Baptism of Fire

  ‘The loop.’ Geralt corrected her. ‘The loop of destiny.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Dandelion spat, ‘can you stop talking about relationships and ropes. Once an elf, from the valley of flowers foretold that I was going to hang from a gallows. I certainly do not believe in these cheap prophecies, but two days ago I dreamed I hanged. I woke up completely covered in sweat, I couldn’t swallow or catch my breath. So do not be surprised now that I don’t like listening to talk of the gallows.’

  ‘I was not talking to you, but to the witcher.’ Milva said. ‘And close your ears, so you don’t trap any bugs. Well, Geralt? What do you think of the loop of destiny? If you went into the mossy forest would the event repeat?’

  ‘It is well we turned back.’ He answered curtly. ‘I do not have the slightest desire to repeat that nightmare.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Zoltan shook his head while looking around. ‘We’ve gotten to a charming place, Percival.’

  ‘Fen Carn,’ muttered the gnome, scratching the tip of his long nose. ‘The Meadow of the Tombs… I always wondered where the name came from…’

  ‘Now you know.’

  The broad valley before them was covered in the evening mist. As far as the eye could see, the haze covered a sea of ancient burial mounds and worn boulders. Some of the boulders were the usual shapeless lumps. Others, the menhirs and obelisks, were evenly hewn and squared. Still others, standing closer to the center of the stone forest, were grouped in circles, in a way that excluded the accidental work of nature.

  ‘Certainly,’ continued the dwarf. ‘A charming place to spend the night. An elf cemetery. If I remembered correctly, the witcher, recently mentioned ghouls? Well, know that I can feel them among those tombs. There must be everything. Ghouls, graveirs, vampires, devourers, even elven spirits, the entire troop. All in there. And you know what they are whispering now? There is no need to fetch dinner because it has already come.’

  ‘Why don’t we turn around?’ Dandelion suggested anxiously. ‘Let’s run away while there is still light?’

  ‘I am also of the same opinion.’

  ‘The women are stumbling,’ Milva said angrily. ‘The children fall from their arms. The horses are tired. We must stop, Zoltan, you said before only another half a mile, a mile and a half ago, they need to rest. And now what? You want them to walk a mile back? Shit! Cemetery or no cemetery, they’ll spend the night were they are!’

  ‘Of course,’ Geralt supported the girl, while he dismounted. ‘Don’t panic. Not all necropolises are just swarms of monsters and ghosts. Fen Carn, while I’ve never been here, if something dangerous had occurred, I would have heard about it.’

  No one made a comment, not even Field Marshal Duda. The Kernow women took their children, sat down in a tight crowd, silent and clearly frightened. Percival and Dandelion tethered the horse and let them to graze on lush grass. Geralt, Zoltan and Milva approached the edge of the meadow, watching the cemetery that sank into the shadows and mists.

  ‘To make matters worse, today the moon is full,’ muttered the dwarf. ‘Oh, tonight will be a feast for the ghouls, I can feel it, oh we are going to give… What is that shining in the south? A kind of glow?’

  ‘You know that glow,’ Geralt said. ‘Again, someone had lit thatched roofs over somebody’s head. You know what, Zoltan? Somehow I feel safer here in Fen Carn.’

  ‘I feel it to, but when the sun is up. Hopefully the ghouls let us live up till dawn.’

  Milva fumbled in her saddlebags and pulled out something shiny.

  ‘A silver arrow head.’ She explained to them. ‘I saved it for just this occasion. It cost me five crowns in the bazaar. Can such a thing kill a ghoul, witcher?’

  ‘I don’t think there are ghouls.’

  ‘You said so yourself,’ Zoltan snapped. ‘That the hanged man on the oak was eaten by ghouls. And we are in a cemetery now, where there are ghouls.’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to your word. You’re a witcher, a specialist, you’ll defend us from them, I hope. Do these ghouls fight better than marauders?’

  ‘You can’t compare them. I asked you not to panic.’

  ‘Will this be enough for a vampire?’ Milva turned the silver tip, running her thumb along it to make sure it was sharp. ‘Or a spirit?’

  ‘It might work.’

  ‘On my Sihil,’ Zoltan growled, barring his sword, ‘are etched dwarven runes to an ancient dwarven spell. Any ghoul that gets within the reach of my sword will remember me. You’ll see.’

