The Witcher

THE SWORD OF DESTINY II

They crossed a meadow dotted with lesser wooded slopes, following the meandering of the misty valleys and leaving behind them the large grassy clearings and devastated forests. 

Braenn stopped once more. She inspected their surroundings. Her attitude might indicate that she had lost her way, but Geralt knew that was impossible. Taking advantage of the pause, he sat on a fallen trunk.

He heard then a scream. Short. Strident. Desperate.

Braenn immediately went down on one knee and retrieved two arrows from her quiver. Taking one between her teeth, she slotted the second and drew her bow, aiming judiciously through the bushes.

“Don't shoot!” Geralt cried.

He leapt over the tree trunk and crossed through the mountains of vegetation.

In a modest clearing at the foot of a rocky escarpment, a small figure dressed in a gray jacket was cornered. Five paces from him, something was approaching slowly and disturbing the grass. Something dark brown and measured in yards. At first, Geralt thought that it was a snake, but he noticed the yellow legs, moving, hooked, and the plated segments of its long thorax. He realized that this was not a snake. It was much more dangerous.

Pressed against the tree, the little one was continuously making plaintive little cries.

The long quivering antenna of the giant centipede, sensing odors and heat, rose up from the grass.

“Don't move!” shouted the witcher, stamping to divert the attention of the insectoid.

But the centipede did not react: its antennae were busy locating the scent of its next victim. The monster moved into action, curled itself in an 'S' and charged. Its bright yellow legs twinkled through the grass with the regularity of a galley's oars. 

“Yghern!” Braenn cried.

In two bounds, Geralt reached the clearing. He broke into a run, drawing the sword from the sheath on his back. With a blow from his hip, taking advantage of his momentum, he pushed the petrified little one to one side and into a bramble bush. The insectoid began to quiver in the grass; it threw itself then at the witcher, raising up its front segments and snapping fangs that were dripping with venom. Geralt danced, leaping over the plated body of the monster and, turning, tried to strike at a vulnerable gap in the carapace with his sword.

The monster was nevertheless too fast; the sword skidded over the chitinous armor without biting in, as if a thick carpet of moss was cushioning the blow. Geralt tried to escape, but not swiftly. With colossal force, the insectoid wrapped its abdomen around the legs of the witcher, who lost his balance. He tried to extract himself. Without success.

The centipede curved and tried to seize him with its forceps. In the process, it violently scraped the tree, coiling around it. At that moment, an arrow whistled over Geralt's head; it loudly pierced the animal's carapace, nailing it to the trunk of the tree. The centipede twisted, broke the arrow and escaped; but two other projectiles had already struck. The witcher kicked away from the abdomen and rolled to one side.

On one knee, Braenn shot arrow after arrow with incredible speed, and without missing the insectoid. It broke the shafts; but each additional arrow pinned it to the tree. The flat animal mouth, glistening and dark brown, gnashed its jaws; it snapped its mandibles at the places where the arrows pierced it, thinking stupidly that it could hit its enemy that way and wound him.

Geralt jumped aside and put an end to the fight with a single blow, hurling his sword through the air. The tree served the purpose of a chopping block.

Braenn approached slowly, her bow always drawn; she gave a kick to the thorax of the animal that continued to squirm in the grass and wriggle its legs; she spat.

“Thanks,” the witcher said, crushing the severed head of the centipede with his heel.

“For what?”

“You saved my life.”

The dryad looked at him. There was nothing in her expression, neither comprehension nor emotion.

“Yghern,” she responded, tapping the still-squirming carcass with her foot. “He broke some of my arrows.”

“You saved my life and that of this little wood-nymph,” Geralt repeated. “But by the devil, where has she gone?”

Braenn carefully parted the thorn bushes, digging deeply with her arm through the spiny shoots.

“It's as I thought,” she exclaimed, extracting the small figure in a gray jacket from the brush. “Look at this, Gwynbleidd.”

It was not a dryad. Neither was it an elf, a sylph, a pixie, or a hobbit. It was the most human of little girls. Even within the territory of Brokilone: the place least conducive to such a being...

She had fair hair, mouse-gray, and large impetuous green eyes. She could not have been more than ten years old.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Where did you come from?”

