The Sword Of Destiny 7

VII

‘Geralt! Wake up! Please wake up!’

He opened his eyes and saw the sun, a golden ducat with distinct edges, high up above the treetops, beyond the turbid veil of the morning mist. He was lying on damp, spongy moss and a hard root was digging into his back.

Ciri was kneeling beside him, tugging at his jacket.

‘Curses…’ He cleared his throat and looked around. ‘Where am I? How did I end up here?’ ‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘I woke up a moment ago, here, beside you, awffy frozen. I can’t remember how… Do you know what? It’s magic!’ ‘You’re probably right,’ he said, sitting up and pulling pine needles from his collar. ‘You’re probably right, Ciri. Bloody Water of Brokilon… Looks like the dryads were enjoying themselves at our expense.’ He stood up, picked up his sword, which was lying alongside him and slung the strap across his back.

‘Ciri?’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘You were also enjoying yourself at my expense.’

‘Me?’

‘You’re the daughter of Pavetta and the granddaughter of Calanthe of Cintra. You knew who I was from the very beginning, didn’t you?’ ‘No,’ she blushed. ‘Not from the beginning. You lifted the curse from my daddy, didn’t you?’ ‘That’s not true,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Your mama did. And your grandmamma. I only helped.’ ‘But my nanny said… She said that I’m destined. Because I’m a Surprise. A Child of Surprise. Geralt?’ ‘Ciri,’ he looked at her, shaking his head and smiling. ‘Believe me, you’re the greatest surprise I could have come across.’ ‘Ha!’ The little girl’s face brightened up. ‘It’s true! I’m destined. My nanny said a witcher would come who would have white hair and would take me away. But grandmamma yelled… Oh, never mind! Tell me where you’re taking me.’ ‘Back home. To Cintra.’

‘Ah… But I thought you…?’

‘You’ll have time to think on the way. Let’s go, Ciri, we must leave Brokilon. It isn’t a safe place.’ ‘I’m not afraid!’

‘But I am.’

‘Grandmamma said that witchers aren’t afraid of anything.’

‘Grandmamma overstated the facts. Let’s go, Ciri. If I only knew where we…’ He looked up at the sun.

‘Right, let’s risk it… We’ll go this way.’

‘No.’ Ciri wrinkled her nose and pointed in the opposite direction. ‘That way. Over there.’ ‘And how do you know, may I ask?’

‘I just know,’ she shrugged and gave him a helpless, surprised, emerald look. ‘Somehow… Somewhere, over there… I don’t know…’ Pavetta’s daughter, he thought. A Child… A Child of the Elder Blood? She might have inherited something from her mother.

‘Ciri.’ He tugged open his shirt and drew out his medallion. ‘Touch this.’ ‘Oh,’ she said, opening her mouth. ‘What a dreadful wolf. What fangs he has…’ ‘Touch it.’

‘Oh, my!’

The Witcher smiled. He had also felt the sudden vibration of the medallion, the sharp wave running through the silver chain.

‘It moved!’ Ciri sighed. ‘It moved!’

‘I know. Let’s go, Ciri. You lead.’

‘It’s magic, isn’t it!’

‘Naturally.’

It was as he had expected. The little girl could sense the direction. How, he did not know. But soon–sooner than he had expected–they came out onto a track, onto a forked, three-way junction. It was the border of Brokilon–according to humans, at least. Eithné did not recognise it, he remembered.

Ciri bit her lip, wrinkled her nose and hesitated, looking at the junction, at the sandy, rutted track, furrowed by hooves and cartwheels. But Geralt now knew where he was and did not want to depend on her uncertain abilities. He set off along the road heading eastwards, towards Brugge. Ciri, still frowning, was looking back towards the west.

‘That leads to Nastrog Castle,’ he jibed. ‘Are you missing Kistrin?’ The little girl grunted and followed him obediently, but looked back several times.

‘What is it, Ciri?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘But we’re going the wrong way, Geralt.’ ‘Why? We’re going to Brugge, to King Venzlav, who lives in a splendid castle. We shall take baths and sleep on a feather bed…’ ‘It’s a bad road,’ she said. ‘A bad road.’

