Sword of Destiny

  ‘No doubt you're right.’ Geralt sat, dislodging the pine needles that had been stuffed into his collar. ‘No doubt you're right, Ciri. The Water of Brokilone, name to name… It seems that the dryads have amused themselves at our expense.’

  He stood, lifted the sword that was lying nearby and buckled his belt around his waist.

  ‘Ciri?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You too, you were amused at my expense.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You are the daughter of Pavetta, the granddaughter of Calanthe of Cintra. You knew from the beginning who I was…’

  ‘No,’ she responded, blushing. ‘Not at first. It's you who disenchanted my papa, isn't it?’

  ‘Not really.’ He shook his head. ‘It was your mother… with the help of your grandmother. I only helped them.’

  ‘But Nanny said… She said that I was the subject of destiny. Because I was the surprise. The child-surprise, Geralt?’

  ‘Ciri.’ He looked into her eyes, nodding and smiling. ‘You can believe me: you are the biggest surprise I have ever met.’

  ‘Ah!’ The girl's face cleared. ‘Then it's true! I am the subject of destiny. Nanny predicted that a witcher would come, that he would have white hair and that he would take me with him. Grandmother cried… How will it be? Where are you taking me, tell me?’

  ‘Home, to Cintra.’

  ‘Really? I thought that…’

  ‘You will think on the road. Let's go, Ciri, we must leave Brokilone. This is not a safe place.’

  ‘But I'm not afraid!’

  ‘Me, I'm afraid.’

  ‘Grandmother said that witchers aren't afraid of anything.’

  ‘Your grandmother was exaggerating. On our way, Ciri. I think I knoow where we…’ He examined the sun. ‘Hmm… Let's take the chance… Let's go that way.’

  ‘No.’ Ciri wrinkled her nose and pointed in the opposite direction. ‘That way. There.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know, that's all,’ she responded, shrugging. She put him under her emerald gaze, astonished and helpless. ‘How… I don't know.’

  Pavetta's daughter, he thought. The child… The Child of Old Blood? It's possible that she inherited this gift from her mother.

  ‘Ciri…’ He unbuttoned his shirt and took out his medallion. ‘Touch it.’

  ‘Oh!’ She opened her mouth wide. ‘It's a terrible wolf. It has fangs…’

  ‘Touch.’ ‘Oh!’

  The witcher smiled, feeling the violent vibration of the medallion and the waves traveling up the silver chain.

  ‘It moved,’ Ciri murmured. ‘It moved!’

  ‘I know. Come on, Ciri. You'll guide us.’

  ‘It's magic, isn't it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  As predicted, the little girl sensed the way forward. In what manner? This, he did not know. Quickly, more quickly than he would have thought, they came to a path that led them to the crossing of three roads. This was the border of Brokilone, at least as was recognized by humans. He remembered that only Eithné did not consider this the case.

  Ciri bit her lip, wrinkled her nose and paused, seeing the sandy roads torn by hooves and wagon wheels. Oriented at last, Geralt could be free of the girl's uncertain suggestions. He took the road east toward Brugge. Ciri, always worried, looked at the road west.

  ‘That way leads to Castle Nastrog,’ he teased. ‘You miss Kistrin?’

  The girl grumbled, catching up to Geralt. She turned again nonetheless, several times.

  ‘What is it, Ciri?’

  ‘I don't know,’ she murmured. ‘This isn't the right path, Geralt.’

  ‘Why? We're going to Brugge, home of King Venzlav who lives in a splendid castle where we will visit the baths and where we will sleep on feather beds…’

  ‘It's not the right path,’ she repeated. ‘No.’

  ‘It's a fact: I've seen the best. Stop brooding, Ciri. Let's go quickly.’

  They turned a corner surrounded by bushes. Ciri was right…

  The soldiers encircled them suddenly, rapidly, on all sides. They wore conical helmets, coats of mail and dark gray tunics sporting the black and gold of Verden. They remained at a distance without drawing their weapons.

  ‘Where do you come from, where are you going?’ someone yelled to Geralt, a squat man with spidery legs in a wide stance, wearing a worn green uniform.

