The Witcher

THE LIMITS OF THE POSSIBLE VI

"Watch out there! Pay attention!" shouted Boholt, turning round in the driver's seat towards the rest of the column behind him. "You're too near the rocks! Look out!"

 The wagons moved onward behind each other, bouncing along on the stones. The drivers swore and cracked their whips; anxious, they leaned over to check that the wheels remained a respectable distance from the ravine and always in contact with the narrow, uneven path.

 Down in the bottom of the chasm, the River Braa bubbled with white foam between the rocks.

 Geralt kept his horse very close to the stony wall covered in patches of brown moss and white blooms of lichen. He allowed the Reavers' wagon to pass. At the head of column, Ripper led the train along with the scouts of Holopole.

 "Good!" he called "Make some effort! The way becomes broader."

 King Niedamir and Gyllenstiern caught up with Geralt on their chargers. Several archers on horseback flanked them. Behind them, all the royal wagons followed, making a deafening noise. Far behind them followed that of the dwarves, driven by Yarpen Zigrin, swearing incessantly. Niedamir, a thin and freckled lad in a white sheepskin coat, passed the Witcher, shooting him an arrogant, but clearly bored look. Gyllenstiern straightened up, stopping his mount.

 "If you please, Sir Witcher," he shot with an air of superiority.

 "I'm listening."

 Geralt spurred on his mare and rode alongside the chancellor behind the wagons. He was surprised that with such a fat gut, Gyllenstiern preferred riding a horse rather than in the comfort of a wagon.

 Gyllenstiern pulled lightly on his reins adorned with golden studs and pushed a turquoise coat off his shoulders.

 "Yesterday, you said that dragons did not interest you. In what, therefore, are you interested, Sir Witcher? Why do you travel this road with us?"

 "It's a free country, Lord Chancellor."

 "At the present time, Lord Geralt, everybody in this convoy must know his place and his role in accordance with the will of King Niedamir. Do you understand?"

 "What are you getting at, Lord Gyllenstiern?"

 "I'm already there. Lately I have heard that it is difficult to come to an agreement with you witchers. It seems that when somebody asks a witcher to kill a monster, he prefers to meditate on the legitimacy of this act rather than to just take up his sword and kill it. He wishes to consider the boundaries of what is acceptable by wondering whether the killing, in this particular case, does not contradict with his ethical code and if the monster is indeed a monster - as though it were not obvious at first glance. I think that your financial security hinders you: in my time, witchers did not stink of money. The only stench was from the bandages with which they covered their feet. There was never the slightest hint of procrastination: they killed whatever they had been ordered to kill, that's it. It didn't matter whether it was a werewolf, a dragon or a tax collector. Only the effectiveness of the job.

 What do you think, Geralt?"

 "Do you want to entrust me with a mission, Gyllenstiern?" replied the witcher roughly. "I await your proposal. We shall make a decision then. But if that's not case, there's no point in waffling on like this, is there?"

 "A mission?" the chancellor sighed. "No, I don't have one for you. Today we hunt the dragon and apparently it exceeds your abilities, witcher. I fancy that the Reavers will fulfil this task. I simply wanted to keep you informed. Pay close attention: King Niedamir and I will not tolerate this type of fanciful dichotomy consisting of separating monsters into good and bad.

 We don't want to hear, and even less to see, how witchers apply this principle. Do not meddle in royal business, Lord, and cease conspiring with Dorregaray."

 "I'm not in the habit of collaborating with magicians. How did you come to such a hypothesis?"

 "The fancies of Dorregaray," replied Gyllenstiern, "exceed even those of the witchers. He goes beyond your dualistic dichotomy by considering that all monsters are good!"

 "He exaggerates a bit."

 "There's no doubt about that. But he defends his views with amazing tenacity. Frankly I wouldn't be surprised if he's up to something. It's odd that he's joined this strange company

 ..."

 "I don't really like Dorregaray; the feeling's mutual."

 "Don't interrupt me! I must say your presence here seems strange to me: a witcher with more scruples than there are fleas nesting in the coat of a fox; a magician who never stops spouting druidic incongruities regarding the balance of nature; a silent knight, Borch Three-Jackdaws and his escort from Zerricania - where, as everybody knows, they make sacrifices before effigies of dragons. And they all suddenly join our hunt. It's strange, don't you find?"

