Now, in front of the dark wall of the forest, she again felt the old anxiety, a tingling in the neck and dry mouth.
The road has been trodden, she mental repeated to herself, it is full of ruts from carts, broken hooves of horses and oxen. What’s wrong is that the forest looks scary, but it is not some wild thicket, it is used as a path leading to Dorian and passing through the last part of the forest that had survived from axes and saws. Many travel here, many come here. I, too, will pass. I’m not afraid.’
‘I am, Nimue verch Wledyr ap Gwyn’
Vyrva, Guado, Sibell, Brugge, Casterfurt, Mortara, Ivalo, Dorian, Anchor, Gors Velen.
She looked around – what if somebody came. It would be more fun with company, she thought. But the path, as luck would have it today, was not being used. Was simply empty.
There was no other way. Nimue cleared her throat and straightened the knot of the rod on her shoulder. And then she entered the forest.
The forest was dominated by oaks, elms, and old fused together mushroom, there was also pine and larch. In the undergrowth, tangled together was hawthorn, hazel, wild cherry and honeysuckle. Usually the undergrowth would be teeming with wild birds, but in this forest there as an ominous silence. Nimue was keeping her eyes on the ground. She sighed in relief when at some point, somewhere deep in the forest a woodpecker rapped. There is something here still alive, she thought, I’m not alone.
She stopped suddenly and turned sharply. She did not see anyone or anything, but a moment ago, she was sure that she should. She felt like she was being watched. Secretly monitored. Fear gripped her throat, and shivers ran down her back.
She quickened her pace. The forest, it seemed, began to thin out, become lighter and greener, and birch seemed to prevail. Another turn or two, she thought frantically, and the forest will end. I will leave the forest behind, along with whoever is sneaking up behind me. And I’ll go on.
Vyrva, Guado, Sibello, Brugge…
She did not even hear a rustle, a movement caught the corner of her eye. From the thick ferns escaped a gray, flat and incredibly fast legged creature. Nimue shouted, seeing snapping pincers, big as scythes. From the legs protruded spins and bristles. Many eyes surrounded its head like a crown.
She felt a jolt, which carried her to the ground and dropped her sharply. She collapsed back onto the elastic branches of a hazel, she clung to them, ready to jump up and run. She froze, looking at what was happening on the road like a wild dance.
The legged monster jumped and turned, incredibly fast, swinging its legs and flicking its terrible pincers. And around it, moving even faster, that he blurred in from of her eyes was a man. Armed with two swords.
In front of the eyes of the petrified with fear Nimue, first one, then a second, then a third severed leg soared through the air. Blows rained down on it flat truck, from which gushed streams of green slime.
The monster resisted and attacked and then finally with a wild leap rushed into the woods to escape. But it didn’t escape. The man with the swords caught up to it, swung both his swords and nailed it to the ground. The creature thrashed its long legs on the ground and finally came to a stop.
Nimue pressed her hands to her chest in an attempt to appease her racing heart. She saw her saviour bent over the dead monster, and with a knife rip something from its shell. He wiped off the blades of his swords and put them back in the sheathes on his back.
‘Are you ok?’
There was some delay before Nimue realised what she was being asked. But she had not been able to move or get out of the hazel. He saviour was in no hurry to pull her out of the bush, and she finally tried herself. Her legs were trembling. The dryness was still in her mouth.
‘It’s a bad idea, to walk through the woods alone,’ her saviour said, stepping closer.
He threw back his hood, his white hair shone in the twilight of the forest. Nimue almost cried, involuntary, quickly closing her mouth. It can’t be, she thought, this is absolutely impossible. Perhaps I am dreaming.
‘But now,’ continued the white-haired man, holding in his hand a blackened metal plate covered with writing. ‘Now it should be safe to walk safely. So what have we here? IDR UL Ex IX 0008 BETA. Ha! You were not enough for good measure, eight. But now the account is closed. How are you, girl? Oh, I’m sorry. Your mouth is a desert, right? I know, I know. One minute, I have water.’
With a trembling hand she took the jar her offered her.
‘Where are you headed?’
‘Up… Up…Up to…’
‘Up to?’
‘Up to Dorian. What was that? That… there?’
‘The ideal product. A masterpiece of the number eight. But, it doesn’t matter what it was. What is important is that it has ceased to exist. And who are you? Where are you going?’
She nodded and swallowed. And decided. She marvelled at her courage.
‘I’m… I’m Nimue verch Wledyr ap Gwyn, going to Dorian, Anchor and from there on to Gors Velen. To Aretuza, the school on the island of Thanedd.’
‘Wow. And where are you from?’’
‘From the village of Vyrva. Through Guado, Sibello, Brugge, Casterfurt…’
‘I know this route,’ he interrupted her. ‘You’ve almost travelled half the world, Nimue, daughter of Vledira. The entrance exams at Aretuza are very hard. But likely, not too hard for you. This is a big goal you set yourself, a girl from the village of Vyrva. Very big. Come with me.’
‘Good…’ Nimue was still uncertain on her feet. ‘Good lord…’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you for the rescue.’
‘You too deserve some thanks. For a few days, I was on the lookout for someone like you. Those who were here before were noisy, in large groups and were armed so number eight dared not attack, would even stick its nose out of cover. You lured him out here. Even at a distance he could recognise easy prey. One who is alone. Small. Defenseless.’
As it turned out, they were right on the edge of the forests doorstep. Behind her, near the lone group of trees, was a horse waiting for the white-haired man. A bay mare.
