Blood of Elves

  “Where’s the sick one?” he snarled. “Flown away on a broomstick?”

  Ciri pointed to the darkness.

  “Right.” The dwarf nodded. “I know the pain and I’ve known the same nasty complaint. When I was younger I used to eat everything I managed to find or catch or cut down, so I got food poisoning many a time. Who is she, this Enchantress?”

  “Triss Merigold.”

  “I don’t know her, never heard of her. I rarely have anything to do with the Brotherhood anyway. Well, but it’s polite to introduce oneself. I’m called Yarpen Zigrin. And what are you called, little goose?”

  “Something other than Little Goose,” snarled Ciri with a gleam in her eyes.

  The dwarf chuckled and bared his teeth.

  “Ah.” He bowed with exaggeration. “I beg your forgiveness. I didn’t recognise you in the darkness. This isn’t a goose but a noble young lady. I fall at your feet. What is the young lady’s name, if it’s no secret?”

  “It’s no secret. I’m Ciri.”

  “Ciri. Aha. And who is the young lady?”

  “That,” Ciri turned her nose up proudly, “is a secret.”

  Yarpen snorted again.

  “The young lady’s little tongue is as sharp as a wasp. If the young lady will deign to forgive me, I’ve brought the medicine and a little food. Will the young lady accept it or will she send the old boor, Yarpen Zigrin, away?”

  “I’m sorry…” Ciri had second thoughts and lowered her head. “Triss really does need help, Master… Zigrin. She’s very sick. Thank you for the medicine.”

  “It’s nothing.” The dwarf bared his teeth again and patted her shoulder amicably. “Come on, Ciri, you help me. The medicine has to be prepared. We’ll roll some pellets according to my grandmother’s recipe. No disease sitting in the guts will resist these kernels.”

  He unwrapped the bundle, extracted something shaped like a piece of turf and a small clay vessel. Ciri approached, curious.

  “You should know, Ciri,” said Yarpen, “that my grandmother knew her medicine like nobody’s business. Unfortunately, she believed that the source of most disease is idleness, and idleness is best cured through the application of a stick. As far as my siblings and I were concerned, she chiefly used this cure preventively. She beat us for anything and for nothing. She was a rare old hag. And once when, out of the blue, she gave me a chunk of bread with dripping and sugar, it was such a surprise that I dropped it in astonishment, dripping down. So my gran gave me a thrashing, the nasty old bitch. And then she gave me another chunk of bread, only without the sugar.”

  “My grandmother,” Ciri nodded in understanding, “thrashed me once, too. With a switch.”

  “A switch?” The dwarf laughed. “Mine whacked me once with a pickaxe handle. But that’s enough reminiscing, we have to roll the pellets. Here, tear this up and mould it into little balls.”

  “What is it? It’s sticky and messy… Eeeuuggh… What a stink!”

  “It’s mouldy oil-meal bread. Excellent medicine. Roll it into little balls. Smaller, smaller, they’re for a magician, not a cow. Give me one. Good. Now we’re going to roll the ball in medicine.”

  “Eeeeuuuugggghh!”

  “Stinks?” The dwarf brought his upturned nose closer to the clay pot. “Impossible. Crushed garlic and bitter salt has no right to stink, even if it’s a hundred years old.”

  “It’s foul, uugghh. Triss won’t eat that!”

  “We’ll use my grandmother’s method. You squeeze her nose and I’ll shove the pellets in.”

  “Yarpen,” Geralt hissed, emerging abruptly from the darkness with the magician in his arms. “Watch out or I’ll shove something down you.”

  “It’s medicine!” The dwarf took offence. “It helps! Mould, garlic…”

  “Yes,” moaned Triss weakly from the depths of her cocoon. “It’s true… Geralt, it really ought to help…”

  “See?” Yarpen nudged Geralt with his elbow, turning his beard up proudly and pointing to Triss, who swallowed the pellets with a martyred expression. “A wise magician. Knows what’s good for her.”

  “What are you saying, Triss?” The witcher leaned over. “Ah, I see. Yarpen, do you have any angelica? Or saffron?”

  “I’ll have a look, and ask around. I’ve brought you some water and a little food—”

  “Thank you. But they both need rest above all. Ciri, lie down.”

