The Tower of the Swallow

  ‘You have an incredible talent for simplifying, Dandelion,’ muttered, Cahir. ‘Do you really not understand what is at stake? Or are you just talking to talk?’

  ‘Shut up, Nilfgaardian. Geralt?’

  ‘Let's start’ – the witcher threw a twig he had played for a long time into the fire -’with the fact that this is my plan and I do not need anyone’s help. I can do it alone. Without acolytes or famuli.’

  ‘You've got guts, Uncle,’ Angouleme made herself heard. ‘But there are twenty-four men, also with guts, in Nightingale’s Hanse. They will not be easily intimidated – even by a witcher. And when it comes to a sword fight, even if everything they say about witchers is true, a single man cannot stand against two dozen. You saved my life, so I will repay you in kind. By warning you. And helping you.’

  ‘What the hell – a Hanse?’

  ‘Aen Hanse,’ said Cahir, ‘in our language, means an armed crew, but one that is held together by friendships...’

  ‘A secret society?’

  ‘Something like that. The word, as I’ve heard it in the local jargon…’

  ‘A Hanse is a Hanse,’ broke in Angouleme. ‘Or you could say a gang or a clique. But that’s not important. What is important is my warning. One person has no chance against a whole Hanse. Moreover, Nightingale has many friends and allies in Belhaven and the surrounding area. And if you don’t know the way, there are several paths that do not lead to the city. I tell you: The witcher will not succeed alone. I don’t know what customs prevail with you, but I will not leave the witcher in the lurch. He accepted me into your company, like Uncle Dandelion said, ‘willingly and without any conditions’, even though I'm a criminal... my hair still stinks of prison, because I haven’t been able to wash it yet... The witcher and no one else brought me out of there. I am grateful to him. Therefore, I will not let him down. I will bring him to Belhaven, to Nightingale, and to this half-elf. I will go along with him.’

  ‘I, too,’ Cahir said immediately.

  ‘And I likewise!’ Milva said fiercely.

  Dandelion pressed the tube with the manuscripts to his chest. He had not separated from it recently, even for a moment. You could tell that he was struggling with his thoughts. And the thoughts of what the gains would be.

  ‘Do not meditate, poet,’ Regis said softly. ‘There's nothing to be ashamed of. You are even less vindicated to participate in a bloody fight of swords and knives than me. We were not taught to cripple our neighbors with iron. In addition... I'm also...’ he advised the witcher and Milva with flashing eyes. ‘I'm a coward,’ he confessed shortly. ‘If I do not have to, I do not want to go through something like that time on the barge and the bridge again. Never again. And I ask to be exempted from the battle group that goes to Belhaven.’

  ‘From that barge and bridge,’ Milva replied flatly, ‘you carried me out on your back when my legs were so weak that they buckled. If there would have been a coward in your place, he would have fled and left me alone. But there was no coward. There was only you, Regis.’

  ‘Well said, Aunty,’ said Angouleme convinced. ‘I don’t quite understand what’s being discussed, but it was well said.’

  ‘I'm not your aunt!’ Milva’s eyes sparkled threateningly. ‘Watch it, lady! Call me that again and you'll see!’

  ‘What will I see?’

  ‘Silence!’ barked the witcher sharply. ‘Enough, Angouleme! I see I need to call all of you to order. The time of wandering at random, into the blue, just because there might be something in the blue, is gone. It’s time for concrete action. Time to cut throats. Because finally there is someone’s throat that we can cut. Those who have not yet registered should understand – at last we have an actual enemy within reach. A half-elf, who wants us dead, an agent of our enemy’s forces. Thanks to Angouleme, we were warned and identified risk – ‘danger averted’, as the saying goes. I need to get this half-elf and squeeze out of him whose orders he is acting on. Do you finally understand, Dandelion?’

  ‘Apparently,’ the poet said calmly, ‘I understand more and better than you. Without covert squeezing I can imagine that that mysterious half-elf is acting on the commands of Dijkstra, whose ankle you shattered in front of my eyes on Thanedd. According to the report of Marshal Vissegerd, Dijkstra has no doubts that we are Nilfgaardian spies. And after our escape from the Lyrian Corps and Queen Meve, a few points are guaranteed to be added to our list of crimes...’

