The Sword of Destiny (37 page)

"I see," the witcher interrupted, looking at the deceased. "Some of them, it seems to me, survived the arrows and were slaughtered with knives."

From behind the ranks of soldiers standing behind him there came another man, short and thin, dressed in a dashing doublet. He wore his black hair cut very short. His cheeks were shaven and gray. The witcher only needed to look at his small, narrow hands gloved by black mittens, at his fishy eyes, his sword, the handles of stilettos emerging from his waistband and the hem of his left boot... Geralt had seen too many assassins not to recognize another one.

"You have a keen eye," the swarthy man said, very slowly. "My word, you see many things."

"This is the case," said the squint-eyed soldier. "He will report what he saw to his king, Venzlav, since it seems that we must not touch the supposedly good and kind fairies. They can certainly be met during the month of May to be kissed. For that, they may be good. We will see if one of them falls into our hands alive."

"Even half-alive," grinned Brick. "Plague! Where is the druid? It's almost noon and there's no trace of him. It's time to hit the road."

"What will you do?" Geralt asked, without letting go of Ciri's hand.

"How does it concern you?" the dark one growled.

"Why get worked up, Levecque?" interrupted the squint-eyed one, laughing horribly. "We are honest people. We have no secrets. Ervyll sent us a druid, a great sorcerer who can communicate with trees. He will accompany us to the forest to avenge Freixenet and try to save the princess. This is not a walk, brother, but an expedition, pun... pun..."

"Punitive," sighed Levecque.

"Yeah. I had it on the tip of my tongue. Yes, be on your way, brother, because the situation will soon get heated here."

"Yes," Levecque said, looking at Ciri. "It's dangerous here, even more so with a little girl. The fairies love them. Huh, kid? Your mother's waiting for you at home?"

Ciri nodded, trembling.

"It would be a pity if she never saw you again," the dark one continued, without looking away. "She would no doubt complain to Venzlav: by tolerating the dryads, King, you have condemned my daughter and my husband. Who knows if Venzlav wouldn't renew his alliance with Ervyll then?"

"Leave 'em, Mr Levecque," growled Junghans. The creases on his face deepened. "Let 'em go."

"Hello to you, kid."

Levecque reached out his hand and stroked Ciri's head. She shuddered and recoiled.

"What? You're afraid?"

"You have blood on your hand," the witcher said softly.

"Ah!" Levecque lifted his arm. "Indeed. It's the merchants' blood. I wanted to see if there were any survivors. The fairies, unfortunately, were thorough."

"Fairies?" Ciri said in an unsteady voice, not reacting to the pressure from the witcher's hand. "Oh! Sir knight, you are mistaken. It couldn't be dryads!"

"What are you mumbling about, kid?"

The swarthy man narrowed his pale eyes. Geralt glanced right and left, estimating the distances. "They were not dryads, sir knight," Ciri repeated. "It's obvious!"

"Huh?"

"This tree... This tree was cut! With an ax! Dryads never cut a tree, isn't that right?"

"That's right," Levecque responded, looking at the squint-eyed soldier. "Oh! But you're a smart little girl. Too smart."

The witcher had spotted the assassin's black-gloved hand creeping like a spider to the handle of his stiletto. Although Levecque's eyes had not once left the little girl, Geralt knew that the first shot would be brought against him. He waited for Levecque to touch his weapon.

The squint-eyed soldier gasped.

Three movements. Three, only.

The silver-studded forearm struck the left side of the swarthy man's head. The witcher found himself between Junghans and the squint-eyed soldier even before Levecque fell to the ground, and his sword, emerging from its sheath with a hiss, sang through the air and struck the temple of Brick, the giant in the copper-trimmed doublet.

"Save yourself, Ciri!"

The squint-eyed soldier, seizing his sword, jumped aside, but too late. The witcher opened his torso diagonally from top to bottom and then, taking advantage of the energy of the blow, struck instantly, bottom to top, leaving his body branded by a bloody X.

"Guys!" Junghans yelled at the rest of the troops, which were petrified with astonishment. "To me!"

Ciri reached a twisted beech and climbed like a squirrel to reach the top branches, hiding in the foliage. The ranger fired an arrow in her direction without success. The others began to move. Arranged in a semicircle, they drew their bows and took arrows from their quivers. Geralt, kneeling, extended his fingers to form the Aard sign, not at the too-distant archers but at the sand of the path before them, which blinded them in the whirlwind.

