The Witcher

THE LESSER EVIL VI

Shading his eyes with his hand, Civril watched the sun emerge from behind the trees. The marketplace was coming to life. Waggons and carts rumbled past and the first vendors were already filling their stalls. A hammer was banging, a c**k crowing and seagulls screeched loudly overhead.

'Looks like a lovely day,' Fifteen said pensively.

Civril looked at him askance but didn't say anthing.

'The horses all right, Tavik?' asked Nohorn, pulling on his gloves.

'Saddled and ready. But, there's still not many of them in the marketplace.'

'There'll be more.'

'We should eat.'

'Later.'

'Dead right. You'll have time later. And an appetite.'

'Look,' said Fifteen suddenly.

The witcher was approaching from the main street, walking between stalls, coming straight towards them.

'Renfri was right,' Civril said. 'Give me the crossbow, Nohorn.' He hunched over and, holding the strap down with his foot, pulled the string back. He placed the bolt carefully in the groove as the witcher continued to approach. Civril raised the crossbow.

'Not one step closer, witcher!'

Geralt stopped about forty paces from the group.

'Where's Renfri?'

The half-blood's pretty face contorted. 'At the tower. She's making the sorcerer an offer he can't refuse. But she knew you would come. She left a message for you.'

'Speak.'

''I am what I am. Choose. Either me, or a lesser.' You're supposed to know what it means.'

The witcher nodded, raised his hand above his right shoulder, and drew his sword. The blade traced a glistening arc above his head. Walking slowly, he made his way towards the group.

Civril laughed nastily, ominously.

'Renfri said this would happen, witcher, and left us something special to give you. Right between the eyes.'

The witcher kept walking, and the half-elf raised the crossbow to his cheek. It grew very quiet.

The bowstring hummed, the witcher's sword flashed and the bolt flew upwards with a metallic whine, spinning in the air until it clattered against the roof and rumbled into the gutter.

'He deflected it . . .' groaned Fifteen. 'Deflected it in flight—'

'As one,' ordered Civril. Blades hissed as they were drawn from sheathes, the group pressed shoulder to shoulder, bristling with blades.

The witcher came on faster; his fluid walk became a run - not straight at the group quivering with swords, but circling it in a tightening spiral.

As Geralt circled the group Tavik's nerve failed. He rushed the witcher, the twins following him.

'Don't disperse!' Civril roared, shaking his head and losing sight of the witcher. He swore and jumped aside, seeing the group fall apart, scattering around the market stalls.

Tavik went first. He was chasing the witcher when he saw Geralt running in the opposite direction, towards him. He skidded, trying to stop, but the witcher shot past before he could raise his sword. Tavik felt a hard blow just above his hip, fell to his knees and, when he saw his hip, started screaming.

The twins simultaneously attacked the black, blurred shape rushing towards them, mistimed their attack and collided with each other as Geralt slashed Vyr across the chest and Nimir in the temple, leaving one twin to stagger, head down, into a vegetable stall, and the other to spin in place and fall limply into the gutter.

The marketplace boiled with vendors running away, stalls clattering to the ground and screams rising in the dusty air. Tavik tried to stumble to his trembling legs and fell painfully to the ground.

'From the left, Fifteen!' Nohorn roared, running in a semi-circle to approach the witcher from behind.

Fifteen spun. But not quickly enough. He bore a thrust through the stomach, prepared to strike and was struck again in the neck, just below his ear. He took four unsteady steps and collapsed into a fish cart, which rolled away beneath him. Sliding over the slippery cargo Fifteen fell onto the flagstones, silver with scales.

Civril and Nohorn struck simultaneously from both sides, the elf with a high sweeping cut, Nohorn from a kneeling position, low and flat. The witcher caught both, two metallic clangs merging into one. Civril leapt aside and tripped, catching himself against a stall as Nohorn warded off a blow so powerful it threw him backwards to his knees. Leaping up he parried too slowly, taking a gash in the face parallel to his old scar.

Civril bounced off the stall, jumping over Nohorn as he fell, missed the witcher and jumped away. The thrust was so sharp, so precise, he didn't feel it; his legs only gave way when he tried to

attack again. The sword fell from his hand, the tendons severed above the elbow. Civril fell to his knees and shook his head, trying and failing to rise. His head dropped, and among the shattered stalls and market wares, the scattered fish and cabbages, his body stilled in the centre of a growing red puddle.

Renfri entered the marketplace.

She approached slowly with a soft, feline step, avoiding the carts and stalls. The crowd in the streets and by the houses, which had been humming like a hornet's nest, grew silent. Geralt stood motionless, his sword in his lowered hand. Renfri came to within ten paces and stopped, close enough to see that, under her jacket, she wore a short coat of chain-mail, barely covering her hips.

'You've made your choice,' she said slowly. 'Are you sure it's the right one?'

'This won't be another Tridam,' Geralt said with an effort.