  “I’ll just make up a compress for Triss—”

  “I’ll do it myself. Yarpen, I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Come to the fire. We’ll broach a barrel—”

  “I want to talk to you. I don’t need an audience. Quite the contrary.”

  “Of course. I’m listening.”

  “What sort of convoy is this?”

  The dwarf raised his small, piercing eyes at him.

  “The king’s service,” he said slowly and emphatically.

  “That’s what I thought.” The witcher held the gaze. “Yarpen, I’m not asking out of any inappropriate curiosity.”

  “I know. And I also know what you mean. But this convoy is… hmm… special.”

  “So what are you transporting?”

  “Salt fish,” said Yarpen casually, and proceeded to embellish his lie without batting an eyelid. “Fodder, tools, harnesses, various odds and ends for the army. Wenck is a quartermaster to the king’s army.”

  “If he’s quartermaster then I’m a druid,” smiled Geralt. “But that’s your affair – I’m not in the habit of poking my nose into other people’s secrets. But you can see the state Triss is in. Let us join you, Yarpen, let us put her in one of the wagons. Just for a few days. I’m not asking where you’re going because this trail goes straight to the south without forking until past the Lixela and it’s a ten-day journey to the Lixela. By that time the fever will have subsided and Triss will be able to ride a horse. And even if she isn’t then I’ll stop in a town beyond the river. Ten days in a wagon, well covered, hot food… Please.”

  “I don’t give the orders here. Wenck does.”

  “I don’t believe you lack influence over him. Not in a convoy primarily made up of dwarves. Of course he has to bear you in mind.”

  “Who is this Triss to you?”

  “What difference does it make in this situation?”

  “In this situation – none. I asked out of an inappropriate curiosity born of the desire to start new rumours going around the inns. But be that as it may, you’re mighty attracted to this enchantress, Geralt.”

  The witcher smiled sadly.

  “And the girl?” Yarpen indicated Ciri with his head as she wriggled under the sheepskin. “Yours?”

  “Mine,” he replied without thinking. “Mine, Zigrin.”

  The dawn was grey, wet, and smelled of night rain and morning mist. Ciri felt she had slept no more than a few minutes, as though she had been woken up the very minute she laid her head down on the sacks heaped on the wagon.

  Geralt was just settling Triss down next to her, having brought her in from another enforced expedition into the woods. The rugs cocooning the enchantress sparkled with dew. Geralt had dark circles under his eyes. Ciri knew he had not closed them for an instant – Triss had run a fever through the night and suffered greatly.

  “Did I wake you? Sorry. Sleep, Ciri. It’s still early.”

  “What’s happening with Triss? How is she?”

  “Better,” moaned the magician. “Better, but… Listen, Geralt… I’d like to—”

  “Yes?” The witcher leaned over but Triss was already asleep. He straightened himself, stretched.

  “Geralt,” whispered Ciri, “are they going to let us travel on the wagon?”

  “We’ll see.” He bit his lip. “Sleep while you can. Rest.”

  He jumped down off the wagon. Ciri heard the sound of the camp packing up – horses stamping, harnesses ringing, poles squeaking, swingle-trees grating, and talking and cursing. And then, nearby, Yarpen Zigrin’s hoarse voice and t
he calm voice of the tall man called Wenck. And the cold voice of Geralt. She raised herself and carefully peered out from behind the canvas.

  “I have no categorical interdictions on this matter,” declared Wenck.

  “Excellent.” The dwarf brightened. “So the matter’s settled?”

  The commissar raised his hand a little, indicating that he had not yet finished. He was silent for a while, and Geralt and Yarpin waited patiently.

  “Nevertheless,” Wenck said finally, “when it comes to the safe arrival of this caravan, it’s my head on the line.”

  Again he said nothing. This time no one interrupted. There was no question about it – one had to get used to long intervals between sentences when speaking to the commissar.

  “For its safe arrival,” he continued after a moment. “And for its timely arrival. Caring for this sick woman might slow down the march.”

