Time of Contempt (The Witcher) (28 page)

He feebly tried to protect himself with his sword. The blade, caught between the wall and the pilaster, broke under a blow with a shrill, vibrating whine. He tried to protect his head with his
left hand, but the staff fell with enough force to break his forearm. The pain utterly blinded him.

‘I could smash your brain out through your ears,’ said Vilgefortz from far away. ‘But this was supposed to be a lesson. You were mistaken, Witcher. You mistook the stars
reflected in a pond at night for the sky. Oh, are you vomiting? Good. Concussion. Bleeding from the nose? Excellent. Well, I shall see you later. One day. Perhaps.’

Now Geralt could see nothing and hear nothing. He was sinking, submerging into something warm. He thought Vilgefortz had gone. He was astonished, then, when a fierce blow from the iron staff
struck his thigh, smashing the shaft of his femur.

If anything occurred after that, he did not remember it.

‘Hang in there, Geralt. Don’t give up,’ repeated Triss Merigold endlessly. ‘Hang in there. Don’t die . . . Please don’t die . . .’

‘Ciri . . .’

‘Don’t talk. I’ll soon get you out of here. Hold on . . . Damn I’m too weak, by the gods . . .’

‘Yennefer . . . I have to—’

‘You don’t have to do anything! You can’t do anything! Hang in there. Don’t give up . . . Don’t faint . . . Don’t die, please . . .’

She dragged him across the floor, which was littered with bodies. He saw his chest and belly covered in blood, which was streaming from his nose. He saw his leg. It was twisted at a strange
angle and seemed much shorter than the intact one. He didn’t feel any pain. He felt cold. His entire body was cold, numb and foreign. He wanted to puke.

‘Hold on, Geralt. Help is coming from Aretuza. It’ll soon be here . . .’

‘Dijkstra . . . If Dijkstra gets his hands on me . . . I’m finished . . .’

Triss swore. Desperately.

She dragged him down the steps, his broken leg and arm bouncing down them. The pain returned. It bored into his guts and his temples, and it radiated all the way to his eyes, to his ears, to the
top of his head. He didn’t scream. He knew screaming would bring him relief, but he didn’t scream. He just opened his mouth, which also brought him relief.

He heard a roar.

At the top of the stair stood Tissaia de Vries. Her hair was dishevelled, her face covered in dust. She raised both her hands, and her palms flamed. She screamed a spell and the flames dancing
on her fingers hurtled downwards in the form of a blinding sphere, roaring with fire. The Witcher heard the clatter of walls crashing down below and the dreadful cries of people being burnt.

‘No, Tissaia!’ screamed Triss in desperation. ‘Don’t do it!’

‘They will not enter here,’ said the arch-mistress, without turning her head. ‘This is Garstang, on the Isle of Thanedd. No one invited those royalist lackeys, who carry out
the orders of their short-sighted kings!’

‘You’re killing them!’

‘Be silent, Triss Merigold! The attack on the unity of the Brotherhood has failed. The island is still ruled by the Chapter! The kings should keep their hands off the Chapter’s
business! This is our conflict and we shall resolve it ourselves! We will resolve our business and then put an end to this senseless war, for it is we, sorcerers, who bear the responsibility for
the fate of the world!’

A ball of lightning shot from her hands, and the redoubled echo of the explosion roared among the columns and stone walls.

‘Begone!’ she screamed again. ‘You will not enter this place! Begone!’

The screaming from below subsided. Geralt understood that the attackers had withdrawn from the stairway, had beaten a retreat. Tissaia’s outline blurred in front of his eyes. It
wasn’t magic. He was losing consciousness.

‘Run, Triss Merigold,’ the enchantress’s words came from far away, as if from behind a wall. ‘Philippa Eilhart has already fled; she flew away on owl’s wings. You
were her accomplice in this wicked conspiracy and I ought to punish you. But there has been enough blood, death and misfortune! Begone! Go to Aretuza and join your allies! Teleport away. The portal
in the Tower of Gulls no longer exists. It was destroyed along with the tower. You can teleport without fear. Wherever you wish. To your King Foltest, for instance, for whom you betrayed the
Brotherhood!’

‘I will not leave Geralt . . .’ groaned Triss. ‘He cannot fall into the hands of the Redanians . . . He’s gravely injured . . . He has internal bleeding, and I have no
more strength! I don’t have the strength to open the portal! Tissaia! Help me please!’

