Time of Contempt (The Witcher) (30 page)

‘No . . . Later perhaps,’ he answered politely, carefully searching for words in the Elder Speech. The dryad sighed and leaned over, gently stroking the neck of the lute, which was
lying nearby. She rose nimbly to her feet. Dandelion watched her as she disappeared into the forest towards the others, whose shadows showed faintly in the dim light of the small green
lanterns.

‘I trust I didn’t offend her, did I?’ he asked softly. ‘They have their own dialect, and I don’t know polite expressions . . .’

‘Check whether you’ve got a knife in your guts,’ said the Witcher, with neither mockery nor humour in his voice. ‘Dryads react to insults by sticking a knife in your
belly. Don’t worry, Dandelion. I’d say they’re willing to forgive you a good deal more than slips of the tongue. The concert you gave at the edge of the forest was clearly to
their liking. Now you’re ard táedh, “the great bard”. They’re waiting for the next part of ‘The Flower of Ettariel’. Do you know the rest? It’s not
your ballad, after all.’

‘It’s my translation. I also embellished it somewhat with elven music. Didn’t you notice?’

‘No.’

‘As I thought. Fortunately, dryads are more receptive to art. I read somewhere that they’re exceptionally musical. Which is why I came up with my cunning plan. For which,
incidentally, you haven’t yet praised me.’

‘My congratulations,’ said the Witcher after a moment’s silence. ‘It was indeed cunning. And fortune smiled on you, as usual. They shoot accurately at two hundred paces.
They don’t usually wait until someone crosses onto their bank of the river and begins to sing. They are very sensitive to unpleasant smells. So when the corpse falls into the Ribbon and gets
carried away by the current, they don’t have to put up with the stench.’

‘Oh, whatever,’ said the poet, clearing his throat and swallowing. ‘The most important thing is I pulled it off and found you. Geralt, how did you . . .’

‘Do you have a razor?’

‘Eh? Of course I do.’

‘Lend it to me tomorrow morning. This beard of mine is driving me insane.’

‘Didn’t the dryads have any? Hmm . . . I guess not, they don’t have much need for them, do they? Of course, I’ll lend it to you. Geralt?’

‘What?’

‘I don’t have any grub with me. Should ard táedh, the great bard, hold out any hopes of supper when visiting dryads?’

‘They don’t eat supper. Never. And the guards on Brokilon’s border don’t eat breakfast either. You’ll have to survive until noon. I’ve already got used to
it.’

‘But when we get to their capital, the famous, Duen Canell, concealed in the very heart of the forest . . .’

‘We’ll never get there, Dandelion.’

‘What? I thought . . . But you— I mean they’ve given you sanctuary. After all . . . they tolerate . . .’

‘You’ve chosen the right word.’

They both said nothing for a long time.

‘War,’ said the poet finally. ‘War, hatred and contempt. Everywhere. In everyone’s hearts.’

‘You’re being poetic.’

‘But that’s what it’s like.’

‘Precisely. Right, tell me your news. Tell me what’s been happening in the world while they’ve been tending to me here.’

‘First,’ said Dandelion, coughing softly, ‘tell me what really happened in Garstang.’

‘Didn’t Triss tell you?’

‘Yes, she did. But I’d like to hear your version.’

‘If you know Triss’s version, you know a more complete and probably more faithful version already. Tell me what’s happened since I’ve been here.’

‘Geralt,’ whispered Dandelion. ‘I don’t know what happened to Yennefer and Ciri . . . No one does. Triss doesn’t either . . .’

The Witcher shifted suddenly, making the branches creak.

‘Did I ask you about Ciri or Yennefer?’ he said in a different voice. ‘Tell me about the war.’

‘Don’t you know anything? Hasn’t any news reached you here?’

‘Yes, it has. But I want to hear everything from you. Speak, please.’

‘The Nilfgaardians,’ began the bard after a moment’s silence, ‘attacked Lyria and Aedirn. Without declaring war. The reason was supposedly an attack by Demavend’s
forces on some border fort in Dol Angra, which happened during the mages’ conclave on Thanedd. Some people say it was a setup. That they were Nilfgaardians disguised as Demavend’s
soldiers. We’ll probably never find out what really happened. In any case, Nilfgaard’s retaliation was swift and overwhelming; the border was crossed by a powerful army, which must have
been concentrated in Dol Angra for weeks, if not months. Spalla and Scala, the two Lyrian border strongholds, were captured right away, in just three days. Rivia was prepared for a siege lasting
months but capitulated after two days under the pressure of the guilds and the merchants who were promised that, should the town open its gates and pay a ransom, it wouldn’t be sacked . .
.’

