Something More 8

VIII

‘Geralt, sir?’

‘Yes, Yurga?’

The merchant lowered his head and said nothing for some time, winding around a finger the remains of the thin strap with which he was repairing the Witcher’s saddle. He finally straightened up and gently tapped the servant driving the cart on the back with his fist.

‘Mount one of those spare horses, Pokvit. I’ll drive. Sit behind me on the box, Geralt, sir. Why are you hanging around the cart, Pokvit? Go on, ride on! We want to talk here, we don’t need your eyes!’ Roach, dawdling behind the cart, neighed, tugged at the tether, clearly envious of Pokvit’s mare trotting down the highway.

Yurga clicked his tongue and tapped the horses lightly with the reins.

‘Well,’ he said hesitantly. ‘It’s like this, sir. I promised you… Back then on the bridge… I made a promise—’ ‘You needn’t worry,’ the Witcher quickly interrupted. ‘It’s not necessary, Yurga.’ ‘But it is,’ the merchant said curtly. ‘It’s my word. Whatever I find at home but am not expecting is yours.’ ‘Give over. I don’t want anything from you. We’re quits.’

‘No, sir. Should I find something like that at home it means it’s destiny. For if you mock destiny, if you deceive it, then it will punish you severely.’ I know, thought the Witcher. I know.

‘But… Geralt, sir…’

‘What, Yurga?’

‘I won’t find anything at home I’m not expecting. Nothing, and for certain not what you were hoping for. Witcher, sir, hear this: after the last child, my woman cannot have any more and whatever you’re after, there won’t be an infant at home. Seems to me you’re out of luck.’ Geralt did not reply.

Yurga said nothing either. Roach snorted again and tossed her head.

‘But I have two sons,’ Yurga suddenly said quickly, looking ahead, towards the road. ‘Two; healthy, strong and smart. I mean, I’ll have to get them apprenticed somewhere. One, I thought, would learn to trade with me. But the other…’ Geralt said nothing.

‘What do you say?’ Yurga turned his head away, and looked at him. ‘You demanded a promise on the bridge. You had in mind a child for your witcher’s apprenticeship, and nothing else, didn’t you? Why does that child have to be unexpected? Can it not be expected? I’ve two, so one of them could go for a witcher. It’s a trade like any other. It ain’t better or worse.’ ‘Are you certain,’ Geralt said softly, ‘it isn’t worse?’

Yurga squinted.

‘Protecting people, saving their lives, how do you judge that; bad or good? Those fourteen on the hill? You on that there bridge? What were you doing? Good or bad?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Geralt with effort. ‘I don’t know, Yurga. Sometimes it seems to me that I know. And sometimes I have doubts. Would you like your son to have doubts like that?’ ‘Why not?’ the merchant said gravely. ‘He might as well. For it’s a human and a good thing.’ ‘What?’

‘Doubts. Only evil, sir, never has any. But no one can escape his destiny.’ The Witcher did not answer.

The highway curved beneath a high bluff, under some crooked birch trees, which by some miracle were hanging onto the vertical hillside. The birches had yellow leaves. Autumn, Geralt thought, it’s autumn again. A river sparkled down below, the freshly-cut palisade of a watchtower shone white, the roofs of cottages, hewn stakes of the jetty. A windlass creaked. A ferry was reaching the bank, pushing a wave in front of it, shoving the water with its blunt prow, parting the sluggish straw and leaves in the dirty layer of dust floating on the surface. The ropes creaked as the ferrymen hauled them. The people thronged on the bank were clamouring. There was everything in the din: women screaming, men cursing, children crying, cattle lowing, horses neighing and sheep bleating. The monotonous, bass music of fear.

‘Get away! Get away, get back, dammit!’ yelled a horseman, head bandaged with a bloody rag. His horse, submerged up to its belly, thrashed around, lifting its fore hooves high and splashing water. Yelling and cries from the jetty–the shield bearers were brutally jostling the crowd, hitting out in all directions with the shafts of their spears.

‘Get away from the ferry!’ the horseman yelled, swinging his sword around. ‘Soldiers only! Get away, afore I start cracking some skulls!’ Geralt pulled on his reins, holding back his mare, who was dancing near the edge of the ravine.

Heavily armoured men, weapons and armour clanging, galloped along the ravine, stirring up clouds of dust which obscured the shield bearers running in their wake.

‘Geraaaalt!’

He looked down. A slim man in a cherry jerkin and a bonnet with an egret’s feather was jumping up and down and waving his arms on an abandoned cart loaded with cages which had been shoved off the highway. Chickens and geese fluttered and squawked in the cages.

‘Geraaalt! It’s me!’

‘Dandelion! Come here!’

