next to Yarpen. They were talking quietly, drinking beer from a barrel perched between them. Ciri pricked up her ears but soon grew bored – the discussion concerned politics and was mainly about King Henselt’s intentions and plans, and some special service or missions to do with secretly aiding his neighbour, King Demawend of Aedirn, who was being threatened by war. Geralt expressed interest about how five wagons of salted fish could help Aedirn’s defence. Yarpen, ignoring the gibe in Geralt’s voice, explained that some species of fish were so valuable that a few wagon-loads would suffice to pay an armoured company for a year, and each new armoured company was a considerable help. Geralt was surprised that the aid had to be quite so secretive, to which the dwarf replied that was why the secret was a secret.

Triss tossed in her sleep, shook the compress off and talked indistinctly to herself. She demanded that someone called Kevyn kept his hands to himself, and immediately after that declared that destiny cannot be avoided. Finally, having stated that everyone, absolutely everyone, is a mutant to a certain degree, she fell into a peaceful sleep.

Ciri also felt sleepy but was brought to her senses by Yarpen’s chuckle, as he reminded Geralt of their past adventures. This one concerned a hunt for a golden dragon who instead of allowing itself to be hunted down had counted the hunters’ bones and then eaten a cobbler called Goatmuncher. Ciri began to listen with greater interest.

Geralt asked about what had happened to the Slashers but Yarpen didn’t know. Yarpen, in turn, was curious about a woman called Yennefer, at which Geralt grew oddly uncommunicative. The dwarf drank more beer and started to complain that Yennefer still bore him a grudge although a good few years had gone by since those days.

“I came across her at the market in Gors Velen,” he recounted. “She barely noticed me – she spat like a she-cat and insulted my deceased mother horribly. I fled for all I was worth, but she shouted after me that she’d catch up with me one day and make grass grow out of my arse.” Ciri giggled, imagining Yarpen with the grass. Geralt grunted something about women and their impulsive natures – which the dwarf considered far too mild a description for maliciousness, obstinacy and vindictiveness. Geralt did not take up the subject and Ciri fell into dozing once more.

This time she was woken by raised voices. Yarpen’s voice to be exact – he was yelling.

“Oh yes! So you know! That’s what I’ve decided!”

“Quieter,” said the witcher calmly. “There’s a sick woman in the wagon. Understand, I’m not criticising your decisions or your resolutions…” “No, of course not,” the dwarf interrupted sarcastically. “You’re just smiling knowingly about them.” “Yarpen, I’m warning you, as one friend to another: both sides despise those who sit on the fence, or at best they treat them with suspicion.” “I’m not sitting. I’m unambiguously declaring myself to be on one side.” “But you’ll always remain a dwarf for that side. Someone who’s different. An outsider. While for the other side…” He broke off.

“Well!” growled Yarpen, turning away. “Well, go on, what are you waiting for? Call me a traitor and a dog on a human leash who for a handful of silver and a bowl of lousy food, is prepared to be set against his rebelling kinsmen who are fighting for freedom. Well, go on, spit it out. I don’t like insinuations.” “No, Yarpen,” said Geralt quietly. “No. I’m not going to spit anything out.” “Ah, you’re not?” The dwarf whipped the horses. “You don’t feel like it? You prefer to stare and smile? Not a word to me, eh? But you could say it to Wenck! ‘Please don’t count on my sword.’ Oh, so haughtily, nobly and proudly said! Shove your haughtiness up a dog’s arse, and your bloody pride with it!” “I just wanted to be honest. I don’t want to get mixed up in this conflict. I want to remain neutral.” “It’s impossible!” yelled Yarpen. “It’s impossible to remain neutral, don’t you understand that? No, you don’t understand anything. Oh, get off my wagon, get on your horse, and get out of my sight, with your arrogant neutrality. You get on my nerves.” Geralt turned away. Ciri held her breath in anticipation. But the witcher didn’t say a word. He stood and jumped from the wagon, swiftly, softly and nimbly. Yarpen waited for him to untether his mare from the ladder, then whipped his horses once again, growling something incomprehensible, sounding terrifying under his breath.

She stood up to jump down too, and find her chestnut. The dwarf turned and measured her with a reluctant eye.

“And you’re just a nuisance, too, little madam,” he snorted angrily. “All we need are ladies and girls, damn it. I can’t even take a piss from the box – I have to stop the cart and go into the bushes!” Ciri put her hands on her hips, shook her ashen fringe and turned up her nose.

“Is that so?” she shrilled, enraged. “Drink less beer, Zigrin, and then you won’t have to!” “My beer’s none of your shitin’ business, you chit!”

“Don’t yell, Triss has just fallen asleep!”

“It’s my wagon! I’ll yell if I want to!”

“Stumpy!”

“What? You impertinent brat!”

“Stump!”

“I’ll show you stump… Oh, damn it! Pprrr!”

The dwarf leaned far back, pulling at the reins at the very last moment, just as the two horses were on the point of stepping over a log blocking their way. Yarpen stood up in the box and, swearing in both human and dwarvish, whistling and roaring, brought the cart to a halt. Dwarves and humans alike, leaping from their wagons, ran up and helped lead the horses to the clear path, tugging them on by their halters and harnesses.

“Dozing off, eh Yarpen?” growled Paulie Dahlberg as he approached. “Bloody hell, if you’d ridden over that the axle would be done for, and the wheels shattered to hell. Damn it, what were you—” “Piss off, Paulie!” roared Yarpen Zigrin and furiously lashed the horses’ hindquarters with the reins.

“You were lucky,” said Ciri, ever so sweetly, squeezing onto the box next to the dwarf. “As you can see, it’s better to have a witcher-girl on your wagon than to travel alone. I warned you just in time. But if you’d been in the middle of pissing from the box and ridden onto that log, well, well. It’s scary to think what might have happened—” “Are you going to be quiet?”

“I’m not saying any more. Not a word.”

She lasted less than a minute.

“Zigrin, sir?”

“I’m not a sir.” The dwarf nudged her with his elbow and bared his teeth. “I’m Yarpen. Is that clear? We’ll lead the horses together, right?” “Right. Can I hold the reins?”

“If you must. Wait, not like that. Pass them over your index finger and hold them down with your thumb, like this. The same with the left. Don’t tug them, don’t pull too hard.” “Is that right?”

“Right.”

“Yarpen?”

“Huh?”

“What does it mean, ‘remain neutral’”

“To be indifferent,” he muttered reluctantly. “Don’t let the reins hang down. Pull the left one closer to yourself!” “What’s indifferent? Indifferent to what?”

The dwarf leaned far out and spat under the wagon.