‘Was the promise kept?’

‘Yes.’

‘Interesting.’ The Witcher’s voice changed again a little. ‘Promises being kept in these times? I won’t mention that, in the past, no one would have dreamed of
making promises like that, because no one would have expected them. Craftsmen and merchants never opened the gates of strongholds, they defended them; each guild had its own tower or
machicolations.’

‘Money has no fatherland, Geralt. The merchants don’t care whose rule they make their money under. And the Nilfgaardian palatine doesn’t care who he levies taxes on. Dead
merchants don’t make money or pay taxes.’

‘Go on.’

‘After the capitulation of Rivia the Nilfgaardian Army headed northwards at great speed, almost without encountering any resistance. The armies of Demavend and Meve withdrew, unable to
form a front in the deciding battle. The Nilfgaardians reached Aldersberg. In order to prevent the stronghold being blockaded, Demavend and Meve decided to join battle. The positions of their
armies could have been better . . . Bugger it, if there were more light here I’d draw you—’

‘Don’t draw anything. And keep it brief. Who won?’

‘Have you heard, sir?’ said a reeve, out of breath and sweating, pushing through the group gathered around the table. ‘A messenger has arrived from the field!
We have triumphed! The battle is won! Victory! It is our day, our day! We have vanquished our foe, we have beaten him into the ground!’

‘Silence,’ scowled Evertsen. ‘My head is splitting from your cries. Yes, I’ve heard, I’ve heard. We’ve vanquished the foe. It is our day, it is our field and
it is also our victory. What a sensation.’

The bailiffs and reeves fell silent and looked at their superior in astonishment.

‘Do you not rejoice, Chamberlain, sir?’

‘That I do. But I’m able to do it quietly.’

The reeves were silent and looked at one another.
Young pups
, thought Evertsen.
Overexcited young whippersnappers. Actually, I’m not surprised at them. But for heaven’s
sake, there, on the hill, even Menno Coehoorn and Elan Trahe, forsooth, even the grizzly bearded General Braibant, are yelling, jumping for joy and slapping each other’s backs in
congratulation. Victory! It is our day! But who else’s day could it have been? The kingdoms of Aedirn and Lyria only managed to mobilise three thousand horse and ten thousand foot, of which
one-fifth had already been blockaded in the first days of the invasion, cut off in its forts and strongholds. Part of the remaining army had to withdraw to protect its flanks, threatened by
far-reaching raids by light horse and diversionary strikes by units of Scoia’tael. The remaining five or six thousand – including no more than twelve hundred knights – joined
battle on the fields outside Aldersberg. Coehoorn sent an army of thirteen thousand to attack them, including ten armoured companies, the flower of the Nilfgaard knighthood. And now he’s
overjoyed, he’s yelling, he’s thwacking his mace against his thigh and calling for beer . . . Victory! What a sensation.

With a sudden movement, he gathered together the maps and papers lying on the table, lifted his head and looked around.

‘Listen carefully,’ he said brusquely to the reeves. ‘I shall be issuing instructions.’

His subordinates froze in anticipation.

‘Each one of you,’ he began, ‘heard Field Marshal Coehoorn’s speech yesterday, to his officers. I would like to point out, gentlemen, that what the marshal said to his
men does not apply to you. You are to execute other assignments and orders. My orders.’

Evertsen pondered for a moment and wiped his forehead.

‘“War to the castles, peace to the villages,” Coehoorn said to his commanders yesterday. You know that principle,’ he added at once. ‘You learned it in officer
training. That principle applied until today; from tomorrow you’re to forget it. From tomorrow a different principle applies, which will now be the battle cry of the war we are waging. The
battle cry and my orders run: War on everything alive. War on everything that can burn. You are to leave scorched earth behind you. From tomorrow, we take war beyond the line we will withdraw
behind after signing the treaty. We are withdrawing, but there is to be nothing but scorched earth beyond that line. The kingdoms of Rivia and Aedirn are to be reduced to ashes! Remember Sodden!
The time of revenge is with us!’

Evertsen cleared his throat loudly.