 "If you say so, yes."

 "Know then," the chancellor went on, "that as is so often the case, the most difficult problems always result in the simplest resolution. Do not force me to use to it, witcher."

 "I don't understand."

 "You understand. You understand only too well. Thank you for this conversation, Geralt."

 The witcher halted his mount. Gyllenstiern sped up his pace to join the king behind the wagons. Eyck of Denesle, dressed in a jerkin stitched with pale leather still carrying the impression of a breast-plate, passed by at walking pace leading a sleepy horse loaded with armour and carrying a silver shield and a powerful lance. Geralt waved to him, but the knight errant looked away, pursing his lips, before spurring his horse onwards.

 "He doesn't like you very much," said Dorregaray, joining Geralt. "Don't you think?"

"Apparently."

 "He's a rival isn't he? You both lead a similar activity. The difference being that the knight Eyck is an idealist and you a professional. The difference of no importance to the beings whom you slaughter."

 "Don't compare me to Eyck, Dorregaray. Who knows which of us two would come off worse as a result of your comparison."

 "As you wish. To tell the truth, to me you are just as loathsome as he is."

 "Thank you."

 "Don't mention it." The magician patted the neck of his horse, frightened by the shouting of Yarpen and his dwarves. "As far as I'm concerned, witcher, to make murder a vocation is disgusting, base and stupid. Our world hangs in the balance. The destruction, the murder of any living being in this world threatens this balance. The absence of equilibrium leads to extinction, and thus the end of the world as we know it."

 "Druid theory," declared Geralt. "I know of it. An old hierophant introduced me to it before, in Rivia. Two days after our conversation, rat-men tore him to shreds. It wasn't evident that any kind imbalance had occurred as a result."

 Dorregaray looked at Geralt indifferently.

 "The world, I repeat, remains in balance. A natural balance. Every species has its enemies, each is a natural enemy for the others. This fact also applies to human beings. The complete destruction of the natural enemies of man - to which you contribute, Geralt, as we can see -

 threatens our degenerate race."

 "You know, magician," replied the witcher, losing his temper, "Perhaps you should visit a mother whose son has been devoured by a basilisk and explain to her that she should be delighted with her misfortune, because it will enable the salvation of the degenerate human race. Wait and see how she answers you."

 "Good argument, witcher," interrupted Yennefer, who had joined them on her big black horse. "Dorregaray, be careful about what you say."

 "I'm not in the habit of keeping my opinions to myself."

 Yennefer slipped between the two. The witcher noticed that she had replaced her golden mesh with a white neckerchief rolled into a headband.

 "Consider suppressing them, Dorregaray," she replied. "At least in front of Niedamir and the Reavers, who suspect you of wanting to sabotage the hunt. They will continue treating you as an inoffensive maniac as long as you restrict yourself to words. But if you try to do something, they will break your neck before you have time to take a breath."

The magician smiled contemptuously.

 "Besides," continued Yennefer, "by uttering such views, you undermine the foundations of our profession and our duty."

 "I beg your pardon?"

 "You can apply your theories to grand creation and vermin, Dorregaray, but not to dragons.

 Dragons remain the worst natural enemy of man. It's not a matter of the degeneration of humanity, but its survival. In the end, mankind must get rid of his enemies and anything else that threatens it."

 "Dragons are not the enemies of man," interrupted Geralt.

 The sorceress looked at him and smiled, only with her lips.

 "On this issue," she replied, "leave the discussion to us humans. You, witcher, are not made to judge. You are only there to carry out certain tasks."

 "As a servile and programmed golem?"

 "Your words, not mine," she retorted coldly, "even if I consider them, it could be said, rather appropriate."

 "Yennefer," said Dorregaray. "For a woman of your age and education to talk such nonsense is shocking. Why would dragons appear among the main enemies of man? Why not other living beings with a hundred times more victims than dragons? Why not hirikkhis, giant centipedes, manticores, amphisbaena or griffons? Why not wolves?"

 "Let me tell you. The superiority of man over other breeds and species, the fight for his rightful place in nature, his vital place, will only succeed when man has put an end to his aggressive, nomadic search for food, where he moves about in accordance with the changing of the seasons. Otherwise, it will be impossible for him to multiply quickly enough.