  ‘Ha.’ Dandelion exclaimed who during their conversation had approached them. ‘So there are the famous secret dwarven runes. What is on the sword?’

  ‘”Go fuck the motherfuckers.”’

  ‘Something is moving between the stones!’ Percival suddenly shouted. ‘Ghoul, ghoul!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There, there! It is hiding behind the rocks!’

  ‘One?’

  ‘I saw only one!’

  ‘It must be hungry as hell to try and get us before night.’ The dwarf spat on his hands and grabbed the hilt of Sihil. ‘Ha! Now they will know that gluttony leads to destruction! Milva, tuck an arrow in his ass and I’ll bag the guts!’

  ‘I see nothing there,’ Milva whispered with the fletching of the arrow resting on her cheek. ‘Nothing but the weeds among the rocks are moving. Could you be mistaken, gnome?’

  ‘No,’ protested Percival. ‘Do you see that boulder that looks like a broken table? The ghoul is hidden there, behind that rock.’

  ‘Stay here.’ Geralt, with a quick movement drew the sword from the sheath on his back. ‘Look after the women and care for the horses. If the ghoul attacks the horses will go crazy. I will go and check it to see what it is.’

  ‘You’re not going alone,’ said Zoltan. ‘The other day in the meadow, I left because I was scared of smallpox. I could not sleep for two nights from the shame. Never again! Percival, where are you going? To the rear? You are the one who saw the ghoul, now you can take the vanguard. Don’t be afraid, I’m right behind you.’

  They stepped carefully among the mounds. They tried to make as little noise in the weeds, which reached above Geralt’s knees, and the dwarf and gnomes waists. As they approached the dolmen, they split up, making it impossible for the ghoul to escape. But their strategy was futile. Geralt knew this would happen: his medallion had not wavered at all.

  ‘There is no one,’ Zoltan said, looking around. ‘Not a soul. It was a hallucination, Percival. A false alarm. You’ve stirred up fear where none was needed; you really do deserve a kick in the ass.’

  ‘I saw it!’ The gnome persisted. ‘I saw it jump between the rocks! He was thin and black as a tax collector…’

  ‘Shut up, stupid gnome, because of you…’

  ‘What is that strange odor?’ Geralt asked suddenly. ‘Do you notice it?’

  ‘You’re right.’ Said the dwarf, sniffing like a bloodhound. ‘It smells weird.’

  ‘Herbs.’ Said Percival, sucking in air through his long sensitive nose. ‘Wormwood, basil, sage, anise… Cinnamon? What the hell?’

  ‘How do ghouls smell, Geralt?’

  ‘Like carrion.’ The witcher looked around quickly, looking for tracks in the grass, then with a few quick steps he returned to the dolmen and tapped the hilt of his sword on the stone. ‘Come out,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I know you are in there. Hurry up, otherwise I’ll stab my sword through the hole.’

  From a perfectly camouflaged pit under the dolmen came a quiet scratching.

  ‘Come out,’ repeated Geralt. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

  ‘Not one hair on your head will fall,’ Zoltan assured in a sweet voice, but with a bloodthirsty look in his eyes, as he reached over his shoulder to grab Sihil. ‘There is nothing to worry about.’

  Geralt shook his head and with a determined gesture order him back. From the hole below the dolmen, came the sound of scratching again and the strong sent of herbs and roots.
After a minute they saw gray-streaked hair followed by a noble face with an impressively crooked nose, which did not belong to a ghoul, but a thin middle-aged man. Percival was not mistaken. The man did in fact look like a tax collector.

  ‘I can go without fear?’ He asked, lifting his black eyes under shaggy graying eyebrows to Geralt.

  ‘You can.’

  The man scrambled out of the hole, brushed his black coat, tied at the waist with something resembling an apron, straighten his canvas bag, causing another wave of herbal scents.

  ‘Gentlemen, I propose that you put away your weapons,’ he said in a calm voice, his eyes searching the surroundings. ‘You will not need them. As you can see, I do not wear a sword. I never do. I also do not carry anything of worth in my pouch. My name is Emiel Regis. I come from Dillingen. I am a surgeon.’

  ‘Of course,’ Zoltan Chivay grimaced slightly. ‘Herbalist, barber or surgeon. No offence, but you smell like an apothecary.’