‘Before the soldiers leave the earth scorched behind them,’ he said to the listening reeves, ‘your task will be to remove from that earth and that land everything you can,
anything that may increase the riches of our fatherland. You, Audegast, will be responsible for loading and transporting all harvested and stored crops. Whatever is still in the fields and what
Coehoorn’s gallant knights don’t destroy is to be taken.’

‘I have too few men, Chamberlain, sir—’

‘There will be enough slaves. Put them to work. Marder and you . . . I’ve forgotten your name . . . ?’

‘Helvet. Evan Helvet, Chamberlain, sir.’

‘You’ll be responsible for livestock. Gather it into herds and drive it to the designated points for quarantine. Beware of rot-foot and other diseases. Slaughter any sick or suspect
specimens and burn the carcasses. Drive the rest south along the designated routes.’

‘Yes, sir.’

And now a special task
, thought Evertsen, scrutinising his subordinates.
To whom shall I entrust it? They’re all striplings, milk still wet on their cheeks, they’ve seen
little, they’ve experienced nothing . . . Oh, I miss those old, hardened bailiffs of mine. Wars, wars, always wars . . . Soldiers are always falling, and in great numbers, but the losses
among bailiffs, even though much fewer in number, are more telling. You don’t see the deficit among the active troops, because fresh recruits always keep replacing them, for every man wants
to be a soldier. But who wants to be a bailiff or a reeve? Who, when asked by their sons on returning home what they did during the war, wants to say he measured bushels of grain, counted stinking
pelts and weighed wax as he led a convoy of carts laden with spoils along rutted roads, covered in ox shit, and drove herds of lowing and bleating beasts, swallowing dust and flies and breathing in
the stench . . . ?

A special mission. The foundry in Gulet, with its huge furnaces. The puddling furnaces, the zinc ore foundry and the huge ironworks in Eysenlaan, annual production of five hundred
hundredweight. The foundries and wool manufactories in Aldersberg. The maltings, distilleries, weaving mills and dyeworks in Vengerberg . . .

Dismantle and remove. Thus ordered Emperor Emhyr, the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies. As simple as that. Dismantle and remove, Evertsen.

An order’s an order. It must be carried out.

That leaves the most important things. The ore mines and their yield. Coinage. Valuables. Works of art. But I’ll take care of that myself. In person.

Alongside the black columns of smoke which were visible on the horizon rose other plumes. And yet others. The army was implementing Coehoorn’s orders. The Kingdom of Aedirn had become a
land of fires.

A long column of siege engines trundled along the road, rumbling and throwing up clouds of dust. Towards Aldersberg, which was still holding out. And towards Vengerberg, King Demavend’s
capital.

Peter Evertsen looked and counted and calculated. And added up the money. Peter Evertsen was the grand chamberlain of the Empire; during the war the army’s chief bailiff. He had held that
position for twenty-five years. Figures and calculations; they were his life.

A mangonel costs five hundred florins, a trebuchet two hundred, an onager at least a hundred and fifty, the simplest ballista eighty. A trained crew requires nine and a half florins of monthly
pay. The column heading for Vengerberg, including horses, oxen and minor tackle, is worth at least three hundred marks. Sixty florins can be struck from a mark of pure ore weighing half a pound.
The annual yield of a mine is five or six thousand marks . . .

The siege column was overtaken by some light cavalry. Evertsen recognised them as the Duke of Winneburg’s tactical company, one of those redeployed from Cintra, by the designs on its
pennants.
Yes
, he thought,
they have something to be pleased about. The battle won, the army from Aedirn routed. Reserves will not be deployed in a heavy battle against the regular army.
They will be pursuing forces in retreat, wiping out scattered, leaderless groups. They will murder, pillage and burn. They’re pleased because it promises to be a pleasant, jolly little war. A
little war that isn’t exhausting. And doesn’t leave you dead.

Evertsen was calculating.

The tactical company combines ten ordinary companies and numbers two thousand horse. Although the Winneburgians will probably not take part in any large battles now, no fewer than a sixth of
their number will fall in skirmishes. Then there will be camps and bivouacs, rotten victuals, filth, lice, mosquitoes, contaminated water. Then the inevitable will come: typhus, dysentery and
malaria, which will kill no fewer than a quarter. To that you should include an estimate for unpredictable occurrences, usually around one-fifth of the total. Eight hundred will return home. No
more. And probably far fewer.