 Humanity is a child without any real independence. A woman can only give birth safely sheltered by the walls of a city or a fortified town. Fertility, Dorregaray, is what's needed for development, survival and domination. Then we come to dragons: only a dragon can threaten a city or fortified town, no other monster. If dragons are not exterminated, humans will scatter to ensure their security instead of uniting against it. If a dragon breathes fire on a densely populated quarter, it's a catastrophe - a terrible m******e with hundreds of victims.

 That's why every last dragon must be wiped out."

 Dorregaray looked at her with a strange smile on his lips.

 "You know, Yennefer, I'd prefer not be alive when the time comes that your idea of man's domination will come true and the time when the same will take up their rightful place in nature. Fortunately, it will never arrive. You will consume each other, you will poison yourselves, you will succumb to fever and typhus, because it will be filth and lice, not dragons, that will threaten your splendid cities where the women give birth every year, but where only one newborn baby out of ten will succeed in living more than ten days. Yes, Yennefer, of course: breeding, breeding and more breeding. Take care, my dear, go and make some babies, as it's a more natural function with which to occupy yourself rather than wasting time spouting nonsense. Goodbye."

The magician spurred on his horse and left at a gallop to join the head of the column.

 Seeing Yennefer's pale and tense face, Geralt instantly felt sorry for the magician. He grasped situation perfectly: Yennefer was sterile, as were most sorceresses, but unlike the others, she suffered as a result and became wild with rage when reminded of it. Dorregaray undoubtedly knew this weakness. He was, however, unaware that Yennefer had a cold-blooded thirst for vengeance.

"He's going to make trouble," she hissed. "Oh, yes! Watch out, Geralt. If it comes to that, don't hope that I'll defend you if you don't exhibit some common sense."

 "Don't worry," he replied, smiling. "We witchers and servile golems always act reasonably.

 The limitations within which we can act are clearly and distinctly fixed."

 "Look at you!" Yennefer's face turned even paler. "You're as upset as a girl who's just had her lack of virtue exposed. You're a witcher, you can't change that. Your duty... "

 "Stop going on about my duty, Yen. This argument is starting to make me sick."

 "Don't speak to me like that, I'm warning you. Your nausea as well as your restricted range of actions are of no interest to me."

 "You'll witness some of them, however, if you don't cease bating me with grand ethics and talk of the struggle for the good of humanity. Or talk about dragons, dreadful enemies of the human tribe. I know better."

 "Oh yes?" The sorceress blinked. "What do you know about it, witcher?"

 "I know this." Geralt ignored the violent warning of the medallion hanging around his neck.

 "If dragons didn't protect treasure, not even lame dogs would be interested in their fate.

 Magicians even less so. It's interesting to note that, in every hunt for a dragon, there is the presence of magicians who are strongly linked to the guild of jewellers. Yourself, for example. Later, while the market is saturated with stones, the ones from the dragon's hoard disappear as if by magic and their price remains constantly inflated. Therefore don't talk to me about duty and battles for survival of the species. I know you too well and for too long."

 "Too long," she repeated with a hostile air, grimacing. "Unfortunately. But don't think that you know me well, you son of a b***h. Damn it, what a fool I was... Go to hell! I can't look at you anymore,"

 She cried out, launching her dark horse into a flat-out gallop towards the head of the convoy.

 The witcher stopped his mount to let through the wagon of the dwarves who shouted, swore and played on bone flutes. Among them, sprawled out on some bags of oats, Jaskier strummed his lute.

 "Hey!" cried Yarpen Zigrin from the driver's seat, pointing at Yennefer. "What's that black thing on the path? I'm curious, whatever can it be? It resembles a mare!"

 "Undoubtedly!" replied Jaskier, shouting and pushing back his plum coloured hat. "It's a mare riding a gelding! Incredible!"

The beards of Yarpen's boys shook with a chorus of laughter. Yennefer pretended not to hear them.

 Geralt stopped his horse to let Niedamir's archers through. Behind them, a little way off, Borch rode slowly and right behind him, bringing up the rear guard, the Zerricanians. Geralt waited for them. He positioned his mare next to Borch's horse. They rode on in silence.