“If the Scoia’tael attack us, your Geralt intends to stand by and look calmly on as they cut our throats. You’ll probably stand next to him, because it’ll be a demonstration class. Today’s subject: the witcher’s behaviour in the face of conflict between intelligent races.” “I don’t understand.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

“Is that why you quarrelled with him and were angry? Who are these Scoia’tael anyway? These… Squirrels?” “Ciri,” Yarpen tussled his beard violently, “these aren’t matters for the minds of little girls.” “Aha, now you’re angry at me. I’m not little at all. I heard what the soldiers in the fort said about the Squirrels. I saw… I saw two dead elves. And the knight said they also kill. And that it’s not just elves amongst them. There are dwarves too.” “I know,” said Yarpen sourly.

“And you’re a dwarf.”

“There’s no doubt about that.”

“So why are you afraid of the Squirrels? It seems they only fight humans.” “It’s not so simple as that.” He grew solemn. “Unfortunately.”

Ciri stayed silent for a long time, biting her lower lip and wrinkling her nose.

“Now I know,” she said suddenly. “The Squirrels are fighting for freedom. And although you’re a dwarf, you’re King Henselt’s special secret servant on a human leash.” Yarpen snorted, wiped his nose on his sleeve and leaned out of the box to check that Wenck had not ridden up too close. But the commissar was far away, engaged in conversation with Geralt.

“You’ve got pretty good hearing, girl, like a marmot.” He grinned broadly. “You’re also a bit too bright for someone destined to give birth, cook and spin. You think you know everything, don’t you? That’s because you’re a brat. Don’t pull silly faces. Faces like that don’t make you look any older, just uglier than usual. You’ve grasped the nature of the Scoia’taels quickly, you like the slogans. You know why you understand them so well? Because the Scoia’taels are brats too. They’re little snotheads who don’t understand that they’re being egged on, that someone’s taking advantage of their childish stupidity by feeding them slogans about freedom.” “But they really are fighting for freedom.” Ciri raised her head and gazed at the dwarf with wide-open green eyes. “Like the dryads in the Brokilon woods. They kill people because people… some people are harming them. Because this used to be your country, the dwarves’ and the elves’ and those… halflings’, gnomes’ and other… And now there are people here so the elves—” “Elves!” snorted Yarpen. “They – to be accurate – happen to be strangers just as much as you humans, although they arrived in their white ships a good thousand years before you. Now they’re competing with each other to offer us friendship, suddenly we’re all brothers, now they’re grinning and saying: ‘we, kinsmen’, ‘we, the Elder Races’. But before, shi— Hm, hm… Before, their arrows used to whistle past our ears when we—” “So the first on earth were dwarves?”

“Gnomes, to be honest. As far as this part of the world is concerned – because the world is unimaginably huge, Ciri.” “I know. I saw a map—”

“You couldn’t have. No one’s drawn a map like that, and I doubt they will in the near future. No one knows what exists beyond the Mountains of Fire and the Great Sea. Even elves, although they claim they know everything. They know shit all, I tell you.” “Hmm… But now… There are far more people than… Than there are you.”

“Because you multiply like rabbits.” The dwarf ground his teeth. “You’d do nothing but screw day in day out, without discrimination, with just anyone and anywhere. And it’s enough for your women to just sit on a man’s trousers and it makes their bellies swell… Why have you gone so red, crimson as a poppy? You wanted to know, didn’t you? So you’ve got the honest truth and faithful history of a world where he who shatters the skulls of others most efficiently and swells women’s bellies fastest, reigns. And it’s just as hard to compete with you people in murdering as it is in screwing—” “Yarpen,” said Geralt coldly, riding up on Roach. “Restrain yourself a little, if you please, with your choice of words. And Ciri, stop playing at being a coachwoman and have a care for Triss, check if she’s awake and needs anything.” “I’ve been awake for a long time,” the magician said weakly from the depths of the wagon. “But I didn’t want to… interrupt this interesting conversation. Don’t disturb them, Geralt. I’d like… to learn more about the role of screwing in the evolution of society.” “Can I heat some water? Triss wants to wash.”

“Go ahead,” agreed Yarpen Zigrin. “Xavier, take the spit off the fire, our hare’s had enough. Hand me the cauldron, Ciri. Oh, look at you, it’s full to the brim! Did you lug this great weight from the stream by yourself?” “I’m strong.”

The elder of the Dahlberg brothers burst out laughing.

“Don’t judge her by appearances, Paulie,” said Yarpen seriously as he skilfully divided the roasted grey hare into portions. “There’s nothing to laugh at here. She’s skinny but I can see she’s a robust and resilient lass. She’s like a leather belt: thin, but it can’t be torn apart in your hands. And if you were to hang yourself on it, it would bear your weight, too.” No one laughed. Ciri squatted next to the dwarves sprawled around the fire. This time Yarpen Zigrin and his four “boys” had lit their own fire at the camp because they did not intend to share the hare which Xavier Moran had shot. For them alone there was just enough for one, at most two, mouthfuls each.

“Add some wood to the fire,” said Yarpen, licking his fingers. “The water will heat quicker.” “That water’s a stupid idea,” stated Regan Dahlberg, spitting out a bone. “Washing can only harm you when you’re sick. When you’re healthy, too, come to that. You remember old Schrader? His wife once told him to wash, and Schrader went and died soon afterwards.” “Because a rabid dog bit him.”

“If he hadn’t washed, the dog wouldn’t have bitten him.”

“I think,” said Ciri, checking the temperature of the water in the cauldron with her finger, “it’s excessive to wash every day too. But Triss asked for it – she even started crying once… So Geralt and I—” “We know.” The elder Dahlberg nodded. “But that a witcher should… I’m constantly amazed. Hey, Zigrin, if you had a woman would you wash her and comb her hair? Would you carry her into the bushes if she had to—” “Shut up, Paulie.” Yarpen cut him short. “Don’t say anything against that witcher, because he’s a good fellow.” “Am I saying anything? I’m only surprised—”

“Triss,” Ciri butted in cheekily, “is not his woman.”

“I’m all the more surprised.”

“You’re all the more a blockhead, you mean,” Yarpen summed up. “Ciri, pour a bit of water in to boil. We’ll infuse some more saffron and poppy seeds for the magician. She felt better today, eh?” “Probably did,” murmured Yannick Brass. “We only had to stop the convoy six times for her. I know it wouldn’t do to deny aid on the trail, and he’s a prick who thinks otherwise. And he who denies it would be an archprick and base son-of-a-bitch. But we’ve been in these woods too long, far too long, I tell you. We’re tempting fate, damn it, we’re tempting fate too much, boys. It’s not safe here. The Scoia’tael—” “Spit that word out, Yannick.”

“Ptoo, ptoo. Yarpen, fighting doesn’t frighten me, and a bit of blood’s nothing new but… If it comes to fighting our own… Damn it! Why did this happen to us? This friggin’ load ought to be transported by a hundred friggin’ cavalrymen, not us! The devil take those know-alls from Ard Carraigh, may they—” “Shut up, I said. And pass me the pot of kasha. The hare was a snack, damn it, now we have to eat something. Ciri, will you eat with us?” “Of course.”

For a long while all that could be heard was the smacking of lips, munching, and the crunch of wooden spoons hitting the pot.