‘Get away, get away from the ferry!’ roared the horseman with the bandaged head on the jetty. ‘The ferry’s for the army only! If you want to get to the far bank, scum, seize your axes and get into the forest, cobble together some rafts! The ferry’s just for the army!’ ‘By the Gods, Geralt,’ the poet panted, scrambling up the side of the ravine. His cherry jerkin was dotted, as though by snow, with birds’ feathers. ‘Do you see what’s happening? The Sodden forces have surely lost the battle, and the retreat has begun. What am I saying? What retreat? It’s a flight, simply a panicked flight! And we have to scarper, too, Geralt. To the Yaruga’s far bank…’ ‘What are you doing here, Dandelion? How did you get here?’ ‘What am I doing?’ the bard yelled. ‘You want to know? I’m fleeing like everybody else, I was bumping along on that cart all day! Some whoreson stole my horse in the night! Geralt, I beg you, get me out of this hell! I tell you, the Nilfgaardians could be here any moment! Whoever doesn’t get the Yaruga behind them will be slaughtered. Slaughtered, do you understand?’ ‘Don’t panic, Dandelion.’

Below on the jetty, the neighing of horses being pulled onto the ferry by force and the clattering of hooves on the planks. Uproar. A seething mass. The splash of water after a cart was pushed into the river, the lowing of oxen holding their muzzles above the surface. Geralt looked on as the bundles and crates from the cart turned around in the current, banged against the side of the ferry and drifted away. Screaming, curses. In the ravine a cloud of dust, hoof beats.

‘One at a time!’ yelled the bandaged soldier, driving his horse into the crowd. ‘Order, dammit! One at a time!’ ‘Geralt,’ Dandelion groaned, seizing a stirrup. ‘Do you see what’s happening? We haven’t a chance of getting on that ferry. The soldiers will get as many across on it as they can, and then they’ll burn it so the Nilfgaardians won’t be able to use it. That’s how it’s normally done, isn’t it?’ ‘Agreed,’ the Witcher nodded. ‘That’s how it’s normally done. I don’t understand, though, why the panic? What, is this the first war ever, have there never been any others? Just like usual, the kings’ forces beat each other up and then the kings reach agreement, sign treaties and get plastered to celebrate. Nothing will really change for those having their ribs crushed on the jetty now. So why all this brutality?’ Dandelion looked at him intently, without releasing the stirrup.

‘You must have lousy information, Geralt,’ he said. ‘Or you’re unable to understand its significance. This isn’t an ordinary war about succession to a throne or a small scrap of land. It’s not a skirmish between two feudal lords, which peasants watch while leaning on their pitchforks.’ ‘What is it then? Enlighten me, because I really don’t know what it’s about. Just between you and I, it doesn’t actually interest me that much, but please explain.’ ‘There’s never been a war like this,’ the bard said gravely. ‘The Nilfgaard army are leaving scorched earth and bodies behind them. Entire fields of corpses. This is a war of destruction, total destruction. Nilfgaard against everyone. Cruelty—’ ‘There is and has never been a war without cruelty,’ the Witcher interrupted. ‘You’re exaggerating, Dandelion. It’s like it is by the ferry: that’s how it’s normally done. A kind of military tradition, I’d say. As long as the world has existed, armies marching through a country kill, plunder, burn and rape; though not necessarily in that order. As long as the world has existed, peasants have hidden in forests with their women and what they can carry, and when everything is over, return—’ ‘Not in this war, Geralt. After this war there won’t be anybody or anything to return to. Nilfgaard is leaving smouldering embers behind it, the army is marching in a row and dragging everybody out. Scaffolds and stakes stretch for miles along the highways, smoke is rising into the sky across the entire horizon. You said there hasn’t been anything like this since the world has existed? Well, you were right. Since the world has existed. Our world. For it looks as though the Nilfgaardians have come from beyond the mountains to destroy our world.’ ‘That makes no sense. Who would want to destroy the world? Wars aren’t waged to destroy. Wars are waged for two reasons. One is power and the other is money.’ ‘Don’t philosophise, Geralt! You won’t change what’s happening with philosophy! Why won’t you listen? Why won’t you see? Why don’t you want to understand? Believe me, the Yaruga won’t stop the Nilfgaardians. In the winter, when the river freezes over, they’ll march on. I tell you, we must flee, flee to the North; they may not get that far. But even if they don’t, our world will never be what it was. Geralt, don’t leave me here! I’ll never survive by myself! Don’t leave me!’ ‘You must be insane, Dandelion,’ the Witcher said, leaning over in the saddle. ‘You must be insane with fear, if you could think I’d leave you. Give me your hand and jump up on the horse. There’s nothing for you here, nor will you shove your way onto the ferry. I’ll take you upstream and then we’ll hunt for a boat or a ferry.’ ‘The Nilfgaardians will capture us! They’re close now. Did you see those horsemen? They are clearly coming straight from the fighting. Let’s ride downstream towards the mouth of the Ina.’ ‘Stop looking on the dark side. We’ll slip through, you’ll see. Crowds of people are heading downstream, it’ll be the same at every ferry as it is here, they’re sure to have nabbed all the boats too. We’ll ride upstream, against the current. Don’t worry, I’ll get you across on a log if I have to.’ ‘The far bank’s barely visible!’

‘Don’t whinge. I said I’d get you across.’

‘What about you?’

