A Shard Of Ice 9

IX

It must have rained during the night.

Geralt walked out in front of the stable, wiping his eyes, combing the straw from his hair with his fingers. The rising sun glistened on the wet roofs, gleamed gold in the puddles. The Witcher spat. He still had a nasty taste in his mouth and the lump on his head throbbed with a dull ache.

A scrawny black cat sat on a rail in front of the stable, licking a paw intently.

‘Here, kitty, kitty,’ the Witcher said. The cat stopped what it was doing and looked at him malevolently, flattened its ears and hissed, baring its little fangs.

‘I know,’ Geralt nodded. ‘I don’t like you either. I’m only joking.’ He pulled tight the loosened buckles and clasps of his jerkin with unhurried movements, smoothed down the creases in his clothing, and made sure it did not hinder his freedom of movement at any point. He slung his sword across his back and adjusted the position of the hilt above his right shoulder. He tied a leather band around his forehead, pulling his hair back behind his ears. He pulled on long combat gloves, bristling with short, conical silver spikes.

He glanced up at the sun once more, his pupils narrowing into vertical slits. A glorious day, he thought. A glorious day for a fight.

He sighed, spat and walked slowly down the narrow road, beside walls giving off the pungent, penetrating aroma of wet plaster and lime mortar.

‘Hey, freak!’

He looked around. Cicada, flanked by three suspicious-looking, armed individuals, sat on a heap of timbers piled up beside the embankment. He rose, stretched and walked into the middle of the alley, carefully avoiding the puddles.

‘Where you going?’ he asked, placing his slender hands on his belt, weighed down with weapons.

‘None of your business.’

‘Just to be clear, I don’t give a tinker’s cuss about the mayor, the sorcerer or this whole shitty town,’ Cicada said, slowly emphasising the words. ‘This is about you, Witcher. You won’t make it to the end of this alley. Hear me? I want to find out how good a fighter you are. The matter’s tormenting me. Stop, I said.’ ‘Get out of my way.’

‘Stop!’ Cicada yelled, placing a hand on his sword hilt. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? We’re going to fight! I’m challenging you! We’ll soon see who’s the better man!’ Geralt shrugged without slowing down.

‘I’m challenging you to fight! Do you hear me, mutant?’ Cicada shouted, barring his way again. ‘What are you waiting for? Draw your weapon! What, got cold feet? Or perhaps you’re nothing more than one of those other fools who’s humped that witch of yours, like Istredd?’ Geralt walked on, forcing Cicada to retreat, to walk clumsily backwards. The individuals with Cicada got up from the pile of timbers and followed them, although they hung back a little way off. Geralt heard the mud squelching beneath their boots.

‘I challenge you!’ Cicada repeated, blanching and flushing by turns. ‘Do you hear me, you witcher pox? What else do I have to do to you? Spit in your ugly face?’ ‘Go ahead and spit.’

Cicada stopped and indeed took a breath, pursing his lips to spit. He was watching the Witcher’s eyes, not his hands, and that was a mistake. Geralt, still not slowing down, struck him very fast, without a backswing, just flexing from the knees, his fist encased in the spiked glove. He punched Cicada right in the mouth, straight in his twisted lips. They split, exploding like mashed cherries. The Witcher crouched and struck once again, in the same place, this time from a short backswing, feeling the fury spilling from him with the force and the momentum. Cicada, whirling around with one foot in the mud and the other in the air, spat blood and splashed onto his back into a puddle. The Witcher, hearing behind him the hiss of a sword blade in the scabbard, stopped and turned sinuously around, his hand on his sword hilt.

‘Well,’ he said in a voice trembling with anger, ‘be my guests.’ The one who had drawn the sword looked him in the eyes. Briefly. Then he averted his gaze. The others began to fall back. First slowly, then more and more quickly. Hearing it, the man with the sword also stepped back, noiselessly moving his lips. The furthest away of them turned and ran, splattering mud. The others froze to the spot, not attempting to come closer.

Cicada turned over in the mud and dragged himself up on his elbows. He mumbled, hawked and spat out something white amid a lot of red. As Geralt passed he casually kicked him in the face, shattering his cheekbone, and sending him splashing into the puddle again.

He walked on without looking back.

Istredd was already by the well and stood leaning against it, against the wooden cover, green with moss. He had a sword in his belt. A magnificent, light, Terganian sword with a half-basket hilt, the metal-fitted end of the scabbard resting against the shining leg of a riding boot. A black bird with ruffled feathers sat on the sorcerer’s shoulder.

It was a kestrel.

‘You’re here, Witcher,’ Istredd said, proffering the kestrel a gloved hand and gently and cautiously setting the bird down on the canopy of the well.

‘Yes, I am, Istredd.’

‘I hadn’t expected you to come. I thought you’d leave town.’ ‘I didn’t.’

The sorcerer laughed loudly and freely, throwing his head back.

‘She wanted… she wanted to save us,’ he said. ‘Both of us. Never mind, Geralt. Let’s cross swords. Only one of us can remain.’ ‘Do you mean to fight with a sword?’

‘Does that surprise you? After all, you do. Come on, have at you.’ ‘Why, Istredd? Why with swords and not with magic?’

The sorcerer blanched and his mouth twitched anxiously.

‘Have at you, I said!’ he shouted. ‘This is not the time for questions; that time has passed! Now is the time for deeds!’ ‘I want to know,’ Geralt said slowly. ‘I want to know why with swords. I want to know why you have a black kestrel and where it came from. I have the right to know. I have the right to know the truth, Istredd.’ ‘The truth?’ the sorcerer repeated bitterly. ‘Yes, perhaps you have. Perhaps you have. Our rights are equal. The kestrel, you ask? It came at dawn, wet from the rain. It brought a letter. A very short one, I know it by heart. “Farewell, Val. Forgive me. There are gifts which one may not accept, and there is nothing in me I could repay you with. And that is the truth, Val. Truth is a shard of ice”. Well, Geralt? Are you satisfied? Have you availed yourself of your right?’ The Witcher slowly nodded.

‘Good,’ Istredd said. ‘Now I shall avail myself of mine. Because I don’t acknowledge that letter. Without her, I cannot… I prefer to… Have at you, dammit!’ He crouched over and drew his sword with a swift, lithe movement, demonstrating his expertise. The kestrel cried.

The Witcher stood motionless, his arms hanging at his sides.

‘What are you waiting for?’ the sorcerer barked.

Geralt slowly raised his head, looked at him for a moment and then turned on his heel.

‘No, Istredd,’ he said quietly. ‘Farewell.’

‘What do you bloody mean?’

Geralt stopped.

‘Istredd,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Don’t drag other people into your suicide. If you must, hang yourself in the stable from your reins.’ ‘Geralt!’ the sorcerer screamed, and his voice suddenly cracked, jarring the ear with a false, wrong note. ‘I’m not giving up! She won’t run away from me! I’ll follow her to Vengerberg, I’ll follow her to the end of the world. I’ll find her! I’ll never give her up! Know that!’ ‘Farewell, Istredd.’

He walked off into the alley, without turning back at all. He walked, paying no attention to the people quickly getting out of his way, or to the hurried slamming of doors and shutters. He did not notice anybody or anything.

He was thinking about the letter waiting for him in the inn.

He speeded up. He knew that a black kestrel, wet from the rain, holding a letter in its curved beak, was waiting for him on the bed-head. He wanted to read the letter as soon as possible.

Even though he knew what was in it.