‘That’s true, I’ve seen better. Don’t be sniffy, Ciri. Let’s go. With a will.’ They went around an overgrown bend. And it turned out Ciri had been right.

They were suddenly, quickly, surrounded, from all sides. Men in conical helmets, chainmail and dark-blue tunics with the gold and black chequered pattern of Verden on their chests. They encircled the pair, but none of the men approached or reached for a weapon.

‘Whence and whither?’ barked a thickset individual in worn-out, green apparel, standing before Geralt with bandy legs set wide apart. His face was as swarthy and wrinkled as a prune. A bow and white-fletched arrows protruded behind him, high above his head.

‘We’ve come from Burnt Stump,’ the Witcher lied effortlessly, squeezing Ciri’s little hand knowingly. ‘And we’re going home to Brugge. What’s happening?’ ‘Royal service,’ the dark-faced individual said courteously, as though he had only then noticed the sword on Geralt’s back. ‘We…’ ‘Bring ‘im ‘ere, Junghans!’ yelled someone standing further down the road. The mercenaries parted.

‘Don’t look, Ciri,’ Geralt said quickly. ‘Avert your eyes. Don’t look.’ A fallen tree lay on the road, blocking the way with a tangle of boughs. Long white splinters radiated from the partly-hacked and broken trunk standing in the roadside thicket. A loaded wagon covered with a tarpaulin stood before the tree. Two small, shaggy horses, stuck with arrows and exposing yellow teeth, were lying on the ground caught up in in the shafts and halters. One was still alive and was snorting heavily and kicking.

There were also people lying in dark patches of blood soaked into the sand, hanging over the side of the wagon and hunched over the wheels.

Two men slowly emerged from among the armed men gathered around the wagon, to be joined by a third. The others–there were around ten of them–stood motionless, holding their horses.

‘What happened?’ the Witcher asked, standing so as to block out Ciri’s view of the massacre.

A beady-eyed man in a short coat of mail and high boots gave him a searching look and audibly rubbed his bristly chin. He had a worn, shiny leather bracer of the kind archers use on his left forearm.

‘Ambush,’ he said curtly. ‘Eerie wives did for these merchants. We’re looking into it.’ ‘Eerie wives? Ambushing merchants?’

‘You can see for yourself,’ the beady-eyed man pointed. ‘Stuck with arrows like urchins. On the highway! They’re becoming more and more impudent, those forest hags. You can’t just not venture into the forest now, you can’t even travel the road by the forest.’ ‘And you,’ the Witcher asked, squinting. ‘Who are you?’

‘Ervyll’s men. From the Nastrog squads. We were serving under Baron Frexinet. But the baron was lost in Brokilon.’ Ciri opened her mouth, but Geralt squeezed her hand hard, ordering her to stay quiet.

‘Blood for blood, I say!’ roared the beady-eyed man’s companion, a giant in a brass-studded kaftan. ‘Blood for blood! You can’t let that go. First Frexinet and the kidnapped princess from Cintra, and now merchants. By the Gods, vengeance, vengeance, I say! For if not, you’ll see, tomorrow or the next day they’ll start killing people on their own thresholds!’ ‘Brick’s right,’ the beady-eyed one said. ‘Isn’t he? And you, fellow, where are you from?’ ‘From Brugge,’ the Witcher lied.

‘And the girl? Your daughter?’

‘Aye,’ Geralt squeezed Ciri’s hand again.

‘From Brugge,’ Brick frowned. ‘So I’ll tell you, fellow, that your king, Venzlav, is emboldening the monstrosities right now. He doesn’t want to join forces with Ervyll, nor with Viraxas of Kerack. But if we marched on Brokilon from three sides, we’d finally destroy that scum…’ ‘How did the slaughter happen?’ Geralt asked slowly. ‘Does anybody know? Did any of the merchants survive?’ ‘There aren’t any witnesses,’ the beady-eyed one said. ‘But we know what happened. Junghans, a forester, can read spoors like a book. Tell him, Junghans.’ ‘Well,’ said the one with the wrinkled face, ‘it were like this: the merchants were travelling along the highway. And their way were blocked. You see, sir, that fallen pine lying across the road, freshly felled. There are tracks in the thicket, want to see? Well, when the merchants stopped to clear away the tree, they were shot, just like that. Over there, from the bushes by that crooked birch. There are tracks there too. And the arrows, mark you, all dryad work, fletchings stuck on with resin, shafts bound with bast…’ ‘I see,’ the Witcher interrupted, looking at the bodies. ‘Some of them, I think, survived the arrows and had their throats cut. With knives.’ One more man emerged from behind the group of mercenaries standing in front of him. He was skinny and short, in an elk-hide kaftan. He had black, short hair, and his cheeks were blue from closely-shaved, black beard growth. One glance at the small, narrow hands in short, black, fingerless gloves, at the pale, fish-like eyes, at his sword and at the hafts of the daggers stuck into his belt and down his left boot was all the Witcher needed. Geralt had seen too many murderers not to recognise one more instantly.