‘Hop up onto the horse. We’ll talk on the way. Hey, not with that bloody sack! Do you want to break Roach’s back?’ ‘Is it Roach? Roach was a bay, and she’s a chestnut.’

‘All of my horses are called Roach. You know that perfectly well; don’t try to get round me. I said get rid of that sack. What’s in it, dammit? Gold?’ ‘Manuscripts! Poems! And some vittles…’

‘Throw it into the river. You can write some new poems. And I’ll share my food with you.’ Dandelion made a forlorn face, but did not ponder long, and hurled the sack into the water. He jumped onto the horse and wriggled around, making a place for himself on the saddlebags, and grabbed the Witcher’s belt.

‘Time to go, time to go,’ he urged anxiously. ‘Let’s not waste time, Geralt, we’ll disappear into the forest, before—’ ‘Stop it, Dandelion. That panic of yours is beginning to affect Roach.’ ‘Don’t mock. If you’d seen what I—’

‘Shut up, dammit. Let’s ride, I’d like to get you across before dusk.’ ‘Me? What about you?’

‘I have matters to deal with on this side of the river.’

‘You must be mad, Geralt. Do you have a death wish? What “matters”?’ ‘None of your business. I’m going to Cintra.’

‘To Cintra? Cintra is no more.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There is no Cintra. Just smouldering embers and piles of rubble. The Nilfgaardians—’ ‘Dismount, Dandelion.’

‘What?’

‘Get off!’ The Witcher jerked around. The troubadour looked at his face and leaped from the horse onto the ground, took a step back and stumbled.

Geralt got off slowly. He threw the reins across the mare’s head, stood for a moment undecided, and then wiped his face with a gloved hand. He sat down on the edge of a tree hollow, beneath a spreading dogwood bush with blood-red branches.

‘Come here, Dandelion,’ he said. ‘Sit down. And tell me what’s happened to Cintra. Everything.’ The poet sat down.

‘The Nilfgaardians invaded across the passes,’ he began after a moment’s silence. ‘There were thousands of them. They surrounded the Cintran army in the Marnadal valley. A battle was joined lasting the whole day, from dawn till dusk. The forces of Cintra fought courageously, but were decimated. The king fell, and then their queen—’ ‘Calanthe.’

‘Yes. She headed off a stampede, didn’t let them disperse, gathered anyone she was able to around herself and the standard. They fought their way through the encirclement and fell back across the river towards the city. Whoever was able to.’ ‘And Calanthe?’

‘She defended the river crossing with a handful of knights, and shielded the retreat. They say she fought like a man, threw herself like a woman possessed into the greatest turmoil. They stabbed her with pikes as she charged the Nilfgaardian foot. She was transported to the city gravely wounded. What’s in that canteen, Geralt?’ ‘Vodka. Want some?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Speak. Go on, Dandelion. Tell me everything.’

‘The city didn’t put up a fight. There was no siege, because there was no one to defend the walls. What was left of the knights and their families, the noblemen and the queen… They barricaded themselves in the castle. The Nilfgaardians captured the castle at once, their sorcerers pulverised the gate and some of the walls. Only the keep was being defended, clearly protected by spells, because it resisted the Nilfgaardian magic. In spite of that, the Nilfgaardians forced their way inside within four days. They didn’t find anyone alive. Not a soul. The women had killed the children, the men had killed the women and then fallen on their swords or… What’s the matter, Geralt?’ ‘Speak, Dandelion.’

‘Or… like Calanthe… Headlong from the battlements, from the very top. They say she asked someone to… But no one would. So she crawled to the battlements and… Headfirst. They say dreadful things were done to her body. I don’t want to… What’s the matter?’ ‘Nothing. Dandelion… In Cintra there was a… little girl. Calanthe’s granddaughter, she was around ten or eleven. Her name was Ciri. Did you hear anything about her?’ ‘No. But there was a terrible massacre in the city and the castle and almost no one got out alive. And nobody survived of those who defended the keep, I told you. And most of the women and children from the notable families were there.’ The Witcher said nothing.

‘That Calanthe,’ Dandelion asked. ‘Did you know her?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the little girl you were asking about? Ciri?’

‘I knew her too.’

The wind blew from the river, rippled the water, shook the trees and the leaves fell from the branches in a shimmering shower. Autumn, thought the Witcher, it’s autumn again.

He stood up.

‘Do you believe in destiny, Dandelion?’

The troubadour raised his head and looked at him with his eyes wide open.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Answer.’

‘Well… yes.’

‘But did you know that destiny alone is not enough? That something more is necessary?’ ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You’re not the only one. But that’s how it is. Something more is needed. The problem is that… that I won’t ever find out what.’ ‘What’s the matter, Geralt?’

‘Nothing, Dandelion. Come, get on. Let’s go, we’re wasting the day. Who knows how long it’ll take us to find a boat, and we’ll need a big one. I’m not leaving Roach, after all.’ ‘Are we crossing the river today?’ the poet asked, happily.

‘Yes. There’s nothing for me on this side of the river.’