  His face was tanned and wrinkled like a prune. His bow and his white-fletched arrows rose above his head.

  ‘We come from the Scorched Earth,’ lied the witcher, holding Ciri's hand fast. ‘I go home, to Brugge. What is this about?’

  ‘Service of the King,’ the tanned man replied more politely, having noticed the sword on Geralt's back. ‘We…’

  ‘Bring him here, Jughans!’ cried someone who was farther back on the road.

  The soldiers parted.

  ‘Don't look, Ciri,’ Geralt breathed. ‘Turn around. Don't look.’

  A fallen tree blocked the path, cluttering it with branches. The cut and broken base of the trunk, bristling with long shards of white wood, lay in the thicket bordering the path. In front of the tree stood a cart covered by a tarp. Riddled with arrows, entangled in the yoke and the reins, small long-haired horses were lying on the ground, showing their yellow teeth. One of them still lived. It snorted heavily, continuing to kick.

  There were also dead bodies scattered on the bloodstained sand, clinging to the sides of the cart or tangled in the cart wheels.

  Two soldiers, then a third, emerged slowly from the ranks of armed men gathered around the cart. There were about a dozen, motionless, holding their horses.

  ‘What happened?’ asked the witcher. He tried, for Ciri's sake, to hide the scene of the massacre with his body.

  A squinting soldier wearing a short mail coat and high boots watched attentively, scraping his unshaven chin with a rasping sound. On his left forearm he wore the worn and weathered cuff of an archer.

  ‘An attack,’ he said simply. ‘Fairies of the woods killing merchants. We are in charge of the investigation.’

  ‘Fairies would take out merchants?’

  ‘You see for yourself,’ said the squinting soldier, motioning with his arm, ‘they are riddled with arrows, veritable hedgehogs… On the highway! These creatures of the woods are becoming more and more zealous. Soon it will no longer be possible to enter the forest or even come near.’

  ‘And you,’ ventured the witcher, blinking, ‘who are you?’

  ‘The troops of Ervyyll, the decurions of Nastrog. We served under the command of Baron Freixenet, but the Baron fell to Brokilone.’

  Ciri opened her mouth, but Geralt signaled for her to be silent, shaking her hand.

  ‘Blood for blood, I say!’ growled the squint-eyed soldier's companion, a giant with a doublet trimmed in copper. ‘Blood for blood! This is not tolerable. First Freixenet and the Princess of Cintra, now these merchants. By all the gods, vengeance, vengeance I tell you! Otherwise, you will see tomorrow, and the day after, they will kill humans on the steps of their own homes!’

  ‘Brick speaks well,’ continued the squint-eyed soldier. ‘Doesn't he? And you, brother, I ask you: where are you from?’

  ‘From Brugge,’ lied the witcher.

  ‘And this little one, your daughter?’

  Geralt shook Ciri's hand again.

  ‘My daughter.’

  ‘From Brugge…’ Brick frowned. ‘I tell you, brother, that it's your king, Venzlav, who emboldens the monsters. He is not the ally of our Ervyll or of Viraxas of Kerack. If we were fighting on three fronts, we could finally be rid of that breed…’

  ‘How did the massacre happen?’ Geralt asked slowly. ‘Does anyone know? Has a merchant survived?’

  ‘There are no witnesses,’ said the squint-eyed soldier. ‘But we know what happened. Junghans, the ranger, read the traces like a book. Tell him, Junghans…’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the tanned one. ‘It happened like this: the m
erchants were rolling down the highway. They stumbled on the downed tree. See, master, the pine felled in the middle of the road is freshly cut. In the brush, there are traces. You see? And when the merchants came down to move the tree, they were fired on from three different sides. From there, the bushes, where there are twisted birch. And there, there are traces. Arrows, see, it's the work of fairies: fletchings glued with resin, the feathers covered in sap…

  ‘I see,’ the witcher interrupted, looking at the deceased. ‘Some of them, it seems to me, survived the arrows and were slaughtered with knives.’