Darkness. Bitter cold. From far away, from behind a stone wall, the voice of Tissaia de Vries:

‘I shall help you.’

Evertsen
Peter, b. 1234, confidant of Emperor Emhyr Deithwen and one of the true authors of the Empire’s might. The chief chamberlain of the army during the
time of the Northern Wars (q.v.), from 1290 imperial treasurer of the crown. In the final period of Emhyr’s rule, he was raised to the rank of coadjutor of the Empire. During the rule of
Emperor Morvran Voor he was falsely accused of misappropriation of funds, found guilty, imprisoned and died in 1301 in Winneburg Castle. Posthumously rehabilitated by Emperor Jan Calveit in
1328.

Effenberg and Talbot,
Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi,

Volume V

May Ye All Wail, for the Destroyer of Nations is upon us. Your lands shall they trample and divide with rope. Your cities razed shall be, their dwellers expelled. The bat,
owl and raven your homes shall infest, and the serpent will therein make its nest . . .

Aen Ithlinnespeath

The captain of the squad reined back his mount, removed his helmet and used his fingers to comb his thinning hair, which was matted with sweat.

‘Journey’s over,’ he repeated, seeing the troubadour’s questioning gaze.

‘What? How d’you mean?’ said Dandelion, astonished. ‘Why?’

‘We aren’t going any further. Do you see? The river you see glinting down there is the Ribbon. We were only told to escort you to the Ribbon. That means it’s time we were
off.’

The rest of the troops stopped behind them, but none of the soldiers dismounted. They were all looking around nervously. Dandelion shielded his eyes with a hand and stood up in the stirrups.

‘Where can you see that river?’

‘I said it’s down there. Ride down the ravine and you’ll be there in no time.’

‘You could at least escort me to the bank,’ protested Dandelion, ‘and show me the ford . . .’

‘There’s nothing much to show. Since May the weather’s been baking hot, so the water level’s dropped. There isn’t much water in the Ribbon. Your horse won’t
have any problem crossing it . . .’

‘I showed your commander the letter from King Venzlav,’ said the troubadour, puffing up. ‘He read the contents and I heard him order you to escort me to the very edge of
Brokilon. And you’re going to abandon me here in this thicket? What’ll happen if I get lost?’

‘You won’t get lost,’ muttered another soldier gloomily, who had come closer but had not so far spoken. ‘You won’t have time to get lost. A dryad’s arrow will
find you first.’

‘What cowardly simpletons,’ Dandelion sneered. ‘I see you’re afraid of the dryads. But Brokilon only begins on the far bank of the Ribbon. The river is the border. We
haven’t crossed it yet.’

‘Their border,’ explained the leader, looking around, ‘extends as far as their arrows do. A powerful bow shot from that bank will send an arrow right to the edge of the forest
and still have enough impetus to pierce a hauberk. You insisted on going there. That’s your business, it’s your hide. But life is dear to me. I’m not going any further. I’d
rather shove my head in a hornets’ nest!’

‘I’ve explained to you,’ said Dandelion, pushing his hat back and sitting up in the saddle, ‘that I’m riding to Brokilon on a mission. I am, it may be said, an
ambassador. I do not fear dryads. But I would like you to escort me to the bank of the Ribbon. What’ll happen if brigands rob me in that thicket?’

The gloomy soldier laughed affectedly.

‘Brigands? Here? In daylight? You won’t meet a soul here during the day. Latterly, the dryads have been letting arrows fly at anyone who appears on the bank of the Ribbon, and
they’re not above venturing deeper into our territory either. No, no need to be afraid of brigands.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed the captain. ‘A brigand would have to be pretty stupid to be riding along the Ribbon during the day. And we’re not idiots. You’re riding
alone, without armour or weapons, and you don’t look, forgive me, anything like a fighting man. You can see that a mile off. That may favour you. But if those dryads see us, on horseback and
armed, you won’t be able to see the sun for arrows.’

‘Ah, well. There’s nothing else for it.’ Dandelion patted his horse’s neck and looked down towards the ravine. ‘I shall have to ride alone. Farewell, soldiers.
Thank you for the escort.’

‘Don’t be in such a rush,’ said the gloomy soldier, looking up at the sky. ‘It’ll be evening soon. Set off when the haze starts rising from the water. Because, you
know . . .’

‘What?’

‘An arrow’s not so sure in the fog. If fate smiles on you, the dryads might miss. But they seldom miss . . .’

