The Tower of the Swallow by Andrzej Sapkowski
‘I want Falka alive!’ protested Windsor Imbra. ‘To hell with your struggles and duels! I do not care about Bonhart's spectacle, I want that girl! Alive! You go in a pair, you and Stavro. And get her out of there.’
‘For me,’ repeated Stavro, who was the man with the goatee, ‘it is an affront to go against such a skinny thing as a pair.’
‘The Baron will sweeten this affront with a floren. But only if you take her alive!’
‘So, the Baron a miser.’ Houvenaghel laughed out loud, his belly and bulldog jaw trembling. ‘He does not have the sporting spirit and does not offer a worthwhile reward! I, however, support the sport. And therefore I increase the reward. Anyone who goes into the arena alone and leaves on their own feet again – I will pay with this hand here, from this bag here, not twenty, but thirty florens.’
‘What are we waiting for?’ screamed Stavro. ‘I go first!’
‘Hold on,’ cried the little Mayor again in a voice of thunder. ‘The girl has only a thin cloth on her back! So you also pull off your leather armor, soldier. It's sporty!’
‘Get yourselves the plague!’ Stavro threw off his iron studded jacket and pulled his shirt over his head and shoulders. He was bare-chested, stick thin, and hairy. ‘Get yourselves the plague, gentlemen, along with your shitty sports! So I'll go with bare skin! Oh! Should I take off my pants, too?’
‘Pull the trousers off!’ croaked the Marquise de-Nementh Uyvar lasciviously. ‘Then we will see if you're a man with more than your mouth!’
Rewarded with thunderous applause, the naked-to-the-waist Stavro approached the arena and threw one leg over the bars of the barrier, carefully keeping Ciri in view. Ciri crossed her hands over her chest. She did not even step out to the sword spitted in the sand. Stavro hesitated.
‘Do not do it,’ Ciri said very quietly. ‘Do not make me... You will not touch me.’
‘No offense, kid.’ Stavro jumped over the barrier. ‘I have nothing against you. But business is business...’
He did not finish because Ciri was already with him, she already held Swallow – so she called the gnomish Gwyhyr in her mind. She used a simple, almost certain to fail ruse called ‘Three Little Steps’ – but Stavro fell for it. He took a step backwards and instinctively raised his sword, and already he was at her mercy – he stood with his back against the bars surrounding the arena and looked at the tip of Swallow, which was an inch from his nose.
‘That trick,’ explained Bonhart to the Marquise, over the shouts and cheers of screaming, ‘is called ‘Three Little Steps, Feint, and Failure’. A cheap number, I had expected something more sophisticated from the girl. But you must admit – if she wanted, the guy would not even be alive.’
‘Kill him! Kill him!’ shouted the crowd, while showing the mayor and Houvenaghel their hands with thumbs pointed down. The blood drained from Stavros’ face, making ugly pimples and pockmarks stand out on his cheeks.
‘I told you not force me,’ hissed Ciri. ‘I do not want to kill you! But you will not touch me. Go back where you came from.’
She stepped back, turned around, lowered her sword and looked up at the stands. ‘You play with me?’ She exclaimed in a broken voice. ‘You want to force me to fight? To kill? You’re not forcing me. I will not fight!’
‘Did you hear Imbra?’ Bonhart’s mocking voice resounded in the silence. ‘Pure profit! And no risk! She will not fight. You can go in, take her out of the arena alive, and take her to Baron Casadei so he is happy with you. You can take her without risk! With your bare hands!’
Windsor Imbra spat. Stavro, his back pressed to the bars still in the chamber, breathed hard and frantically gripped the sword in his hand.
Bonhart smiled. ‘But, Imbra, I'll bet diamonds to nuts, that you will not prosper.’
Stavro exhaled heavily. It seemed that the girl who stood with her back to him was distracted, unfocused. He roared with rage, shame and hatred. He could not stand it. He attacked. Quickly and treacherously.
The audience did not see how she dodged and struck back. It just looked like Stavro fell on Falka and then suddenly sprang up like a ballet dancer – he even did a kind of little ballet forward into the sand, which was instantly filled with blood.