 "Witcher," Three Jackdaws said suddenly. "I'd like to ask you a question."

 "Ask away."

 "Why don't you turn back?"

 The witcher looked at him in silence for a while.

 "You really want to know?"

 "Yes," replied Three Jackdaws, turning to him.

 "I walk in the column because I'm only a servile golem, only a strand of oakum carried by the wind on the highway. Where should I go? Tell me. For what purpose? In this company there are plenty of people to talk to. Some don't even cut short their conversations when I approach them. Those that don't like me tell me to my face, rather than talking behind my back. I accompany them for the same reason that I went with you in the bargemen's inn. Because it's all the same to me. I'm not expected to be anywhere in particular. There's nothing for me at the end of the road."

 Three Jackdaws cleared his throat.

 "At the end of every path, there is a goal, a purpose. Everybody has one. Even you, in spite of your difference."

 "It is now my turn to ask you a question."

 "Go for it."

 "Do you see a goal at the end of your path?"

 "I see one."

 "Lucky."

 "It's not a question of luck, Geralt. It's all a matter of what you believe and to what you devote yourself. Nobody can know this better than... What witcher?"

 "Nobody stops talking about their ambitions today," murmured Geralt. "The ambition of Niedamir consists of conquering Malleore. That of Eyck of Denesle to protect the humans from dragons. Dorregaray feels called to accomplish a diametrically opposite purpose.

 Yennefer cannot fulfil her ambition owing to the changes to which her body has been subjected, and it upsets her. By the devil, only the Reavers and the dwarves seem not to need ambition. They simply want to make a packet. Perhaps that's why they appeal to me. "

"No, Geralt of Rivia, it is not they who appeal to you. I'm neither blind nor deaf. You didn't take out your purse to the soft music of their name. It seems to me that..."

 "It's in vain," the witcher said without anger.

"I'm sorry."

 "No need to apologise."

 They stopped their mounts to avoid a collision with the archers of Caingorn who had stopped at the head of the column.

 "What's happened?" Geralt stood up in his stirrups. "Why have we stopped?"

 "I don't know," replied Borch, looking around.

 Vea uttered something, looking strangely worried.

 "I'm going to the front," declared the witcher. "I'll find out."

 "Wait."

 "Why?"

 Three Jackdaws remained silent, staring at the ground.

 "Why?" repeated Geralt.

 "On second thought, go," Borch said finally. "I think perhaps it will be better to."

 "Why will it be better?"

 "Go."

 The bridge linking up both edges of precipice seemed solid. It had been constructed with imposing logs of pine resting on a square pillar against which the current broke with crash in long rivulets of foam.

 "Hey, Ripper!" shouted Boholt, approaching the wagon. "Why have you stopped?"

 "I'm not sure about this bridge."

 "Why are we going this way?" Gyllenstiern asked, going up to them. "I'm not keen on crossing this bridge with the wagons. Hey! Shoemaker! Why go this way? The track goes on farther westward!"

 The heroic poisoner of Holopole went up to him and took off his sheepskin hat. He cut a comical air in his frockcoat covered with an old-fashioned breast-plate dating from at least the time of King Sambuk.

 "This way is shorter, noble lord," he replied not to the chancellor but directly to Niedamir, whose face still expressed deathly boredom.

 "How's that?" demanded Gyllenstiern, his face contorted.

Niedamir did not deign to look at the shoemaker.

 "Well," explained Kozojed, indicating the three jagged summits dominating the area. "Over there are Chiava, Big Kestrel and Steed's Tooth. The track leads towards the ruins of an ancient fortified town, winds around Chiava to the north, and carries on beyond the source of the river. By taking the bridge, we can shorten the way. We can follow the ravine up to a body of water located between the mountains. If we find no trace of the dragon there, we can head eastward to examine the adjacent gulches. Even farther eastward, there are flat mountain pastures, then a path leading directly to Caingorn, towards your domains, lord."

 "How did this knowledge of mountains come to you, Kozojed?" Boholt asked. "While planing down clogs?"

 "No, lord. I was a shepherd in my youth."

 "The bridge will hold?" Boholt got up from his seat and looked down at the foaming river.