“Pox on it,” said Paulie Dahlberg and gave a long burp. “I could still eat some more.” “Me, too,” declared Ciri and burped too, delighted by the dwarves’ unpretentious manners.

“As long as it’s not kasha,” said Xavier Moran. “I can’t stomach those milled oats any more. I’ve gone off salted meat, too.” “So gorge yourself on grass, if you’ve got such delicate taste-buds.”

“Or rip the bark off the birch with your teeth. Beavers do it and survive.” “A beaver – now that’s something I could eat.”

“As for me, a fish.” Paulie lost himself in dreams as he crunched on a husk pulled from his beard. “I’ve a fancy for a fish, I can tell you.” “So let’s catch some fish.”

“Where?” growled Yannick Brass. “In the bushes?”

“In the stream.”

“Some stream. You can piss to the other side. What sort of fish could be in there?” “There are fish.” Ciri licked her spoon clean and slipped it into the top of her boot. “I saw them when I went to get the water. But they’re sick or something, those fish. They’ve got a rash. Black and red spots—” “Trout!” roared Paulie, spitting crumbs of husk. “Well, boys, to the stream double-quick! Regan! Get your breeches down! We’ll turn them into a fishing-trap.” “Why mine?”

“Pull them off, at the double, or I’ll wallop you, snothead! Didn’t mother say you have to listen to me?” “Hurry up if you want to go fishing because dusk is just round the corner,” said Yarpen. “Ciri, is the water hot yet? Leave it, leave it, you’ll burn yourself and get dirty from the cauldron. I know you’re strong but let me – I’ll carry it.” Geralt was already waiting for them; they could see his white hair through the gap in the canvas covering the wagon from afar. The dwarf poured the water into the bucket.

“Need any help, witcher?”

“No, thank you, Yarpen. Ciri will help.”

Triss was no longer running a high temperature but she was extremely weak. Geralt and Ciri were, by now, efficient at undressing and washing her. They had also learned to temper her ambitious but, at present, unrealistic attempts to manage on her own. They coped exceptionally well – he supported the enchantress in his arms, Ciri washed and dried her. Only one thing had started to surprise and annoy Ciri – Triss, in her opinion, snuggled up to Geralt too tightly. This time she was even trying to kiss him.

Geralt indicated the magician’s saddle-bags with his head. Ciri understood immediately because this, too, was part of the ritual – Triss always demanded to have her hair combed. She found the comb and knelt down beside her. Triss, lowering her head towards her, put her arms around the witcher. In Ciri’s opinion, definitely a little too tightly.

“Oh, Geralt,” she sobbed. “I so regret… I so regret that what was between us—” “Triss, please.”

“…it should have happened… now. When I’m better… It would be entirely different… I could… I could even—” “Triss.”

“I envy Yennefer… I envy her you—”

“Ciri, step out.”

“But—”

“Go, please.”

She jumped out of the wagon and straight onto Yarpen who was waiting, leaning against a wheel and pensively chewing a blade of grass. The dwarf put his arm around her. He did not need to lean over in order to do so, as Geralt did. He was no taller than her.

“Never make the same mistake, little witcher-girl,” he murmured, indicating the wagon with his eyes. “If someone shows you compassion, sympathy and dedication, if they surprise you with integrity of character, value it but don’t mistake it for… something else.” “It’s not nice to eavesdrop.”

“I know. And it’s dangerous. I only just managed to jump aside when you threw out the suds from the bucket. Come on, let’s go and see how many trout have jumped into Regan’s breeches.” “Yarpen?”

“Huh?”

“I like you.”

“And I like you, kid.”

“But you’re a dwarf. And I’m not.”

“And what diff— Ah, the Scoia’tael. You’re thinking about the Squirrels, aren’t you? It’s not giving you any peace, is it?” Ciri freed herself from his heavy arm.

“Nor you,” she said. “Nor any of the others. I can plainly see that.”

The dwarf said nothing.

“Yarpen?”

“Yes?”

“Who’s right? The Squirrels or you? Geralt wants to be… neutral. You serve King Henselt even though you’re a dwarf. And the knight in the fort shouted that everybody’s our enemy and that everyone’s got to be… Everyone. Even the children. Why, Yarpen? Who’s right?” “I don’t know,” said the dwarf with some effort. “I’m not omniscient. I’m doing what I think right. The Squirrels have taken up their weapons and gone into the woods. ‘Humans to the sea,’ they’re shouting, not realising that their catchy slogan was fed them by Nilfgaardian emissaries. Not understanding that the slogan is not aimed at them but plainly at humans, that it’s meant to ignite human hatred, not fire young elves to battle. I understood – that’s why I consider the Scoia’tael’s actions criminally stupid. What to do? Maybe in a few years time I’ll be called a traitor who sold out and they’ll be heroes… Our history, the history of our world, has seen events turn out like that.” He fell silent, ruffled his beard. Ciri also remained silent.

“Elirena…” he muttered suddenly. “If Elirena was a hero, if what she did is heroism, then that’s just too bad. Let them call me a traitor and a coward. Because I, Yarpen Zigrin, coward, traitor and renegade, state that we should not kill each other. I state that we ought to live. Live in such a way that we don’t, later, have to ask anyone for forgiveness. The heroic Elirena… She had to ask. Forgive me, she begged, forgive me. To hell with that! It’s better to die than to live in the knowledge that you’ve done something that needs forgiveness.” Again he fell quiet. Ciri did not ask the questions pressing to her lips. She instinctively felt she should not.

“We have to live next to each other,” Yarpen continued. “We and you, humans. Because we simply don’t have any other option. We’ve known this for two hundred years and we’ve been working towards it for over a hundred. You want to know why I entered King Henselt’s service, why I made such a decision? I can’t allow all that work to go to waste. For over a hundred years we’ve been trying to come to terms with the humans. The halflings, gnomes, us, even the elves – I’m not talking about rusalkas, nymphs and sylphs, they’ve always been savages, even when you weren’t here. Damn it all, it took a hundred years but, somehow or other, we managed to live a common life, next to each other, together. We managed to partially convince humans that we’re not so very different—” “We’re not different at all, Yarpen.”

The dwarf turned abruptly.

“We’re not different at all,” repeated Ciri. “After all, you think and feel like Geralt. And like… like I do. We eat the same things, from the same pot. You help Triss and so do I. You had a grandmother and I had a grandmother… My grandmother was killed by the Nilfgaardians. In Cintra.” “And mine by the humans,” the dwarf said with some effort. “In Brugge. During the pogrom.” “Riders!” shouted one of Wenck’s advance guards. “Riders ahead!”

The commissar trotted up to Yarpen’s wagon and Geralt approached from the other side.

“Get in the back, Ciri,” he said brusquely. “Get off the box and get in the back! Stay with Triss.” “I can’t see anything from there!”

“Don’t argue!” growled Yarpen. “Scuttle back there and be quick about it! And hand me the martel. It’s under the sheepskin.” “This?” Ciri held up a heavy, nasty-looking object, like a hammer with a sharp, slightly curved hook at its head.