‘I told you—’

‘All right, all right. I’ve got it. You’re going to them on some kind of mission. But I’ll tell you something else. They don’t care whether it’s a mission or
a church procession. They’ll let fly at you, and that’s that.’

‘You insist on frightening me, do you?’ said the poet snootily. ‘What do you take me for, a court scribbler? I, my good men, have seen more battlegrounds than the lot of you.
And I know more about dryads than you. If only that they never fire without warning.’

‘It once was thus, you’re right,’ said the leader quietly. ‘Once they gave warnings. They shot an arrow into a tree trunk or into the road, and that marked the border
that you couldn’t cross. If a fellow turned back right then, he could get out in one piece. But now it’s different. Now they shoot to kill at once.’

‘Why such cruelty?’

‘Well,’ muttered the soldier, ‘it’s like this. When the kings made a truce with Nilfgaard, they went after the elven gangs with a will. You can tell they’re putting
the screws on, for there isn’t a night that survivors don’t flee through Brugge, seeking shelter in Brokilon. And when our boys hunt the elves, they sometimes mix it with the dryads
too, those who come to the elves’ aid from the far side of the Ribbon. And our army has also been known to go too far . . . Get my drift?’

‘Yes,’ said Dandelion, looking at the soldier intently and shaking his head. ‘When you were hunting the Scoia’tael you crossed the Ribbon. And you killed some dryads. And
now the dryads are taking their revenge in the same way. It’s war.’

‘That it is. You took the words right out of my mouth. War. It was always a fight to kill – never to let live – but now it’s worse than ever. There’s a fierce
hatred between them and us. I’ll say it one more time: if you don’t have to, don’t go there.’

Dandelion swallowed.

‘The whole point,’ he said, sitting tall in the saddle and working hard to assume a resolute expression and strike a dashing pose, ‘is that I
do
have to. And I’m
going. Right now. Evening or no evening, fog or no fog. Duty calls.’

The years of practice paid off. The troubadour’s voice sounded beautiful and menacing, austere and cold. It rang with iron and valour. The soldiers looked at him in unfeigned
admiration.

‘Before you set off,’ said the leader, unfastening a flat, wooden canteen from his saddle, ‘neck down some vodka, minstrel, sir. Have a good old swig . . .’

‘It’ll make the dying easier,’ added the gloomy one, morosely.

The poet sipped from the canteen.

‘A coward,’ he declared with dignity, when he’d stopped coughing and had got his breath back, ‘dies a hundred times. A brave man dies but once. But Dame Fortune favours
the brave and holds cowards in contempt.’

The soldiers looked at him in even greater admiration. They didn’t know and couldn’t have known that Dandelion was quoting from a heroic epic poem. Moreover, from one written by
someone else.

‘I shall repay you for the escort with this,’ said the poet, removing a jingling, leather pouch from his bosom. ‘Before you return to the fort, before you’re once again
embraced by strict mother-duty, stop by at a tavern and drink my health.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the leader, blushing somewhat. ‘You are generous, although we— Forgive us for leaving you alone, but . . .’

‘It’s nothing. Farewell.’

The bard adjusted his hat to a jaunty angle over his left ear, prodded his horse with his heels and headed into the ravine, whistling ‘The Wedding Party at Bullerlyn’, a well-known
and extremely indecent cavalry song.

‘The cornet in the fort said he was a freeloader, a coward and a knobhead. But he’s a valiant, military gentleman, even if he is a poe-taster.’ The voice of the gloomy soldier
was carried to Dandelion’s ears.

‘Truly spoken,’ responded the captain. ‘He isn’t faint-hearted, you couldn’t say that. He didn’t even bat an eyelid, I noticed. And on top of that, he’s
whistling, can you hear? Ho, ho . . . Heard what he said? That he’s an embarrassador. You can be sure they don’t make any old bugger an embarrassador. You’ve got to have your head
screwed on to be made an embarrassador . . .’

Dandelion quickened his pace in order to get away as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to sabotage the reputation he’d just earned himself. And he knew, with his mouth drying up in
terror, that he wouldn’t be able to whistle for much longer.

The ravine was sombre and damp, and the wet clay and carpet of rotten leaves lying on it muffled the thudding of his dark bay gelding’s hooves. He’d called the horse
‘Pegasus’. Pegasus walked slowly, head hanging down. He was one of those rare specimens of horse who could never care less.