She did not respond. Where have I seen her before? he thought. I have already seen her somewhere. Her or someone very like her.

“Don't be afraid,” he told her, looking embarrassed.

“I'm not afraid,” she muttered under her breath.

She was visibly cold.

“We must eclipse ourselves,” Braenn interrupted, inspecting their surroundings.

“When one yghern appears, a second arrives, sometimes simultaneously. I don't have many more arrows.”

The little girl turned her gaze to the dryad, opened her mouth and rubbed it with the palm of her hand to wipe away the dust. 

“But by the devil, who are you then?” Geralt repeated, staring at her. “What are you doing in... in this forest? How did you get here?”

The little girl bowed her head, sniffing.

“Are you deaf? Who are you? I'm asking you. What's your name?”

“Ciri,” she confessed in a sniff.

Geralt turned. Braenn, who was checking her bow, furtively met his glance.

“Listen, Braenn...”

“Sir?”

“Is it possible... Is it possible that she... that she has escaped you... that she has fled from Duén Canell?”

“Sir?”

“Don't play the fool with me,” he said, getting angry. “I know that you take young humans. Did you yourself arrive in Brokilone by falling from the sky? I ask you: is it possible that...”

“No,” the dryad cut in. “I have never seen her before.”

Gerald watched the little girl. Her tousled ash-gray hair, littered with pine needles and leaves, nevertheless seemed clean: no odor of smoke, manure or grease. Her hands, while certainly dirty, were small and delicate, without scars or blemishes. The clothing she was wearing, a gray jacket with a red hood, betrayed no origin, but her ankle-boots were crafted from calf leather. She was decidedly not a country girl. Freixenet! the witcher remembered suddenly. This is the girl Freixenet was searching for! It was for her that he entered Brokilone.

“Where are you from, little brat? I'm asking you.”

“How dare you address me in that way?”

The little girl insolently raised her head and stomped her foot against the ground, but the soft moss cushioned the gesture.

“Ah!” exclaimed the witcher, smiling. “There we are, Princess. In name only, because the outward appearance remains miserable. You come from Verden, don't you? You know there are people searching for you? Don't worry, I'll bring you home. Listen, Braenn...”

No sooner than he looked away, the little girl turned and ran.

“Bloede Turd!” yelled the dryad, grabbing her quiver. “Caemm 'ère!”

The little girl ran blindly, trampling the ground and stumbling over the dry branches.

“Stop!” Geralt cried. “Where are you, little pest?”

Braenn instantly drew her bow. The arrow whistled violently in a low arc; the point stuck loudly in a tree and ruffled the hair of the little girl, who recoiled and fell to the ground.

“You i***t!” the witcher growled angrily, approaching the dryad. Braenn nimbly

pulled a new arrow from her quiver. “You could have killed her!”

“This is Brokilone,” she replied arrogantly.

“And she is a child!”

“And so?”

He noticed without allowing a word to escape that the arrow was fletched with tiger-pheasant feathers, painted yellow. He turned his back on her and plunged quickly into the wood.

Huddled at the foot of a tree, the little girl had lifted her head to look at the arrow planted in the trunk. She heard Geralt's footsteps, rising, but the witcher caught up to her with a rapid leap and grabbed hold of her hood. She turned her head to him, then stared fixedly at the witcher's hand. Geralt let go.

“Why did you run?”

“It's none of your concern,” she replied, sniffling. “Leave me alone, you, you...”

“Filthy brat,” the witcher growled angrily. “This, this is Brokilone. The centipede wasn't enough for you? You won't last until morning in this forest. Don't you understand?” 

“Don't touch me!” she said defensively. “You lackey! I am a princess, as you said yourself!”

“You're nothing but a stupid little brat.”

“I am a princess!”

“Princesses don't wander all alone in the woods. Princesses don't sniffle.”

“I'll order that your head be chopped off! Hers too.”

The little girl wiped her nose and shot a hostile look at the dryad who was approaching. Braenn burst out laughing.

“Well, stop this crying,” the witcher said curtly. “Why did you run, Princess? Where would you go? What are you afraid of?”

The little girl kept quiet, still sniffling.

“As you wish.” He murmured to the dryad: “We're going. If you want to be alone in the forest, that's your choice. But the next time a yghern attacks you, don't bother to scream, because it certainly is not befitting of a princess. Princesses know how to die without complaint, and how to blow their noses properly. Goodbye, Your Royal Highness.”

