Stephen Hulin

  ‘Fisstech?’

  ‘No thanks. I don’t use fisstech.’

  ‘I…’ the herbalist said putting the drug to one nostril and then the other, ‘only do so occasionally. For clarity of thought. Longevity. And beauty. Just look at me.’

  He looked.

  ‘For your witcher’s cure for Frans,’ the grandmother said with watery eyes, sniffing, ‘I thank you and will not forget. I know that ones such as you are jealous of your decoctions. And you gave it to him without hesitation and without being paid. Although you yourself may now not have enough when you need them. Scary?’

  ‘Scary.’

  She turned her head in profile. She would have once been a beautiful woman. However, it would have been a hell of a long time ago.

  ‘And now,’ she continued, ‘tell me. What is it you wanted to ask Frans?’

  ‘Nevermind, he’s sleeping, and I need to get on the road.’

  ‘Tell me where.’

  ‘To Mount Kremor’

  ‘So at once. What do you want to know about this mountain?’

  ***

  The house was quite far outside the village, behind a timber fence that stretched back to a garden, full of apple trees, whose branches bent under the weight of the fruit. The rest of the house was much the same as rural classics – a barn, a shed, a chicken coop, a few beehives, a garden and a bunch of manure. From the chimney stretch a light strip of pleasant smelling smoke.

  Hanging out next to the fence a guinea fowl spotted him first, announcing his arrival with a hellish squawk. Children who were spinning in the courtyard – three of them – rushed down the side of the house. A woman appeared in the doorway. Tall, blonde, with an apron and a homespun skirt. The witcher move closer and dismounted.

  ‘Greetings,’ he said. ‘Is the owner home?’

  The children, every one of them girls, clung to their mother’s skirt and apron. The woman looked at the witcher, her eyes vainly seeking sympathy. Not surprisingly. She could see the hilt of his sword over his shoulder. The medallion around his neck. The silver studs on his gloves he didn’t even try to hide. Even showing them off.

  ‘The owner,’ he said, ‘Otto Dussart. I have a business deal with him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s private. Is he home?’

  She watched him silently, her head slightly bowed. A typical peasant beauty, appreciated the witcher, and therefore could be aged from twenty-five to forty-five years old. A more accurate estimate, as in the case of most rural woman, was not possible.

  ‘Is he home?’

  ‘He’s not around.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait,’ he threw the mare’s reins over a pole, ‘till he gets back.’

  ‘It might take a while.’

  ‘Anyhow, I’ll wait. Although, in truth, it would be better in the house than under the fence.’

  The woman measured him with her eyes for some time. And his medallion.

  ‘You are welcome,’ she said finally, ‘as a guest in our house.’

  ‘I accept your invitation,’ said the witcher in a conversational manner. ‘And I will not break the Rules of hospitality.’

  ‘You will not break them,’ the woman doubtfully repeated. ‘But you wear a sword.’

  ‘This is from my profession.’

  ‘Swords main. And kill.’

  ‘Life does too. Am I still invited?’

  ‘Welcome to our house.’

  The entrance, as usual in these villages was through a dark and cluttered passage. The house itself was quite spacious, bright and clean, only on the walls nears the kitchen and fireplace were there traces of soot, while the rest of them were white and pleasing to the eye. Coloured rugs hung everywhere and various utensils, bundles of herbs, garlic cloves, and bundles of peppers. A woven curtain separated the house from the pantry. It smelled of cooking. Like cabbage.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  The hostess was still standing, crumpling her apron in her hands. The children sat on a low bench next to the stove. The medallion around Geralt’s neck quivered. Powerfully and unceasing. Fighting under his shirt, like a bird trying to escape.

  ‘The sword,’ said the woman, approaching the stove, ‘can be left in the hall. It is indecent to sit at a table with a weapon. Only robbers do it. Are you a robber?’

  ‘You know what I am,’ the witcher said. ‘And the sword will remain where it is. As a reminder.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That reckless acts have dangerous consequences.’