“That’s it,” confirmed the dwarf. He slipped the handle into the top of his boot and laid the axe on his knees. Wenck, seeming calm, watched the highway while sheltering his eyes with his hand.

“Light cavalry from Ban Gleán,” he surmised after a while. “The so-called Dun Banner – I recognise them by their cloaks and beaver hats. Remain calm. And stay sharp. Cloaks and beaver hats can be pretty quick to change owners.” The riders approached swiftly. There were about ten of them. Ciri saw Paulie Dahlberg, in the wagon behind her, place two readied crossbows on his knee and Regan covered them with a cloak. Ciri crept stealthily out from under the canvas, hiding behind Yarpen’s broad back. Triss tried to raise herself, swore and collapsed against her bedding.

“Halt!” shouted the first of the riders, no doubt their leader. “Who are you? From whence and to where do you ride?” “Who asks?” Wenck calmly pulled himself upright in the saddle. “And on whose authority?” “King Henselt’s army, inquisitive sir! Lance-corporal Zyvik asks, and he is unused to asking twice! So answer at the double! Who are you?” “Quartermaster’s service of the King’s army.”

“Anyone could claim that! I see no one here bearing the King’s colours!” “Come closer, lance-corporal, and examine this ring.”

“Why flash a ring at me?” The soldier grimaced. “Am I supposed to know every ring, or something? Anyone could have a ring like that. Some significant sign!” Yarpen Zigrin stood up in the box, raised his axe and with a swift move pushed it under the soldier’s nose.

“And this sign,” he snarled. “You know it? Smell it and remember how it smells.” The lance-corporal yanked the reins and turned his horse.

“Threaten me, do you?” he roared. “Me? I’m in the king’s service!”

“And so are we,” said Wenck quietly. “And have been for longer than you at that, I’m sure. I warn you, trooper, don’t overdo it.” “I’m on guard here! How am I to know who you are?”

“You saw the ring,” drawled the commissar. “And if you didn’t recognise the sign on the jewel then I wonder who you are. The colours of your unit bear the same emblem so you ought to know it.” The soldier clearly restrained himself, influenced, no doubt, equally by Wenck’s calm words and the serious, determined faces peering from the escort’s carts.

“Hmm…” he said, shifting his fur-hat towards his left ear. “Fine. But if you truly are who you claim to be, you will not, I trust, have anything against my having a look to see what you carry in the wagons.” “We will indeed.” Wenck frowned. “And very much, at that. Our load is not your business, lance-corporal. Besides, I do not understand what you think you may find there.” “You do not understand.” The soldier nodded, lowering his hand towards the hilt of his sword. “So I shall tell you, sir. Human trafficking is forbidden and there is no lack of scoundrels selling slaves to the Nilfgaardians. If I find humans in stocks in your wagons, you will not convince me that you are in the king’s service. Even if you were to show me a dozen rings.” “Fine,” said Wenck dryly. “If it is slaves you are looking for, then look. You have my permission.” The soldier cantered to the wagon in the middle, leaned over from the saddle and raised the canvas.

“What’s in those barrels?”

“What do you expect? Prisoners?” sneered Yannick Brass, sprawled in the coachman’s box.

“I am asking you what’s in them, so answer me!”

“Salt fish.”

“And in those trunks there?” The warrior rode up to the next wagon and kicked the side.

“Hooves,” snapped Paulie Dahlberg. “And there, in the back, are buffalo skins.” “So I see.” The lance-corporal waved his hand, smacked his lips at his horse, rode up to the vanguard and peered into Yarpen’s wagon.

“And who is that woman lying there?”

Triss Merigold smiled weakly, raised herself to her elbow and traced a short, complicated sign with her hand.

“Who am I?” she asked in a quiet voice. “But you can’t see me at all.” The soldier winked nervously, shuddered slightly.

“Salt fish,” he said, convinced, lowering the canvas. “All is in order. And this child?” “Dried mushrooms,” said Ciri, looking at him impudently. The soldier fell silent, frozen with his mouth open.

“What’s that?” he asked after a while, frowning. “What?”

“Have you concluded your inspection, warrior?” Wenck showed cool interest as he rode up on the other side of the cart. The soldier could barely look away from Ciri’s green eyes.

“I have concluded it. Drive on, and may the gods guide you. But be on your guard. Two days ago, the Scoia’tael wiped out an entire mounted patrol up by Badger Ravine. It was a strong, large command. It’s true that Badger Ravine is far from here but elves travel through the forest faster than the wind. We were ordered to round them up, but how do you catch an elf? It’s like trying to catch the wind—” “Good, enough, we’re not interested,” the commissar interrupted him brusquely. “Time presses and we still have a long journey ahead of us.” “Fare you well then. Hey, follow me!”

“You heard, Geralt?” snarled Yarpen Zigrin, watching the patrol ride away. “There are bloody Squirrels in the vicinity. I felt it. I’ve got this tingling feeling in my back all the time as if some archer was already aiming at me. No, damn it, we can’t travel blindly as we’ve been doing until now, whistling away, dozing and sleepily farting. We have to know what lies ahead of us. Listen, I’ve an idea.” Ciri pulled her chestnut up sharply, and then launched into a gallop, leaning low in the saddle. Geralt, engrossed in conversation with Wenck, suddenly sat up straight.

“Don’t run wild!” he called. “No madness, girl! Do you want to break your neck? And don’t go too far—” She heard no more – she had torn ahead too fiercely. She had done it on purpose, not wanting to listen to the daily cautions. Not too quickly, not too fiercely, Ciri! Pah-pah. Don’t go too far! Pah-pah-pah. Be careful! Pah-pah!Exactly as if I were a child, she thought. And I’m almost thirteen and have a swift chestnut beneath me and a sharp sword across my back. And I’m not afraid of anything!

And it’s spring!

“Hey, careful, you’ll burn your backside!”

Yarpen Zigrin. Another know-it-all. Pah-pah!

Further, further, at a gallop, along the bumpy path, through the green, green grasses and bushes, through the silver puddles, through the damp golden sand, through the feathery ferns. A frightened fallow deer disappeared into the woods, flashing the black and white lantern of its tail and rump as it skipped away. Birds soared up from the trees – colourful jays and bee-eaters, screaming black magpies with their funny tails. Water splashed beneath her horse’s hooves in the puddles and the clefts.

Further, even further! The horse, which had been trudging sluggishly behind the wagon for too long, carried her joyously and briskly; happy to be allowed speed, it ran fluidly, muscles playing between her thighs, damp mane thrashing her face. The horse extended its neck as Ciri gave it free rein. Further, dear horse, don’t feel the bit, further, at the gallop, at the gallop, sharp, sharp! Spring!

She slowed and glanced back. There, alone at last. Far away at last. No one was going to tell her off any more, remind her of something, demand her attention, threaten that this would be the end of such rides. Alone at last, free, at ease and independent.