‘Instincts will prevail!’ cried Bonhart over the crowd. ‘The reflexes work! What did I tell you, Houvenaghel? You will see that the bulldogs will not be necessary!’
‘What a beautiful and profitable drama.’ Houvenaghel said with delight in his eyes.
Stavro rose to his arms, trembling with the effort, threw his head back and forth, cried, gasped, spat blood and fell back on the sand.
‘What was this blow, Mr. Bonhart?’ The Marquise de-Nementh Uyvar croaked while lustfully rubbing her knees together.
‘That was an improvisation.’ Under the lips that answered the Marquise's question, teeth flashed. ‘A beautiful, creative and, one could say, almost visceral improvisation. I've heard of a place where they teach such improvised abdominal strikes. I bet that our young lady knows this place. I know who she is.’
‘Force me not,’ cried Ciri in a truly spooky tone. ‘I will not! Do you hear me? I will not!’
‘This woman comes from hell!’ Amaranth cleverly jumped over the barrier and immediately circled the arena to distract Ciri from noticing Dreadlocks, who also jumping into the pit. Horsehide jumped across the barrier after Dreadlocks.
‘Unfair play!’ cried the Mayor Pennycuick, and the crowd alongside him. ‘Three against one! Unfair play!’
Bonhart smiled. The Marquise licked her lips and began to move her legs more violently back and forth.
The plan of the three was simple – force the little girl to retreat against the bar, and then two would block her while the third killed her. Nothing came of it. For one simple reason. The girl did not retreat, but attacked.
She slid a pirouette dance between them, so fluid that she barely touched the sand. She hit Dreadlocks in passing, and he fell down right there. She had hit him at the carotid artery. The blow was so light that she did not even lose her rhythm, she was so elegant and so quick that the opposite rotation was over before a single drop of blood had splashed from the newly elongated neck of Dreadlocks. Amaranth, who was behind her, wanted to beat her in the neck, but the treacherous blow hit a parry on the back of the curved sword. Ciri turned off, sprung, and struck a blow with both hands, which was reinforced with a sharp hip flexion to give it even more power. The dark Gnome blade was like a razor, she slit open his hissing and smacking stomach. Amaranth howled and fell huddled in the sand. Horsehide approached and jumped, trying to cut the little girl's throat. She fell, but with a twist. She turned fluently and gave him a short cut with the middle of the blade to split his face, eye, nose, mouth and chin.
The audience roared, whistled, stomped and howled. The Marquise de-Nementh Uyvar put both hands between her clenched legs, licked her glossy lips and laughed in nervous contralto. The Nilfgaardian Captain of the Reserve was as pale as vellum paper. A woman was trying to cover her child's eyes with her hands – he was trying to break free. A gray-haired old grandfather in the front row threw up violently and noisily, his head down between his knees.
Horsehide sobbed with his hands on the face. From under his fingers oozed blood mixed with mucus and saliva. Amaranth was rolling and squealing like a pig. Dreadlocks was trying to claw his way over the bars, which were slippery with the blood that spurted out of him to the beat of his heart.
‘Heeeellp mee!’ wailed Amaranth while frantically trying to hold in his bulging viscera. ‘Coomraaadeesds! Heelp meeeee!’
‘Ple... leeeas... eeaseee...’ Horsehide spat and vomited blood.
‘KILL-THEM! KILL-THEM!’ chanted the crowd and stomped to the beat. The old man who had vomited pushed off his bench and kicked at the balcony.
‘Diamonds to nuts,’ came Bonhart's mocking bass amidst the bustle, ‘that no one dares to go into the arena anymore. Diamonds to nuts, Imbra! Oh, what am I saying – even diamonds to
‘KILL-THEM!’ Roaring, stomping, clapping. ‘KILL-THEM!’
‘Miss!’ Windsor Imbra shouted and waved at his subordinates. ‘Let us gather the wounded! Let us come into the arena and carry them away before they bleed and die! Be a man, young lady!’
‘A man,’ Ciri repeated, as she felt adrenaline bubble up within her. She quickly dominated it by exhaling several times as she had been taught.