  ‘We don’t have any weapons here, because…’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ Geralt rudely interrupted. ‘Don’t pretend to be the good hostess. In the house and courtyard – there is an arsenal, people have fallen from hoes, not to mention shovels and pitchforks. I’ve head of one who was killed by a pestle. Harm can come from anything, if you want. Or forced. And while we are talking about it – leave the pot of boiling water alone. And move away from the stove.’

  ‘Nothing… I wasn’t going to,’ the woman said, obviously lying. ‘There is no hot water, just soup. I was going to server…’

  ‘Thank you. But I’m not hungry. Therefore, don’t touch the pot and get away from the stove. Sit there with the children. And we’ll wait quietly for the owner.’

  They sat in silence, interrupted only by the buzzing of flies. His medallion trembled.

  ‘I need to move the pot of cabbage,’ the woman interrupted the heavy silence. ‘If I don’t stir it, it will burn.’

  ‘Let her,’ Geralt indicated the smallest of the girls. ‘She will do.’

  The girl got up slowly, staring at him from under blonde bangs. She took a pair of tongs with a long handle, that leaned against the frame of the stove, then suddenly jumped at Geralt like a cat. She tried to hit him in the neck and pin him to the wall, but he dodged, grabbed her and threw her on the floor. Before him she began to change.

  The woman and the two remaining girls also changed. At the witcher jumped two wolves – a grey wolf and two cubs with bloodshot eyes and bared teeth. Jumping they split, attaching from all sides like true wolves. The witcher leapt, throwing the bench at the wolf, and throwing his fists with silver studs at the wolf cubs. They whimpered, crouched close to the ground and bared their fangs. The wolf howled wildly and jumped again.

  ‘No! Edwina! No!’

  She fell off him as he hugged the wall. But in human form. The smallest girl had changed and squatted next to the stove. The woman was on her knees at his feet, looking abashed. Geralt did not know what she was ashamed of – the attack or that it had failed.

  ‘Edwina! What is this?’ thundered a tall, bearded man with his hands on his hips. ‘What are you…’

  ‘This is a witcher!’ snorted the woman, still kneeling. ‘A rogue with a sword! He has come for you! Assassin! He stinks of blood!’

  ‘Shut up, woman. I know him. Excuse me, Geralt. She doesn’t know what she’s done. I’m sorry, I didn’t know… I thought once a witcher, the…’

  The man stopped, looking worried. The woman and the girls were huddled near the stove. Geralt could swear he heard a quiet growl.

  ‘Nothing has happened,’ said the witcher. ‘No harm was done. But you came just in time. Very timely.’

  ‘I know,’ the bearded man flinched noticeably. ‘I know, Geralt. Sit down, sit down… Edwina! Bring beer!’

  ‘No. Let us leave, Dussart. For a few words.’

  In the middle of the courtyard sat a ginger cat. As the witcher approached, it hissed and darted off into a thicket of nettles.

  ‘I did not want to irritate your wife and frighten the children,’ began Geralt. ‘Besides, I have business, that I would like to talk to you about, face to face. You see, I need a favour.’

  ‘Whatever you want,’ The bearded man said, ‘tell me. I will fulfil your every desire, if it is within my power. The debt I owe you is huge. Thanks to you I still live in this world. Because
you spared me once. I owe you…’

  ‘Not me. Yourself. The fact that even in your guise of a wolf, you’re still a man and never hurt anyone.’

  ‘That’s true. And that has given me this? The neighbours became suspicious and immediately out a witcher on my ass. Though poor, they gave every penny collected to hire you.

  ‘I thought,’ Geralt admitted, ‘to return their money. But it might arouse suspicion. Because I guaranteed them the word of a witcher that I healed you from the spell of lycanthropy, and now you are the most normal person in the world. Such a feat has to be worth something. If people pay for something, then they believe what they pay for becomes true and legal. The more expensive the better.’

  ‘It makes me tremble when I remember that day,’ Dussart became pale, despite his tan. ‘I almost died of fright when I saw you with that silver blade in hand. I thought my last hour had come. But the stories weren’t true. A witcher’s only love is blood and suffering. And you turned out to be a good person. And kind.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate. But you took my advice and left Guaamez.’