Slower. A light trot. After all, this wasn’t just a fun ride, she also had responsibilities. Ciri was, after all, a mounted foray now, a patrol, an advance guard. Ha, she thought, looking around, the safety of the entire convoy depends on me now. They’re all waiting impatiently for me to return and report: the way is clear and passable, I didn’t see anyone – there are no traces of wheels or hooves. I’ll report it, and thin Master Wenck with his cold, blue eyes will nod his head gravely, Yarpen Zigrin will bare his yellow, horse teeth, Paulie Dahlberg will shout: “Well done, little one!’, and Geralt will smile faintly. He’ll smile, although he very rarely smiles recently.

Ciri looked around and took a mental note. Two felled birches – no problem. A heap of branches – nothing the wagons couldn’t pass. A cleft washed out by the rain – a small obstacle, the wheels of the first wagon will run over it, the others will follow in the ruts. A huge clearing – a good place for a rest… Traces? What traces can there be here? There’s no one here. There’s the forest. There are birds screeching amidst fresh, green leaves. A red fox runs leisurely across the path… And everything smells of spring.

The track broke off halfway up the hill, disappeared in the sandy ravine, wound through the crooked pines which clung to the slopes. Ciri abandoned the path and, wanting to scrutinise the area from a height, climbed the steep slope. And so she could touch the wet, sweet-smelling leaves… She dismounted, threw the reins over a snag in a tree and slowly strolled among the junipers which covered the hill. On the other side of the hill was an open space, gaping in the thick of the forest like a hole bitten out of the trees – left, no doubt, after a fire which had raged here a very long time ago, for there was no sign of blackened or charred remains, everywhere was green with low birches and little fir trees. The trail, as far as the eye could see, seemed clear and passable.

And safe.

What are they afraid of? she thought. The Scoia’tael? But what was there to be afraid of? I’m not frightened of elves. I haven’t done anything to them.

Elves. The Squirrels. Scoia’tael.

Before Geralt had ordered her to leave, Ciri had managed to take a look at the corpses in the fort. She remembered one in particular – his face covered by hair stuck together with darkened blood, his neck unnaturally twisted and bent. Pulled back in a ghastly, set grimace, his upper lip revealed teeth, very white and very tiny, non-human. She remembered the elf’s boots, ruined and reaching up to the knees, laced at the bottom and fastened at the top with many wrought buckles.

Elves who kill humans and die in battles themselves. Geralt says you have to remain neutral… And Yarpen says you have to behave in such a way that you don’t have to ask for forgiveness… She kicked a molehill and, lost in thought, dug her heel into the sand.

Who and whom, whom and what should one forgive?

The Squirrels kill humans. And Nilfgaard pays them for it. Uses them. Incites them. Nilfgaard.

Ciri had not forgotten – although she very much wanted to forget – what had happened in Cintra. The wandering, the despair, the fear, the hunger and the pain. The apathy and torpor, which came later, much later when the druids from Transriver had found her and taken her in. She remembered it all as though through a mist, and she wanted to stop remembering it.

But it came back. Came back in her thoughts, into her dreams. Cintra. The thundering of horses and the savage cries, corpses, flames… And the black knight in his winged helmet… And later… Cottages in Transriver… A flame-blackened chimney amongst charred ruins… Next to it, by an unscathed well, a black cat licking a terrible burn on its side. A well… A sweep… A bucket… A bucket full of blood.

Ciri wiped her face, looked down at her hand, taken aback. Her palm was wet. The girl sniffed and wiped the tears with her sleeve.

Neutrality? Indifference? She wanted to scream. A witcher looking on indifferently? No! A witcher has to defend people. From the leshy, the vampire, the werewolf. And not only from them. He has to defend people from every evil. And in Transriver I saw what evil is.

A witcher has to defend and save. To defend men so that they aren’t hung on trees by their hands, aren’t impaled and left to die. To defend fair girls from being spread-eagled between stakes rammed into the ground. Defend children so they aren’t slaughtered and thrown into a well. Even a cat burned alive in a torched barn deserves to be defended. That’s why I’m going to become a witcher, that’s why I’ve got a sword, to defend people like those in Sodden and Transriver – because they don’t have swords, don’t know the steps, half-turns, dodges and pirouettes. No one has taught them how to fight, they are defenceless and helpless in face of the werewolf and the Nilfgaardian marauder. They’re teaching me to fight so that I can defend the helpless. And that’s what I’m going to do. Never will I be neutral. Never will I be indifferent.

Never!

She didn’t know what warned her – whether it was the sudden silence which fell over the forest like a cold shadow, or a movement caught out of the corner of her eye. But she reacted in a flash, instinctively – with a reaction she had learnt in the woods of Transriver when, escaping from Cintra, she had raced against death. She fell to the ground, crawled under a juniper bush and froze, motionless. Just let the horse not neigh, she thought.

On the other side of the ravine something moved again; she saw a silhouette show faintly, hazily amidst the leaves. An elf peered cautiously from the thicket. Having thrown the hood from his head, he looked around for a moment, pricked up his ears and then, noiselessly and swiftly, moved along the ridge. After him, two more leaned out. And then others moved. Many of them. In single file. About half were on horseback – these rode slowly, straight in their saddles, focused and alert. For a moment she saw them all clearly and precisely as, in utter silence, they flowed across a bright breach in the wall of trees, framed against the background of the sky – before they disappeared, dissolved in the shimmering shadows of the wild forest. They vanished without a rustle or a sound, like ghosts. No horse tapped its hoof or snorted, no branch cracked under foot or hoof. The weapons slung across them did not clang.

They disappeared but Ciri did not move. She lay flat on the ground under the juniper bush, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. She knew that a frightened bird or animal could give her away, and a bird or animal could be frightened by any sound or movement – even the slightest, the most careful. She got up only when the woods had grown perfectly calm and the magpies chattered again among the trees where the elves had disappeared.

She rose only to find herself in a strong grip. A black, leather glove fell across her mouth, muffled the scream of fear.

“Be quiet.”

“Geralt?”

“Quiet, I said.”

“You saw them?”

“I did.”

“It’s them…” she whispered. “The Scoia’tael. Isn’t it?”

“Yes. Quick back to the horses. Watch your feet.”

They rode carefully and silently down the slope without returning to the trail; they remained in the thicket. Geralt looked around, alert. He did not allow her to ride independently; he did not give her the chestnut’s reins; he led the horse himself.

“Ciri,” he said suddenly. “Not a word about what we saw. Not to Yarpen, not to Wenck. Not to anybody. Understand?” “No,” she grunted, lowering her head. “I don’t understand. Why shouldn’t I say anything? They have to be warned. Whose side are we on, Geralt? Whose side are we against? Who’s our friend and who’s our enemy?” “We’ll part with the convoy tomorrow,” he said after a moment’s silence. “Triss is almost recovered. We’ll say goodbye and go our own way. We have problems of our own, our own worries and our own difficulties. Then, I hope, you’ll finally stop dividing the inhabitants of this world into friends and enemies.” “We’re to be… neutral? Indifferent, is that right? And if they attack…” “They won’t.”

