The Bounds Of Reason 6

VI

‘Careful up there! Take heed!’ Boholt called, turning around on the coachman’s seat to look back towards the column. ‘Closer to the rocks! Take heed!’ The wagons trundled along, bouncing on stones. The wagoners swore, lashing the horses with their reins and leaning out. They glanced anxiously to see if the wheels were sufficiently far from the edge of the ravine, along which ran a narrow, uneven road. Below, at the bottom of the chasm, the waters of the River Braa foamed white among the boulders.

Geralt reined back his horse, pressing himself against the rock wall, which was covered with sparse brown moss and white lichen. He let the Reavers’ wagon overtake him. Beanpole galloped up from the head of the column where he had been leading the cavalcade with the Barefield scouts.

‘Right!’ he shouted, ‘With a will! It widens out up ahead!’

King Niedamir and Gyllenstiern, both on horseback, accompanied by several mounted bowmen, came alongside Geralt. Behind them rattled the wagons of the royal caravan. Even further back trundled the dwarves’ wagon, driven by Yarpen Zigrin, who was yelling relentlessly.

Niedamir, a very thin, freckled youngster in a white sheepskin jacket, passed the Witcher, casting him a haughty, though distinctly bored, look. Gyllenstiern straightened up and reined in his horse.

‘Over here, Witcher, sir,’ he said overbearingly.

‘Yes?’ Geralt jabbed his mare with his heels, and rode slowly over to the chancellor, behind the caravan. He was astonished that, in spite of having such an impressive paunch, Gyllenstiern preferred horseback to a comfortable ride in a wagon.

‘Yesterday,’ Gyllenstiern said, gently tugging his gold-studded reins, and throwing a turquoise cape off his shoulder, ‘yesterday you said the dragon does not interest you. What does interest you then, Witcher, sir? Why do you ride with us?’ ‘It’s a free country, chancellor.’

‘For the moment. But in this cortege, my dear Geralt, everyone should know his place. And the role he is to fulfil, according to the will of King Niedamir. Do you comprehend that?’ ‘What are you driving at, my dear Gyllenstiern?’

‘I shall tell you. I’ve heard that it has recently become tiresome to negotiate with you witchers. The thing is that, whenever a witcher is shown a monster to be killed, the witcher, rather than take his sword and slaughter it, begins to ponder whether it is right, whether it is transgressing the limits of what is possible, whether it is not contrary to the code and whether the monster really is a monster, as though it wasn’t clear at first glance. It seems to me that you are simply doing too well. In my day, witchers didn’t have two pennies to rub together, just two stinking boots. They didn’t question, they slaughtered what they were ordered to, whether it was a werewolf, a dragon or a tax collector. All that counted was a clean cut. So, Geralt?’ ‘Do you have a job for me, Gyllenstiern?’ the Witcher asked coldly. ‘If so, tell me what. I’ll think it over. But if you don’t, there’s no sense wasting our breath, is there?’ ‘Job?’ the chancellor sighed. ‘No, I don’t. This all concerns a dragon, and that clearly transgresses your limits, Witcher. So I prefer the Reavers. I merely wanted to alert you. Warn you. King Niedamir and I may tolerate the whims of witchers and their classification of monsters into good and bad, but we do not wish to hear about them, much less see them effected in our presence. Don’t meddle in royal matters, Witcher. And don’t consort with Dorregaray.’ ‘I am not accustomed to consorting with sorcerers. Why such an inference?’ ‘Dorregaray,’ Gyllenstiern said, ‘surpasses even witchers with his whims. He does not stop at categorising monsters into good and bad. He considers them all good.’ ‘That’s overstating the case somewhat.’

‘Clearly. But he defends his views with astonishing obstinacy. I truly would not be surprised if something befell him. And the fact he joined us keeping such curious company—’ ‘I am not Dorregaray’s companion. And neither is he mine.’

‘Don’t interrupt. The company is strange. A witcher crawling with scruples like a fox’s pelt with fleas. A sorcerer spouting druidic humbug about equilibrium in nature. The silent knight Borch Three Jackdaws and his escort from Zerrikania, where–as is generally known–sacrifices are made before the image of a dragon. And suddenly they all join in the hunt. Strange, isn’t it?’ ‘If you insist, then yes it is.’

‘Know then,’ the chancellor said, ‘that the most mysterious problems find–as experience proves–the simplest solutions. Don’t compel me, Witcher, to use them.’ ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Oh, but you do. Thank you for the conversation, Geralt.’

