The Tower of the Swallow

  ‘And a witcher,’ concluded Angouleme, ‘would not give it away, even if his life depended on it. It is irrefutable proof. So, dear Lord, place the reward on the table.’

  Schirrú tucked the medallion away carefully, pulled a bundle of papers from his pocket, placed them on the table, and smoothed them with his hand. ‘Please.’

  Angouleme jumped off the crate and approached, wiggling her hips ridiculously. She leaned across the table – and Schirrú quickly grabbed her by the hair, threw her on the table, and held a knife to her throat. The girl could not even cry.

  Geralt and Cahir had their swords in their hands. But too late.

  The half-elf's cronies, the musclemen with low foreheads, already had iron hooks in their hands. And they did not hesitate to come closer.

  ‘Swords on the floor,’ growled Schirrú. ‘Both swords on the floor. Or else I will widen the girl's smile.’

  ‘Don't...’ Angouleme began and ended with a scream, as the half-elf's clawed fist yanked her hair. He scratched her skin with his dagger and a brilliant crimson thread ran from the girl's neck.

  ‘Swords away! I'm serious!’

  ‘Maybe we can communicate?’ Geralt ignored the rapidly rising fury inside him. He had decided to play the part for the time being. ‘Like civilized people?’

  The half-elf gave a toxic smile. ‘Communicate? With you, witcher? I was sent here to kill you, not to communicate with you. Yes, yes, you mutant. You came in here and wove your lies, but I immediately recognized you from the first moment. You've been described to me in detail. Can you guess who has described you so accurately? Who has given me precise instructions on where and in what kind of company I will find you? Oh, I'm sure you can guess.’

  ‘Let the girl go.’

  ‘But I know you not only from description,’ continued Schirrú, who had no intention of letting Angouleme go. ‘I've seen you before. I was even on your trail, once. In Temeria. In July. I followed you to the town of Dorian. To the legal offices of Codringher and Fenn. Can you imagine that?’

  Geralt turned his sword so that light from the blade reflected into the half-elf's eyes. ‘I wonder,’ he said coldly, ‘how are you going to get out of this stalemate, Schirrú. I see two ways out. First, you let go of the girl. Second, you kill the girl... And a moment later your blood is spread nicely over the walls and ceiling.’

  ‘You have until the count of three’ – Schirrú brutally tore Angouleme’s hair -’to lay your weapons on the ground. Then I start to cut the girl.’

  ‘We'll see how far you get with the cutting. I think not far.’

  ‘One!’

  ‘Two!’ Geralt began his own count and whirled his Sihil.

  From outside, they heard shouts and the sounds of horses stamping, neighing, and snorting.

  ‘And now what?’ Schirrú smiled. ‘I've been expecting them. This is not a stalemate, but a checkmate! My friends have arrived.’

  ‘Really?’ said Cahir, looking out the window. ‘I see the uniforms of the Imperial Light Horse.’

  ‘So it's a checkmate, but not for you,’ said Geralt. ‘You've lost, Schirrú. Let the girl go.’

  ‘No way.’

  The door was kicked open and a dozen people stormed in, mostly black uniformed and homogeneous. They were led by a light-haired, bearded man, wearing an epaulet inscribed with a silver bear.

  ‘Que aén suecc's?’ He asked menacingly. ‘What's going on here? Who is responsible for this carnage? For the bodies out there? Tell me now!’

  ‘Sir...’

  ‘Gláeddyv vort! Put your swords away!’ They obeyed, because there were crossbows aimed at them. Angouleme, released by Schirrú, tried to run from the table, but was suddenly grabbed by a burly, colorfully dressed man whose eyes bulged out like a frog's. She wanted to scream, but the man pressed his gloved fist in her mouth.

  ‘We avoid violence,’ Geralt coldly told the leader with the bear. ‘We are not criminals.’

  ‘Well, is that so.’

  ‘We act with knowledge and consent of Lord Fulko Artevelde, the governor of Riedbrune.’

  ‘Well, is that also so,’ repeated Bear, as he gestured for Geralt's and Cahir's swords to be taken away. ‘With the knowledge and consent of Lord Fulko Artevelde. The Honorable Artevelde. Did you hear that, boys?’

  His people – as joyous as the black color they wore – burst into roars of laughter.