  ‘Wrong, Dandelion,’ put Regis softly. ‘It is not Dijkstra. Nor Vissegerd. Nor Meve.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Any judgment, any conclusion would be premature.’

  True,’ said the witcher coldly. ‘That case must be examined on the spot. And the conclusions can be drawn from the autopsy.’

  ‘But I,’ insisted Dandelion, ‘still consider this idea to be stupid and risky. It is fortunate that we were warned of the ambush that we know of the half-elf. Now that we know, we can take a big detour around it. This elf or half-elf can wait for us while we continue our way quickly...’

  ‘No,’ interrupted the witcher. ‘That’s the end of the discussion, my friend. The end of the anarchy. It is time for our... Hanse... to finally get a leader.’

  Everyone, except for Angouleme, looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Myself, Angouleme, and Milva,’ he said, ‘will ride to Belhaven. Cahir, Regis, and Dandelion will turn at the Sansretour Valley and ride to Toussaint.’

  ‘No,’ said Dandelion, quickly and firmly grabbing his tube. ‘Not at any price. I cannot...’

  ‘Shut up. This is not a discussion. That was a command from the leader of this Hanse! Ride to Toussaint – you, Regis, and Cahir. Wait for us there.’

  ‘Toussaint means death to me,’ the troubadour said weakly. ‘If I am recognized at the castle in Beauclair, I'm done. I must reveal to you...’

  ‘You must not,’ the witcher cut him off. ‘Too late. You could have pulled back, but you didn’t want to. You stayed in the company. To save Ciri. Right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, you will ride through the Sansretour Valley with Regis and Cahir. You will be in the mountains waiting for us – do not exceed the borders of Toussaint yet. But when... But if it proves necessary, then exceed them. For apparently the Druids from the Caed Dhu are in Toussaint. If it proves necessary, you will obtain the information from the Druids and go on looking for Ciri... alone.’

  ‘What do you mean by ‘alone’? You can’t expect that...’

  ‘I do not expect, but I am taking every possibility into account. For all cases. It is the last resort, if you will. Maybe it will all go well and you won’t need to pass into Toussaint. But in the other case... It is important because the Nilfgaardians will not pursue you into Toussaint.’

  ‘True, they won’t’ added Angouleme. ‘It's weird, but Nilfgaard respects the boundaries of Toussaint. I hid there from pursuers once. But the knights there are no better than the blacks! The talk nobly and politely, but they are quick to use their lances and swords. And they patrol the border constantly. They are called ‘knights-errant’. They ride alone, in pairs, or in threes. And they destroy the rabble. Which is us. Witcher, you should make one change to your plans.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If anyone is going to ride Belhaven and to Nightingale, it should be me, you and Lord Cahir. And Aunty should ride with the others.’

  ‘Why?’ Geralt calmed Milva with a gesture.

  ‘Because we need guys for this. What's the matter, Aunt? I know what I’m talking about! If we get that far, we might be able to intimidate them rather than using force. And no one in Nightingale’s Hanse would be afraid of three people when two of them are women.’

  ‘Milva rides with us.’ Geralt’s fingers clasped the shoulder of the archer, who was furious. ‘Milva, not Cahir. I do not want to ride with Cahir.’

  ‘And why not?’ Asked Angouleme and Cahir almost simultaneously.

  ‘Indeed,’ Regis said slowly. ‘Why not?’
br />   ‘Because I do not trust him,’ the witcher said shortly.

  The ensuing silence was awkward, heavy, almost sticky. The sounds of raised voices, shouting, and singing, carried over from the forest, where a merchant caravan had camped with another group of travelers.

  ‘Explain that,’ Cahir said.

  ‘Someone’s betrayed us,’ the witcher said dryly. ‘After speaking with the governor and hearing Angouleme’s information there is no doubt. And if you think about it, you come to the conclusion that there is a traitor among us. It’s easy to guess who.’

  ‘It seems to me’ – Cahir drew his eyebrows together -’that you are hinting that I am a traitor.’

  ‘I do not hide’ – the voice of the witcher was cold -’that the idea occurred to me, anyway. There is good evidence. It would explain much. Very much.’

