The Tower of the Swallow by Andrzej Sapkowski
‘What shitty service,’ Yuz Jannowitz repeated for perhaps the hundredth time, making a sign to the servants to bring more vodka. ‘The plague on the Owl, leaving us in this shitty town! Better to be out on patrol in the woods!’
‘Come on you’re not stupid,’ Dede Vargas replied. ‘Out there it is cold as ice! I prefer the warmth. And the girls!’
He patted a serving girl on the buttock with a vengeance. The girl shrieked, not too convincingly and with distinct apathy. The work at the inn had taught her that if they patted or pinched you, you had to shriek. The guests loved it.
Since the second day of being there, Cyprian Fripp and his companions had grabbed the two serving girls. The innkeeper was too afraid to protest and the girls were too tired to think of protesting. Life had taught them that if a girl protests, then they beat her. Therefore it was wiser to wait until they grew bored.
‘It’s that fucking Falka,’ said Rispat la Pointe continuing another topic from their boring evening talks, ‘she is dead somewhere in the woods, I tell you. I saw Skellen’s Orion slice open her face and the blood spurted out like a fountain! She could not have survived that.’
‘The Owl failed,’ said Yuz Jannowitz. ‘He only grazed her with the Orion. True, he did her mug a little damage. But, does that hinder a girl who can jump over a palisade? Did she fall from the horse? Shit! When we measured the palisade it was seven feet and two inches high! And she jumped it! And between the saddle and her ass you could not have gotten the blade of a knife.’
‘Blood flowed from her like a stuck pig,’ protested Rispat la Pointe. ‘She rode and fell off and died in a ravine, wolves have eaten the meat and crows and ants have stripped the bones clean from what was left of the carcass. Finally, Deireádh. So here we are and rotting away waiting for our money. And it is because they cannot find that bitch!’
‘It cannot be because a corpse doesn’t not leave a trace or a mark,’ Dede Vargas said with conviction. ‘There is always something, a skull, pelvis. Rience, the sorcerer, will find the remains of Falka. Then that will be the end.’
‘And then we can leave this fucking dump,’ Cyprian Fripp the Younger said, his gaze boring into the wall of the tavern, which he knew every nail and stain, ‘and this fucking liquor. And both of these wenches, who reek of onions and when you fuck them they are as still as a rock, and stare at the ceiling and pick their teeth.’
‘Anything is better than boredom,’ Yuz Jannowitz decreed. ‘I want to howl! Shit, I want to do something! Anything! Let’s set fire to the village, at least there will be something to do!’
The door creaked. The sound was so unexpected that everyone jumped from their seats.
‘Out!’ roared Vargas, ‘Get out, old man! Stinking beggar! Go into the yard!’
‘Leave him alone,’ Fripp waved his hand, bored. ‘Hey, he is dragging bagpipes with him. He’s probably an old veteran; old soldiers play it safe by playing and singing in taverns later in life. It’s cold out in the yard. Let him sit here in the warmth…’
‘But far from us,’ Jannowitz showed the old man where he could sit. ‘We are already besieged by lice. I can see them slowly crawling around all over the place. Anyone would think there are turtles not lice.’
‘Innkeeper!’ Fripp called out imperiously. ‘Bring the old man something to eat! And our spirits!’
The old man removed his big fur hat and gracefully nodded his head.
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘But today is the holiday of Saovine. The holiday does not lend with one being driven into the rain and freezing muck. The festival agrees to treat…’
‘It’s true,’ Rispat la Pointe slapped his forehead. ‘Today is indeed the holiday of Saovine! The end of October!’
‘It is a night of monsters,’ the innkeeper had brought the old man some water soup. ‘A night of spirits and ghosts!’
‘Ha ha!’ Yuz Jannowitz said. ‘The old man will regale us with a tale of old!’
‘Let him,’ Dede Vargas yawned. ‘Anything is better than this boredom!’
‘Saovine,’ Cyprian Fripp said. ‘It’s been five weeks since Unicorn. And two weeks of us just sitting here. Two whole weeks! Saovine, ha!’
