Stephen Hulin

  Announcing his arrival with meowing, the black cat showed up again. He jumped onto the sorcerer’s knees, stretched and purred. Degerlund began stroking it rhythmically. The cat purred yet louder, showing claws the size of a tiger's.

  ‘What is hybridizing you surely know, as it is another name for crossbreeding. A process of obtaining a crossbreed, hybrid, or bastard - name it as you wish. At Rissberg this is an active subject, they’ve made a lot of wonders, scares and monsters. A few have found a broad practical use, like the para-zeugl that cleaning up dumps, the para-woodpecker that destroys vermin in trees, or the gambusia devouring malaric mosquito’s larvae. Or the vigilosaur, a guardian lizard, of which you boasted about killing at the audience. But they think about them as unimportant, just a side effect. What really interests them is a hybrid between human and beast. That is forbidden, but Rissberg doesn't care. And the Chapter pretends that it doesn't see it. Or which what is more probable, it exists in sweet and dumb ignorance.’

  ‘Malaspina, Alzur and Idarran, that's documented, took for their object creatures normal and small and made them into giants, like those centipedes, spiders, koshcheys and gods knows what else. What's there to stop us from taking a weak, common man and making him into a titan, somebody strong, able to work twenty hours a day, one that is immune to illnesses, who lives in full health to a hundred years old? It's known that they wanted to do it, supposedly they did it, supposedly with success. But the secret of their hybrids they took to their graves. Even Ortolan, who dedicated his whole life to studying their work wasn't able to achieve much. Bue and Bang, who dragged you here - have you looked at them? They are hybrids, magical crossbreeds of ogres and trolls. Surely crossbowman Pashtor? No. He is - to say - in his image and likeness, fully a natural effect of the crossing of an ugly woman with an even uglier man. But Bue and Bang, they are straight out of Ortolan's test tubes. You will ask: why, the devil, create such nasty beasts, why the hell create something like that. Well quite recently I didn't know that myself. Until I saw how they were disposing of lumberjacks and coalmen. Bue can with single tug tear head from shoulders. Bang tears children like they were chicken. And when you give them sharp devices, whoa! Then can make slaughter without equals. Ortolan, if you asked him, would tell you that hybridizing is a way to eliminating genetic illnesses, mumbles about heightened immunity for infectious diseases, such old-man's ramblings. But I know better. And you surely do too. Such creatures like Bue and Bang, like this thing that you tore Idarran's plate off of, exist for only one purpose: to kill. And that's good, as I needed tools for murder. I was not certain of my own abilities in this matter. As it proved later - unnecessarily.’

  ‘But the sorcerers of Rissberg cross, mutate, and genetically modify, from dawn to dusk. And they have had many achievements, they’ve made such hybrids that take your breath away. All of them are in their opinion useful hybrids, supposedly making human existence easier and more pleasant. Truly, they are but a step from creating a woman with a flat back, so you could fuck her from behind and have a place to put down a glass of champagne and play cards.’

  ‘But let's just get back ad rem, that is, my career in science. Having no successes I’ve had to create the appearance of such. It was easy.’

  ‘You know, that there are worlds different than ours, access to which was cut off by the Conjunction of the Spheres? Universes called elemental and para-elemental planes. Occupied by creatures we call demons. The achievements of Alzur et consortes were explained by the assumption that they gained access to those planes and creatures. That they were able to summon these creatures, and make them their servants. That they took secrets and knowledge from those creatures. I personally think that it's tall tale, but everyone believes so. And what can you do when belief is so strong? To be thought about as being close to discovering the old master’s mysteries I had to make Rissberg believe that I can summon demons. Ortolan, who really practiced goetia a long time ago, would not teach me this art. He even allowed himself an insulting low appraisal of my magical talent, and advised me to remember my place. Well, for the good of my career I will remember. For now.’

  The black cat, bored with stroking, jumped down. It stared at the witcher with a cold look of its golden, wide opened eyes. And went away with its tail standing up.

  Geralt breathed with ever growing effort, he felt a shiver shaking his whole body, a shiver that he could not control. The situation was not good, and only two circumstances made it possible to hope for better. First - he still lived, and while there's life, there's hope as his teacher at Kaer Morhen, Vesemir used to say.