“And if—”

“Listen to me.” He turned to her. “Why do you think that such a vital load of gold and silver, King Henselt’s secret aid for Aedirn, is being escorted by dwarves and not humans? I saw an elf watching us from a tree yesterday. I heard them pass by our camp during the night. The Scoia’tael will not attack the dwarves, Ciri.” “But they’re here,” she muttered. “They are. They’re moving around, surrounding us…” “I know why they’re here. I’ll show you.”

He turned the horse abruptly and threw the reins to her. She kicked the chestnut with her heels and moved away faster, but he motioned for her to stay behind him. They cut across the trail and reentered the wild forest. The witcher led, Ciri following in his tracks. Neither said anything. Not for a long time.

“Look.” Geralt held back his horse. “Look, Ciri.”

“What is it?” she sighed.

“Shaerrawedd.”

In front of them, as far as the woods allowed them to see, rose smoothly hewn blocks of granite and marble with blunt corners, worn away by the winds, decorated with patterns long leached out by the rains, cracked and shattered by frost, split by tree roots. Amongst the trunks broken columns flashed white, arcades, the remains of ornamental friezes entwined with ivy, and wrapped in a thick layer of green moss.

“This was… a castle?”

“A palace. The elves didn’t build castles. Dismount, the horses won’t manage in the rubble.” “Who destroyed it all? Humans?”

“No, they did. Before they left.”

“Why?”

“They knew they wouldn’t be coming back. It happened following their second clash with the humans, more than two hundred years ago. Before that, they used to leave towns untouched when they retreated. Humans used to build on the foundations left by the elves. That’s how Novigrad, Oxenfurt, Wyzima, Tretogor, Maribor and Cidaris were built. And Cintra.” “Cintra?”

He confirmed it with a nod of the head, not taking his eyes off the ruins.

“They left,” whispered Ciri, “but now they’re coming back. Why?”

“To have a look.”

“At what?”

Without a word he laid his hand on her shoulder and pushed her gently before him. They jumped down the marble stairs, climbing down holding on to the springy hazel, clusters of which had burst through every gap, every crevice in the moss-covered, cracked plates.

“This was the centre of the palace, its heart. A fountain.”

“Here?” she asked, surprised, gazing at the dense thicket of alders and white birch trunks amongst the misshapen blocks and slabs. “Here? But there’s nothing there.” “Come.”

The stream feeding the fountain must have changed its course many times, patiently and constantly washing the marble blocks and alabaster plates which had sunk or fallen to form dams, once again changing the course of the current. As a result the whole area was divided up by shallow gullies. Here and there the water cascaded over the remains of the building, washing it clean of leaves, sand and litter. In these places, the marble, terracotta and mosaics were still as vibrant with colour, as fresh as if they had been lying there for three days, not two centuries.

Geralt leapt across the stream and went in amongst what remained of the columns. Ciri followed. They jumped off the ruined stairs and, lowering their heads, walked beneath the untouched arch of the arcade, half buried beneath a mound of earth. The witcher stopped and indicated with his hand. Ciri sighed loudly.

From rubble colourful with smashed terracotta grew an enormous rose bush covered with beautiful white-lilied flowers. Drops of dew as bright as silver glistened on the petals. The bush wove its shoots around a large slab of white stone and from it a sad, pretty face looked out at them; the downpours and snows had not yet managed to blur or wash away its delicate and noble features. It was a face which the chisels of plunderers digging out golden ornaments, mosaics and precious stones from the relief sculpture had not managed to disfigure.

“Aelirenn,” said Geralt after a long silence.

“She’s beautiful,” whispered Ciri, grabbing him by the hand. The witcher didn’t seem to notice. He stared at the sculpture and was far away, far away in a different world and time.

“Aelirenn,” he repeated after a while. “Known as Elirena by dwarves and humans. She led them into battle two hundred years ago. The elders of the elves were against it, they knew they had no chance. That they would not be able to pick themselves up after the defeat. They wanted to save their people, wanted to survive. They decided to destroy their towns and retreat to the inaccessible, wild mountains… and to wait. Elves live a long time, Ciri. By our time scale they are almost eternal. They thought humans were something that would pass, like a drought, like a heavy winter, or a plague of locust, after which comes rain, spring, a new harvest. They wanted to sit it out. Survive. They decided to destroy their towns and palaces, amongst them their pride – the beautiful Shaerrawedd. They wanted to weather out the storm, but Elirena… Elirena stirred up the young. They took up arms and followed her into their last desperate battle. And they were massacred. Mercilessly massacred.” Ciri did not say anything, staring at the beautiful, still face.

“They died with her name on their lips,” the witcher continued quietly. “Repeating her challenge, her cry, they died for Shaerrawedd. Because Shaerrawedd was a symbol. They died for this stone and marble… and for Aelirenn. Just as she promised them, they died with dignity, heroically and honourably. They saved their honour but they brought nothing but ruin as a result, condemned their own race to annihilation. Their own people. You remember what Yarpen told you? Those who rule the world and those who die out? He explained it to you coarsely but truly. Elves live for a long time, but only their youngsters are fertile, only the young can have offspring. And practically all the elven youngsters had followed Elirena. They followed Aelirenn, the White Rose of Shaerrawedd. We are standing in the ruins of her palace, by the fountain whose waters she listened to in the evenings. And these… these were her flowers.” Ciri was silent. Geralt drew her to himself, put his arm around her.

“Do you know now why the Scoia’tael were here, do you see what they wanted to look at? And do you understand why the elven and dwarven young must not be allowed to be massacred once again? Do you understand why neither you nor I are permitted to have a hand in this massacre? These roses flower all year round. They ought to have grown wild by now, but they are more beautiful than any rose in a tended garden. Elves continue to come to Shaerrawedd, Ciri. A variety of elves. The impetuous and the foolish ones for whom the cracked stone is a symbol as well as the sensible ones for whom these immortal, forever reborn flowers are a symbol. Elves who understand that if this bush is torn from the ground and the earth burned out, the roses of Shaerrawedd will never flower again. Do you understand?” She nodded.

“Do you understand what this neutrality is, which stirs you so? To be neutral does not mean to be indifferent or insensitive. You don’t have to kill your feelings. It’s enough to kill hatred within yourself. Do you understand?” “Yes,” she whispered. “I understand. Geralt, I… I’d like to take one… One of these roses. To remind me. May I?” “Do,” he said after some hesitation. “Do, in order to remember. Let’s go now. Let’s return to the convoy.” Ciri pinned the rose under the lacing of her jerkin. Suddenly she cried out quietly, lifted her hand. A trickle of blood ran from her finger down her palm.

“Did you prick yourself?”

“Yarpen…” whispered the girl, looking at the blood filling her life-line. “Wenck… Paulie…” “What?”