 "The chasm is forty fathoms deep."

 "It will hold, my lord."

 "How do you explain the presence of such a bridge in this wild land?"

 "The trolls," explained Kozojed, "constructed this bridge in ancient times to set up a toll.

 Whoever wanted to cross had to pay a hefty sum. But there were rarely any takers, so the trolls packed up and left. The bridge remained."

 "I repeat," Gyllenstiern interrupted angrily, "that we've wagons filled with equipment and food just in case we get stuck in the wilderness. Isn't it better to stay on the track?"

 "We can follow the track," replied the shoemaker, shrugging, "but the road will be longer.

 The king had expressed his eagerness to battle the dragon. He beamed with impatience."

 "Burned with impatience," corrected the chancellor.

 "Burned then." the shoemaker acquiesced. "All the same, the road will be shorter if we take the bridge."

 "Well, let's go, Kozojed!" decided Boholt. "Forward march, you and your troops. Where I'm from we have a habit of sending the most valiant first."

 "No more than one wagon at a time!" Gyllenstiern ordered.

 "Agreed!" Boholt whipped his horses: the wagon clattered onto the logs of the bridge. "Look behind us, Ripper! Watch out that our wheels go straight."

 Geralt stopped his horse, his way barred by the archers of Niedamir, their crimson and yellow jerkins huddled together on a stone gable.

 The witcher's mare snorted.

Then the earth shook. The jagged edge of the rocky walls suddenly blurred against the background of the sky and the wall itself issued a dull, palpable roar.

"Look out!" shouted Boholt, who had already crossed to the other side of the bridge. "Look out!"

 The first stones, still small, began rustling and hitting the slope as it shook with spasms.

 Geralt saw a black fissure forming across the path behind him. It broke and collapsed into space with a deafening crash.

 "To the horses!" shouted Gyllenstiern. "My lords! We have to cross quickly!"

 Niedamir, his head leaning on the mane of his mount, rushed onto the bridge followed by Gyllenstiern and some of the archers. Behind them, the royal wagon bearing a standard marked with a griffin crashed with a dull thud onto the faltering beams.

 "It's a landslide! Get off the path!" shouted Yarpen Zigrin in the back as he whipped the hindquarters of his horses.

 The dwarves' wagon crashed into some of the archers as it overtook Niedamir's second wagon.

 "Move! Witcher! Get out of the way!"

 Eyck of Denesle, sitting stiff and straight, overtook the dwarves' wagon at a gallop. If it wasn't for his deathly pale face and jaw clenched in grimace, one might think that the knight errant didn't notice the rocks and stones tumbling down onto the track. A wild cry went up from a group of archers who remained behind. Horses neighed.

 Geralt tugged on the reins, his horse rearing. Just in front of him, the earth trembled under the impact of the rocks that hurtled down the slope.

 Rumbling over the stones, the dwarves' wagon jolted just before it reached the bridge and overturned with a c***k. One of its axles broke and a wheel bounced off the balustrade before falling into the turbulence.

 The witcher's mare, struck by shards of sharp rock, chewed at the bit. Geralt tried to jump from his mount, but his boot remained stuck in the stirrup. He fell. The mare neighed and rushed onto the bridge as it wobbled over the gap. The dwarves ran across shouting and swearing.

 "Faster, Geralt!" Jaskier shouted over his shoulder as he ran behind the dwarves.

 "Jump, witcher!" shouted Dorregaray, jostling around in the saddle and struggling to control his now wild horse.

 Behind them, a whole section of path collapsed. A cloud of dust went up, created by the landslide and the crashing of Niedamir's wagons as they broke to pieces. The witcher managed to hang on to the straps of the magician's saddlebags. He heard a scream.

 Yennefer fell with her horse, then rolled aside. She threw herself to the ground and protected her head with her hands, trying to remain out of reach of the hooves that kicked out blindly.

 The witcher let go to rush toward her, avoiding a rain of stones and jumping over the fissures which formed under his feet. Clutching an injured shoulder, Yennefer rose to her knees. Her eyes were wide and there was a cut above her eyebrow. Blood trickled down to her earlobe.

"Get up, Yen!"

 "Geralt, look out!"

