The Witcher

THE EDGE OF THE WORLD V

'Hey!'

 A rustle, an angry Uk! Uk! and the snapping of stakes, reached them from the thicket.

 'Hey!' repeated the witcher, prudently remaining hidden. 'Show yourself, willower.'

 'Willower yourself.'

 'So what is it? Devil?'

 'Devil yourself.' The sylvan poked his head out from the hemp, baring his teeth. 'What do you want?'

 'To talk.'

 'Are you making fun of me or what? Do you think I don't know who you are? The peasants hired you to throw me out of here, eh?'

 'That's right,' admitted Geralt indifferently. 'And that's precisely what I wanted to chat to you about. What if we were to come to an understanding?'

 'That's where it hurts,' bleated the sylvan. 'You'd like to get off lightly, wouldn't you? Without making an effort, eh? Pull the other one! Life, my good man, means competition. The best man wins. If you want to win with me, prove you're the best. Instead of coming to an understanding, we'll have competitions. The winner dictates the conditions. I propose a race from here to the old willow on the dyke.'

 'I don't know where the dyke is, or the old willow.'

 'I wouldn't suggest the race if you knew. I like competitions but I don't like losing.'

 'I've noticed. No, we won't race each other. It's very hot today.'

 'Pity. So maybe we'll pit ourselves against each other in a different way?' The sylvan bared his yellow teeth and picked up a large stone from the ground. 'Do you know the game "Who shouts loudest?" I shout first. Close your eyes.'

 'I have a different proposition.'

 'I'm all ears.'

 'You leave here without any competitions, races or shouting. Of your own accord, without being forced.'

 'You can shove such a proposition a d'yeabl aep arse.' The devil demonstrated his knowledge of the Old Language. 'I won't leave here. I like it here.'

 'But you've made too much of a nuisance of yourself here. Your pranks have gone too far.'

 'Duvvelsheyss to you with my pranks.' The sylvan, as it turned out, also knew the dwarves' tongue. 'And your proposition is also worth as much as a duvvelsheyss. I'm not going anywhere unless you beat me at some game. Shall I give you a chance? We'll play at riddles if you don't like physical games. I'll give you a riddle in a minute and if you guess it, you win and I leave. If you don't, I stay and you leave. Rack your brains because the riddle isn't easy.'

 Before Geralt could protest the sylvan bleated, stamped his hooves, whipped the ground with his tail and recited:

 Little pink leaves, pods small and full,

 It grows in soft clay, not far from the stream,

 On a long stalk, its flower is moist,

 But to a cat, please show it not,

 'Cos if you do, he'll eat the lot.

 Well, what is it? Guess.'

'I haven't the faintest idea,' the witcher said, not even trying to think it over. 'Sweet pea, perhaps?'

 'Wrong. You lose.'

 'And what is the correct answer? What has . . . hmm . . . moist pods?'

 'Cabbage.'

 'Listen,' growled Geralt. 'You're starting to get on my nerves.'

 'I warned you,' chuckled the sylvan, 'that the riddle wasn't easy. Tough. I won, I stay. And you leave. I wish you, sir, a cold farewell.'

 'Just a moment.' The witcher surreptitiously slipped a hand into his pocket. 'And my riddle? I have the right to a revenge match, haven't I?'

 'No!' protested the devil. 'I might not guess it, after all. Do you take me for a fool?'

 'No,' Geralt shook his head. 'I take you for a spiteful, arrogant dope. We're going to play quite a new game shortly, one which you don't know.'

 'Ha! After all! What game?'

 'The game is called,' said the witcher slowly, 'don't do unto, others what you would not have them do to you". You don't have to close your eyes.'

 Geralt stooped in a lightning throw; the one-inch iron ball whizzed sharply through the air and thwacked the sylvan straight between the horns. The creature collapsed onto his back as if hit by a thunderbolt. Geralt dived between the poles and grabbed him by one shaggy leg. The sylvan bleated and kicked. The witcher sheltered his head with his arm, but to little effect. The sylvan, despite his mean posture, kicked with the strength of an enraged mule. The witcher tried and failed to catch a kicking hoof. The sylvan flapped, thrashed his hands on the ground and kicked him again in the forehead. The witcher cursed, feeling the sylvan's leg slip from his fingers. Both, having parted, rolled in opposite directions, kicked the poles with a crash and tangled themselves up in the creeping hemp.

 The sylvan was the first to jump up, and, lowering his horned head, charged. But Geralt was already on his feet and effortlessly dodged the attack, grabbed the creature by a horn, tugged hard, threw him to the ground and crushed him with his knees. The sylvan bleated and spat straight into the witcher's eyes like a camel suffering from excess saliva. The witcher instinctively stepped back without releasing the devil's horns. The sylvan, trying to toss his head, kicked with both hooves at once and - strangely - hit the mark with both. Geralt swore nastily, but didn't release his grip. He pulled the sylvan up, pinned him to the creaking poles and kicked him in a shaggy knee with all his might, then he leant over and spat right into his ear. The sylvan howled and snapped his blunt teeth.

 'Don't do unto others ..." panted the witcher, '. . . what you would not have them do to you.

 Shall we play on?' The sylvan gurgled, howled and spat fiercely, but Geralt held him firmly by the horns and pressed his head down hard, making the spittle hit the sylvan's own hooves, which tore at the ground, sending up clouds of dust and weeds.

 The next few minutes passed in an intense skirmish and exchange of insults and kicks. If Geralt was pleased about anything, it was only that nobody could see him - for it was a truly ridiculous sight.

 The force of the next kick tore the combatants apart and threw them in opposite directions, into the hemp thicket. The sylvan got up before the witcher and rushed to escape, limping heavily. Geralt, panting and wiping his brow, rushed in pursuit. They forced their way through the hemp and ran into the hops. The witcher heard the pounding of a galloping horse, the sound he'd been waiting for.

 'Here, Dandilion! Here!' he yelled. 'In the hops!'

 He saw the mount breast right in front of him and was knocked over. He bounced off the horse as though it were a rock and tumbled onto his back. The world darkened. He managed to roll to the side, behind the hop poles, to avoid the hooves. He sprung up nimbly but another rider rode into him, knocking him down again. Then suddenly, someone threw themselves at him and pinned him to the ground.

 Then there was a flash, and a piercing pain in the back of his head.

 And darkness.