“Triss!” she shouted with a piercing voice which was not hers, shuddered fiercely and wiped her face with her arm. “Quick, Geralt! We’ve got to help! To the horses, Geralt!” “Ciri! What’s happening?”

“They’re dying!”

She galloped with her ear almost touching the horse’s neck and spurred her mount on, kicking with her heels and shouting. The sand of the forest path flew beneath the hooves. She heard screaming in the distance, and smelt smoke.

Coming straight at them, blocking the path, raced two horses dragging a harness, reins and a broken shaft behind them. Ciri did not hold her chestnut back and shot past them at full speed, flakes of froth skimming across her face. Behind her she heard Roach neigh and Geralt’s curses as he was forced to a halt.

She tore around a bend in the path in to a large glade.

The convoy was in flames. From thickets, flaming arrows flew towards the wagons like fire birds, perforating the canvas and digging into the boards. The Scoia’tael attacked with war-cries and yells.

Ciri, ignoring Geralt’s shouts from behind her, directed her horse straight at the first two wagons brought to the fore. One was lying on its side and Yarpen Zigrin, axe in one hand, crossbow in the other, stood next to it. At his feet, motionless, with her blue dress hitched halfway up her thighs, lay… “Triiiiiisss!” Ciri straightened in the saddle, thumping her horse with her heels. The Scoia’tael turned towards her and arrows whistled past the girl’s ears. She shook her head without slowing her gallop. She heard Geralt shout, ordering her to flee into the woods. She did not intend to obey. She leaned down and bolted straight towards the archers shooting at her. Suddenly she smelt the overpowering scent of the white rose pinned to her jerkin.

“Triiiiisss!”

The elves leaped out of the way of the speeding horses. Ciri caught one lightly with her stirrup. She heard a sharp buzz, her steed struggled, whinnied and threw itself to the side. Ciri saw an arrow dug deep, just below the withers, right by her thigh. She tore her feet from the stirrups, jumped up, squatted in the saddle, bounced off strongly and leaped.

She fell softly on the body of the overturned wagon, used her hands to balance herself and jumped again, landing with bent knees next to Yarpen who was roaring and brandishing his axe. Next to them, on the second wagon, Paulie Dahlberg was fighting while Regan, leaning back and bracing his legs against the board, was struggling to hold on to the harnessed horses. They neighed wildly, stamped their hooves and yanked at the shaft in fear of the fire devouring the canvas.

She rushed to Triss, who lay amongst the scattered barrels and chests, grabbed her by her clothes and started to drag her towards the overturned wagon. The enchantress moaned, holding her head just above the ear. Right by Ciri’s side, hooves suddenly clattered and horses snorted – two elves, brandishing their swords, were pressing the madly fighting Yarpen hard. The dwarf spun like a top and agilely deflected the blows directed against him with his axe. Ciri heard curses, grunts and the whining clang of metal.

Another span of horses detached itself from the flaming convoy and rushed towards them, dragging smoke and flames behind it and scattering burning rags. The wagonman hung inertly from the box and Yannick Brass stood next to him, barely keeping his balance. With one hand he wielded the reins, with the other he was cutting himself away from two elves galloping one at each side of the wagon. A third Scoia’tael, keeping up with the harnessed horses, was shooting arrow after arrow into their sides.

“Jump!” yelled Yarpen, shouting over the noise. “Jump, Yannick!”

Ciri saw Geralt catch up with the speeding wagon and with a short, spare slash of his sword swipe one of the elves from his saddle while Wenck, riding up on the opposite side, hewed at the other, the elf shooting the horses. Yannick threw the reins down and jumped off – straight under the third Scoia’tael’s horse. The elf stood in his stirrups and slashed at him with his sword. The dwarf fell. At that moment the flaming wagon crashed into those still fighting, parting and scattering them. Ciri barely managed to pull Triss out from beneath the crazed horses’ hooves at the last moment. The swingle-tree tore away with a crack, the wagon leaped into the air, lost a wheel and overturned, scattering its load and smouldering boards everywhere.

Ciri dragged the enchantress under Yarpen’s overturned wagon. Paulie Dahlberg, who suddenly found himself next to her, helped, while Geralt covered them both, shoving Roach between them and the charging Scoia’tael. All around the wagon, battle seethed: Ciri heard shouting, blades clashing, horses snorting, hooves clattering. Yarpen, Wenck and Geralt, surrounded on all sides by the elves, fought like raging demons.

The fighters were suddenly parted by Regan’s span as he struggled in the coachman’s box with a halfling wearing a lynx fur hat. The halfling was sitting on Regan trying to jab him with a long knife.

Yarpen deftly leaped onto the wagon, caught the halfling by the neck and kicked him overboard. Regan gave a piercing yell, grabbed the reins and lashed the horses. The span jerked, the wagon rolled and gathered speed in a flash.

“Circle, Regan!” roared Yarpen. “Circle! Go round!”

The wagon turned and descended on the elves again, parting them. One of them sprang up, grabbed the right lead-horse by the halter but couldn’t stop him; the impetus threw him under the hooves and wheels. Ciri heard an excruciating scream.

Another elf, galloping next to them, gave a backhanded swipe with his sword. Yarpen ducked, the blade rang against the hoop supporting the canvas and the momentum carried the elf forward. The dwarf hunched abruptly and vigorously swung his arm. The Scoia’tael yelled, stiffened in the saddle and tumbled to the ground. A martel protruded between his shoulder blades.

“Come on then, you whoresons!” Yarpen roared, whirling his axe. “Who else? Chase a circle, Regan! Go round!” Regan, tossing his bloodied mane of hair, hunched in the box amidst the whizzing of arrows, howled like the damned, and mercilessly lashed the horses on. The span dashed in a tight circle, creating a moving barricade belching flames and smoke around the overturned wagon beneath which Ciri had dragged the semi-conscious, battered magician.

Not far from them danced Wenck’s horse, a mouse-coloured stallion. Wenck was hunched over; Ciri saw the white feathers of an arrow sticking out of his side. Despite the wound, he was skilfully hacking his way past two elves on foot, attacking him from both sides. As Ciri watched another arrow struck him in the back. The commissar collapsed forward onto his horse’s neck but remained in the saddle. Paulie Dahlberg rushed to his aid.

Ciri was left alone.

She reached for her sword. The blade which throughout her training had leaped out from her back in a flash would not let itself be drawn for anything; it resisted her, stuck in its scabbard as if glued in tar. Amongst the whirl seething around her, amongst moves so swift that they blurred in front of her eyes, her sword seemed strangely, unnaturally slow; it seemed ages would pass before it could be fully drawn. The ground trembled and shook. Ciri suddenly realised that it was not the ground. It was her knees.

Paulie Dahlberg, keeping the elf charging at him at bay with his axe, dragged the wounded Wenck along the ground. Roach flitted past, beside the wagon, and Geralt threw himself at the elf. He had lost his headband and his hair streamed out behind him with his speed. Swords clashed.