  The second circumstance was the bloated ego of Degerlund. The wizard it seemed, fell in love with his own words in early youth, and this was apparently the love of his life.

  ‘While I could not become a goet,’ the sorcerer said, twisting the medallion, ‘I had to pretend to be one. To make appearances. It's known that a demon summoned by a goet often gets free and spreads destruction. So I spread. A few times. I slaughtered a few villages. And they believed that it was a demon.’

  ‘You would be surprised how naive they are. Once I cut off the captured peasant head and I stitched in its place the head of a great goat with biodegradable catgut, masking the stitch with gypsum and paint. And then I showed it to my learned colleagues, as a theoretical, effect of an extraordinarily complicated experiment in the domain of creating people with beast heads. The experiment was only partially successful, as said effect did not live. They believed, mind you. I had grown in their eyes still higher! And they still expect that I would make something that would live. I assure them in this belief and every now and then stitching some head to a headless body.’

  ‘But I digress. What was I talking about? Oh, yes, slaughtering villages. As I expected, the masters of Rissberg took it for acts of demons or energumens possessed by them. But I made a mistake - I overdid myself. No one would think twice about one village of lumberjacks, but we slaughtered a few. It was mostly Bue and Bang that did the job, but I also contributed.’

  ‘In the first colony, Yews, or something like that I performed badly. When I saw, what Bue and Bang were doing I vomited, puked all over my cloak. It was beyond redemption. A cloak of good weave, decorated with silver mink, it cost me almost a hundred crowns. But later things went more smoothly. First - I clothed properly, in a working style. Secondly I came to like this. It turned out that it's quite pleasant to chop off somebody's leg and watch as he bleeds out from the stump. Or take someone’s eye out. Or rip from a torn belly a handful of steaming guts... I will be short. Together with today it has been almost half a hundred people of both sexes and varied age.’

  ‘Rissberg decided that they must stop me. But how? They still believed in my power as a goet, and were afraid of my demons. And they were afraid to anger Ortolan who was in love with me. The solution was supposed to be you. A witcher.’

  Geralt breath was shallow. He was growing more optimistic. His sight was improving fast, his shivering had ceasing. He was immune to most of known toxins, white scorpion's venom which was deadly to normal people, turned out luckily to not be an exception. The symptoms, at the beginning which were quite severe, subsided and vanished as time passed, as it turned out a witcher's organism was able to neutralize the toxin quite fast. Degerlund was unaware of it, or in his arrogance had ignored it.

  ‘I came to know, that they want to send you after me. I’ll admit, I was afraid, I’d heard this and that about witchers, and you in particular. So I ran to Ortolan, save me my beloved master, I begged him. My beloved master scorned me at first, that it's not nice to kill lumberjacks, and that I should stop it. But then he told me how to deceive you and trap you. How to catch you using the sigil that he himself tattooed on my manly chest few years ago. He forbid me however to kill you. He needs your eyes. To be more precise: he needs tapetum lucidum, the layer of tissue on the inside of your eyeballs, which amplifies and reflects the light directed at the photoreceptors, thanks to that, like
a cat, you see in the darkness and in the night. The newest of Ortolan's idée fixe is equipping the whole humanity with cat's sight. In preparations for such a noble goal he plans to implant your tapetum lucidum into his mutation, and the tapetum has to come from a live donor.’

  ‘Ortolan, an ethical and merciful mage, after removing your eyeballs, in his limitless kindness plans to let you live. He thinks that it's better to be blind than dead, and he is unwilling to cause pain to your lover, Yennefer of Vengerberg, whom he has a great and strange, in his case, liking. And at that Ortolan is close to achieving a regenerative formulation. In a few years you could show up and he could restore your sight. Are you glad? No? And rightly so. What? What do you want to say? I’m listening, speak.’

  Geralt pretended to moves his lips with effort. He didn't have to pretend all that much. Degerlund stood from his chair, and leaned closer.