Geralt stopped. Gyllenstiern urged his horse on and joined the king, catching up with the caravan. Eyck of Denesle rode alongside wearing a quilted kaftan of light-coloured leather marked with the impressions of a breastplate, pulling a packhorse laden with a suit of armour, a uniformly silver shield and a powerful lance. Geralt greeted him by raising his hand, but the knight errant turned his head to the side, tightening his thin lips, and spurred his horse on.

‘He isn’t keen on you,’ Dorregaray said, riding over. ‘Eh, Geralt?’ ‘Clearly.’

‘Competition, isn’t it? The two of you have similar occupations. Except that Eyck is an idealist, and you are a professional. A minor difference, particularly for the ones you kill.’ ‘Don’t compare me to Eyck, Dorregaray. The devil knows who you wrong with that comparison, him or me, but don’t compare us.’ ‘As you wish. To me, frankly speaking, you are equally loathsome.’ ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ the sorcerer patted the neck of his horse, which had been scared by all the yelling from Yarpen and his dwarves. ‘To me, Witcher, calling killing a vocation is loathsome, low and nonsensical. Our world is in equilibrium. The annihilation, the killing, of any creatures that inhabit this world upsets that equilibrium. And a lack of equilibrium brings closer extinction; extinction and the end of the world as we know it.’ ‘A druidic theory,’ Geralt pronounced. ‘I know it. An old hierophant expounded it to me once, back in Rivia. Two days after our conversation he was torn apart by wererats. It was impossible to prove any upset in equilibrium.’ ‘The world, I repeat,’ Dorregaray glanced at him indifferently, ‘is in equilibrium. Natural equilibrium. Every species has its own natural enemies, every one is the natural enemy of other species. That also includes humans. The extermination of the natural enemies of humans, which you dedicate yourself to, and which one can begin to observe, threatens the degeneration of the race.’ ‘Do you know what, sorcerer?’ Geralt said, annoyed. ‘One day, take yourself to a mother whose child has been devoured by a basilisk, and tell her she ought to be glad, because thanks to that the human race has escaped degeneration. See what she says to you.’ ‘A good argument, Witcher,’ Yennefer said, riding up to them on her large, black horse. ‘And you, Dorregaray, be careful what you say.’ ‘I’m not accustomed to concealing my views.’

Yennefer rode between them. The Witcher noticed that the golden hairnet had been replaced by a rolled up white kerchief.

‘Start concealing them as quickly as possible, Dorregaray,’ she said, ‘especially before Niedamir and the Reavers, who already suspect you plan to interfere in the killing of the dragon. As long as you only talk, they treat you like a harmless maniac. If, however, you try to start anything they’ll break your neck before you manage to let out a sigh.’ The sorcerer smiled contemptuously and condescendingly.

‘And besides,’ Yennefer continued, ‘by expressing those views you damage the solemnity of our profession and vocation.’ ‘How so?’

‘You can apply your theory to all sorts of creatures and vermin, Dorregaray. But not to dragons. For dragons are the natural, greatest enemies of man. And I do not refer to the degeneration of the human race, but to its survival. In order to survive, one has to crush one’s enemies, enemies which might prevent that survival.’ ‘Dragons aren’t man’s enemies,’ Geralt broke in. The sorceress looked at him and smiled. But only with her lips.

‘In that matter,’ she said, ‘leave the judging to us humans. Your role, Witcher, is not to judge. It’s to get a job done.’ ‘Like a programmed, servile golem?’

‘That was your comparison, not mine,’ Yennefer replied coldly. ‘But, well, it’s apt.’ ‘Yennefer,’ Dorregaray said, ‘for a woman of your education and age you are coming out with some astonishing tripe. Why is it that dragons have been promoted in your eyes to become the foremost enemies of man? Why not other–a hundredfold more dangerous–creatures, those that have a hundredfold more victims on their consciences than dragons? Why not hirikkas, forktails, manticores, amphisbaenas or gryphons? Why not wolves?’ ‘I’ll tell you why not. The advantage of men over other races and species, the fight for their due place in nature, for living space, can only be won when nomadism, wandering from place to place in search of sustenance in accordance with nature’s calendar, is finally eliminated. Otherwise the proper rhythm of reproduction will not be achieved, since human children are dependent for too long. Only a woman safe and secure behind town walls or in a stronghold can bear children according to the proper rhythm, which means once a year. Fecundity, Dorregaray, is growth, is the condition for survival and domination. And now we come to dragons. Only a dragon, and no other monster, can threaten a town or stronghold. Were dragons not to be wiped out, people would–for their own safety–disperse, instead of cleaving together, because dragon’s fire in a densely populated settlement is a nightmare, means hundreds of victims, and terrible destruction. That is why dragons must be utterly wiped out, Dorregaray.’ Dorregaray looked at her with a strange smile on his face.