Another Scoia’tael, on foot, leaped out from behind the wagon. Paulie abandoned Wenck, pulled himself upright and brandished his axe. Then froze.

In front of him stood a dwarf wearing a hat adorned with a squirrel’s tail, his black beard braided into two plaits. Paulie hesitated.

The black-beard did not hesitate for a second. He struck with both arms. The blade of the axe whirred and fell, slicing into the collar-bone with a hide-ous crunch. Paulie fell instantly, without a moan; it looked as if the force of the blow had broken both his knees.

Ciri screamed.

Yarpen Zigrin leaped from the wagon. The black-bearded dwarf spun and cut. Yarpen avoided the blow with an agile half-turn dodge, grunted and struck ferociously, chopping in to black-beard – throat, jaw and face, right up to the nose. The Scoia’tael bent back and collapsed, bleeding, pounding his hands against the ground and tearing at the earth with his heels.

“Geraaaallllttt!” screamed Ciri, feeling something move behind her. Sensing death behind her.

There was only a hazy shape, caught in a turn, a move and a flash but the girl – like lightning – reacted with a diagonal parry and feint taught her in Kaer Morhen. She caught the blow but had not been standing firmly enough, had been leaning too far to the side to receive the full force. The strength of the strike threw her against the body of the wagon. Her sword slipped from her hand.

The beautiful, long-legged elf wearing high boots standing in front of her grimaced fiercely and, tossing her hair free of her lowered hood, raised her sword. The sword flashed blindingly, the bracelets on the Squirrel’s wrists glittered.

Ciri was in no state to move.

But the sword did not fall, did not strike. Because the elf was not looking at Ciri but at the white rose pinned to her jerkin.

“Aelirenn!” shouted the Squirrel loudly as if wanting to shatter her hesitation with the cry. But she was too late. Geralt, shoving Ciri away, slashed her broadly across the chest with his sword. Blood spurted over the girl’s face and clothes, red drops spattered on the white petals of the rose.

“Aelirenn…” moaned the elf shrilly, collapsing to her knees. Before she fell on her face, she managed to shout one more time. Loudly, lengthily, despairingly: “Shaerraweeeeedd!”

Reality returned just as suddenly as it had disappeared. Through the monotonous, dull hum which filled her ears, Ciri began to hear voices. Through the flickering, wet curtain of tears, she began to see the living and the dead.

“Ciri,” whispered Geralt who was kneeling next to her. “Wake up.”

“A battle…” she moaned, sitting up. “Geralt, what—”

“It’s all over. Thanks to the troops from Ban Gleán which came to our aid.”

“You weren’t…” she whispered, closing her eyes, “you weren’t neutral…”

“No, I wasn’t. But you’re alive. Triss is alive.”

“How is she?”

“She hit her head falling out of the wagon when Yarpen tried to rescue it. But she’s fine now. Treating the wounded.” Ciri cast her eyes around. Amidst the smoke from the last wagons, burning out, silhouettes of armed men flickered. And all around lay chests and barrels. Some of were shattered and the contents scattered. They had contained ordinary, grey field stones. She stared at them, astounded.

“Aid for Demawend from Aedirn.” Yarpen Zigrin, standing nearby, ground his teeth. “Secret and exceptionally important aid. A convoy of special significance!” “It was a trap?”

The dwarf turned, looked at her, at Geralt. Then he looked back at the stones pouring from the barrels and spat.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “A trap.”

“For the Squirrels?”

“No.”

The dead were arranged in a neat row. They lay next to each other, not divided – elves, humans and dwarves. Yannick Brass was amongst them. The dark-haired elf in the high boots was there. And the dwarf with his black, plaited beard, glistening with dried blood. And next to them… “Paulie!” sobbed Regan Dahlberg, holding his brother’s head on his knees. “Paulie! Why?” No one said anything. No one. Even those who knew why. Regan turned his contorted face, wet with tears, towards them.

“What will I tell our mother?” he wailed. “What am I going to say to her?”

No one said anything.

Not far away, surrounded by soldiers in the black and gold of Kaedwen, lay Wenck. He was breathing with difficulty and every breath forced bubbles of blood to his lips. Triss knelt next to him and a knight in shining armour stood over them both.

“Well?” asked the knight. “Lady enchantress? Will he live?”

“I’ve done everything I can.” Triss got to her feet, pinched her lips. “But…”

“What?”

“They used this.” She showed him an arrow with a strange head to it and struck it against a barrel standing by them. The tip of the arrow fell apart, split into four barbed, hook-like needles. The knight cursed.

“Fredegard…” Wenck uttered with difficulty. “Fredegard, listen—”

“You mustn’t speak!” said Triss severely. “Or move! The spell is barely holding!” “Fredegard,” the commissar repeated. A bubble of blood burst on his lips and another immediately appeared in its place. “We were wrong… Everyone was wrong. It’s not Yarpen… We suspected him wrongly… I vouch for him. Yarpen did not betray… Did not betr—” “Silence!” shouted the knight. “Silence, Vilfrid! Hey, quick now, bring the stretcher! Stretcher!” “No need,” the magician said hollowly, gazing at Wenck’s lips where no more bubbles appeared. Ciri turned away and pressed her face to Geralt’s side.

Fredegard drew himself up. Yarpen Zigrin did not look at him. He was looking at the dead. At Regan Dahlberg still kneeling over his brother.

“It was necessary, Zigrin,” said the knight. “This is war. There was an order. We had to be sure…” Yarpen did not say anything. The knight lowered his eyes.

“Forgive us,” he whispered.

The dwarf slowly turned his head, looked at him. At Geralt. At Ciri. At them all. The humans.

“What have you done to us?” he asked bitterly. “What have you done to us? What have you made of us?” No one answered him.

The eyes of the long-legged elf were glassy and dull. Her contorted lips were frozen in a soundless cry.

Geralt put his arms around Ciri. Slowly, he unpinned the white rose, spattered with dark stains, from her jerkin and, without a word, threw it on the Squirrel’s body.

“Farewell,” whispered Ciri. “Farewell, Rose of Shaerrawedd. Farewell and…”

“And forgive us,” added the witcher.

They roam the land, importunate and insolent, nominating themselves the stalkers of evil, vanquishers of werewolves and exterminators of spectres, extorting payment from the gullible and, on receipt of their ignoble earnings, moving on to dispense the same deceit in the near vicinity. The easiest access they find at cottages of honest, simple and unwitting peasants who readily ascribe all misfortune and ill events to spells, unnatural creatures and monsters, the doings of windsprites or evil spirits. Instead of praying to the gods, instead of bearing rich offerings to the temple, such a simpleton is ready to give his last penny to the base witcher, believing the witcher, the godless changeling, will turn around his fate and save him from misfortune.

Anonymous, Monstrum, or Description of the Witcher

I have nothing against witchers. Let them hunt vampires. As long as they pay taxes.

Radovid III the Bold, King of Redania

If you thirst for justice, hire a witcher.

Graffitti on the wall of the Faculty of Law, University of Oxenfurt