  ‘I don't understand,’ he smirked. ‘I don't care what you want to say. On the other hand I have few things to tell to you. Know that I have a gift for clairvoyance. I see, quite clearly, that when Ortolan sets you free, blind, Bue and Bang will be waiting. And you will end up in my laboratory, for good this time. I will vivisection you. Mainly for fun, but I'm also curious as to your internal organs. When I’m finished, let me use a butcher's terminology, I will cut your meat. I will send your remains to Rissberg as a warning, piece by piece. Let them see what happens to my enemies.’

  Geralt gathered all his force. It was not much.

  ‘If it comes to Yennefer,’ the wizard leaned even closer, the witcher felt his minty breath, ‘then in opposition to Ortolan, the thought of bringing her pain causes me immeasurable joy. I will cut off the piece that she prizes the most in you and send it to her in Vengerb...’

  Geralt made a Sign with his fingers, and touched the wizard’s face. Sorel Degerlund choked, felt back onto chair. He snorted. His eyes rolled, head dropping to his shoulder, the medallion dropped from his fingers.

  Geralt got up, or tried to get up. The only thing that he achieved was falling from the chair onto the floor, his head just in front of Degerlund's shoes. Just in front of his nose was the medallion dropped by the wizard. On a golden oval in blue enameled was a dolphin nageant. The coat of arms of Kerack. He had no time to be surprised, or think to about it. Degerlund began wheezing loudly, it could be seen that he would awake in short time. The Sign worked, but barely and shortly. The witcher was too weakened by the venom.

  He stood up holding the table, knocking books and scrolls off.

  Pashtor rapidly entered the room. Geralt didn't even try any Signs. He took a grimoire bound in leather and brass from the table and hit the hunchback in the throat. Pashtor sat on the floor and with a swing the witcher hit him again, and would have repeat it, but the tome slipped from his numb fingers. He took a carafe and shattered it on Pashtor's forehead. The hunchback, although soaked in blood and red wine did not yield. He attacked Geralt without even getting the crystal dust out of his eyelids.

  ‘Bue!’ he shouted catching the witcher by his knees, ‘Bang! To me! To...’

  Geralt grabbed the next grimoire off the table, a heavy one, with a binding incrusted with fragments of human skull. He hit the hunchback hard, bone fragments flew.

  Degerlund wheezed, tried to rise his hand. Geralt understood that he was trying to cast a spell. The sound of clapping feet getting near alerted him that Bue and Bang were getting near. Pashtor slowly stood up, felt around, searched for his crossbow.

  Geralt saw his sword on a table, and grabbed it. He staggered, barely standing. He caught Degerlund by the collar and put the blade on his throat.

  ‘Your sigil!’ he shouted into his ear. ‘Teleport us away!’

  Bue and Bang armed with falchions, collided in the doorway, and became tangled. Not one of them thought to let the other get through. The doorway was creaking.

  ‘Teleport us!’ Geralt caught Degerlund by his hair, pulled his head back. ‘Now! Or I will cut your throat!’

  Bue and Bang finally fell out of the door frame. Pashtor found his crossbow and lifted it.

  Degerlund, with shaking hands undid his shirt, shouted the spell, but before the darkness embraced them he got out of the witcher's hold and pushed him away. Geralt caught a lacy sleeve and tried to pull, but at this time portal worked and all senses including touch vanished. He felt a strong force pulling him in, shaking and twisting like in vortex. The cold paralyzed. For a split second. One of longest and nastiest seconds of his life.

  He bumped into the ground hard. On his back.

  He opened his eyes. Around him there was absolute, impenetrable darkness. I gone blind, he thought. I’ve lost my sight?

  He hadn’t. It was simply a dark night. His - how it was called by Degerlund - tapetum lucidum activated, absorbing all light that there was to absorb in those conditions. After a while he saw the contours of some trees and bushes.

  And above his head, when clouds scattered, he saw stars.

