Lady of the Lake by Andrzej Sapkowski

  After a moment he was driven across the line of shields and started to chop and fight around him like a man possessed.

  ‘Again!’ he heeded the wild cry of Pretty Kitty. ‘One more strike! Hold on, boys! Kill, kill! For coins as golden as the sun! To me, Free Company!’

  A Nilfgaardian rider without a helmet and with the silver sun on his cloak broke in through the shields, standing in his stirrups, he hacked his axe into the dwarf who was not protected by a shield, he then opened the head of another. Aubry turned in his saddle and cut horizontally. The Nilfgaardian’s head fell to the ground. At the same time the trumpeter received a blow to the head and fell from the saddle. The crowd of people around him prevented his immediate fall to the ground and for a few moments he hung between heaven and earth between the sides of two horses. Although he was full of fear, he was not in pain for long. As soon as he hit the ground, his skull was immediately crushed by hooves.

  After sixty-five years, when asked about those days, about the Battle of Brenna, about the square marching over corpses of friends and foes, advancing towards Golden Pond, the old woman smiled, further wrinkling her face, which was already wrinkled and dark as a prune. Impatiently – or maybe just pretending impatience, she waved her trembling, bony hand which was twisted with arthritis.

  ‘Neither side,’ she lisped, ‘could gain an advantage. We were in the middle and surrounded. They attacked us from all sides. We simply killed. They, us and we them... khe-khe-khh... They us and we them...’

  The old woman controlled her coughing with effort. The listeners who were closest saw her wipe away a tear that was making its way through her maze of wrinkles and old scars.

  ‘They were as brave as us,’ she muttered. ‘Khe-khe... And we were just as strong and stubborn and fierce as they. Us and them...’

  She paused. For a long time. The listeners urged her, watching her smile at the memories, with its glory. Smiling at the blurred faces of those who survived through the fog of forgetfulness. Those that could not been killed by liquor, narcotics or tuberculosis.

  ‘We were equally brave,’ end Julia Abatemarco. ‘Neither side was strong enough to be braver. But we... We remained braver one minute more than they.’

  ‘Marti, I beg you, give us more of your wonderful magic! Just a little bit more! These fellows gut is unfortunately one big stew, garnished with lots of chain mail rings! I cannot do anything if he keeps flopping around like a fish out of water! Shani, damn it, hold the clamp! Iola! Are you asleep, dammit? Tighten! Squeeezze!’

  Iola, breathing heavily, swallowed saliva with effort. I’m going to faint, she thought. I can’t stand it. I can’t bear it any longer, the smell, the awful mixture of blood, puke, feces, urine, intestinal contents, sweat, fear and death. I cannot endure it any longer, the constant crying, the howling, the bloody, slimy hands reaching towards me, as if I was their salvation, their refuge, their lives... I cannot stand the nonsense, what we are doing here. Because it is nonsense. On big, huge, meaningless nonsense. I cannot stand any more strain and fatigue. They continue to deliver more and more... I cannot stand it. I cannot stand it. I’m going to throw up. To faint. I will be ridiculed...

  ‘Bandage! Swab! Clamp! Not here! Be careful what you’re doing! If you make another mistake, I’ll smack you on your red head! Do you hear? I’ll smack you on the head!’

  Great Melitele help me. Help me, goddess.

  ‘Look! He is improving! Another clamp, Priestess. Here, clamp the vessel! Well done, Iola, keep it up! Marti, wipe your eyes and face. And me too...’

  Where does this pain come from, thought Constable John Natalis. What hurts me so much?

  Oh.

  He unclenched his fists.

  ‘Strike!’ cried Kees van Lo, waving his hands. ‘Strike, Lord Marshal! Their line permits! If we do not hesitate to strike, we can break them! The Great Sun will crush them!’

  Menno Coehoorn bit his nails. He noticed that there were people watching him and quickly pulled his fingers out of his mouth.

  ‘Strike,’ Kees van Lo repeated calmly. ‘Nauzicaa is ready.’

  ‘Nauzicaa must be,’ Menno said brusquely. ‘Daerlan also needs to be. Lord Faoiltiarna!’