  Emiel Regis smiled a thin-lipped smile and raised his hands apologetically.

  ‘The smell gave you away, sir surgeon,’ said Geralt, sliding his sword into its sheath. ‘Did you have a specific reason why you were hiding from us?’

  ‘Specific?’ The man turned his black eyes on him. ‘No. Rather a general one. I was simply afraid of you. Such are the times.’

  ‘True enough.’ The dwarf nodded and pointed with his thumb at the glowing sky. ‘Such are the times. I imagine you are a refugee, like us. Curious, however that you ran so far from your home town of Dillingen just to hide here, to conceal yourself among the graves. Well in war, life can become quite a jumble. You’ve frightened us, and we you. Fear has big eyes.’

  ‘For my part,’ the man who had introduced himself as Emiel Regis did not look up at them. ‘There is no threat. I hope the reverse is true.’

  ‘What do you take us for, footpads?’ Zoltan’s beard bristled. ‘We, sir surgeon, we are also refugees. We are heading towards the Temerian border. If you wish, you can join us. The more the merrier, and it is safer than being alone, and a medic could come in handy. We are accompanied by women and children. You don’t happen to have medicines in that stinking bag you carry for skinned feet?’

  ‘Something can be found,’ the surgeon said quietly. ‘I will help as I can. As to journeying together, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not a refugee, gentlemen. I did not flee Dillingen because of the war, I live here.’

  ‘What?’ The dwarf took an involuntary step back. ‘You live here? Here, in the cemetery?’

  ‘The cemetery? Not exactly, I have a hut not far from here. In addition to my house and shop in Dillingen, of course. But I spend the summer here, every year, from June to September, from the solstice to the equinox. I collect medicinal herbs and roots and distill elixirs here…’

  ‘You know about the war,’ said Geralt, ‘even though you live in a remote area, away from the world and its people. How?’

  ‘From the refugees that have passed through. Less than two miles from here along the river Chotla, there is a large camp. Grouped there are a couple of hundred refugees, the villagers of Sodden and Brugge.’

  ‘And the Temerian troops?’ Zoltan said interested. ‘Are they moving forward?’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  The dwarf cursed and then squinted at their new acquaintance.

  ‘So you live here, Mister Regis.’ He drawled. ‘And during the night walk among the graves. Are you not afraid?’

  ‘Why would I be afraid?’

  ‘This gentleman here,’ Zoltan pointed to Geralt, ‘is a witcher. He saw signs of ghouls. Walking corpses, do you understand? And it is known that ghouls tend to be the residents of cemeteries.’

  ‘A witcher,’ the surgeon looked at Geralt with undisguised curiosity. ‘A slayer of monsters. Well that is interesting. Explain to your companions, Sir Witcher, that this necropolis is over a half a millennium old. As for food, ghouls aren’t picky, but after five hundred years of chewing on old bones, they have left.’

  ‘That is one less worry.’ Zoltan said, looking around. ‘Well, Sir Surgeon let me invite you back to our camp. Do you like cold horse meat?’

  Regis looked at them thoughtfully.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said gravely. ‘But I have a better idea. I invite you to my house. My summer home is more than a hut, rather a cabin. It is small though so you’ll have to sleep under the stars. But next to the cabin is a spring with drinking water. And a fireplace where we can heat the horse meat.’

  ‘We accept with pleasure.’ The dwarf bowed. ‘There may not be ghouls here, but the thought of spending the night in a cemetery doesn’t appeal to me. Come on, we’ll introduce you to the rest of our company.’

  As they approached the camp, the horses snorted and beat the ground with their hooves.

  ‘Stand a little upwind, Mister Regis.’ Zoltan threw the medic a meaningful look. ‘The smell of sage frightens the mounts, and to me, I’m ashamed to admit it, I associate it with pulling teeth.’

  ‘Geralt,’ murmured Zoltan as Emiel Regis disappeared behind a hanging curtain, which substituted as a door for his cabin. ‘Let’s keep our eyes open. I do not like this smelly herbalist.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘I’m suspicious of people who spend their summers near cemeteries. Additionally, cemeteries far from human settlements. Don’t herbs grown in pleasanter places? This Regis looks more like a grave robber. Surgeons, alchemists and their kind like digging for corpses so they can later do various experiments on them.’