‘Do you know what, Yennefer, I wouldn’t like to see the day your idea of the dominance of man comes about, when people like you will occupy their due place in nature. Fortunately, it will never come to that. You would rather poison or slaughter each other, expire from typhoid fever and typhus, because it is filth and lice–and not dragons–which threaten your splendid cities, where women are delivered of children once a year, but where only one new-born baby in ten lives longer than ten days. Yes, Yennefer, fecundity, fecundity and once again fecundity. So take up bearing children, my dear; it’s the most natural pursuit for you. It will occupy the time you are currently fruitlessly wasting on dreaming up nonsense. Farewell.’ Urging on his horse, the sorcerer galloped off towards the head of the column. Geralt, having glanced at Yennefer’s pale, furiously twisted face, began to feel sorry for him in advance. He knew what this was about. Yennefer, like most sorceresses, was barren. But unlike most sorceresses she bemoaned the fact and reacted with genuine rage at the mention of it. Dorregaray certainly knew that. But he probably did not know how vengeful she was.

‘He’s in trouble,’ she hissed. ‘Oh, yes. Beware, Geralt. Don’t think that when the time comes and you don’t show good sense, I’ll protect you.’ ‘Never fear,’ he smiled. ‘We–and I mean witchers and servile golems–always act sensibly. Since the limits within which we operate are clearly and explicitly demarcated.’ ‘Well, I never,’ Yennefer said, looking at him, still pale. ‘You’re taking umbrage like a tart whose lack of chastity has been pointed out to her. You’re a witcher, you can’t change that. Your vocation…’ ‘That’s enough about vocations, Yen, because it’s beginning to make me queasy.’ ‘I told you not to call me that. And I’m not especially bothered about your queasiness. Nor any other reactions in your limited witcher’s range of reactions.’ ‘Nevertheless, you’ll see some of them if you don’t stop plying me with tales about lofty missions and the fight between good and evil. And about dragons; the dreadful enemies of the human tribe. I know better.’ ‘Oh, yes?’ The sorceress narrowed her eyes. ‘And what do you know, Witcher?’ ‘Only,’ Geralt said, ignoring the sudden warning vibration of the medallion around his neck, ‘that if dragons didn’t have treasure hoards, not a soul would be interested in them; and certainly not sorcerers. Isn’t it interesting that whenever a dragon is being hunted, some sorcerer closely linked to the Goldsmiths’ Guild is always hanging around. Just like you. And later, although a deal of gemstones ought to end up on the market, it never happens and their price doesn’t go down. So don’t talk to me about vocation and the fight for the survival of the race. I know you too well, have known you too long.’ ‘Too long,’ she repeated, sneering malevolently. ‘Unfortunately. But don’t think you know me well, you whore’s son. Dammit, how stupid I’ve been… Oh, go to hell! I can’t stand the sight of you!’ She screamed, yanked her horse’s reins and galloped fiercely ahead. The Witcher reined back his mount, and let through the wagon of dwarves, yelling, cursing and whistling through bone pipes. Among them, sprawled on some sacks of oats, lay Dandelion, plucking his lute.

‘Hey!’ roared Yarpen Zigrin, who was sitting on the box, pointing at Yennefer. ‘There’s something black on the trail! I wonder what it is? It looks like a nag!’ ‘Without doubt!’ Dandelion shouted, shoving his plum bonnet back, ‘It’s a nag! Riding a gelding! Astounding!’ The beards of Yarpen’s boys shook in general laughter. Yennefer pretended not to hear.

Geralt reined back his horse again and let Niedamir’s mounted bowmen through. Borch was riding slowly some distance beyond them, and the Zerrikanians brought up the rear just behind him. Geralt waited for them to catch up and led his mare alongside Borch’s horse. They rode on in silence.

‘Witcher,’ Three Jackdaws suddenly said, ‘I want to ask you a question.’ ‘Ask it.’