  Angouleme tossed herself back and forth in the grip of Frogman, trying in vain to scream. It was not necessary. Geralt understood. Even before the smiling Schirrú began to shake hands with Bear. Even before four black Nilfgaardians grabbed Cahir and three others pointed their crossbows directly at Geralt's face.

  The Frogman, still holding Angouleme, joined his companions. The girl was hanging in his grasp like a rag doll. She did not even try to resist.

  Bear slowly approached Geralt and then suddenly delivered a blow with his gauntleted hand to the witcher's crotch. Geralt bowed, but did not fall. Cold fury kept him on his legs.

  ‘Perhaps it will please you to hear,’ said Bear, ‘that you are not the first idiot that One-Eyed Fulko took advantage of for his own purposes. I run a lucrative business with Mr. Homer Straggen here, known as the Nightingale to some. Fulko is outraged that I run such a business and that I have appointed Homer Straggen to the Imperial Service as the leader of an infantry company to protect the mining industry. Since he cannot officially take revenge, he hires several rags to act in his stead.’

  ‘And a witcher,’ added a wickedly grinning Schirrú.

  ‘Outside,’ Bear said aloud, ‘five bodies lie in the rain. You have killed people who were in the Imperial Service! You have disturbed the work of the mines! I have no doubt you are spies, saboteurs, and terrorists. The law of war rules this territory. Under martial law, I hereby condemn you to death.’

  The Frogman laughed out loud. He pinned down Angouleme, and attacked her chest with a rapid movement. And squeezed firmly.

  ‘And now, Bright?’ He croaked – his voice proved to be even more frog-like than his eyes. If the bandit had given himself his nickname, it was evidence of a sense of humor. But if he should ever need a disguise, the pseudonym provided an extremely effective one.

  ‘So we meet again!’ Nightingale croaked again as he pinched Angouleme's chest. ‘Are you happy?’

  The girl moaned in pain.

  ‘Where did you whore the gems and stones you stole from me?’

  ‘Fulko confiscated a number of entities when I was taken into custody!’ shouted Angouleme and tried unsuccessfully to give the impression that she was not afraid. ‘Sign up with him if you want to collect them!’

  Nightingale croaked and his eyes bulged – he now looked almost completely like a frog – all that was missing was for him to begin to catch flies with his tongue. He bear-hugged Angouleme and began to throw her back and forth. She groaned in pain. Through the red mist of anger in Geralt's eyes, the girl began again to resemble Ciri.

  ‘Grab them,’ Bear said impatiently. ‘Take them outside.’

  ‘This is a witcher,’ said one of the bandits from Nightingale's mining protection company uncertainly. ‘A dangerous type! How can we grab him with our bare hands? He could hit us with some magic or something...’

  ‘Don't worry.’ Schirrú patted his bag with a smile. ‘He can't do magic without his witcher's amulet, and I have his amulet. Grab him.’

  Outside, more armed Nilfgaardians in black coats waited alongside the colorful bandits of Nightingale's Hanse. A group of miners had gathered. The omnipresent dogs and children swarmed around.

  Nightingale suddenly lost control of himself. As if the devil had entered into him. He angrily croaked at Angouleme, punched her, and, as she fell, kicked her several times. Geralt writhed in the grip of bandits, earning him a blow on his neck from something hard.

  ‘It was said’ Nightingale croaked and hopped to and fro like a crazed toad over Angouleme, ‘that they had placed a stake in your ass in Ri
edbrune, you little slut! It seems they could predict the future! Because you will die at the stake! Hey boys, find me a pole somewhere! Hurry up!’

  ‘Mr. Straggen’ – Bear frowned -’I have no reason to have fun with a time-consuming and bestial looking execution. The prisoners will simply be hung...’

  He was silenced by the evil frog eyes.

  ‘Just be quiet, Captain,’ croaked the bandit. ‘I pay you too much to make such inappropriate remarks to me. I promised Angouleme a bad death, so now I'm going to play with her. If you want, then hang the other two. I don't care about them.’

  ‘But I do,’ interrupted Schirrú. ‘I need them both. Above all, the witcher. Above all, him. And since it will take some time to put the girl on the pole, I will also use this time.’

  He stepped closer and fixed his cat's eyes on Geralt.