  The commander of the Vrihedd brigade, Isengrim Faoiltiarna, call the “Iron Wolf”, turned to the marshal his face was distorted by a terrible scar that extended across his forehead, brow, the bridge of his nose and to his cheek.

  ‘You will strike there,’ Menno Coehoorn pointed his baton. ‘There, where the Temerian and Redanian lines come together. Right there.’

  The elf saluted. His disfigured face did not move, even his great deep eyes did not change expression.

  Our allies, thought Menno. Our allies. We have fought together. Against a common enemy. But I do not understand these elves at all. They are so strange. So different.

  ‘Curious,’ Rusty tried to wipe his face with his elbow, but his elbow was also bloody. Iola hurried to his aid. ‘Interesting,’ said the surgeon, ‘the patient was stabbed with a pitchfork... one of the teeth pierced his heart, oh, look here. The cardiac chamber is breached, the aorta is almost separated... But he was still breathing a little while ago. Here, on the table. On the battlefield he was pierced through the heart and he lived still on my table...’

  ‘You mean he died?’ said a grim member of the cavalry. ‘We were carrying him here in vain?’

  ‘It is never in vain,’ Rusty held his gaze. ‘But you are right, he has died. The patient has died. Take him away... damn! Come take a look girls!’

  Marti, Iola and Shani bowed over the dead soldier. Rusty lifted the eyelids of the dead man.

  ‘Have you ever seen anything like that?’

  The three began to tremble.

  ‘Yes,’ all three answered simultaneously. They looked at each other in amazement.

  ‘I have already seen it,’ said Rusty. ‘He’s a witcher. A mutant. That explains to us why he survived for so long... He was your comrade-in-arms? Or did you bring him here by chance?’

  ‘He was our companion, Sir Medic,’ a second soldier, a small man with a bandage head said gloomily. ‘From our squadron, as a volunteer. A master swordsman. His name was Coën.’

  ‘Did you know he was a witcher?’

  ‘We did. But he was a good friend.’

  ‘Ah,’ Rusty sighed, looking at four soldiers bringing in another wounded in a blood-soaked cloak. A young man judging by how thin he was. ‘That’s too bad... I’d like to do the autopsy on this respectable witcher. This would be a fine opportunity, I could even write a dissertation, O could take a look at his organs. But there is no time, remove him from the table! Shani, water. Marti, disinfectant. Iola... Hey, girl, are you crying again? What is it this time...’

  ‘Nothing, Mister Rusty. It is nothing. I will be alright.’

  ‘I feel lied to, cheated, robbed,’ said Triss Merigold.

  Nenneke did not answer for a long time, she gazed from the terrace overlooking the temple’s garden, where the priestesses and novices devoted themselves to the spring works.

  ‘You made a choice,’ she said finally. ‘You chose your path, Triss. Your own destiny. Voluntarily. This is no time to grieve.’

  ‘Nenneke,’ the enchantress looked down. ‘I cannot really tell you more that what I have said. Believe me and forgive me.’

  ‘Who am I to forgive? What benefits will you receive from my forgiveness?’

  ‘I can see,’ Triss burst out, ‘your eyes looking at me! You and your priestesses. I can see their eyes asking me the question. What are you doing here, sorceress? Why are you not there with Iola, Eurneid, Katye, Myrrha? Jarre?’

  ‘You’re exaggerating, Triss.’

  The sorceress stared into the distance, into the woods beyond the temple’s walls, to the distant smoke of fires. Nenneke was silent, thinking, she too was far away. Where the war was raging and bloody. She thought of the girls sent there.

  ‘They,’ Triss said, ‘refused me.’

  Nennek
e was silent.

  ‘They refused me everything, ‘Triss repeated. ‘So clever, so reasonable, so logical... How could I not believe them when they explained that there are important and less important issues, and those that are less important should be given up without a second thought, to sacrifice them for the more important without a shadow of grief? That is does not make sense to save people that you know and love, because they are just individuals and the fate of these individuals are irrelevant to the fate of the world. That there is no sense for the struggle in defense of honor and ideals, for they are empty concepts? That the real battle for the fate of the world is somewhere else, and will be fought somewhere else? And I feel robbed. Robbed of the possibility of committing follies. I cannot go madly hurrying after Ciri to help her, I cannot run like crazy to save Geralt and Yennefer. Not only that, there is a war, which you have sent your girls... A war, that Jarre fled to and I am refused the possibility to even stand on a hill. To once again stand on a hill. Knowing this time, I’d made the right decision.’