“Wa... Wait...”

“Yes?”

“I'll come with you.”

“It is an honor. Isn't that right, Braenn?”

“But you can't take me back to Kistrin! Promise?”

“Who is...” he began. “Ah, by the devil! Kistrin. Prince Kistrin? The son of Ervyll of Verden?”

The little girl took out a small handkerchief and blew her nose, turning her face away.

“No more games,” Braenn said gloomily. “We must return to the path.” 

“One minute, one minute.” The witcher stood and looked haughtily at the dryad. “Our plans have slightly changed, my sweet archer.”

“Pardon?”

“Madame Eithné will wait. I must accompany this little girl home. To Verden.”

“You will go no other way. Her either.”

The witcher smiled horribly.

“Be careful, Braenn,” he warned. “I'm not the kid from yesterday whose eye you pierced with an arrow in ambush. I know how to defend myself.”

“Bloede arss!” she growled, raising her bow. “You go to Duén Canell. Her also. Not to Verden!”

“No, no, not to Verden!” The little girl with ash-gray hair rushed to the dryad and clung to her slender thigh. “I am staying with you! Let him go, if he wants, all alone to Verden and that i***t Kistrin!”

Braenn did not even give her a glance: she preferred to keep her eyes on Geralt. She nevertheless allowed her bow to lower.

“Ess turd!” she spat at his feet. “Very well, go where your eyes take you! I'm curious to see if you survive. You will die before you leave Brokilone.”

She's right, Geralt thought. I don't have a chance of getting out. Without her, I can neither leave Brokilone nor reach Duén Canell. Too bad, we'll see then. I may be able to convince Eithné...

“Very well, Braenn,” he concluded apologetically. He smiled: “Don't be angry, my sweet. Yes, it will be as you wish. We will all go to Duén Canell to pay a visit to Madame Eithné.”

The dryad muttered something between her teeth and removed the arrow from her bowstring.

“Let's go,” she said. She adjusted the scarf in her hair. “We have lost too much time.”

“Oh!” the little girl wailed after a step.

“What is it?”

“I have something... in my leg.”

“Wait, Braenn! Come on, little girl, I'll carry you on my shoulders.”

From the heat of her body emanated a smell of wet feathers.

“What is your name, Princess? I forgot.”

“Ciri.”

“Where is your kingdom, if I may be permitted to ask?”

“I will not say,” she replied. “I will not say, that's all.”

“It wouldn't kill you. Stop squirming and don't sniffle in my ear. What explains your presence in Brokilone? You got lost? You took a wrong turn?”

“Actually, I never get lost.”

“Stop fidgeting. You ran away from Kistrin? Castle Nastrog? Before or after marriage?”

“How do you know?” she asked, sniffing with a preoccupied air.

“I am incredibly intelligent. Why exactly flee into Brokilone? There were no

directions less dangerous?”

“It's my stupid horse.”

“You're lying, Princess. At your size, you could only ride a cat. And even then, it would have to be very sweet-tempered.”

“Marck was leading it. The squire of the knight Voymir. In the forest, the horse stumbled and broke a leg. Then we got lost.”

“You say that this never happens to you.”

“He got lost, not me. There was fog. We got lost.” 

You're lost, thought Geralt. Poor little squire of knight Voymir: he had the misfortune to meet Braenn and her companions. The boy – who had probably never been with a woman – had made up his mind to help a little girl with green eyes after hearing tales of knights and the virgins they are required to marry. He had then helped her only to fall to the arrow of a motley dryad who herself has probably never been with a man, but already knew how to kill.

“I asked you: you fled before or after the marriage?”

“I ran away, that's all. What does it matter to you?” she said, frowning. “Grandmother told me I had to go to the castle and get to know this Kistrin. Only to get to know him. Then, his father, the big king...”

“Ervyll.”

“For him, right away, he only had marriage in mind. But me, I don't want this Kistrin.

Grandmother told me...”

“He displeases you so much, the prince Kistrin?”

“I don't want him,” Ciri declared haughtily, sniffing loudly. “He's big, stupid, and ugly. He has bad breath. Before I left, I saw one of his portraits where he wasn't so big. I don't want a husband like him. I don't want to marry.”

