The Tower of the Swallow by Andrzej Sapkowski
‘Nothing to worry about,’ she said slyly. ‘They just shot off your ear.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. I really like this ear. Give me a bandage, blood is flowing down my collar. Where is Dandelion and Angouleme?’
‘In the cabin with the pilgrims... Oh, shit.’
From the fog emerged three riders on war steeds, their coats and banners fluttering in the wind. Geralt was expecting their battle cry. But Milva grabbed him and dragged him under a wagon. There was no joking with someone who rode up armed with a length of spear fourteen feet long, giving them an effective range of ten feet in front of their horse’s head.
‘Out’ the horses of the knights kicked the ground around the wagon. ‘Throw down your weapons and come out!’
‘We will be hanged,’ Milva muttered.
She could be right.
‘Ha, scoundrels!’ thundered the knight with a black bull’s head on his silver shield ‘On my honor, you will hang!’
‘On my honor!’ supported the youthful voice of another, with a blue coat. ‘Right here we are going to tear you apart!’
‘Hey! Stop!’
Out of the fog came the Knight of Chess. He was finally able to lift the visor on his twisted helmet, from underneath it came a now abundant mass of whiskers.
‘Release them immediately,’ he called. ‘They are not bandits, but honest people. She fearlessly defend the pilgrims like a man. And her partner is a good knight, I vouch for him.’
‘A good knight?’ Bull’s head lifted the visor on his helmet, and look at Geralt incredulously. ‘On my honor! This cannot be’
‘On my honor!’ the Knight of Chess hit his armored fist onto his breastplate. ‘It is true. This valiant knight helped me when I was in trouble, when I was outnumbered by those scoundrels who threw me to the ground. He is called, Geralt of Rivia.’
‘Coat of Arms?’
‘I must not disclose,’ growled the witcher, ‘my real name, nor coat of arms. I made a vow of chivalry. Now I am errant Geralt.’
‘Ooo!’ suddenly shouted a familiar cheeky voice. ‘Look what the cat dragged in! Ha, I told you, auntie that the witcher would come to our rescue!’
‘And just in time!’ Dandelion shouted, coming up together with Angouleme and a small group of pilgrims, a lute in one hand and his trusty pipe in the other. ‘And not a second too soon. You have a sense of drama, Geralt. You ought to write works for the theatre!’
He stopped suddenly. Bull’s head leaned forward in his saddle, his eyes flashing.
‘Viscount Julian?’
‘Baron de Peyrac-Peyran?’
Two more knights emerged from the oaks. The first, with a helmet adorned with a swans white wings, led two prisoners tied by a rope. The second knight-errant, a practical man, had prepared a noose and went to look for good branches.
‘Neither of them Nightingale,’ Angouleme pointed out to the witcher, ‘or Schirrú. It’s a pity.’
‘A pity,’ admitted Geralt, ‘but I will try to fix it. Sir Knight...’
But Bull’s head – or rather Baron de Peyrac-Peyran, was not paying any attention to him. He saw, it seemed, only Dandelion.
‘On my honor,’ he drawled. ‘Do my eyes deceive me? This is Viscount Julian himself. Ha! The duchess will be delighted.’
‘Who is this Viscount Julian?’ asked the witcher, intrigued.
‘I am,’ Dandelion said under his breath. ‘Do not meddle in this, Geralt.’
‘On my honor, duchess Anarietta will be delighted,’ repeated the baron. ‘We will take all of you to her castle Beauclair. And no excuses, Viscount, I will hear no excuses!’
‘A few of the deserters have fled,’ Geralt said in a cold tone. ‘I propose we capture them first. Then think about what to do with a day that began so interesting. What do you say Lord Baron?’
‘On my honor, nothing will come of it,’ Bull’s head said with regret. ‘Pursuit is impossible. The criminals have fled across the river, and we will not plant even the tip of a horse’s hoof on the other side. That part of the forest Myrkvid is an untouchable sanctuary, and in the spirit of the treaties signed with the Druids by our beloved Duchess Anna Henrietta...’
‘The bandits have fled there, dammit!’ Geralt interrupted angrily. ‘They will kill the untouchable sanctuary! And you’re telling me that we cannot defend it...’