  ‘I had to,’ said Dussart grimly. ‘Those in Guaamez like to believe that I’m disenchanted, but you were right – for a former werewolf it is too difficult to live among those people. It turns out that people judge you for what you are, and not for who you are. I had to get out of there, go some other place where no one knew me. I wondered… And then I met Edwina…’

  ‘Rarely happens,’ Geralt said turning his head, ‘that two lycanthropes for a couple. Even rarer is offspring from such relationships. Lucky you, Dussart.’

  ‘And so you know,’ the werewolf bared his teeth. ‘The kids will be nice young ladies when they grow up. And with Edwina, we came together as two of a kind. I’ll be with her until the end of days.’

  ‘She immediately recognised me as a witcher. And I was immediately ready to defend myself. I don’t believe it but she intended to serve me boiling soup. Surely, she too has heard tales of bloodthirsty witchers, eager for the sufferings of others.’

  ‘Forgive her, Geralt. And try the soup. Edwina is an excellent cook.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the witcher said, ‘it is better not to bother them. I don’t want to frighten the children, or even more so – irritate your wife. To her, I’m still a rogue with a sword, we can hardly expect her to immediately be imbued with confidence in me. She says I smell like blood. In a figurative sense, I understand her.’

  ‘Not really. I don’t want to offend you, Witcher, but the smell of blood carries off you.’

  ‘I’ve not touched blood in…’

  ‘Nearly two weeks, I would say,’ finished the werewolf. ‘This blood is old, you touched someone bloody. There is an older blood there as well, somewhere around a month. Cold blood. Reptile blood. Your blood as well. Live blood from a wound.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘We werewolves,’ said Dussart proudly, ‘have a nose, a little bit more sensitive than humans.’

  ‘I know,’ smiled Geralt. ‘I know about werewolves’ noses – a true wonder of nature. That is why I’ve come to ask this favour of you.’

  ***

  ‘Shrews,’ Dussart led with his nose. ‘Shrews and more shrews. And voles. Lots of voles. Shit. A lot of shit. Nothing more.’

  The witcher sighed, then spat. He did not hide his disappointment. This was the fourth cave in which Dussart had not smelled anything other than rodents and shit.

  They moved on to the next one, a gaping hole in a wall of rocks. Stones escaped from underfoot, falling down the slope. The wall was steep and walking was hard, Geralt had already begun to get tired. Dussart depending on where he walked went in wolf form or remained human.

  ‘Bear,’ he said looking into the next grotto, sucking air into his nostrils. ‘With it’s young. But it is gone already. And there were marmots. Shrews. Bats. Lots of bats. Ermine. Marten. A wolverine. And a pile of shit.’

  Next cave.

  ‘A female ferret. A wolverine… no two. A pair of wolverines. An underground source of water, a little sour. Gremlins, a dozen or so. Some amphibians such as salamanders… bats…’

  From somewhere high above the rocky ledge above them, an eagle circled, shouting. The werewolf raised his head and looked at the mountain top. Dark clouds were approaching from behind them.

  ‘A storm is coming. And what is a day without a storm… What do we do, Geralt? Next cave?’

  ‘Next cave.’

  To get to the next cave they were forced to pass beneath a waterfall, it was small, but significant enough to get them wet. The mossy rocks were slippery like soap. Dussart went first, changing into a wolf. Geralt, after slipping a couple of time, swore and overcame the difficult stretch of path on all fours. It’s a good thing Dandelion isn’t here, he thought, he wouldn’t fail to describe this is a ballad. In front, a lycanthrope in wolf form, followed by a witcher on all fours. That would amuse people.

  ‘A big cave, Witcher,’ Dussart sniffed. ‘Large and deep. There’s mountain trolls, five or six adult trolls. And bats. And a pile of troll shit.’

  ‘Move on. To the next one.’

  ‘Trolls… same as before. The caves are connected.’

  ‘Bear. Pestun. Was here but is already gone. Recently. Marmots. Bats.’

  At the next cave, the werewolf jumped like a scalded cat.

  ‘Gorgon,’ he whispered. ‘A greater Gorgon sits in the depth of this pit. Sleeping. Besides that there is nothing.’