  From behind the ranks of soldiers standing behind him there came another man, short and thin, dressed in a dashing doublet. He wore his black hair cut very short. His cheeks were shaven and gray. The witcher only needed to look at his small, narrow hands gloved by black mittens, at his fishy eyes, his sword, the handles of stilettos emerging from his waistband and the hem of his left boot… Geralt had seen too many assassins not to recognize another one.

  ‘You have a keen eye,’ the swarthy man said, very slowly. ‘My word, you see many things.’ ‘This is the case,’ said the squint-eyed soldier. ‘He will report what he saw to his king, Venzlav, since it seems that we must not touch the supposedly good and kind fairies. They can certainly be met during the month of May to be kissed. For that, they may be good. We will see if one of them falls into our hands alive.’

  ‘Even half-alive,’ grinned Brick. ‘Plague! Where is the druid? It's almost noon and there's no trace of him. It's time to hit the road.’

  ‘What will you do?’ Geralt asked, without letting go of Ciri's hand.

  ‘How does it concern you?’ the dark one growled.

  ‘Why get worked up, Levecque?’ interrupted the squint-eyed one, laughing horribly. ‘We are honest people. We have no secrets. Ervyll sent us a druid, a great sorcerer who can communicate with trees. He will accompany us to the forest to avenge Freixenet and try to save the princess. This is not a walk, brother, but an expedition, pun… pun…’

  ‘Punitive,’ sighed Levecque.

  ‘Yeah. I had it on the tip of my tongue. Yes, be on your way, brother, because the situation will soon get heated here.’

  ‘Yes,’ Levecque said, looking at Ciri. ‘It's dangerous here, even more so with a little girl. The fairies love them. Huh, kid? Your mother's waiting for you at home?’

  Ciri nodded, trembling.

  ‘It would be a pity if she never saw you again,’ the dark one continued, without looking away. ‘She would no doubt complain to Venzlav: by tolerating the dryads, King, you have condemned my daughter and my husband. Who knows if Venzlav wouldn't renew his alliance with Ervyll then?’

  ‘Leave 'em, Mr Levecque,’ growled Junghans. The creases on his face deepened. ‘Let 'em go.’

  ‘Hello to you, kid.’

  Levecque reached out his hand and stroked Ciri's head. She shuddered and recoiled.

  ‘What? You're afraid?’

  ‘You have blood on your hand,’ the witcher said softly.

  ‘Ah!’ Levecque lifted his arm. ‘Indeed. It 's the merchants' blood. I wanted to see if there were any survivors. The fairies, unfortunately, were thorough.’

  ‘Fairies?’ Ciri said in an unsteady voice, not reacting to the pressure from the witcher's hand. ‘Oh! Sir knight, you are mistaken. It couldn't be dryads!’

  ‘What are you mumbling about, kid?’

  The swarthy man narrowed his pale eyes. Geralt glanced right and left, estimating the distances. ‘They were not dryads, sir knight,’ Ciri repeated. ‘It's obvious!’

  ‘Huh?’ ‘This tree… This tree was cut! With an ax! Dryads never cut a tree, isn't that right?’ ‘That's right,’ Levecque responded, looking at the squint-eyed soldier. ‘Oh! But you're a smart little girl. Too smart.’

  The witcher had spotted the assassin's black-gloved hand creeping like a spider to the handle of his stiletto. Although Levecque's eyes had not once left the little girl, Geralt knew that the first shot would be brought against him. He waited for Levecque to touch his weapon.

  The squint-eyed soldier gasped.

  Three movements. Three, only.

  The silver-studded forearm struck the left side of the swarthy man's head. The witcher found himself between Junghans and the squint-eyed soldier even before Levecque fell to the ground, and his sword, emerging from its sheath with a hiss, sang through the air and struck the temple of Brick, the giant in the copper-trimmed doublet.

  ‘Save yourself, Ciri!’

  The squint-eyed soldier, seizing his sword, jumped aside, but too late. The witcher opened his torso diagonally from top to bottom and then, taking advantage of the energy of the blow, struck instantly, bottom to top, leaving his body branded by a bloody X.

  ‘Guys!’ Junghans yelled at the rest of the troops, which were petrified with astonishment. ‘To me!’