‘A night of monsters,’ the old man licked the spoon, he poke around in the bowl with his finger, then pulled it out and popped it in his mouth. ‘A night of ghosts and witchcraft!’
‘What did I tell you?’ Yuz Jannowitz smiled. ‘We will have old wife’s tales!’
The old man scratched and hiccupped.
‘The feast of Saovine,’ he began emphatically, ‘is the last night before the November new moon, and for the elves is the last night of the old year. When the new day dawns, it is New Year’s for the elves. So there is a custom among the elves that on Saovine night to light all the fires around the house and one pitch torch which they will save the remains of, and that same torch will be lit again at Belleteyn. And it is not just the elves that do this, but even some of ours, to keep them well and protect them from evil spirits…’
‘Spirits!’ Yuz snorted. ‘Listen to what this fool is saying!’
‘This is the night of Saovine!’ the old man said with a passionate voice. ‘On this night spirits walk the earth! The spirits of the dead knocking on the windows, ‘Let us in’, they moan! It is good to give them porridge with honey; you can also sprinkle it with vodka…’
‘Vodka you’d keep for yourself and sprinkle down your throat,’ chortled Rispat la Pointe. ‘And your spirits can kiss my ass!’
‘Oh, good sirs, please do not make fun of the spirits, because they have a keen sense of hearing and are vindictive! It is Saovine night! Listen, can you hear sounds and knocking? They are the dead who come from another world; they want to sneak in and warm themselves by the fire and eat their fill. There out in the bare woods, with the freezing wind, they will be pulled towards houses, where there is fire and heat. And do not forget to put food in a bowl on the threshold, or in the barn, because if they find nothing to eat, they can after midnight, enter the house…’
‘Oh, gods!’ one of the girls on duty whispered, then cried loudly because Fripp had pinched her on the bottom.
‘Not a bad story!’ Fripp said. ‘But still too far away to be good! Innkeeper, pour the old man a mug of mulled wine, maybe he can accomplish a better tale. A good fable about ghosts, boys, because the girls are listening to them and not serving!’
The men laughed when they heard the shrieks of the girls, who were listening in. The old man took a sip of warm wine, making lots of noise and belching.
‘Do not over indulge and fall asleep!’ Vargas warned him menacingly. ‘You are here to entertain! Tell tales, sing and blow on the bagpipes! Be merry!’
The old man opened his mouth, in which a single tooth appeared like a milestone in an open field.
‘But good sirs, today is Saovine! What would I play? The music of Saovine is the rustling of the wind on the window! The howling of werewolves and vampires, and the groaning of ghouls! Beann’shie call and moan and whoever hears it, is insured an early death. All evil spirits leave their dens, witches fly to the last conclave before winter! Saovine is a night for spirits, monsters and ghosts! Do not enter the forest, because it will devour you! Do not enter a cemetery, because the dead will walk! And it is best not to leave your home and to be sure, hang a new iron knife over the threshold, and evil will not dare cross it. Mother should keep children close on Saovine night because a human baby can easily be grabbed by a rusalka or they may turn them into a mutant. And a woman who is pregnant best not go outside lest the evil eye see her and will take the baby from the womb! Instead of a child she will bear a striga born with iron teeth…’
‘Oh gods!’
‘With iron teeth. First it eats the mother’s breast. Afterwards it eats her hands. Then it eats her face… Oh, I’m also hungry…’
‘Take this bone, there is still meat on it. You need to eat more in your old age or you’ll get unhealthy, ha, ha! And you girl, giv
‘Saovine, good sirs, is the last night when ghosts can fly through our world and try and remove the cold from their bones... Later they descend into hell, into the ground, where it is always winter. Therefore, from Saovine until February, when Imbaelk is celebrated is the most convenient time to look in scary places for treasures. If, for example in the warm season someone began digging in a mound, they would awaken two or three wights, who would jump up and eat the treasure hunter. But between Saovine and Imbaelk it is safe to dig as much as you please, because the wights will sleep like an old bear.’
‘The things that the old fart invents!’