‘We gave our word of honor!’ said Baron Peyrac-Peyran, as it turned out, was more worthy of carrying a ram’s head instead of a bull. ‘It is not allowed! The treaties! Not a foot on the ground of the Druids!’
‘It is them who are not allowed, not permitted,’ snorted Angouleme, taking the reins of two of the bandits horses. ‘Leave this empty chatter, witcher. Come on. I still have some outstanding accounts with Nightingale, and you, so I guess, would still like to have a chat with a certain half-elf.’
‘I’m going with you,’ said Milva. ‘As soon as I find myself a horse.’
‘Me too,’ blurted Dandelion. ‘I, too, am with you...’
‘Oh, not you won’t!’ cried the baron. ‘On my honor, Viscount, you will ride with us to Beauclair. The duchess would not forgive us if we let you go without bring you to her. I am not going to stop the rest of you, you have complete freedom in your intensions and plans. As companions of Viscount Julian, he worship Duchess Anarietta would receive you with honors at the castle, but if you scorn the hospitality...’
‘We do not scorn,’ Geralt interrupted him, throwing Angouleme a threatening look, who performed behind the Baron, different disgusting and offensive gestures. ‘We are not scorning. We will certainly go to the duchess and offer her the tribute she deserves. But first we must take care of what we have to do. We have also given our word. As soon as we finish, we will promptly make our way to Beauclair Castle. We will go there without fail.’
‘If only,’ he added significantly and emphatically, ‘to ensure that no discredit or dishonor is caused by our friend Dandelion. That is to say, Julian.’
‘On my honor!’ the baron smiled suddenly. ‘No dishonor or discredit will be caused by Viscount Julian, I give my word. I forgot to tell you, Viscount, Count Rajmund died of apoplexy two years ago.’
‘Ha, ha!’ Dandelion shouted, his face suddenly radiant. ‘So the count died of apoplexy? What happy and joyful news... That is, I meant sad and sorrowful... Let him rest in peace... However, if this is so, let us go to Beauclair swiftly, gentlemen! Geralt, Milva, Angouleme, we will be at the castle!’
The forded the river, spurring their horses into the woods, among the spreading oaks, the ferns reached up to their stirrups. Milva effortlessly found the trail of the band of fugitives. They travelled as fast as possible – Geralt feared for the Druids. He feared that the remnants of the bandits, feeling safe, would take their revenge on the knights of Toussaint by massacring the Druids.
‘What do you have to say about Dandelion?’ Angouleme said. ‘When Nightingale had us surrounded in the cabin he told me why he was afraid of Toussaint.’
‘I had imagined,’ said the witcher. ‘I just didn’t know he had aimed so high. A duchess, ha, ha!’
‘It was quite a few years ago. Count Rajmund, the one who kicked the bucket, apparently swore that he would rip out the heart of the poet, cook it and send it to the Duchess and make her eat it. Dandelion was lucky not to have fallen into the clutches of the Count while he was still alive. And we are lucky...’
‘That remains to be seen.’
‘Dandelion says the Duchess Anarietta loves him to madness.’
‘Dandelion always says that.’
‘Close your mouths!’ Milva barked, pulling on her reins and reaching for her bow.
Dodging from oak to oak, speeding towards them was a bandit, he had no hat, no weapons and he ran blindly. He ran, tripped over, got up and ran again. He screamed. A shriek that was piercing and horrible.
‘What is it?’ Angouleme, was amazed.
Milva tightened the bow in silence. But did not shoot, she waited
They saw his face, white as a sheet and distorted by fear, eyes bulging.
‘What the hell?’ repeated Angouleme.
Milva shook herself out of her stupor, turned in her saddle and launched an arrow into his back. The bandit screamed and fell into the ferns.
The earth shook. From a nearby oak, acorns rained.
‘I wonder,’ said Angouleme, ‘what he was fleeing from...’
The earth shook again. The bushes snapped and branch broke and creaked.
‘What is that?’ Milva wailed, standing in the stirrups. ‘What is it, witcher?’
Geralt stared, saw and took a deep breath. Angouleme saw it too. And paled.
‘Oh, shit!’
Milva’s horse saw it too. It whinnied in panic, going on two legs and kicking. The archer flew from the saddle and fell heavily on the ground. The horse ran into the woods. Geralt’s mount began to gallop back the way they came without prompting, which was bad luck as he chose a path under an oak with a low hanging branch. The branch swept the witcher out of the saddle. The shock and pain in his knee almost deprived him of consciousness.