  ‘You should know, mutant,’ he said, ‘that I was there when your friend Codringher was killed in Dorian. I acted on the orders of my master, Master Vilgefortz, whom I have served for years. I slit him open with my knife. And that disgusting little monster Fenn – I lit him in the midst of his own papers and roasted him. I could have stabbed him easily, but I waited a while to listen to him howl and squeal. And he howled and squealed, I tell you, like a stuck pig. There was nothing, absolutely nothing human in that howling.’

  ‘Do you know why I'm telling you all this? Because I could just as easily stab you or allow you to be stabbed. But I'm going to devote a little time and effort. I'll listen to you cry. You said that one death is like any other? You'll soon see that not every death is alike. Boys, ignite the tar in the lubricator. And bring some chain.’

  With a dull thud, something burst against the corner of the building and immediately exploded into flames with a terrible roar.

  The second stone vessel filled with oil – Geralt recognized the smell – hit the lubricator and the third burst next to the men holding the horses. It popped and hissed flames and the horses panicked. It caused chaos, flames shot everywhere and dogs howled. One of Nightingale's bandits suddenly spread out his arms and splashed in the mud with an arrow in his back.

  ‘Long live the Free North Case!’

  On the summit of the hill, and along the scaffolds and catwalks, silhouettes darted in gray robes and fur-trimmed caps. More and more incendiary bombs flew down on humans, horses and the shacks. The braids of fire and smoke began to spread. Two landed in a workshop, on the wood shavings and sawdust-covered floor.

  ‘Long live the Free North Case! Death to the Nilfgaardian invaders!’

  Feathered arrows and bolts began to buzz.

  One of the black Nilfgaardians fell under the horses, one of Nightingale's bandits was shot through the throat, and one of the short haired musclemen fell to the ground with a bolt in his neck. With a ghoulish moan Bear fell. An arrow had struck him in the chest under the breastbone – his gorget was not enough protection. The arrow – although no one could know this – had been stolen from a military transport, and was a slightly reworked version of the standard arrow of the imperial army. The broad two-edged tip had been sawed in several places, so it splintered on impact.

  The arrowhead tore Bear's guts apart very nicely.

  One of the children was rolling in the red mud, pierced by an arrow that had been shot by one of the less accurate freedom fighters. One of the men holding Geralt was killed. And one of those who held Angouleme. The girl broke away from the other, quickly drew a knife from her boot, and cut with a sweeping motion. In her haste she missed Nightingale’s throat, but made a pretty slit on his cheek, almost to the teeth. Nightingale cried instead of croaking, and his eyes almost bulged out of his head. He sank to his knees as blood gushed between the hands with which he held his face. Angouleme howled like a madman and rushed up to him to finish the thing, but was not able to, because the next bomb exploded between her Nightingale, spraying fire and stinking of smoke.

  Hissing flames raged all around – already a fiery pandemonium reigned. Horses stamped, whinnied and reared up. Nilfgaardians and bandits screamed. Miners ran into each other, confused – some were fleeing, others trying to extinguish the burning buildings.

  Geralt had already picked up Sihil from a fallen Nilfgaardian. He put a cut across the forehead of a tall woman in chain mail, who had just raised her arm to strike Angouleme with a morning star. The next, a black Nilfgaardian, came running at him with a lance and Geralt hit him in the thigh. He slit the throat of the next, who just stood in the way.

  Directly beside him a singed, panic-blinded horse knocked down and trampled another child.

  ‘Catch a horse! Catch a horse!’ Cahir was standing beside him; together they created a sweeping sword strike area. Geralt did not listen to him, did not look at him. He went to the next Nilfgaardian, looking for Schirrú.

  Angouleme, on her knees, shot a crossbow bolt three feet away into the abdomen of one of the bandits from the company that was supposed to protect the mining industry. Then she jumped up and grabbed the reins of a horse passing nearby.

  ‘Catch one,’ cried, Cahir. ‘And get out of here!’

  With an overhead blow, the witcher split the next Nilfgaardian from sternum to the waist. He jerked his head and hurled the blood off his eyebrows and eyelashes. ‘Schirrú! Where are you, bastard?’

  A blow. A scream. Warm droplets on his face.

  ‘Mercy!’ wailed a man in a black uniform, who was kneeling in the mud. The witcher hesitated.