  Ciri reached a twisted beech and climbed like a squirrel to reach the top branches, hiding in the foliage. The ranger fired an arrow in her direction without success. The others began to move. Arranged in a semicircle, they drew their bows and took arrows from their quivers. Geralt, kneeling, extended his fingers to form the Aard sign, not at the too-distant archers but at the sand of the path before them, which blinded them in the whirlwind.

  Junghans pulled a second arrow from his quiver and bounded agilely.

  ‘No!’ Levecque yelled, getting up, armed with a sword in his left hand and a stiletto in his right. ‘Allow me, Junghans!’

  The witcher pivoted smoothly to face him.

  ‘He's mine,’ Levecque continued, shaking his head and wiping his face with his forearm. ‘Only mine!’

  Geralt, leaning, spun in a half circle, but Levecque did not do the same: he attacked directly. They met, cornered.

  He's not bad, thought the witcher, neutralizing with difficulty the rapid movement of the waving blade of the murderer, and deflecting with a half-turn the blow of his stiletto. He did not volunteer a riposte, but leapt to the side, predicting that Levecque would try again and be imbalanced by his wide swing. But the killer was not a novice. He shrank back and also circled with a feline agility. Then he jumped without warning, flashing his sword like a whirlwind. The witcher refused direct confrontation, meeting him with a high and fast parry that forced the killer to recoil. Levecque curled up in preparation for a fourth. He hid one of his stilettos behind his back. The witcher, again, did not attack, did not close the distance, preferring once again to circle around his adversary.

  ‘Every good joke comes to an end,’ Levecque growled between his teeth. ‘What do you say we wrap things up, wise guy. Wrap things up before we cut down your bastard in her tree. What do you think?’

  Geralt had noticed that the murderer was watching his own shadow, waiting until it reached his opponent, meaning that he would be dazzled by the sun. The witcher stopped turning for the killer's convenience.

  His pupils diminished to become two horizontal slits, two tight lines.

  To disguise the change, he squinted as if he had been blinded.

  Levecque jumped, turned, maintaining his equilibrium with the arm wielding a stiletto and struck with a wrist movement that seemed impossible, bottom to top. Geralt shot forward, turned and parried the blow. With an equally impossible movement of his wrist and shoulder, he pushed the killer back with the strength of his parry, which ended in a stroke of his blade along the left cheek of his adversary. Levecque staggered, seizing his face. The witcher turned about-face and, throwing all his weight on his left leg and in a short blow severed the carotid artery. Drenched in blood, Levecque curled up and fell to his knees before pitching head first into the sand.

  Geralt slowly turned to face Junghans. The latter was aiming his bow, grinning terribly. The witcher bent low, grasping his sword in both hands. The other soldiers were also holding their bows in a deathly silence.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ bellowed the ranger. ‘Go! Go!’

  Then he abruptly stumbled, staggered and j
ogged a few steps before collapsing, an arrow through his throat. The fletching was made of tiger pheasant feathers, dyed yellow with a concoction made of bark.

  Arrows sang out from the black wall of the forest, in long and flat arcs. They seemed to glide slowly and peacefully on whistling feathers and not pick up speed and force until the moment of impact. They struck their targets without error, decimating the helpless mercenaries of Nastrog, falling like leaves onto the sandy road, mowed down like sunflowers under the blows of a stick.

  The survivors hurried to the horses, jostling each other. The arrows did not stop whistling. They reached the soldiers as they ran or were already in the saddle. Only three of them managed to bring their horses to a full gallop, shouting and striking the flanks of their mounts. But they didn't go far.

  The forest was closed, blocking the way. The sandy highway, sun-drenched, disappeared behind the wall of dense and impenetrable black trunks.

  The mercenaries spurred their horses. Frightened and bewildered, they tried to turn around, but the arrows fell all the while. They tore through the mounted soldiers amid the sound of trampling, the neighing of horses and shouting.

  Then there was silence.

  The wall of the forest enclosing the highway shimmered, faded, flashed with all the colors of the rainbow and disappeared. The road was visible again. There appeared a horse with a gray coat was ridden by a powerful blond-bearded horseman, wearing a seal jacket belted by a strip of plaid wool.