‘You’ve a keen eye,’ said the black-haired man, extremely slowly. ‘Indeed, you see much.’ ‘And well he does,’ said the beady-eyed man. ‘Let him tell his king what he saw. Venzlav still swears eerie wives shouldn’t be killed, because they are agreeable and good. I’ll bet he visits them on May Day and ruts them. Perhaps they’re good for that. We’ll find out for ourselves if we take one alive.’ ‘Or even half-dead,’ Brick cackled. ‘Hi, where’s that bloody druid? Almost noon, but no sign of him. We must off.’ ‘What do you mean to do?’ Geralt asked, without releasing Ciri’s hand.

‘What business is it of yours?’ the black-haired man hissed.

‘Oh, why so sharp right away, Levecque?’ the beady-eyed one asked, smiling foully. ‘We’re honest men, we have no secrets. Ervyll is sending us a druid, a great magician, who can even talk with trees. Him’ll guide us into the forest to avenge Frexinet and try and rescue the princess. We aren’t out for a picnic, fellow, but on a punitive ex—ex—’ ‘Expedition,’ the black-haired man, Levecque, prompted.

‘Aye. Took the words out of me mouth. So then go on your way, fellow, for it may get hot here anon.’ ‘Aaaye,’ Levecque drawled, looking at Ciri. ‘‘Twill be dangerous here, particularly with a young ‘un. Eerie wives are just desperate for girls like that. Hey, little maid? Is your mama at home waiting?’ Ciri, trembling, nodded.

'’Twould be disastrous,’ the black-haired one continued, not taking his eye off her, ‘were you not to make it home. She would surely race to King Venzlav and say: “You were lax with the dryads, king, and now you have my daughter and husband on your conscience.” Who knows, perhaps Venzlav would weigh up an alliance with Ervyll once more?’ ‘Leave them, Mr Levecque,’ Junghans snarled, and his wrinkled face wrinkled up even more. ‘Let them go.’ ‘Farewell, little maid,’ Levecque said and held out his hand to stroke Ciri on the head. Ciri shuddered and withdrew.

‘What is it? Are you afraid?’

‘You have blood on your hand,’ the Witcher said softly.

‘Ah,’ Levecque said, raising his hand. ‘Indeed. It’s their blood. The merchants. I checked to see if any of them had survived. But alas, the eerie wives shoot accurately.’ ‘Eerie wives?’ said Ciri in a trembling voice, not reacting to the Witcher’s squeeze of her hand. ‘Oh, noble knights, you are mistaken. It could not be dryads!’ ‘What are you squeaking about, little maid?’ The pale eyes of the black-haired man narrowed. Geralt glanced to the right and left, estimating the distances.

‘It wasn’t dryads, sir knight,’ Ciri repeated. ‘It’s obvious!’

‘Ay?’

‘I mean, that tree… That tree was chopped down! With an axe! But no dryad would ever chop a tree down, would they?’ ‘Indeed,’ Levecque said and glanced at the beady-eyed man. ‘Oh, what a clever little girl, you are. Too clever.’ The Witcher had already seen his thin, gloved hands creeping like a black spider towards the haft of his dagger. Although Levecque had not taken his eyes off Ciri, Geralt knew the blow would be aimed at him. He waited for the moment when Levecque touched his weapon, while the beady-eyed man held his breath.

Three movements. Just three. His silver-studded forearm slammed into the side of the black-haired man’s head. Before he fell, the Witcher was standing between Junghans and the beady-eyed man, and his sword, hissing out of the scabbard, whined in the air, slashing open the temple of Brick, the giant in the brass-studded kaftan.