  “We’re ahead of schedule on the route,” Yarpen assured him, after a significant pause. “We’re ahead of time, Wenck, sir, we won’t miss the deadline. And as for safety… I don’t think the witcher’s company will harm that. The Trail leads through the woods right up to the Lixela, and to the right and left there’s a wild forest. And rumour has it all sorts of evil creatures roam the forest.”

  “Indeed,” the commissar agreed. Looking the witcher straight in the eye, he seemed to be weighing out every single word. “One can come across certain evil creatures in Kaedwen forests, lately incited by other evil creatures. They could jeopardise our safety. King Henselt, knowing this, empowered me to recruit volunteers to join our armed escort. Geralt? That would solve your problem.”

  The witcher’s silence lasted a long while, longer than Wenck’s entire speech, interspersed though it had been with regular pauses.

  “No,” he said finally. “No, Wenck. Let us put this clearly. I am prepared to repay the help given Lady Merigold, but not in this manner. I can groom the horses, carry water and firewood, even cook. But I will not enter the king’s service as a soldier. Please don’t count on my sword. I have no intention of killing those, as you call them, evil creatures on the order of other creatures whom I do not consider to be any better.”

  Ciri heard Yarpen Zigrin hiss loudly and cough into his rolled-up sleeve. Wenck stared at the witcher calmly.

  “I see,” he stated dryly. “I like clear situations. All right then. Zigrin, see to it that the speed of our progress does not slow. As for you, Geralt… I know you will prove to be useful and helpful in a way you deem fit. It would be an affront to both of us if I were to treat your good stead as payment for aid offered to a suffering woman. Is she feeling better today?”

  The witcher gave a nod which seemed, to Ciri, to be somewhat deeper and politer than usual. Wenck’s expression did not change.

  “That pleases me,” he said after a normal pause. “In taking Lady Merigold aboard a wagon in my convoy I take on the responsibility for her health, comfort and safety. Zigrin, give the command to march out.”

  “Wenck.”

  “Yes, Geralt?”

  “Thank you.”

  The commissar bowed his head, a bit more deeply and politely, it seemed to Ciri, than the usual, perfunctory politeness required.

  Yarpen Zigrin ran the length of the column, giving orders and instructions loudly, after which he clambered onto the coachman’s box, shouted and whipped the horses with the reins. The wagon jolted and rattled along the forest trail. The bump woke Triss up but Ciri reassured her and changed the compress on her forehead. The rattling had a soporific effect and the magician was soon asleep; Ciri, too, fell to dozing.

  When she woke the sun was already high. She peered out between the barrels and packages. The wagon she was in was at the vanguard of the convoy. The one following them was being driven by a dwarf with a red kerchief tied around his neck. From conversations between the dwarves, she had gathered that his name was Paulie Dahlberg. Next to him sat his brother Regan. She also saw Wenck riding a horse, in the company of two bailiffs.

  Roach, Geralt’s mare, tethered to the wagon, greeted her with a quiet neigh. She couldn’t see her chestnut anywhere or Triss’s dun. No doubt they were at the rear, with the convoy’s spare horses.

  Geralt was sitting on the coachman’s box next to Yarpen. They were talking quietly, drinking beer from a barrel perched between them. Ciri pricked up her ears but soon grew bored – the discussion concerned politics and was mainly about King Henselt’s intentions and plans, and some special service or missions to do with secretly aiding his neighbour, King Demawend of Aedirn, who was being threatened by war. Geralt expressed interest about how five wagons of salted fish could help Aedirn’s defence. Yarpen, ignoring the gibe in Geralt’s voice, explained that some species of fish were so valuable that a few wagon-loads would suffice to pay an armoured company for a year, and each new armoured company was a considerable help. Geralt was surprised that the aid had to be quite so secretive, to which the dwarf replied that was why the secret was a secret.

  Triss tossed in her sleep, shook the compress off and talked indistinctly to herself. She demanded that someone called Kevyn kept his hands to himself, and immediately after that declared that destiny cannot be avoided. Finally, having stated that everyone, absolutely everyone, is a mutant to a certain degree, she fell into a peaceful sleep.

  Ciri also felt sleepy but was brought to her senses by Yarpen’s chuckle, as he reminded Geralt of their past adventures. This one concerned a hunt for a golden dragon who instead of allowing itself to be hunted down had counted the hunters’ bones and then eaten a cobbler called Goatmuncher. Ciri began to listen with greater interest.