  Interlude

  Next day

  One had to admit – the builders from Findetann knew their job, and were not lazy. Although that day Shevlov saw them at work a few times, he observed them putting up the next rammer with interest. Three bound logs formed a trestle, on top of which hanged a wheel. Through this wheel a rope was threaded, and a huge iron-clad block called a beetle by professionals was mounted on this rope. Shouting rhythmically the builders pulled at the rope, lifting the beetle high, to the very top, and then instantly released. The beetle hit with impetus on the pole that was put into the hole, driving it deep into the earth. Three, at most four hits were enough to make sure that the pole was solidly mounted. The builders rapidly disassembled the trestle, put all the logs on the cart, while one of them went up a ladder and put an enameled plate with the coat of arms of Redania on it - a silver eagle on red field.

  Thanks to Shevlov and his free company - and thanks to the rammers and people working with them – the province of Riverside belonging to the Kingdom of Redania enlarged it area. Quite largely at that.

  The master of the builders approached, wiping his forehead with his cap. He was in a sweat, although he did not do anything except throwing "fuck"s around. Shevlov knew what would be the master’s question, because it was always the same question.

  ‘Where do we put next one? Sir?’

  ‘I'll show you,’ - Shevlov turned his horse. ‘Follow me.’

  The teamsters lashed the oxes, the builder’s vehicles started moving slowly over the ridge of the hill, through soil slightly softened by the storm on the previous day. Shortly they arrived at a pole with a black plate with three lilies over it. The pole was already lying down, thrown into the bushes, Shevlov's company managed to take care of it. That's how progress wins, thought Shevlov, that's how technology triumphs. A manually placed Temerian pole can be pulled out and laid in no time. A Redanian pole driven down with a rammer is not so easy to pull out.

  He waved his hands, giving directions to the builders. Some furlongs to the south. Even beyond the village.

  The occupants of the village - if this name was even deserved by the few houses and shacks - were forced to gather in a central square by Shevlov riders who were circling around and pushing at the crowd with their horses. Escayrac, as always hot-tempered, did not spare his whip. Others were circling around the houses. Dogs were barking, women were howling, and children cried.

  Three riders galloped to Shevlov. Lean as a board Yan Malkin called Burn. Prospero Basti better known as Sperry. And Aileach Mor-Dhu called Spintop on his grey mare.

  ‘They are gathered, as you ordered,’ said Spintop, putting her bobcat cap on back of her head. ‘The whole village.’

  ‘Keep them quiet.’

  The gathered went silent, but not without the help of whips and sticks. Shevlov approached.

  ‘What is this hellhole called?’

  ‘Freedom.’

  ‘Again Freedom? Not a single bit of fantasy in yo
u simpletons. Lead the builders further, Sperry. Show them where to put the pole, or they will yet again put it in the wrong place.’

  Sperry whistled, made a circuit on his horse. Shevlov approached the gathered crowd. Spintop and Burn stood at his sides.

  ‘Inhabitants of Freedom!’ He stood in his stirrups. ‘Hear what I say! On the will and order of the gracefully ruling king Visimir I announce that this land up to the border poles belongs to the Kingdom of Redania, and his grace king Visimir is your monarch and lord! You owe him respect, obedience and taxes. And you are behind schedule with the rent! On the king's orders you must pay it immediately. Into the chest of the bailiff present here.’

  ‘How is that?’ shouted someone from the crowd. ‘Why should we pay? We have already paid!’

  ‘We were stripped of money already!’

  ‘Temerian customs officers stripped you. Illegally, because here it's Redania, not Temeria. Look at where the poles are.’

  ‘But yesterday,’ howled one of the colonists, ‘it was Temeria here. So how can it be? We paid like we were told to...’

  ‘You don't have right!’

  ‘Which one,’ shouted Shevlov, ‘said that? I have the king's order! We are the king's soldiers! I say - who wants to stay here has to pay the tax to the last coin. Those opposing will be banished! You paid Temeria? Then you are Temerians it seems! Then go away, there beyond the border! But only carrying what you can grab with your hands, because the animals and farms belong to Redania!’

  ‘Robbery! This is robbery and outrage!’ shouted a huge man with rich hair, stepping in front of the crowd. ‘And you are not the king's soldier but bandits! You don't have the ri...’

  Escayrac approached and hit the shouting man with his cowhide whip. The shouting man fell. Others were calmed using spear shafts. Shevlov’s company could manage the peasants. They had been shifting the border for a week and had pacified many villages.