‘Run, Ciri!’

The beady-eyed man, who was drawing his sword, leaped, but was not fast enough. The Witcher slashed him across his chest, diagonally, downwards, and immediately, taking advantage of the blow’s momentum, upwards, from a kneeling position, cutting the mercenary open in a bloody ‘X’.

‘Men!’ Junghans yelled at the rest, who were frozen in astonishment. ‘Over here!’ Ciri leaped into a crooked beech tree and scampered like a squirrel up the branches, disappearing among the foliage. The forester sent an arrow after her but missed. The remaining men ran over, breaking up into a semi-circle, pulling out bows and arrows from quivers. Geralt, still kneeling, put his fingers together and struck with the Aard Sign, not at the bowmen, for they were too far away, but at the sandy road in front of them, spraying them in a cloud of sand.

Junghans, leaping aside, nimbly drew another arrow from his quiver.

‘No!’ Levecque yelled, springing up from the ground with his sword in his right hand and a dagger in his left. ‘Leave him, Junghans!’ The Witcher spun around smoothly, turning to face him.

‘He’s mine,’ Levecque said, shaking his head and wiping his cheek and mouth with his forearm. ‘Leave him to me!’ Geralt, crouching, started to circle, but Levecque did not, instead attacking at once, leaping forward in two strides.

He’s good, the Witcher thought, working hard to connect with the killer’s blade with a short moulinet, avoiding the dagger’s jab with a half-turn. He intentionally did not reply, but leaped back, counting on Levecque trying to reach him with a long, extended thrust and losing his balance. But the killer was no novice. He dropped into a crouch and also moved around in a semi-circle with soft, feline steps. He unexpectedly bounded forward, swung his sword and whirled, shortening the distance. The Witcher did not meet him halfway, but restricted himself to a swift, high feint which forced the killer to dodge. Levecque stooped over, offered a quarte, hiding the hand with the dagger behind his back. The Witcher did not attack this time either, did not move in, but described a semi-circle again, skirting around him.

‘Aha,’ Levecque drawled, straightening up. ‘Shall we prolong the game? Why not? You can never have too much amusement!’ He leaped, spun, struck, once, twice, thrice, in a rapid rhythm; a cut from above with his sword and immediately from the left with a flat, scything blow of his dagger. The Witcher did not disturb the rhythm; parried, leaped back and once again circled, forcing the killer to move around. Levecque suddenly drew back, circling in the opposite direction.

‘Every game,’ he hissed through clenched teeth, ‘must have its end. What would you say to a single blow, trickster? A single blow and then we’ll shoot your little brat down from the tree. How about that?’ Geralt saw that Levecque was watching his shadow, waiting for it to reach his opponent, indicating that he had the sun in his eyes. Geralt stopped circling to make the killer’s job easier.

And narrowed his pupils into vertical slits, two narrow lines.

In order to maintain the illusion, he screwed his eyes up a little, pretending to be blinded.

Levecque leaped, spun, keeping his balance by extending his dagger hand out sideways, and struck with a simply impossible bend of his wrist, upwards, aiming at the Witcher’s crotch. Geralt shot forward, spun, deflected the blow, bending his arm and wrist equally impossibly, throwing the killer backwards with the momentum of the parry and slashing him across his left cheek with the tip of his blade. Levecque staggered, grabbing his face. The Witcher twisted into a half-turn, shifted his bodyweight onto his left leg and cleaved open his opponent’s carotid artery with a short blow. Levecque curled up, bleeding profusely, dropped to his knees, bent over and fell headfirst onto the sand.

Geralt slowly turned towards Junghans. Junghans, contorting his wrinkled face in a furious grimace, took aim with his bow. The Witcher crouched, gripping his sword in both hands. The remaining mercenaries also raised their bows, in dead silence.

‘What are you waiting for?’ the forester roared. ‘Shoot! Shoot hi—’ He stumbled, staggered, tottered forwards and fell on his face with an arrow sticking out of his back. The arrow’s shaft had striped fletchings made from a pheasant’s flight feathers, dyed yellow in a concoction of tree bark.