  ‘Everyone has their decisions and everyone has their hills, Triss,’ the priestess said quietly. ‘Everyone. You cannot escape your own.’

  The entrance to the tent was busy. They brought another wounded soldier. Accompanied by several men. One of them, a knight in full plate armor, was shouting orders.

  ‘Hurry up, you damn slackers! Faster! Put him here, here! Hey you! Surgeon!’

  ‘I’m busy,’ Rusty did not even look up. ‘Please put him with the other wounded on the stretchers. I’ll deal with him as soon as I’m done.’

  ‘You’ll take care of him immediately, you fucking quack! This is the noble Count of Garramone himself!’

  ‘This hospital,’ Rusty raised his voice, angry because stuck in the bowels of a wounded man was the broken tip of a crossbow bolt which had slipped out of his tweezers, ‘has very little to do with democracy. You bring up mainly, barons, counts, marquises and earls. The ordinary wounded on the battlefield, nobody cares about. But everyone is equal here. At least on my table.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind,’ Rusty said, again probing the wound with his tweezers, ‘it doesn’t matter if I was dragging a piece of metal from a serf or an aristocrat. All who lie on my table are equal to a beggar prince.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your Count must wait his turn.’

  ‘Halfling fuck!’

  ‘Help me, Shani. Take the other clamp. Beware of the artery! Marti, a little bit of magic, if I may ask. We have a bleeder.’

  The knight took a step forward, his armor and teeth gnashing.

  ‘I’ll have you hanged!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll hang, cursed non-human!’

  ‘Shut up, Papebrock,’ said the slightly wounded nobleman. ‘Shut up, leave me here and get back to the fight.’

  ‘But, my lord! I cannot...’

  ‘That’s an order!’

  From the other side of the canvas came the roar and rattle of battle, the snorting of horses and wild cries. The wounded in the hospital howled in different voices.

  ‘Please take a look,’ Rusty raised the tweezers and demonstrated as he finally removed the tip. ‘This was undoubtedly manufactured by a clever craftsman, to feed a large family. It shows amazing skill and dexterity. The way this gizmo sticks in the human intestines is ingenious. Love live progress.’

  He threw the bloody tip into a bucket and looked at the operating table, the wounded man had fainted dead away during his oration.

  ‘Sew him up and take him away,’ he nodded. ‘If he is lucky, he’ll live. Bring me the next one in the queue. The one with the smashed head.’

  ‘He,’ Marti Södergren said calmly, ‘has just released his place in line.’

  Rusty took a deep breath, without unnecessary comment walked away from the table and stood by the hurt Earl. His hands and apron were splattered with blood like a butcher. Daniel Etcheverry, Count of Garramone, paled even more.

  ‘Well,’ said Rusty. ‘It’s your turn Count. Lift him up onto the table. What have we here? Oh, this joint can no longer be saved, it is broken. If left it will grind your bones to mush. Now this will hurt, but don’t worry, it will be like in battle. Tourniquet, scalpel, saw. We will amputate, my lord.’

  Daniel Etcheverry, Earl of Garramone, who until now had bravely endured the pain, howled like a wolf. Before he could again clench his jaw, Shani, moving fast, thrust a piece of soft wood between his teeth.

  ‘Your Majesty! Lord Constable!’

  ‘Speak up, boy.’

  ‘The Volunteer army and the Free Company are nearing Golden Pond... The dwarves and the condottieri stand firm, though with severe losses. It is said that Adam “Adieu” Pangratt is dead, Frontino is dead and Julia Abatemarco is dead... All the commanders. The Dorian banner, which were sent to help were cut down to the man...’

  ‘Withdrawn, Lord Constable,’ Foltest said quietly but clearly. ‘If you ask me, it is time to fight a withdrawal. Let Bronibor’s men stand against the Black ones. Now! Immediately! Otherwise they’ll break through the army’s front line, penetrate and end us all.’