‘Why don’t you turn back?’

The Witcher looked at him in silence for a moment.

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Three Jackdaws said, turning his face towards Geralt.

‘I’m riding with them because I’m a servile golem. Because I’m a wisp of oakum blown by the wind along the highway. Tell me, where should I go? And for what? At least here some people have gathered with whom I have something to talk about. People who don’t break off their conversations when I approach. People who, though they may not like me, say it to my face, and don’t throw stones from behind a fence. I’m riding with them for the same reason I rode with you to the log drivers’ inn. Because it’s all the same to me. I don’t have a goal to head towards. I don’t have a destination at the end of the road.’ Three Jackdaws cleared his throat.

‘There’s a destination at the end of every road. Everybody has one. Even you, although you like to think you’re somehow different.’ ‘Now I’ll ask you a question.’

‘Ask it.’

‘Do you have a destination at the end of the road?’

‘I do.’

‘Lucky for you.’

‘It is not a matter of luck, Geralt. It is a matter of what you believe in and what you serve. No one ought to know that better than… than a witcher.’ ‘I keep hearing about goals today,’ Geralt sighed. ‘Niedamir’s aim is to seize Malleore. Eyck of Denesle’s calling is to protect people from dragons. Dorregaray feels obligated to something quite the opposite. Yennefer, by virtue of certain changes which her body was subjected to, cannot fulfil her wishes and is terribly undecided. Dammit, only the Reavers and the dwarves don’t feel a calling, and simply want to line their pockets. Perhaps that’s why I’m so drawn to them?’ ‘You aren’t drawn to them, Geralt of Rivia. I’m neither blind nor deaf. It wasn’t at the sound of their name you pulled out that pouch. But I surmise…’ ‘There’s no need to surmise,’ the Witcher said, without anger.

‘I apologise.’

‘There’s no need to apologise.’

They reined back their horses just in time, in order not to ride into the column of bowmen from Caingorn which had suddenly been called to a halt.

‘What has happened?’ Geralt stood up in his stirrups. ‘Why have we stopped?’ ‘I don’t know.’ Borch turned his head away. Véa, her face strangely contorted, uttered a few quick words.

‘I’ll ride up to the front,’ the Witcher said, ‘to see what’s going on.’ ‘Stay here.’

‘Why?’

Three Jackdaws was silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the ground.

‘Why?’ Geralt repeated.

‘Go,’ Borch said. ‘Perhaps it’ll be better that way.’

‘What’ll be better?’

‘Go.’

The bridge connecting the two edges of the chasm looked sound. It was built from thick, pine timbers and supported on a quadrangular pier, against which the current crashed and roared in long strands of foam.

‘Hey, Beanpole!’ yelled Boholt, who was driving the wagon. ‘Why’ve you stopped?’ ‘I don’t know if the bridge will hold.’

‘Why are we taking this road?’ Gyllenstiern asked, riding over. ‘It’s not to my liking to take the wagons across the bridge. Hey, cobbler! Why are you leading us this way, and not by the trail? The trail continues on towards the west, doesn’t it?’ The heroic poisoner of Barefield approached, removing his sheepskin cap. He looked ridiculous, dressed up in an old-fashioned half-armour probably hammered out during the reign of King Sambuk, pulled down tightly over a shepherd’s smock.

‘The road’s shorter this way, Your Majesty,’ he said, not to the chancellor, but directly to Niedamir, whose face still expressed thoroughly excruciated boredom.

‘How is that?’ Gyllenstiern asked, frowning. Niedamir did not even grace the cobbler with a more attentive glance.

‘Them’s,’ Sheepbagger said, indicating the three notched peaks towering over the surrounding area, ‘is Chiava, Great Kestrel and Harbinger’s Fang. The trail leads toward the ruins of the old stronghold, and skirts around Chiava from the north, beyond the river’s source. But we can shorten the way by takin’ the bridge. We’ll pass through the gorge and onto the plain ‘tween the mountains. And if we don’t find no sign of the dragon there, we’ll continue on eastwards, we’ll search the ravines. And even further eastward there are flat pastures, where there’s a straight road to Caingorn, towards your lands, sire.’ ‘And where, Sheepbagger, did you acquire such knowledge about these mountains?’ Boholt asked. ‘At your cobbler’s last?’ ‘No, sir. I herded sheep here as a young ‘un.’