  ‘Come to your senses!’ roared Cahir, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him vigorously. ‘Come to your senses! Have you lost your mind?’

  Angouleme came galloping back, pulling the bridle of another horse with her. Two riders pursued her. One fell, struck by an arrow of a freedom fighter of the North Case. Geralt's sword swept the other from the saddle.

  Geralt jumped. And then, in the firelight, he saw Schirrú in the midst of the screaming, panicking remnants of the Nilfgaardians. Beside the half-elf, Nightingale croaked and cursed, looking like a man-eating troll with his bloody face.

  Geralt roared in anger, turned his horse, and whirled his sword.

  Next to him Cahir cried, began to curse, and reeled in his saddle, blood running spilling from his forehead and instantly covering his eyes and face. ‘Geralt! Help!’

  Schirrú had gathered a group around him, shouting, ordering them to shoot their crossbows. Geralt struck his horse's bottom with the flat of his blade, ready for a suicidal attack. Schirrú had to die. Everything else was irrelevant. Nothing else mattered. Cahir did not matter. Angouleme did not matter...

  ‘Geralt!’ shouted Angouleme. ‘Help Cahir!’

  He came to his senses. And he was ashamed.

  He reached for Cahir and supported him.

  Cahir wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve, but the blood once again flowed down it. ‘It's nothing, a scratch...’ His voice trembled. Get out of here, witcher... gallop after Angouleme... gallop!’

  Loud cries sounded from the foot of the hill – a crowd approached, armed with pickaxes, crowbars, and hatchets. The fellows and companions of the miners of ‘RIALTO’ had come to help – the miners from the adjacent mines – from ‘HAPPY HOLE’ or ‘THE COMMON CAUSE’ or from some other. Who could know?

  Geralt kicked his heels into his horse's flanks. They went in an insane gallop, terre à ventre.

  They rushed forward without looking back, clinging to the necks of their horses. The best horse had fallen to Angouleme, a bandit's small but spirited animal. Geralt's horse, a bay stallion with a Nilfgaardian bridle, began to wheeze and gasp and had trouble even keeping its head up. Cahir's horse, also from the military, was stronger and more enduring, but that made no difference because its rider was troubled. He reeled in his saddle, instinctively pressed his thighs together, and sprayed blood on the neck and mane of his mount. But he galloped on.

  Angouleme, who had left behind the two, waited for them in a bend in the road at the place where it went downhill, between a
wall of rocks.

  ‘The pursuers,’ she panted, with dirt smeared on her face. ‘They are repositioning themselves, they will not leave us in peace... The miners have seen where we fled. We cannot stay on the road... We need to dive into the woods, where there are no paths... They depend on...’

  ‘No,’ said the witcher in an alarmed voice, hearing the broken sounds from his horses lungs. ‘We must stay on the road... On the direct and shortest route to Sansretour...’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Now is not the time to talk. Forward! Get everything you can out of the horses...’

  They galloped. The witcher's bay stallion gasped.

  The bay was not fit to continue riding. His feet were stiff as sticks, he could barely walk, his flanks were heavy, and the air came out of him with a hoarse groan. Finally, he fell to his side, laid stiff, looked at the horsemen, and his reproachful eyes became cloudy.

  Cahir's horse was in slightly better condition, but Cahir was in even worse. He fell down from his saddle and picked himself up, but only on all fours. He vomited violently, although he did not have much left to throw up.

  When Geralt and Angouleme tried to touch his bloody head, he cried out.

  ‘Damn,’ said the girl. ‘They ruined his haircut.’

  A considerable length of the skin over the forehead and temple of the young Nilfgaardian was replaced by skull bones. If the blood had not already formed an adhesive, the loose skin would have folded down to his ear. The sight was grim.

  ‘How did this happen?’

  ‘He simply had an axe thrown at his head. And the funniest thing is, it was neither a black nor any of Nightingale's men, but one of the miners.’

  ‘It does not matter who it was,’ the witcher wrapped Cahir's head tightly with a torn shirt sleeve. ‘What is important and fortunate is that the thrower had lousy aim and only scalped him, or else he would have a split skull. But the skull bone has still taken some hurt. And the brain has noticed as well. He could not keep himself in the saddle, even if the horse could carry his burden.’