Angouleme managed to stay on her prancing horse the longest, but ultimately, she was thrown to the ground. The runaway horse nearly trampled Milva as she tried to rise.
At that moment they saw clearly what approached them and they ceased to be amazed by the panic of the animals.
The creature resembled a tree, a gnarled knotted oak. Or maybe it really was an oak. But unlike a typical oak, instead of standing there is a field calmly among the fallen leaves and acorns, instead of allowing squirrels to race across it branches, the oak was walking briskly through the woods, trampling strong roots and breaking branches. The stocky trunk, or torso of the monster had to be about two fathoms in diameter and the beak protruding from it was perhaps not a beak, but rather a mouth, because it opened and closed with a sound reminiscent of heavy doors shutting.
Although under the terrible weight the earth trembled so that it was difficult to maintain balance, the monster crossed a ravine with breathtaking agility. But did not do this without purpose.
Before their eyes the waving branches and twigs snapped towards a fallen tree and pulled out the bandit hiding there as deftly as a stork, when hunting frogs in the grass. Wrapped in the branches, the bandit remained suspended, screaming until even they pitied him. Geralt saw that the monster already had three other bandits hanging the same way. And one Nilfgaardian.
‘Run...’ he groaned, trying in vain to stand. He felt that someone was hammering his knee with white hot nails. ‘... Milva, Angouleme... Run...’
‘We will not leave you here!’
The tree creature must have heard, because it happily stamped it roots and hurried towards them. Angouleme, when she failed to lift the witcher, cursed vulgarly. Milva with shaking hands was trying to put an arrow on the bowstring, as if that could somehow help.
‘Run!’
I was too late. The tree creature was already upon them. Paralyzed with fear, they could now see his booty, four bandits who were hung on the branches. Two were alive, and emitting a terrible howling and shaking their legs. The third, perhaps unconscious, hung helplessly. The creature, was obviously trying to capture its prey alive. But with the four prisoner, this did not work out, perhaps he had inadvertently squeezed to tightly, as they could see his eyes popping out, his tongue protruding from his mouth and blood and vomit staining his beard.
In the next instant they hung in the air, surrounded by branches and shouting at the top of their lungs.
‘Hush, hush, hush,’ they heard from below, from among the roots. ‘Be careful, tree.’
From behind the tree creature, walked a young druid girl dressed in white with a wreath of flowers in her hair.
‘Do not hurt, tree, do not squeeze. Gently. Hush, hush, hush.’
‘We are not bandits,’ Geralt groaned from above, barely able to speak as the braches were tight across his chest. ‘Tell it to release us... We are innocent...’
‘Everyone says the same,’ the Druidess chased away a butterfly that hovered near her eyebrow. ‘Hush, hush, hush.’
‘I’ve pissed myself...’ groaned Angouleme. ‘Damn it all, I pissed myself!’
Milva just grunted. Her head dropped to her chest. Geralt cursed outrageously. It was all he could do.
The tree creature, spurred by the Druidess, moved through the forest. During the march, all those who were conscious, felt their teeth chattering with footsteps of the tree creature. They soon came to a large clearing. Geralt saw a group of white dress Druids here and a second tree creature. This one had a poorer catch, in its branches hung only three bandits, which out of them only one was alive.
‘Criminals, murderers, unworthy people,’ said one of the druids from below, an old man leaning on a long stick. ‘Take a good look. See what punishment awaits those who enter Myrkvid forest as criminals and unworthy. Look and remember it. I let you go so you can tell others what you will see in a moment. As a warning.’
In the centre of the clearing, stood a tall pile of logs and branches. On it, supported by stakes, stood a large wicker cage which was in the shape of a wooden doll. The cage was full of people screaming and sobbing. The witcher clearly heard the cries of the hoarse, frog voice of the bandit Nightingale filled with fear. He could see the pale, terrified face of the half-elf Schirrú, pressed against the wicker lattice.
‘Druids,’ Geralt shouted with as much strength as he could to be heard above the imprisoned bandits. ‘Lady Flaminica! I am the witcher, Geralt!’
‘Who is calling me?’ said a tall, thin woman from below. Steel grey hair fell to her shoulders and just above her forehead was a sprig of mistletoe.