Junghans pulled a second arrow from his quiver and bounded agilely.

"No!" Levecque yelled, getting up, armed with a sword in his left hand and a stiletto in his right. "Allow me, Junghans!"

The witcher pivoted smoothly to face him.

"He's mine," Levecque continued, shaking his head and wiping his face with his forearm. "Only mine!"

Geralt, leaning, spun in a half circle, but Levecque did not do the same: he attacked directly. They met, cornered.

He's not bad, thought the witcher, neutralizing with difficulty the rapid movement of the waving blade of the murderer, and deflecting with a half-turn the blow of his stiletto. He did not volunteer a riposte, but leapt to the side, predicting that Levecque would try again and be imbalanced by his wide swing. But the killer was not a novice. He shrank back and also circled with a feline agility. Then he jumped without warning, flashing his sword like a whirlwind. The witcher refused direct confrontation, meeting him with a high and fast parry that forced the killer to recoil. Levecque curled up in preparation for a fourth. He hid one of his stilettos behind his back. The witcher, again, did not attack, did not close the distance, preferring once again to circle around his adversary.

"Every good joke comes to an end," Levecque growled between his teeth. "What do you say we wrap things up, wise guy. Wrap things up before we cut down your bastard in her tree. What do you think?"

Geralt had noticed that the murderer was watching his own shadow, waiting until it reached his opponent, meaning that he would be dazzled by the sun. The witcher stopped turning for the killer's convenience.

His pupils diminished to become two horizontal slits, two tight lines.

To disguise the change, he squinted as if he had been blinded.

Levecque jumped, turned, maintaining his equilibrium with the arm wielding a stiletto and struck with a wrist movement that seemed impossible, bottom to top. Geralt shot forward, turned and parried the blow. With an equally impossible movement of his wrist and shoulder, he pushed the killer back with the strength of his parry, which ended in a stroke of his blade along the left cheek of his adversary. Levecque staggered, seizing his face. The witcher turned about-face and, throwing all his weight on his left leg and in a short blow severed the carotid artery. Drenched in blood, Levecque curled up and fell to his knees before pitching head first into the sand.

Geralt slowly turned to face Junghans. The latter was aiming his bow, grinning terribly. The witcher bent low, grasping his sword in both hands. The other soldiers were also holding their bows in a deathly silence.

"What are you waiting for?" bellowed the ranger. "Go! Go!"

Then he abruptly stumbled, staggered and jogged a few steps before collapsing, an arrow through his throat. The fletching was made of tiger pheasant feathers, dyed yellow with a concoction made of bark.

Arrows sang out from the black wall of the forest, in long and flat arcs. They seemed to glide slowly and peacefully on whistling feathers and not pick up speed and force until the moment of impact. They struck their targets without error, decimating the helpless mercenaries of Nastrog, falling like leaves onto the sandy road, mowed down like sunflowers under the blows of a stick.

The survivors hurried to the horses, jostling each other. The arrows did not stop whistling. They reached the soldiers as they ran or were already in the saddle. Only three of them managed to bring their horses to a full gallop, shouting and striking the flanks of their mounts. But they didn't go far.

The forest was closed, blocking the way. The sandy highway, sun-drenched, disappeared behind the wall of dense and impenetrable black trunks.

The mercenaries spurred their horses. Frightened and bewildered, they tried to turn around, but the arrows fell all the while. They tore through the mounted soldiers amid the sound of trampling, the neighing of horses and shouting.

Then there was silence.

The wall of the forest enclosing the highway shimmered, faded, flashed with all the colors of the rainbow and disappeared. The road was visible again. There appeared a horse with a gray coat was ridden by a powerful blond-bearded horseman, wearing a seal jacket belted by a strip of plaid wool.

The gray horse advanced restlessly, shaking its head and lifting its forelegs high. He snorted, avoiding the corpses and the smell of blood. The horseman, upright in the saddle, lifted his right hand: a light breeze rustled the branches of the trees.

"Ceddmil, Wedd Brokiloener cried the horseman. "Fdill, And Woedwedd!"

"Fdill!" replied a voice from the forest, carried by the wind.