  ‘No wonder,’ muttered the witcher. ‘Move away. Quietly. Don’t wake it up…’

  They moved away, looking around uneasily. To the next grotto, which was located far from the lair of the Gorgon, they approached slowly, knowing that caution couldn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt, but it was not needed. The next few caves did not hide anything in their depths, except bats, woodchucks, mice, voles, and shrews. And shit reservoirs.

  Geralt was tired and disappointed. Dussart too, and he did not hide it. But he behaved, admittedly, with dignity, without showing discouragement by word or gesture. The witcher, however, had no delusions on this score. The werewolf doubted the success of the operation. According to what Geralt had heard and confirmed by the old herbalist, the Kremor mountains east side was full of holes, like cheese, pitted with innumerable caves. Indeed, they had found the caves. But Dussart clearly did not believe that they would sniff out and find one that was in fact an underground passage into the rock complex of the Citadel.

  In addition to everything else, lightning flashed. There was a loud clap of thunder. And the downpour began. Geralt was sincerely determined to spit on everything, swear vulgarly and declare the search ended. But he controlled himself.

  ‘Come on, Dussart, next hole.’

  ‘As you wish, Geralt.’

  Suddenly, at the next hole gaping in the rock, like in a bad novel, the plot broke.

  ‘Bat,’ announced the werewolf sniffing. ‘Bat and cat…’

  ‘Lynx? Forest cat?’

  ‘A cat,’ straightened Dussart. ‘A common house cat.’

  ***

  Otto Dussart watched with interest as the witcher drank from a bottle or elixir. Observed the changes in the appearance of Geralt and his eyes widened in surprise and fear.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said, ‘to go with you into the pit. No offense, but I won’t go. My hair stands on end from fear…’

  ‘It didn’t occur to me to ask you. Go home, Dussart, to your wife and children. You did me a favour, complied with my request, I can’t ask anymore.’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ protested the werewolf. ‘Wait near the exit.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Geralt shifted the sword on his back, ‘when I will come out. Or if I’ll come out.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I’ll wait… Until dusk.’

  ***

  The bottom of the cave was covered in a thick layer of bat guano. Small bats – whole bunches – were hanging from the arch of the cave, whi
rling and squeaking sleepily. The ceiling at first was high above Geralt’s head, and on the uneven bottom he could move quickly and easily. This convenience, however, soon ended – first the vault seemed to begin to decline more and more, and in the end there was nothing left to do but move on all fours. And then to crawl.

  There was a time when the witcher paused, deciding to turn back – the tightness was such that it was possible to get seriously stuck.

  However, he heard the sound of water, and on his face felt a breath of cold air. Realising the risk, he squeezed into the gap, and gave a sigh of relief when it began to expand. The corridor suddenly became very steep, the witcher moved down and to the right of an underground stream, which appeared from under a wall and then disappeared under the opposite. From above oozed a faint light, and from up there – from great heights – the cold wind blew.

  The stream was completely flooded with water, and the witcher, though he expected he might, was not eager to dive in. He made his way up the stream, against the flow. When he reached a slope up to a great hall, he was soaked to the skin and smeared with mud and limestone deposits.

  The room was huge, full of majestic striations, stalagmites and stalactites. The stream running along the bottom was pitted with deep pools. Here, too, he could make out a light and feel a weak draft. And something else. The witcher could not smell as well as a werewolf, but he could smell the same thing as the werewolf did before – the subtle stink of cat urine.

  He stood for a moment looking around. The air flow pointed him to a hole, similar in size to a palace door, with huge stalagmite columns on each side. Close by, he noticed a tray filled with fine sand. The cat smell came from it. On the sand there were numerous traces of cat paws.

  The witcher again hung his sword on his back, which he was forced to withdraw when squeezing through the trouble spots. He stepped between the stalagmites.

  It was an easy climb up the corridor. The floor was dry and covered with boulders, but manageable. At the end the path was a door, solid and locked.

  Up until this point the witcher was not sure he was on the right path, had no confidence that he had gone into the right cave. The door seemed to confirm that this was so. In the door, right at the doorstep, there was a recently sawed hole. The passage for the cat.