  ‘Geralt,’ said Dandelion. ‘Aren’t you going a bit too far?’

  ‘Let him talk.’ Cahir pursed his lips. ‘Let him talk. Let him do what he wants.’

  ‘We have all wondered,’ – Geralt let his eyes wander over the faces of his companions -’about the alleged calculation error. You know what I mean. That we were four, not five. We thought that someone had simply made a mistake – the mysterious half-elf, or Nightingale, or Angouleme. But when one discards the version with the error? Then the next explanation arises: The team consists of five people, but Nightingale is only supposed to kill four. Because the fifth is the assassin’s accomplice. Someone who has constantly informed him about the movements of the company. From the beginning, from that moment the company was formed after eating the famous fish soup. When it enrolled in its ranks a Nilfgaardian. A Nilfgaardian, who wants to bring Ciri into his power so he can pass her to his Emperor Emhyr, because his life and future career depend on this…?’

  ‘So I was not wrong,’ Cahir said slowly. ‘I am a traitor. A vicious, duplicitous traitor?’

  ‘Geralt,’ Regis rejoined the discussion. ‘Forgive my frankness, but your version is as full of holes as an old sieve. And your way of thinking, as I've already told you, is ugly.’

  ‘I am a traitor,’ repeated Cahir, as if he had not heard the vampire’s words. ‘From what I understand, however, there is no evidence of my betrayal – there are only the vague suspicions and presumptions of this witcher. From what I understand, the burden falls on me to prove my innocence. I'll have to prove that I am not a horse. Yes?’

  ‘Without pathos, Nilfgaardian,’ growled Geralt, who stood before Cahir and fixed his eyes on him. ‘If I had a proof of your guilt, I would waste no time talking, but cut you into pieces like a herring! Do you know the principle of Cui Bono? Then tell me: Who else but you would have the slightest reason to betray us? Who else but you would benefit from a betrayal?’

  There was a loud, sustained roar from the camp of the merchant caravan. The black sky exploded with sparkling red and gold stars. The fireworks shot like a swarm of golden bees and fell as a colorful rain.

  ‘I'm not a horse,’ said the young Nilfgaardian in a powerful sounding voice. ‘Unfortunately, I cannot prove it. But I can do something else. That which I do when I or something that I own is insulted – when my honor and dignity are kicked to the dirt and defiled.’

  His motion was lightning fast, but he wasn’t fast enough to strike the witcher, at least he wouldn’t have been if not for the witcher’s painful and aggravated knee. Geralt did not completely succeeded with his dodge, and the gloved fist hit him on the cheek with such force that he fell right back into the fire, sending sparks flying. He jumped up, slowed again by the pain in his knee. Cahir was already with him. And this time the witcher was not able to dodge him at all. Cahir thundered his fist against the side of his head, and colorful fireworks flashed before his eyes, even more beautiful than those of the merchants. Geralt spat a filthy curse and threw himself at Cahir, embracing him with his arms and throwing him to the ground, where they rolled in the gravel and crashed fists.

  And all the while the sky was exploding with the spooky and unnatural light of artificial fire.

  ‘Stop it!’ roared Dandelion. ‘Stop it, you are both damned idiots!’

  Cahir struck Geralt, who was trying to get up, and knocked him off his feet again. The blow positively boomed. Geralt turned over, pulled up, and kicked him in the hip. Again they rolled around, one over the other, beating each other, blinded by the blows just as much as the dust and sand in their eyes.

  And suddenly they parted, rolling away in different directions, hands curled above their heads to protect themselves against the whistling blows raining down on them.

  Milva had removed the wide leather belt from her hips and wrapped the buckle once around her hand. She ran to the fighters and began to beat them with all her strength, sparing neither her arm nor the belt. The belt whistled and clapped as it met with hands, shoulders, back, or arms – sometime’s Cahir’s, sometimes Geralt’s. When they parted, Milva jumped back and forth between them like a grasshopper, still continuing to whip them, one no more than the other.

  ‘You stupid jerks!’ She cried, and sent a blow crashing onto Geralt’s back. ‘You stupid jerks! I'll bring you to reason, both of you!’

  ‘Enough?’ She shouted even louder, while Cahir covered his head with one of his hands. ‘Are you ready to act reasonably? Have you calmed down?’