‘I am... The witcher, Geralt... Friend of Emiel Regis...’
‘Repeat, I did not hear.’
‘Geraaaaalt! The vampire’s friend.’
‘Ah! You should have said so before!’
At a signal from the steel-haired Druidess the tree creature lowed them to the ground. Not very gently. They fell down, none of them able to stand on their own. Milva was unconscious, blood running from her nose. Geralt got up with difficulty and knelt over her.
The steel-haired flaminica stood next to him and cleared her throat. Her face was very thing, even emaciated, arousing an unpleasant association with a skull covered with skin. Her eye as blue as cornflowers were kind and sweet.
‘I think she has a broken rib,’ she said, looking down at Milva. ‘But I have a cure. I will give it to her to aid in healing. I regret what has happened. But how was I to know who you were? No one invited you to come to Caed Myrkvid and you were not given permission to enter our sanctuary. Emiel Regis is a testament to you, true, but the presence in our forest of a witcher, a murderer paid to kill living...’
‘I’ll leave here without a moment’s delay, honorable flaminica,’ said Geralt. ‘If only...’
He stopped when he saw the burning torches being carried by Druids towards the wicker doll full of people.
‘No!’ he shouted, clenching his fists. ‘Stop!’
‘The cage,’ said the flaminica as if she didn’t hear, ‘was originally used as winter pasture for the starving animals and used to stand in the forest full of hag. But when we capture these bandits, I remembered the nasty rumors and slander that people used to say about us. Well, I thought, you will have your wicker hag. You invented your nightmare, Now I will show it to you...’
‘Order them to stop,’ whispered the witcher. ‘Honorable flaminica... Do not burn... One of these bandits has information important to me...’
The flaminica laid a hand on his chest. Her eyes were kind and sweet.
‘Oh no,’ she said dryly. ‘Not at all. I do not believe in the institution of the crown witness. Providing an offender impunity from punishment is immoral.’<
‘Stop!’ cried the witcher, ‘Do not light the fire! Stop...’
The flaminica made a brief gesture with her hand and the tree creatures, who were still around, stomping their roots, reached down and put a branch on the witcher’s shoulder. Geralt sat down heavily.
‘Set it on fire!’ the flaminica ordered. ‘Sorry, witcher, but it is as it should be. We Druids, we value and honor life in all its forms. But to leave criminals alive is simple nonsense. Criminals are only afraid of fear. So we’ll give them a lesson in fear. In the hope that we will not have to give a similar lesson, ever again.’
The brushwood between the crossbar immediately caught flame. The sound from inside the wicker hag made his hair stand on end. Of course it was not possible, but Geralt still seemed to hear, above the roar and crackle of the fire the sound of the half-elf Schirrú screaming.
He was right, he thought, death is not always the same.
And then, after a desperately long time, the stack exploded and the wicker hag was caught in a roaring furnace in which nothing could survive.
‘Your medallion, Geralt,’ Angouleme said, standing next to him.
‘What?’ he coughed because his throat was tight. ‘What did you say?’
‘Your silver wolf medallion. Schirrú had it with him. Now you’ve lost it for good, it would have melted in the heat.’
‘I cannot be helped,’ he said after a moment, looking into the cornflower eyes of the flaminica. ‘I’m not a witcher. I ceased to be a witcher. In Thanedd at the Tower of the Seagull. In Brokilon. At the bridge over the Yaruga. In the cave in the Gorgon. And here in the forest of Myrkvid. No, I’m not a witcher. So I have to learn to live without a Witcher’s Medallion.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The king loved his wife, the queen, without limit, and she loved him with all her heart. Something like that could only end in disaster.
Flourens Delannoy
Fairytales and Stories
Delannoy, Flourens (1432-1510) – Linguist and historian. Born in Vicovaro, secretary and librarian to the imperial court from 1460 to 1475. Tireless researcher into legends and folklore, author of numerous important treatises considered to be seminal works of linguistic history and literature from the northern regions of the Empire. Among his most important works, one could cite: Myths and Legends of the Nordlings, Fairytales and Stories, Surprise or Myth of Elder Blood, The Witcher Saga, as well as The Witcher and the Witcheress, or a search unending. Beginning in 1476, he officiates as professor at the academy of Castel Graupian where he dies in 1520.