  Geralt asked about what had happened to the Slashers but Yarpen didn’t know. Yarpen, in turn, was curious about a woman called Yennefer, at which Geralt grew oddly uncommunicative. The dwarf drank more beer and started to complain that Yennefer still bore him a grudge although a good few years had gone by since those days.

  “I came across her at the market in Gors Velen,” he recounted. “She barely noticed me – she spat like a she-cat and insulted my deceased mother horribly. I fled for all I was worth, but she shouted after me that she’d catch up with me one day and make grass grow out of my arse.”

  Ciri giggled, imagining Yarpen with the grass. Geralt grunted something about women and their impulsive natures – which the dwarf considered far too mild a description for maliciousness, obstinacy and vindictiveness. Geralt did not take up the subject and Ciri fell into dozing once more.

  This time she was woken by raised voices. Yarpen’s voice to be exact – he was yelling.

  “Oh yes! So you know! That’s what I’ve decided!”

  “Quieter,” said the witcher calmly. “There’s a sick woman in the wagon. Understand, I’m not criticising your decisions or your resolutions…”

  “No, of course not,” the dwarf interrupted sarcastically. “You’re just smiling knowingly about them.”

  “Yarpen, I’m warning you, as one friend to another: both sides despise those who sit on the fence, or at best they treat them with suspicion.”

  “I’m not sitting. I’m unambiguously declaring myself to be on one side.”

  “But you’ll always remain a dwarf for that side. Someone who’s different. An outsider. While for the other side…”

  He broke off.

  “Well!” growled Yarpen, turning away. “Well, go on, what are you waiting for? Call me a traitor and a dog on a human leash who for a handful of silver and a bowl of lousy food, is prepared to be set against his rebelling kinsmen who are fighting for freedom. Well, go on, spit it out. I don’t like insinuations.”

  “No, Yarpen,” said Geralt quietly. “No. I’m not going to spit anything out.”

  “Ah, you’re not?” The dwarf whipped the horses. “You don’t feel like it? You prefer to stare and smile? Not a word to me, eh? But you could say it to Wenck! ‘Please don’t count on my sword.’ Oh, so haughtily, nobly and proudly said! Shove your haughtiness up a dog??
?s arse, and your bloody pride with it!”

  “I just wanted to be honest. I don’t want to get mixed up in this conflict. I want to remain neutral.”

  “It’s impossible!” yelled Yarpen. “It’s impossible to remain neutral, don’t you understand that? No, you don’t understand anything. Oh, get off my wagon, get on your horse, and get out of my sight, with your arrogant neutrality. You get on my nerves.”

  Geralt turned away. Ciri held her breath in anticipation. But the witcher didn’t say a word. He stood and jumped from the wagon, swiftly, softly and nimbly. Yarpen waited for him to untether his mare from the ladder, then whipped his horses once again, growling something incomprehensible, sounding terrifying under his breath.

  She stood up to jump down too, and find her chestnut. The dwarf turned and measured her with a reluctant eye.

  “And you’re just a nuisance, too, little madam,” he snorted angrily. “All we need are ladies and girls, damn it. I can’t even take a piss from the box – I have to stop the cart and go into the bushes!”

  Ciri put her hands on her hips, shook her ashen fringe and turned up her nose.

  “Is that so?” she shrilled, enraged. “Drink less beer, Zigrin, and then you won’t have to!”

  “My beer’s none of your shitin’ business, you chit!”

  “Don’t yell, Triss has just fallen asleep!”

  “It’s my wagon! I’ll yell if I want to!”

  “Stumpy!”

  “What? You impertinent brat!”

  “Stump!”

  “I’ll show you stump… Oh, damn it! Pprrr!”

  The dwarf leaned far back, pulling at the reins at the very last moment, just as the two horses were on the point of stepping over a log blocking their way. Yarpen stood up in the box and, swearing in both human and dwarvish, whistling and roaring, brought the cart to a halt. Dwarves and humans alike, leaping from their wagons, ran up and helped lead the horses to the clear path, tugging them on by their halters and harnesses.