‘And that bridge won’t give way?’ Boholt stood up on the box, and looked downwards at the foaming river. ‘That must be a drop of forty fathoms.’ ‘It’ll ‘old, sir.’

‘What’s a bridge doing in this wilderness anyhow?’

‘That there bridge,’ Sheepbagger said, ‘was built by trolls in the olden days, and whoever came this way had to pay them a pretty penny. But since folk seldom came this way the trolls were reduced to beggary. But the bridge remains.’ ‘I repeat,’ Gyllenstiern said irately. ‘We have wagons with tackle and provender, and we may become bogged down in the wilderness. Is it not better to take the trail?’ ‘We could take the trail,’ the cobbler shrugged, ‘but it’s longer that way. And the king said ‘e’d give ‘is earteeth to get to that dragon soon.’ ‘Eyeteeth,’ the chancellor corrected him.

‘Have it your way, eyeteeth,’ Sheepbagger agreed. ‘But it’s still quicker by the bridge.’ ‘Right, let’s go, Sheepbagger,’ Boholt decided. ‘Forge ahead, you and your men. We have a custom of letting the most valiant through first.’ ‘No more than one wagon at a time,’ Gyllenstiern warned.

‘Right,’ Boholt lashed his horses and the wagon rumbled onto the bridge’s timbers. ‘Follow us, Beanpole! Make sure the wheels are rolling smoothly!’ Geralt reined back his horse, his way barred by Niedamir’s bowmen in their purple and gold tunics, crowded on the stone bridgehead.

The Witcher’s mare snorted.

The earth shuddered. The mountains trembled, the jagged edge of the rock wall beside them became blurred against the sky, and the wall itself suddenly spoke with a dull, but audible rumbling.

‘Look out!’ Boholt yelled, now on the other side of the bridge. ‘Look out, there!’ The first, small stones pattered and rattled down the spasmodically shuddering rock wall. Geralt watched as part of the road they had followed, very rapidly widening into a yawning, black crack, broke off and plunged into the chasm with a thunderous clatter.

‘To horse!’ Gyllenstiern yelled. ‘Your Majesty! To the other side!’ Niedamir, head buried in his horse’s mane, charged onto the bridge, and Gyllenstiern and several bowmen leapt after him. Behind them, the royal wagon with its flapping gryphon banner rumbled onto the creaking timbers.

‘It’s a landslide! Get out of the way!’ Yarpen Zigrin bellowed from behind, lashing his horses’ rumps, overtaking Niedamir’s second wagon and jostling the bowmen. ‘Out of the way, Witcher! Out of the way!’ Eyck of Denesle, stiff and erect, galloped beside the dwarves’ wagon. Were it not for his deathly pale face and mouth contorted in a quivering grimace, one might have thought the knight errant had not noticed the stones and boulders falling onto the trail. Further back, someone in the group of bowmen screamed wildly and horses whinnied.

Geralt tugged at the reins and spurred his horse, as right in front of him the earth boiled from the boulders cascading down. The dwarves’ wagon rattled over the stones. Just before the bridge it jumped up and landed with a crack on its side, onto a broken axle. A wheel bounced off the railing and plunged downwards into the spume.

The Witcher’s mare, lacerated by sharp shards of stone, reared up. Geralt tried to dismount, but caught his boot buckle in the stirrup and fell to the side, onto the trail. His mare neighed and dashed ahead, straight towards the bridge, dancing over the chasm. The dwarves ran across the bridge yelling and cursing.

‘Hurry, Geralt!’ Dandelion yelled, running behind him and looking back.

‘Jump on, Witcher!’ Dorregaray called, threshing about in the saddle, struggling to control his terrified horse.

Further back, behind them, the entire road was engulfed in a cloud of dust stirred up by falling rocks, shattering Niedamir’s wagons. The Witcher seized the straps of the sorcerer’s saddle bags. He heard a cry.

Yennefer had fallen with her horse, rolled to the side, away from the wildly kicking hooves, and flattened herself to the ground, shielding her head with her arms. The Witcher let go of the saddle, ran towards her, diving into the deluge of stones and leaping across the rift opening under his feet. Yennefer, yanked by the arm, got up onto her knees. Her eyes were wide open and the trickle of blood running down from her cut brow had already reached her ear.

‘Stand up, Yen!’

‘Geralt! Look out!’