  ‘Ready!’ bellowed the witcher. ‘Enough!’

  ‘Enough,’ agreed Cahir, curled up. ‘Enough!’

  ‘It's enough,’ said the vampire. ‘It really is, Milva.’

  The archer was breathing heavily, rubbing her forehead with the hand that had the belt wrapped around it.

  ‘Bravo,’ Angouleme let herself be heard. ‘Bravo, Aunty.’

  Milva turned on her heel and swung the belt with full force at her shoulder. Angouleme shrieked, fell down, and began to cry.

  ‘I told you,’ Milva came out breathing hard, ‘not to call me that again. I told you!’

  ‘Nothing’s happened!’ Dandelion somewhat shakily assured the merchants and travelers, who had come running from their nearby fires. ‘Just a little misunderstanding among friends. A difference of opinion among friends. Already settled!’

  The witcher touched a loose tooth with his tongue and spit out the blood that flowed from his split lip. He could already feel swollen welts forming on his back and arms. One grew on his ear, seemingly the size of a cauliflower. Beside him, Cahir raised himself off the ground, quite inelegantly. Cahir held his cheek and swollen welts were visible on his bare.

  A stinking rain of brimstone fell to the ground, the ashes of the last fireworks.

  Angouleme was holding her shoulder and sobbing pitifully. Milva dropped the belt, knelt down, and after a brief moment of hesitation silently hugged herself.

  ‘I suggest’ the vampire said coldly, ‘that everyone keeps their hands to themselves. I suggest we never, absolutely never, come back to this subject.’

  Unexpectedly, a wind began to blow and whistle from the mountains, in which, it seemed, played some ghostly screams, cries, and lamentations. The clouds scudding across the sky took on fantastic shapes. The moon turned red as blood.

  They were awakened before dawn by the furious rush of wings and a choir of goat milkers.

  They left just after sunrise, because later the sun would reflect on the snow covered mountain tops with blinding bright light. They started long before the sun could show on the peaks. And incidentally, the sky was covered with clouds long before that could happen.

  They rode through forests, the road always climbing higher and higher, which was noticeable by the change in the trees. Oak and hornbeam suddenly stopped, and in their place rose the darkness of beech trees. The ground smelled of mildew and was padded with fallen leaves, cobwebs, and fungi. Mushrooms were in abundance. The wet end of the summer had produced a veritable flood of fungus. In place, the beech trees almost disappeared under the hats of mushrooms, toadstools, and fly agaric.

  The beech woods were quiet;
it looked as if most of the birds had moved away. Only the caws of crows soaked the edges of the thickets.

  Then listened to the silence, and then suddenly spruce appeared. It started to smell of resin.

  More and more, they came upon bare hills and ridges, where the wind pounced on them. The Newi River foamed over swells and cascades, and its water became crystal clear despite the rain.

  The Gorgon loomed on the horizon. Ever nearer.

  Glaciers and snow flowed down from the jagged edges of the mighty mountain, which made the Gorgon look as if it were wrapped in white shawls. The summit of the Devil’s Mountain was constantly surrounded by clouds, as if they were veiling the head and neck of a mysterious bride. Sometimes, however, the Gorgon shook like a dancer in her white dress – a beautiful but deadly sight: The avalanches tumbled down the steep mountainsides and swept away everything in their path – all the way down to the stone slopes of the mountain base and on to the Theodula pass, then through the Newi and Sansretour Valleys, ending in the black eyes of the mountain lakes.

  The sun finally emerged the clouds, but it didn’t stay for long – soon after it disappeared behind the mountains in the west, making the sky glow with purple and gold flames.

  They spent the night. The sun came up.

  And then it was time to separate.

  He carefully wriggled Milva’s silk scarf around his head. He jammed on Regis’ hood. Once again, he checked the position of the Sihil on the back and the two stilettos in his boots.

  Nearby, Cahir sharpened his long Nilfgaardian sword. Angouleme wrapped a woolen band around her forehead and stuck a hunting knife stuck in her boot – a gift from Milva. The archer and Regis saddled their horses. The vampire had left his horse to Angouleme, upgrading her from the mule Draakul.