The arrows flew with a whistle and hiss in long, flat parabolas from the black wall of the forest. They flew apparently slowly and calmly, their fletchings sighing, and it seemed as though they picked up speed and force as they struck their targets. And they struck unerringly, scything down the Nastrog mercenaries, knocking them over into the sand, inert and mown down, like sunflowers hit with a stick.

The ones who survived rushed towards the horses, jostling one another. The arrows continued to whistle, catching up with them as they ran, hitting them as they sat in the saddle. Only three managed to rouse their horses to a gallop and ride off, yelling, their spurs bloodying their mounts’ flanks. But not even they got far.

The forest closed up, blocking the way. Suddenly the sandy highway, bathed in sunlight, disappeared. It was now a dense, impenetrable wall of black tree trunks.

The mercenaries, terrified and stupefied, spurred their horses, but the arrows flew unceasingly. And hit them, knocking them from their saddles among the hoof-falls and neighing of the horses, and screams.

And afterwards a silence fell.

The wall of trees blocking the highway shimmered, became blurred, shone brightly and vanished. The road could be seen again and on it stood a grey horse and on the grey horse sat a rider–mighty, with a flaxen, fan-shaped beard, in a jerkin of sealskin with a tartan, woollen sash.

The grey horse, turning its head away and champing at the bit, moved forward, lifting its fore hooves high, snorting and becoming agitated by the corpses and the smell of blood. The rider, upright in the saddle, raised a hand and a sudden gust of wind struck the trees’ branches.

From the undergrowth on the distant edge of the forest emerged small shapes in tight-fitting garments patched green and brown, with faces streaked with walnut-shell dye.

‘Ceádmil, Wedd Brokiloéne!’ the rider called. ‘Fáill, Aná Woedwedd!’ ‘Fáill!’ replied a voice from the forest like a gust of wind.

The green and brown shapes began to disappear, one after the other, melting into the thicket of the forest. Only one remained, with flowing hair the colour of honey. She took several steps and approached.

‘Vá fáill, Gwynbleidd!’ she called, coming even closer.

‘Farewell, Mona,’ the Witcher said. ‘I will not forget you.’

‘Forget me,’ she responded firmly, adjusting her quiver on her back. ‘There is no Mona. Mona was a dream. I am Braenn. Braenn of Brokilon!’ She waved at him once more. And disappeared.

The Witcher turned around.

‘Mousesack,’ he said, looking at the rider on the grey horse.

‘Geralt,’ the rider nodded, eyeing him up and down coldly. ‘An interesting encounter. But let us begin with the most important things. Where is Ciri?’ ‘Here!’ the girl yelled from the foliage. ‘Can I come down yet?’ ‘Yes, you may,’ the Witcher said.

‘But I don’t know how!’

‘The same way as you climbed up, just the other way around.’

‘I’m afraid! I’m right at the very top!’

‘Get down, I said! We need to have a serious conversation, young lady!’ ‘What about?’

‘About why the bloody hell you climbed up there instead of running into the forest? I would have followed you instead of… Oh, blow it. Get down!’ ‘I did what the cat in the story did! Whatever I do it’s always wrong! Why, I’d like to know.’ ‘I would too,’ the druid said, dismounting. ‘I would also like to know. And your grandmamma, Queen Calanthe, would like to know, too. Come on, climb down, princess.’ Leaves and dry branches fell from the tree. Then there was a sharp crack of tearing material, and finally Ciri appeared, sliding astride the trunk. She had picturesque shreds instead of a hood on her jacket.

‘Uncle Mousesack!’

‘In person.’ The druid embraced and cuddled the little girl.

‘Did grandmamma send you? Uncle? Is she very worried?’

‘Not very,’ Mousesack smiled. ‘She is too busy soaking her switch. The way to Cintra, Ciri, will take us some time. Devote it to thinking up an explanation for your deeds. It ought to be, if you want to benefit from my counsel, a very short and matter-of-fact explanation. One which can be given very, very quickly. For in any case I judge you will be screaming at the end of it, princess. Very, very loudly.’ Ciri grimaced painfully, wrinkled up her nose, snorted softly, and her hands involuntarily went towards the endangered place.

‘Let’s go,’ Geralt said, looking around. ‘Let’s go, Mousesack.’