  ‘Experiments, Zoltan. Such practices are done on fresh corpses. This cemetery is extremely old.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the dwarf scratch his beard thoughtfully, and watched the Kernow women prepare to spend their night under cherry bushes growing around the cabin of the medic. ‘Could it be he is stealing the valuables hidden in the tombs?’

  ‘Ask him.’ Geralt shrugged. ‘You accepted his invitation extending his home to us, without affections, and now, suddenly, you have become as suspicious as an old maid given a compliment.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Zoltan thought. ‘You have a point. But we’re here; we should see what he has in the hut. Oh yes, just to be sure…’

  ‘Get in there and ask to borrow a fork.’

  ‘Why a fork?’

  ‘Why not?’

  The dwarf looked up at him, but finally decided to; he strode to the hut, knocked on the door frame and entered. He spent a long time inside, before he again appeared at the door.

  ‘Geralt, Percival, Dandelion, come see something interesting. Well, go ahead, Regis has invited you.’

  The interior of the cabin was dark and filled with heavy, intoxication smells from bundles of herbs and spices hanging on the walls. The only furniture was a bed, also covered in herbs, and a crooked table, covered with countless glass, earthenware and porcelain bottles. The scant light that allowed them to see it all came from a squat, hourglass-like pot-bellied stove. The stove was wrapped around with a web of glowing tubes, bent into arcs and spirals. Under one of these, was a wooden bowl, which was catching clear liquid falling from the tube.

  Upon seeing the stove, Percival Schuttenbach widened his eyes, opened his mouth and sigh with undisguised awe. ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ he shouted with an enthusiasm that was impossible to hide. ‘What do I see here? A real alchemical calcinator! And on top an alembic equipped with a rectification device and a copper cooler! Beautiful work! Did you build this yourself, master surgeon?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emiel Regis modestly acknowledged. ‘I am dedicated to making elixirs, so I have to distill. To extract the fifth essences, as well as…’

  He paused, seeing Zoltan place his thumb below the tube to catch a drop and then licked it. The dwarf sighed. Even in the darkness, his ruddy face was a picture of indescribably bliss.

  Dandelion could not stand it, so he tasted it too. He moaned softly.

  ‘Fifth essence,’ he said, smacking his lips appreciatively. ‘Maybe even six or se
ven.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ The surgeon smiled slightly. ‘I told you a distillation…’

  ‘Moonshine.’ Zoltan correctly him indignantly. ‘And what a residue. Try it, Percival.’

  ‘But I do not understand organic chemistry.’ The gnome said distractedly, on his knees examining the details of the construction of the alchemical stove. ‘It is doubtful I would recognize the ingredients…’

  ‘It is a distillation of Alraune,’ Regis dispelled his doubts, ‘with the addition of belladonna. The alcohol fermentation enzymes I used…’

  ‘In other words, yeast?’

  ‘You could call it that.’

  ‘Are there any glasses around here?’

  ‘Zoltan, Dandelion.’ The witcher stood with his hands folded across his chest. ‘Are you deaf? The moonshine is made of mandrake. Leave the kettle alone.’

  ‘But dear, Geralt.’ The alchemist dug a small beaker from out of the dusty retorts and bottles and cleaned it thoroughly with a rag. ‘There is no need to fear. The mandrake is correctly cured, and the proportions are carefully selected and accurately weighed. For one pound of yeast I get five ounces of Alraune and only half an ounce of belladonna…’

  ‘It is not about that.’ Zoltan looked at the witcher, he understood the point, he turned serious and carefully backed away from the stove. ‘It is not that, Mister Regis, but about how much the Alraune costs. It is too expensive a drink for us.’

  ‘Mandragora.’ Dandelion whispered admiringly, pointing to the towering pile in a corner booth resembling small bulbs of sugar beets. ‘This is mandrake? True mandrake?’

  ‘The female variety,’ said the alchemist. ‘I find it in abundance in the cemetery, where we met. Which is precisely why I spend my summers here.’

  The witcher looked meaningfully at Zoltan. The dwarf winked. Regis cracked a half smile.

  ‘Please, please, gentlemen, if you like, you are cordially invited to a tasting. I appreciate your tact, but in the current situation I have little chance of bringing elixirs to Dillingen during war. It would all go to waste, and therefore do not talk about prices. Excuse me, but I only have one drinking vessel.’