‘Come in and get them,’ she said. ‘But come without weapons. You too are human. At least this once.’
‘NO,’ yelled and chanted the crowd. ‘KILL! KILL!’
‘You vile beasts!’ Ciri turned and let her soft eyes wander over the bleachers and benches. ‘You unappreciative pigs! You rascals! You mangy bastards! You want blood? Come on, come on down – taste it and smell it! Lick it before it dries up! Brutes! Vampires!’
The Marquise moaned, began to tremble, rolled her eyes, and leaned softly on Bonhart, without taking her hand from between her thighs. Bonhart frowned and pushed her away, trying not to feel tactless. The crowd howled. Someone threw a half-eaten sausage in the arena, another one threw a boot, and then someone even threw a cucumber at Ciri. She cut the cucumber through the middle with her sword, which was greeted with even greater outcry.
Windsor Imbra and his men lifted Amaranth and Horsehide. When they moved Amaranth, he began to roar. Horsehide, however, fainted. Dreadlocks and Stavro no longer showed any signs of life. Ciri withdrew herself as far as possible, as far as the arena allowed. Imbra's people also strove to keep their distance.
Imbra Windsor stood motionless. He looked at Ciri from under lowered eyelids, but his hand was on the handle of the sword he had promised not to draw when he had entered the arena.
‘No,’ she warned him, almost without moving her lips. ‘I do not want to. Please.’
Imbra was pale. The crowd stomped, roared, and howled.
‘Do not listen to her,’ shouted Bonhart over the noise. ‘Draw your sword! Or else show the world that you're a coward and a pants-pisser! From Alba to the Yaruga people will hear that Windsor Imbra ran away from an underage girl – like a dog with his tail between his legs!’
Imbra’s blade slid an inch from its sheath. ‘No,’ said Ciri. The blade slid back.
‘Coward!’ shouted someone from the crowd. ‘Coward! Chicken shit!’
With a stony face, Imbra approached the edge of the arena. Down in front of him were the outstretched hands of his comrades that had attacked her. He looked back once.
‘You probably already know what awaits you, girl,’ he said quietly. ‘You probably already know who Leo Bonhart is. You probably already know what Leo Bonhart is capable of. What excites him. More will come to face you in the arena. You'll kill for the pleasure of pigs and rags like those here. And even worse. And if it does not entertain them when you kill, or if Bonhart grows bored of the violence perpetrated by you, then he will kill you. He will send so many into the arena that you won’t be able to cover your back. He will rush you, or send dogs. The dogs will tear you apart, the mob will smell blood and applaud, and you will bleed out on the dirty sand. Just as you have done to these ones today. Think on my words.’
Strangely, only now did she notice the little pin on his enameled collar.
An upturned silver unicorn in a black box.
A unicorn.
Ciri lowered her head. She looked at the sword blade.
Suddenly it became very quiet.
‘By the Great Sun,’ suddenly cried Declan Ros aep Maelchlad, the Nilfgaardian Captain of the Reserve, who had hitherto been silent. ‘No. Do not do that, girl. Ne tuv'en que'ss, Luned!’
Ciri swallowed and slowly turned her hand around, resting the hilt on the sand. She bent her knees. With her right hand holding the blade, the tip was aimed precisely under her left breastbone. The blade pierced through her clothing.
Just do not start to cry, thought Ciri as she pressed more strongly against the sword. Just do not cry, there's nothing I would need or want to cry about. A violent movement and it's all over...
‘You cannot do it,’ Bonhart’s voice was heard in the perfect silence. ‘You cannot do it, witcheress. In Kaer Morhen they taught you to kill, so you kill like a machine. Instinctively. To kill yourself takes character, strength, determination, and courage. But that they could not teach you.’
‘As you see, he was right,’ admitted Ciri with difficulty. ‘I have not managed to.’
Vysogota was silent. He held a muskrat pelt. Motionless. He had been sitting so for a long time. He had almost forgotten that pelt existed.
‘I chickened out. I was a coward. And I've paid for it. Like any coward pays. With pain, shame, and disgusting submission. And terrible self loathing…’
Vysogota remained silent.