The green and brown silhouettes disappeared one after the other into the undergrowth of the forest. Only one remained, with hair the color of honey. She approached.

"Va fdill, Gwynbleidd, " she said, coming closer.

"Goodbye, Mona," replied the witcher. "I will not forget you."

"Forget," she replied harshly, adjusting the quiver on her back. "There is no Mona. Mona was a dream. I am Braenn. Braenn of Brokilone."

She gave one more wave of her hand and disappeared.

The witcher turned.

"Mousesack," he said, looking at the rider on the gray horse.

"Geralt," acknowledged the horseman, eying him with a cold stare. "An interesting encounter. But start with the most important things. Where is Ciri?"

"Here!!" cried the little girl, completely hidden in the foliage. "Can I come down?"

"Yes, you can," responded the witcher.

"But I don't know how!"

"In the same way you climbed up, but in reverse."

"I'm afraid! I'm at the top of the tree!"

"Come down, I tell you. We have much to discuss, little lady."

"But what?"

"Why, by the plague, did you climb up instead of running into the forest? I would have followed behind you, I wouldn't have had to... Ah! By cholera, come down!"

"I did like the cat in the story! Whatever I do, it's always wrong! Why? I wish I knew."

"I, too," said the druid, "would like to know. And your grandmother, Queen Calanthe would also like to know. Come down, little princess."

Leaves and dry branches tumbled down from the tree. Then there came the sound of ripping fabric. Ciri finally appeared, sliding, her legs apart, along the trunk. In place of the hood of her cloak, she wore only picturesque tatters.

"Uncle Mousesack!"

"In the flesh."

The druid took the little girl in his arms pressed her against him.

"Is it Grandmother who sent you, Uncle? She was put to a lot of trouble?"

"Not too much," said Mousesack, smiling. "She is too busy to wet her strap. The way back to Cintra will take some time, Ciri. Take the opportunity to find an explanation for your adventures. The best, if you take my advice, would be to make it short and to the point. An explanation that it is possible to state very, very quickly. But I believe nonetheless that at the end, Princess, you will cry out very, very loud."

Ciri grimaced with pain, sniffled, grumbled quietly. Her hands instinctively sought refuge at the part of her body that was most at risk.

"Let's go," suggested Geralt, inspecting the area. "Let's go, Mousesack."

VIII

"No," said the druid. "Calanthe has changed her plans: she no longer wants Ciri and Kistrin to marry. She has her reasons. In addition, it will not surprise you to hear that, since this unfortunate attack made on the merchants, King Ervyll has lost much of his credibility in my eyes, and you know that my judgment counts in the kingdom. No, we will not even stop in Nastrog. I will take the little one directly to Cintra. Come with us, Geralt."

"What for?"

The witcher glanced at Ciri, who shivered under a tree, protected by Mousesack's fur cloak.

"You know why. This child, Geralt, is your destiny. Your paths crossed for the third

time, yes, the third time. In a certain sense, of course, especially when it comes to the first two times. I hope, Geralt, that you do not think that this is a simple coincidence."

"What difference does it make what I call it?" replied the witcher, forcing a smile. "Things escape the names we give them, Mousesack. Why take me to Cintra? I've already been there, I've already met her, as you said, by other paths. So what?"

"Geralt, you demanded then an oath that Calanthe, Pavetta, and her husband swore to. It has been upheld. Ciri is the child-surprise. Destiny requires..."

"That I take this child and make her into a witcher? A little girl! Look at me, Mousesack. Can you imagine that I could have been a fresh and pretty little girl?"

"The devil with the witchers' arts!" retorted the druid, carried away. "What does your heart say? What is the relationship? No, Geralt, I see that you do not understand and that I must use simple words. Listen, any cretin can exact an oath. You're one of them. That in itself is nothing extraordinary. It's the child who is extraordinary. As is the link that was created when the child was born. I must be even more clear? Not a problem, Geralt: since the birth of Ciri, your wishes and plans cease to be important, as does what you refuse and what you renounce. Yourself, by plague and cholera, you have ceased to count! Do you understand?"

"Don't shout. You're going to wake her up. Our surprise is sleeping. And when she wakes up... Mousesack, even extraordinary things, one can... One must sometimes renounce."