“Ciri,” the witcher replied hesitantly. “Kistrin is still a child, just like you. In a few years, he could become a nice, very attractive young man.”

“Then they can send me another portrait in a few years!” she snorted. “And to him too. He told me that I was a lot prettier than the portrait he received. He told me that he loved Alvina, a lady of the court, and that he wants to become a knight. You see? He doesn't want me and I don't want him. What good is that marriage?”

“Ciri,” murmured the witcher, “he is a prince, and you are a princess. Princes and princesses are made to unite. Such is the custom, that's how it is.”

“You talk like all the others. You think you can lie to me because I'm still small.”

“I'm not lying to you.”

“You're lying.” 

Geralt fell silent. Ahead of them, Braenn, astonished by the silence, turned around before resuming the walk with a shrug.

“Where are we going?” Ciri asked sadly. “I want to know!”

Geralt kept quiet.

“Answer when I ask you a question!” she threatened, underscoring her order with a loud sniff. “Don't you know... who is on you?”

He did not react.

“I'll bite your ear!”

The witcher had had enough. He took the girl down from his shoulders and set her on the ground.

“Listen, kid,” he said sternly, gripping the buckle of his belt. “I'll put you over my knee and give you a good thrashing. No-one will prevent me here: this is not the royal court and I am neither a courtier nor a servant. You will regret not staying at Nastrog. You'll understand very shortly that it is better to be a married princess than a brat lost in the forest.

Married princesses have the right to be intolerable, it is a fact. Married princesses are never even s*****d, except perhaps personally by the prince, her husband.”

Ciri frowned, sobbing and sniffing a few more times. Braenn, leaning against a tree, watched without blinking.

“So?” asked the witcher, wrapping his belt around his wrist. “Are we going to behave decently and kindly? Or will I have to tan your royal hide? Well?”

The little girl sniffed again and then shook her head quickly.

“You will be sensible, Princess?”

“Yes,” she growled. 

“It's nearly the brown hour,” said the dryad. “Let's continue on our journey, Gwynbleidd.”

The forest became more sparse. They crossed young sandy woods, fields of heather, misty prairies where herds of deer grazed. The temperature fell.

“Venerable lord,” said Ciri, breaking a very long silence.

“My name is Geralt. What is it?”

“I'm terribly hungry.”

“We'll stop soon. It's almost nightfall.”

“I can't stand it,” she continued, sobbing. “I haven't eaten anything since...”

“Don't cry.” He reached into his wallet and took out a piece of fat bacon, a small slice of cheese and two apples. “Here.”

“What is that yellow thing?”

“Bacon fat.”

“That, I don't want,” she growled.

“It goes down well,” he said, swallowing the piece of animal fat. “Eat the cheese. And an apple. Just one.”

“Why just one?”

“Don't fidget. Eat both.”

“Geralt?”

“Hum?”

“Thank you.” 

“It's nothing. Eat heartily.”

“No... not for this. For this too, but... You saved my life before, from the centipede... Brr... I almost died of fear...”

“There are many things that can kill you that way,” he confirmed seriously. There are many things that can kill you in even more horrible and tragic ways, he thought. “You can thank Braenn.”

“Who is she?”

“A dryad.”

“An evil fairy of the forest?”

“Yes.”

“They're the ones that we... They steal children! She abducted us? Except you're not small. Why does she speak so strangely?”

“She speaks as she speaks, it's not important. The important thing is how she shoots. Don't forget to thank her when we stop.”

“I will not forget,” she replied, sniffling.

“Don't squirm, princess, future wife of the prince of Verden.”

“I will never be the wife of some prince,” she grumbled.

“Well, well, you won't marry anyone. You will become a hamster and take refuge in a burrow.”

“That's not true! You don't know anything at all!”

“Don't scream in my ear. Don't forget about my belt.”

“I will not be the wife of any prince. I will be...”

“Yes? What?”

“It's a secret.”

“Ah! A secret. Great.” He lifted his head. “What's going on, Braenn?”

The dryad had stopped.

She shrugged, looking at the sky.

“I am breaking,” she replied sadly. “All because of what you picked up. Here we make camp: it's vespers.”