If someone had managed to sneak at night to the cabin with a sagging thatch roof, and if they had peeked through a crack in the shutters, they would have seen, in the dimly lit interior, a gray-bearded old man and an ash-blonde girl sitting by a fireplace. They would have noticed that both were silently gazing at the glowing ruby red coals.
But no one could see that. The hut with the mossy thatch roof was well hidden in the fog and the haze, amid boundless reeds in the marshes of Pereplut, where no one dared enter.
CHAPTER FIVE
Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed.
Genesis 9:6
Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.
J.R.R. Tolkien
Indeed, it requires great pride and great blindness to call the blood that flows from the scaffold Justice.
Vysogota of Corvo
‘What does a witcher want in my area?’ repeated Fulko Artevelde, the governor of Riedbrune, already visibly impatient with the continuing silence. ‘Where does the witcher come from? What is he looking for? For what purpose?’
Thus ends the pleasure received from doing good deeds, thought Geralt as he stared at the face of the governor, thickened with scars. It ends when you play the merciful, noble witcher for a mob of filthy hillbillies. Thus the desire for luxury leads to a spending the night in an inn, where there is always a spy. These are the consequences of travelling with a gossip-addicted poet. So now I'm sitting in a cell reminiscent of a room without windows, on a hard chair, which is mounted to the floor for interrogation, and I cannot help but notice that there are brackets and straps on the back of this chair. To tie the hands and secure the neck. For now, they aren’t being used. But they are there.
And how the devil am I going to wriggle out of this predicament?
When they finally emerged from the drenched wilderness after five days of travelling with the bee keeper from the river country, it stopped raining – the wind blew apart the fog and the damp mist. The sun broke through the clouds and snow-white mountain peaks sparkled in the sunlight.
Not long ago, the Yaruga River had felt like a significant turning point, a boundary beyond which was the obvious transition to the next, more serious stage of the expedition. They felt it even more so now that they were approaching a limit, a barrier, a place from which retreat seemed their only option. Everyone felt it, especially Geralt. It could not be helped, because from morning to night the mighty, jagged, snow and glacier covered mountains flashed before them to the south, blocking their way. The Amell Mountains. Above the unforgiving mountain range rose the majestic, threatening shape of the Gorgon – the Devil’s Mountain. It towered above the sawtoothed contour of the Amell Range like the blade of a sharp edged obelisk. They did not talk about it, did not discuss it, but Geralt knew everyone was thinking about it. For when he looked at the Amell Range and the Gorgon, it occurred to him that the idea of marching further south was pure madness.
Luckily it suddenly turned out they had no further need to travel south.
The news was brought to them by th
It happened one day after their arrival in the small town of Riedbrune, the destination of bee keepers and trappers of the river country, which was as busy as an anthill. It happened one day after they had taken their leave of the bee keeper, who no longer needed the witcher, and whom the witcher therefore never expected to see again. All the greater was his astonishment.
The bee keeper began by thanking Geralt wordily and handing him a small bag, full of money, to pay his witcher's fees. He accepted, feeling the slightly mocking glances of Regis and Cahir. More than once during the march he had complained to them of human ingratitude, emphasizing how futile and foolish objective altruism was.
And then the excited bee keeper finally told them his news:’So, the mistletoe cutters, that is, the Druids, sir witcher, are sitting in the oak woods on the lake, Loc Monduirn, which is located about thirty-five miles west of here.’
The bee keeper had heard the news while trading honey and wax with a relative, and the relative in turn had heard it from an acquaintance, a diamond hunter. When the bee keeper learned that the Druids were nearby, he came running to tell. And now he was beaming with the contentment, pride, and importance that any liar has when their lie proves to be true by chance.
Geralt had originally planned to strike out immediately for Loc Monduirn, but his companions protested vigorously. Regis and Cahir argued that they should use the money from the bee keeper to replenish their supplies and equipment in the city. Milva added that they should buy some arrows, because they constantly needed to hunt game and she didn’t intend to shoot with sharpened sticks. Dandelion wanted to spend at least one night sleeping in a bed in an inn, where he could bathe and enjoy a nice beer before bedtime.