  John Natalis didn’t answer; he watched another messenger from afar who raced towards them on horseback, from which foam flew.

  ‘Take a breath man. Take a breath and pass on the message.’

  ‘They broke... They broke the front... Elves, the Vrihedd brigade... Lord de Ruyter conveys a message to your lordships...’

  ‘What is it? Speak!’

  ‘It is time to save your lives.’

  John Natalis look up to the heavens.

  ‘Blenckert,’ he said flatly. ‘Let Blenckert arrive. Or let the night come.’

  From all sides hooves thundered around the tent, the air was filled with screams and the whinnies of horses. A soldier burst into the hospital followed by two orderlies.

  ‘Run people!’ shouted the soldier. ‘Save yourselves! Nilfgaard has won! Defeat! Doom!’

  ‘Clamp!’ Rusty said dodging blood that was spurting from the broken arteries of the patient on his operation table. ‘Clamp! Swab! Here, Shani! Marti, do something about the bleeding...’

  Before the tent someone screamed like an animal. The scream trailed off to a grunt. A horse whinnied and something fell with a clang and a boom. A crossbow bolt ripped through the canvas, whistling, it flew to the opposite side of the tent, luckily too high to threaten any of the wounded lying on litters.

  ‘Nilfgaard!’ the soldier shouted again, in a high trembling voice. ‘Surgeon! Did you not hear what I said! Nilfgaard has broken our lines, and are killing everyone! Run!’

  Rusty took over from Marti Södergren, taking her needle and began to sew. The patient lay motionless for a long time, but was still alive – his heart was beating. It was clearly visible.

  ‘I don’t want to die!’ shouted one of the wounded who were conscious. The soldier cursed and launched himself at the exit, he suddenly fell back, screaming, splattering blood, and collapsed to the ground. Iola who was kneeling beside the litter, jumped back.

  Suddenly there was silence.

  This is bad, Rusty thought when he saw who was entering the tent. Elves with silver lightning on their cloaks. The Vrihedd brigade. The notorious Vrihedd brigade.

  ‘They are being treated,’ said the first of the elves, tall with a narrow face and blue eyes.

  No one answered. Rusty felt his hands shake. He quickly handed the needle to Marti. He saw Shani turn pale as chalk.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ said the elf ominously. ‘Why are there so many being treated? The wounded should be there in the field of battle, dying of their wounds. And you are healing them here? It does not make sense. It appears that we have different interests.’

  He bent and drove his sword into the chest of a wounded soldier closest to the door. Another elf crossed to a second wounded man and put his sword through him. The third wounded man was conscious and tried to stop the deadly stabbing with the thickly bandaged stump of his right arm.<
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  Shani screamed shrilly. It was a sharp cry that pierced. It drowned out the heavy, inhuman grunt from the crippled man. Iola fell across a stretcher and used her own body to protect another wounded. Her face was as white as the canvas dressing. The Elf’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Va vort, beanna!’ he snapped, ‘Get off, or I’ll stab you both, Dh’oine!’

  ‘Get out of here!’ Rusty found himself with three jumps in front of Iola and stood between her and the elf. ‘Get out of my hospital, murderers! Out there you can kill each other! But get out of here!’

  The elf looked down. The small, stocky halfling, trembling in fear only reach just above his belt.

  ‘Blorde Pherian,’ he hissed. ‘Human slave! Get out of my way!’

  ‘Not on your life!’ the surgeon’s teeth chattered, but his words were strong.

  A second elf ran forward and pushed the halfling aside with a spear. Rusty fell to his knees. The tall elf violent jerked Iola off of the wounded man and raised his sword.

  He froze when he saw the black cloak rolled up under the casualty’s head with the silver flames of Deithwen division on it. And the distinction of Colonel.

  ‘Yaevinn!’ An elf entering the tent shouted, his dark hair collected in a braid. ‘Cáemm, veloë! Ess’evgyriad a’dh’oine a’en va! Ess’tess!’

  The tall elf looked for a moment at the wounded colonel then at the water eyes filled with fear of the surgeon. Then he turned on his heel and left.