‘It is true, good sirs. Yes, Saovine night is terrible and yet it is magical and best for all sorts of predictions and prophecies. On such a night it is best to read from the palm or turn the cards or see omens like the white rooster, onion, cheese or rabbit intestines or a dead bat…’
‘Bah!’
‘On the night of Saovine, the night of terrors and phantoms… It is best to stay at home… around the fire. With the whole family…’
‘The whole family,’ Fripp the Younger repeated the last words and grinned at his companions. ‘The whole family, you heard? Along with list, that makes a week of knowing where people are cunningly concealing themselves!’
‘The blacksmith’s wife!’ Yuz guess immediately. ‘The local beauty! Beware you head, Fripp. Today you were almost caught in her house. So what, lads? Do we go to the blacksmith’s home?’
‘Maybe soon,’ Dede Vargas drawled. ‘Before my eyes, upon reaching the village, she was bouncing those tits and shaking that ass… I went for her, but that idiot Dacre Silifant got the jump on me… Well Silifant is far away and the blacksmith’s wife sits at home! What are we waiting for?’
‘We have already killed the mayor of this village,’ Rispat raised his eyebrows, ‘We beat the bastard who came to his defense. How many more deaths do we need? The blacksmith and his son are brawny as oaks. They do not fear us. We will have to…’
‘Hurt them,’ Fripp calmly finished. ‘Just hurt them a little, nothing more. We will finish our drinks and go into the village to celebrate Saovine! Let’s find a sheepskin and cover ourselves and go down there roaring. The yokels will think we are devils or wights!’
‘Do we bring the blacksmiths wife back to our rooms, or do we do as in my land, Gemmera, and do it before the eyes of the family?’
‘One does not forget that,’ said Fripp, the young man looked out through the window into the night. ‘Shit, that is a strong wind. Even the poplars are bending!’
‘Oh, ho, ho!’ said the old man from behind a pitcher. ‘That is no ordinary wind, sir. Witches fly through the air on their broomsticks to coven meetings, seeding the air behind them with potions from their mortars to clean away tracks. There is no escape for a man who gets caught by them in the forest!’
‘Go frighten the children with our tales, old man!’
‘Do not mock me, sir, in this evil hour. Let me tell you that the worst witches, come from Countesses and Princesses, do not ride on broomsticks, no! Those ride on their black cats!’
‘Ha, ha, ha, ha!’
‘It is true! Because Saovine is the only night of the year when cats can become mares as black as pitch. And woe to him who in the night black as pitch hears the pounding of hooves and sees the witch on her black mare. Whoever the witch finds will not escape death. She spins around him like a leaf blowing in the wind and pulls him to hell!’
‘I’m beginning to like this story, finish it when we get back! When we return here we will party! We’ll dance here and fuck the blacksmith’s wife… What is it Rispat?’
Rispat la Pointe, who had left to go into the yard to relieve his bladder, ran back inside, his face as white as snow. He was gesticulation wildly, pointing to the door. He failed to utter a word. And it was not necessary. From outside can the sound of a horse neighing.
‘A black mare,’ Fripp said, his face almost touching the window glass. ‘The same black mare. It’s her.’
‘The witch?’
‘Falka, you idiot.’
‘It’s her spirit!’ Rispat gasped. ‘A ghost! She could not have survived! She has died and come back as a ghost! On the night of Saovine.’
‘She will come in the night black as pitch,’ muttered the old man, clutching his empty glass to his stomach. ‘And those who she sees will not escape death…’
‘To arms, to arms!’ Fripp said feverishly. ‘Quickly! Cover the door, on both sides! Fortune smiles! Falka doesn’t know we are here and has come to warm up, the cold and hunger have driven her out of hiding! Right into our hands! The Owl and Rience will shower us in gold! Grab a weapon…’
The door creaked.
The old man leaned over the table top, his eyes narrowed. He saw badly. His eyes were tired, ruined by glaucoma and chronic conjunctivitis. In addition, the tavern was dark and smoky. Therefore, he didn’t see the slim figure that came into to the room from the porch, wearing a leather jacket trimmed in musk, with a hood and scarf hiding her face. Instead the old man had a good ear. He heard the muffled cry of one of the serving girls, the clatter of boots and the innkeeper cursing in a low voice, He could hear the clinking of swords in their sheaths. And the quiet, scathing voice of Cyprian Fripp.