An enormous, flat block of stone, scraping against the side of the rock wall with a grinding, clattering sound, slid down and plummeted towards them. Geralt dropped, shielding the sorcereress with his body. At the very same moment the block exploded, bursting into a billion fragments, which rained down on them, stinging like wasps.

‘Quick!’ Dorregaray cried. Brandishing his wand atop the skittering horse, he blasted more boulders which were tumbling down from the cliff into dust. ‘Onto the bridge, Witcher!’ Yennefer waved a hand, bending her fingers and shrieking incomprehensibly. As the stones came into contact with the bluish hemisphere which had suddenly materialised above their heads they vaporised like drops of water falling on red-hot metal.

‘Onto the bridge, Geralt!’ the sorceress yelled. ‘Stay close to me!’ They ran, following Dorregaray and several fleeing bowmen. The bridge rocked and creaked, the timbers bending in all directions as it flung them from railing to railing.

‘Quick!’

The bridge suddenly slumped with a piercing, penetrating crack, and the half they had just crossed broke off, tumbling with a clatter into the gulf, taking the dwarves’ wagon with it, which shattered against the rocky teeth to the sound of the horses’ frantic whinnying. The part they were now standing on was still intact, but Geralt suddenly realised they were now running upwards across a rapidly tilting slope. Yennefer panted a curse.

‘Get down, Yen! Hang on!’

The rest of the bridge grated, cracked and sagged into a ramp. They fell with it, digging their fingers into the cracks between the timbers. Yennefer could not hold on. She squealed like a little girl and dropped. Geralt, hanging on with one hand, drew a dagger, plunged the blade between the timbers and seized the haft in both hands. His elbow joints creaked as Yennefer tugged him down, suspended by the belt and scabbard slung across his back. The bridge made a cracking noise again and tilted even more, almost vertically.

‘Yen,’ the Witcher grunted. ‘Do something… Cast a bloody spell!’

‘How can I?’ he heard a furious, muffled snarl. ‘I’m hanging on!’ ‘Free one of your hands!’

‘I can’t…’

‘Hey!’ Dandelion yelled from above. ‘Can you hold on? Hey!’

Geralt did not deign to reply.

‘Throw down a rope!’ Dandelion bellowed. ‘Quickly, dammit!’

The Reavers, the dwarves and Gyllenstiern appeared beside the troubadour. Geralt heard Boholt’s quiet words.

‘Wait, busker. She’ll soon fall. Then we’ll pull the Witcher up.’ Yennefer hissed like a viper, writhing and suspended from Geralt’s back. His belt dug painfully into his chest.

‘Yen? Can you find a hold? Using your legs? Can you do anything with your legs?’ ‘Yes,’ she groaned. ‘Swing them around.’

Geralt looked down at the river seething and swirling among the sharp rocks, against which some bridge timbers, a horse and a body in the bright colours of Caingorn were bumping. Beyond the rocks, in the emerald, transparent maelstrom, he saw the tapered bodies of large trout, languidly moving in the current.

‘Can you hold on, Yen?’

‘Just about… yes…’

‘Heave yourself up. You have to get a foothold…’

‘I… can’t…’

‘Throw down a rope!’ Dandelion yelled. ‘Have you all gone mad? They’ll both fall!’ ‘Perhaps that’s not so bad?’ Gyllenstiern wondered, out of sight.

The bridge creaked and sagged even more. Geralt’s fingers, gripping the hilt of his dagger, began to go numb.

‘Yen…’

‘Shut up… and stop wriggling about…’

‘Yen?’

‘Don’t call me that…’

‘Can you hold on?’

‘No,’ she said coldly. She was no longer struggling, but simply hanging from his back; a lifeless, inert weight.

‘Yen?’

‘Shut up.’

‘Yen. Forgive me.’

‘No. Never.’

Something crept downwards over the timbers. Swiftly. Like a snake. A rope, emanating with a cold glow, twisting and curling, as though alive, searched for and found Geralt’s neck with its moving tip, slid under his armpits, and ravelled itself into a loose knot. The sorceress beneath him moaned, sucking in air. He was certain she would start sobbing. He was mistaken.

‘Careful!’ Dandelion shouted from above. ‘We’re pulling you up! Gar! Kennet! Pull them up! Heave!’ A tug, the painful, constricting tension of the taut rope. Yennefer sighed heavily. They quickly travelled upwards, bellies scraping against the coarse timbers.

At the top, Yennefer was the first to stand up.