 An enormous block of rock, which had broken loose from the wall with a grating noise, came down directly behind them with a thud. Geralt dropped to shield the sorceress with his body.

 The block exploded and broke into thousands of fragments as fine as wasp stings.

 "Hurry!" cried Dorregaray. From his horse, he waved his wand, reducing to dust the other rocks that had come loose from the wall. "To the bridge, witcher!"

 Yennefer made a sign with her hand, stretching out her fingers. Nobody understood what she shouted. Stones evaporated like raindrops on white-hot iron upon the bluish arch which had just formed above their heads.

 "To the bridge, Geralt!" cried the sorceress. "Follow me!"

 They ran behind Dorregaray and some unhorsed archers. The bridge swayed and cracked, beams bending, throwing them from one balustrade to the next.

 "Quickly!"

 The bridge collapsed all at once with a deafening racket. The half that they had just crossed tore itself apart and fell with a crash into the void, taking with it the dwarves' wagon which smashed onto a row of rocks. They heard the dreadful neighing of the panicked horses. The party that remained on the bridge continued holding on, but Geralt realized that they ran on an increasingly steep slope. Yennefer, breathing heavily, cursed.

 "We're falling, Yen! Hold on!"

 The rest of the bridge creaked, split apart and swung down like a drawbridge. Yennefer and Geralt slid, their fingers clutching at the cracks between the log. Realizing that she was gradually losing her grip, the sorceress gave a shriek. Holding on with one hand, Geralt drew his dagger with the other and drove it into a c***k before hanging on to it with both hands.

 The joints of his elbows started to strain as Yennefer held on tightly to his sword belt and scabbard that he wore across his back. The bridge gave way and tilted more and more towards the vertical.

 "Yen," groaned the witcher. "Do something... damn it. Cast a spell!"

 "How?" she replied in a low, hot-tempered growl. "I'm holding on with both hands!"

 "Free one of your hands."

 "I can't..."

 "Hey!" shouted Jaskier from higher up. "Can you hang on? Hey!"

Geralt didn't consider it helpful to reply.

 "Throw a rope!" demanded Jaskier. "Quickly, god damn it!"

The Reavers, the dwarves and Gyllenstiern appeared beside Jaskier. Geralt heard the muffled voice of Boholt:

 "Wait a minute. She'll fall soon. We'll pull the witcher up afterwards."

 Yennefer hissed like a snake as she clung to Geralt's back. The bandolier bit into the witcher's torso painfully.

 "Yen? Can you get a hold? Can you use your feet?"

 "Yes," she groaned. "In theory."

 Geralt looked down at the river boiling between the sharp stones against which rolled a few logs from the bridge, the body of a horse and a corpse dressed in the vivid colours of Caingorn. Amongst the rocks, in the emerald, transparent depths, he saw a body of huge trout moving against the flow.

 "Can you hold on, Yen?"

 "Somewhat... yes..."

 "Pull yourself up. You must get a handhold."

 "No... I can't..."

 "Throw a rope!" shouted Jaskier. "Have you all gone mad? They're both going to fall!"

 "Wouldn't that be for the best?" murmured Gyllenstiern quietly.

 The bridge trembled and tilted even more. Geralt began to lose all feeling in his fingers as he gripped the handle of his dagger.

 "Yen..."

 "Shut up... and stop fidgeting..."

 "Yen?"

 "Don't call me that..."

 "Can you hold on?"

 "No," she replied coldly.

 She no longer struggled, she just hung on his back; dead, inert weight.

 "Yen?"

 "Shut up."

 "Yen. Forgive me."

 "No. Never."

 Something slid along the beams, very quickly, like a snake.

Radiating a cold and pale light, wriggling and writhing as though it were alive, gracefully groping about with its mobile end, the rope found Geralt's neck, wormed its way under his armpits then formed a loose knot. Below Geralt, the sorceress moaned and caught her breath.

 The witcher was sure that she was going to burst into tears. He was mistaken.

 "Look out!" Jaskier shouted above. "We'll hoist you up! Nischuka! Kennet! Pull! Heave-ho!"

 The rope jerked and tightened around them painfully, making it hard to breathe. Yennefer signed heavily. They were pulled up quickly, scraping against the wooden beams.

 Above, Yennefer got to her feet first.