‘We have you now, Falka! You were not expecting us here, huh?’
‘I was expecting you,’ the old man heard. He trembled at the sound of that voice.
He saw the movement of the slender figure. He heard a gasp of horror. The muffled cry of one of the serving girls. He could not see that the girl called Falka had removed the hood and scarf. He could not see that her face was terribly maimed. And her eyes painted with paste of fat and soot made it seem like she had the eyes of a demon.
‘I’m not Falka,’ said the girl. The old man saw her move again, fast and blurred. He saw something glint in the light of the oil lamps. ‘I’m Ciri from Kaer Morhen. I’m a witcher. I came here to kill.’
The old man, who in his life had experience more than one tavern brawl, had developed a method to avoid injury; by diving under the table, shrink down as much as you can and hold onto the table legs. From that position, obviously you could not see anything. Nor did he want to. He held tightly to the table, even when the table was thrown across the room along with other bits of furniture. All around him clattered heavy boots and echoing command, shouts, insults and the blows of heavy steel.
A serving girl screamed shrilly, incessantly, without stopping.
Someone rolled onto the table, moving the piece of furniture along with the old man clinging to it, and fell down beside him. The old man shouted to feel warm blood splash him. Dede Vargas, the man who at first wanted to kick him out, the old man recognized him by the brass buttons on his jacket, screamed gruesomely, thrashing about, spurting blood, and banging his hands around him. One of the random blows caught the old man straight in the eye. The old man ceased to see anything. The serving girl, who was screaming gasped, fell silent, took a breath and began to scream again, in an even higher pitch.
Someone fell heavily onto the ground, again splashing blood on the newly scrubbed pine floorboards. The old man did not know that the man who had died now, was Rispat la Pointe, Ciri had cut him in the side of the neck. He could not see as Ciri a pirouette right in front of Jannowitz and Fripp, and was ripping through their guard like a shadow or grey smoke. Jannowitz jumped after her like a quick cat. He was a skilled swordsman. Securely standing on his right foot, he attacked with his long reach, directly for the girl’s face, right at the ugly scar. He had to hit.
He missed.
He failed to protect himself. She slashed at him closely, with both hands across the chest and abdomen. She jumped back, turned and all the while evaded the slashes of Fripp, she slashed at Jannowitz neck. Jannowitz collapsed with his head falling back. Fripp stepped over the dead man, and launched a quick slash. Ciri blocked it, make a
Fripp raised the bloody stump, looked at it carefully, and then looked at the hand that was on the table, and collapsed suddenly, violently and landed hard on him bottom on the ground, just as if he had slipped on soap. Once seated he began to howl, a sharp, piercing howl like a wild wolf.
Crouched under the table, covered with blood, the old man listened for a moment to the ghostly duet – the screaming serving girl and Fripp howling uncontrollably.
The girl was silent first, finishing her inhuman screams with a shriek. Fripp merely fell silent.
‘Mother,’ he said suddenly, very clearly and fully conscious. ‘Mama… What is… what … what happened to me? What I… is?’
‘You’re dying,’ said the girl with the maimed face.
The old man’s hair stood on end, the little that was left. To stop his trembling he clenched his teeth on his sleeve.
Cyprian Fripp the Younger uttered a sound as if swallowing with difficult. Then he made no more noise. None.
There was absolute silence.
‘What have you done…’ groaned the innkeeper in the silence that followed. ‘What did you do, girl…’
‘I’m a witcher. I kill monsters’
‘We’ll hang… They’ll burn down the town and the inn!’
‘I kill monsters,’ she repeated, her voice suddenly changing to something like amazement.
The innkeeper groaned, and sobbed. The old man slowly got out from under his hiding place under the table. He moved to avoid the body of Dede Vargas with the horrible slashed face.
‘You ride a black mare…’ he muttered. ‘At night in pitch dark… removing the tracks behind you…’