‘Dorian,’ said the white-haired man, ‘is about forty miles from here. Three days journey for you. Three and a half, if you rest for the rest of the day. Do you know this?’
Nimue suddenly felt euphoria, balanced by numbness and the other effects of suffering fear. It’s a dream, she thought. It seems to me a dream. Because this cannot be real.
‘What’s wrong? Are you okay?’
Nimue plucked up the courage.
‘This mare…’ in her excitement she had difficulty pronouncing her words. ‘This mare is name Roach. Because that is what you name every horse. Because you, are Geralt of Rivia. The Witcher, Geralt of Rivia.’
He looked at her for a long time. Silent. Nimue also remained silent, staring at the ground.
‘What is the year now?’
‘One thousand three hundred and…’ she lifted her surprised eyes. ‘One thousand three hundred and seventy-three after resurrection.‘
‘If that’s so,’ the white-haired man wiped his face with a gloved hand, ‘then Geralt of Rivia has been long dead. He died a hundred and five years ago. But I think he would be happy… He would have been please that, after this hundred and five years, people still remember him. Remembered who he was. Ba, even remembered the name of his horse. Yes, I think he would be happy… If he could have known about it. Let’s go. I’ll walk you.’
For a long time they walked in silence. Nimue bit her lip. Ashamed, she decided not to say anything.
‘Ahead,’ the white-haired man broke the silence, ‘is the intersection and the path. The road to Dorian. You should easily…’
‘The Witcher, Geralt is not dead!’ Nimue snapped. ‘He’s just gone, gone to the land of apple trees. But he’ll be back… be back, because of the legend.’
‘Legends. Fairy tales. Tales. Tales and legends. I could have guessed that Nimue from
the Village of Vyrva was going to school at the island of Thanedd. You would not have made this crazy journey if not for legends and fairy tales, with which you grew up. But this is just a fairy tale, Nimue. Only a fairy tale. You’ve come too far from home, not to understand that.’
‘The Witcher will come back from the dead!’ she did not give in. ‘He’ll be back to defend the people, when once again evil comes. As long as there is darkness, there will be a need for witchers. And there is still darkness!’
He was silent, looking away. Finally, he turned to face her. And he smiled.
‘Darkness still exist,’ he confirmed. ‘Despite the progress, which, we are lead to believe is to dispel the darkness, to eliminate the threat and get rid of the fear. Until now, the major success of progress has not been reached. So far, progress only repeats that darkness is only dark in the light of superstition and that there is nothing to fear. But that is not true. There is something to fear. Because there will always be darkness. And always in darkness evil will be waiting with fang and claw, murder and blood. And we will always need witchers. And those witcher will always be where they are needed. Whence comes a cry for help. A witcher appears with sword in hand. With a sword, that’s brightness will cut the gloom, a light to dispel the darkness. A nice fairy tale, huh? And it ends well, as each tale must.’
‘But…’ she hesitated. ‘But a hundred years… How is it possible to… How is it possible?’
‘Such questions,’ he interrupted her, still with a warm smile, ‘should not be asked by future adepts of Aretuza. A school where they teach that nothing is impossible. Because what is impossible today, may not be impossible tomorrow. This motto you’ll soon see above the entrance to the school, which will soon become your school. Godspeed, Nimue. Farewell. Here we part.’
‘But…’ she felt a sudden relief, and the words flow out of her like a river. ‘But I want to know… To learn more. About Yennefer. About Ciri. With that information I could finish your story. I’ve read it… I know the legend. I know everything. About the witchers. About Kaer Morhen. I even know all the names of the witcher signs. Please tell me…’
‘Here we part,’ he interrupted gently. ‘In front of you is your destination. In front of me a total different road. The story continues, the story never ends. And as for the signs… There is one that you don’t know. It is called crumple. Look at my hand.’
She looked up.
‘Illusion,’ she heard from very far away. ‘All an illusion.’
‘Hey, girl! Don’t fall asleep. Wake up!’
She lifted her head. And rubbed her eyes. Then she jumped off the ground.
‘I fell asleep? I was sleeping?’
‘And how!’ Laughed a woman with a cart full of goat’s milk. ‘Like a rock! Like on dead! Twice I cried out to you, and there was nothing at all. I was about to get off the cart… You’re alone? Why are you looking around? Are you looking for someone?’
‘…A man with white hair… He was here… or… I don’t know…’
‘I did’t see anyone here,’ the woman said.
From behind her, under a tarpaulin, two children poked out their heads.
‘If you going that way,’ the woman pointed down the road with her stick, ‘to Dorian. I can drive you. If you’re going that direction.’
‘Thank you,’ Nimue climbed onto the box. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Then,’ the woman flicked the reins, ‘let’s go! It’s better to go than sit around all day, right? I see, that you were so tired, that sleep overcame you and you moved just off the road for a nap. Tried to wake you, I tell you…’
‘Like a rock,’ Nimue sighed. ‘I know. I was very tired and fell asleep. And before that, I had a…’
‘Well? What happened?’
She looked around. Behind her was the black forest. Ahead of her the road wound between rows of willows. The road to her destination.
The story continues, she thought. The story never ends.
‘I had a wonderful dream.’
Notes
[←1]
Latin for “Nature of things”
[←2]
prejudice
[←3]
Testimony of one is invalid. If one testifies it is line no one testified.
[←4]
When in doubt, for the accused
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Interlude
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Interlude Dandelion, Half a century of Poetry (fragment of draft that never made it to official issue)
Interlude
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Notes
Andrzej Sapkowski, Stephen Hulin
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