'It wouldn't have been. Stregobor laughed in my face. He said I could butcher Blaviken and the neighbouring villages and he wouldn't leave his tower. And he won't let anyone in, not even you. Why are you looking at me like that? Yes, I deceived you. I'll deceive anyone if I have to, why should you be special?'

'Get out of here, Renfri.'

She laughed. 'No, Geralt.' She drew her sword, quickly and nimbly.

'Renfri.'

'No. You made a choice. Now it's my turn.' With one sharp move, she tore the skirt from her hips and spun it in the air, wrapping the material around her forearm. Geralt retreated and raised his hand, arranging his fingers in the Sign.

Renfri laughed hoarsely. 'It doesn't affect me. Only the sword will'

'Renfri/ he repeated. 'Go. If we cross blades, I— I won't be able—'

'I know,' she said. 'But I, I can't do anything else. I just can't. We are what we are, you and I.'

She moved towards him with a light, swaying step, her sword

glinting in her right hand, her skirt dragging along the ground from her left.

She leapt, the skirt fluttered in the air and, veiled in its tracks, the sword flashed in a short, sparing cut. Geralt jumped away; the cloth didn't even brush him, and Renfri's blade slid over his diagonal parry. He attacked instinctively, spinning their blades, trying to knock her weapon aside. It was a mistake. She deflected his blade and slashed, aiming for his face. He barely parried and pirouetted away, dodging her dancing blade and jumping aside again. She fell on him, threw the skirt into his eyes and slashed flatly from short range, spinning.

Spinning with her he avoided the blow. She knew the trick and turned with him, their bodies so close he could feel the touch of her breath as she ran the edge across his chest. He felt a twinge of pain, ignored it. He turned again, in the opposite direction, deflected the blade flying towards his temple, made a swift feint and attacked. Renfri sprang away as if to strike from above as Geralt lunged and swiftly slashed her exposed thigh and groin from below with the very tip of his sword.

She didn't cry out. Falling to her side she dropped her sword and clutched her thigh. Blood poured through her fingers in a bright stream over her decorated belt, elk-leather boots, and onto the dirty flagstones. The clamour of the swaying crowd, crammed in the streets, grew as they saw blood.

Geralt put up his sword.

'Don't go . . .' she moaned, curling up in a ball.

He didn't reply.

'I'm . . .cold . . .'

He said nothing. Renfri moaned again, curling up tighter as her blood flowed into the cracks between the stones.

'Geralt . . . Hold me . . .'

The witcher remained silent.

She turned her head, resting her cheek on the flagstones and was still. A fine dagger, hidden beneath her body until now, slipped from her numb fingers.

After a long moment the witcher raised his head, hearing

Stregobor's staff tapping against the flagstones. The wizard was approaching quickly, avoiding the corpses.

'What s*******r,' he panted. 'I saw it, Geralt, I saw it all in my crystal ball ...'

He came closer, bent over. In his trailing black robe, supported by his staff, he looked old.

'It's incredible.' He shook his head. 'Shrike's dead.'

Geralt didn't reply.

'Well, Geralt.' The wizard straightened himself.. 'Fetch a cart and we'll take her to the tower for an autopsy.'

He looked at the witcher and, not getting any answer, leant over the body.

Someone the witcher didn't know found the hilt of his sword and drew it. 'Touch a single hair of her head,' said the person the witcher didn't know, 'touch her head and yours will go flying to the flagstones.'

'Have you gone mad? You're wounded, in shock! An autopsy's the only way we can confirm—'

'Don't touch her!'

Stregobor, seeing the raised blade, jumped aside and waved his staff. 'All right!' he shouted.

'As you wish! But you'll never know! You'll never be sure! Never, do you hear, witcher?'

'Be gone.'

'As you wish.' The wizard turned away, his staff hitting the flagstones. 'I'm returning to Kovir.

I'm not staying in this hole another day. Come with me rather than rot here. These people don't know anything, they've only seen you killing. And you kill nastily, Geralt. Well, are you coming?'

Geralt didn't reply; he wasn't looking at him. He put his sword away. Stregobor shrugged and walked away, his staff tapping rhythmically against the ground.

A stone came flying from the crowd and clattered against the flagstones. A second followed, whizzing past just above Geralt's shoulder. The witcher, holding himself straight, raised both hands and made a swift gesture with them. The crowd heaved; the stones came flying more thickly but the Sign, protecting him behind an invisible oval shield, pushed them aside.

'Enough!' yelled Caldemeyn. 'b****y hell, enough of that!'

The crowd roared like a surge of breakers but the stones stopped flying. The witcher stood, motionless.

The alderman approached him.

'Is this,' he said, with a broad gesture indicating the motionless bodies strewn across the square, 'how your lesser evil looks? Is this what you believed necessary?'

'Yes,' replied Geralt slowly, with an effort.

'Is your wound serious?'

'No.'

'In that case, get out of here.'

'Yes,' said the witcher. He stood a moment longer, avoiding the alderman's eyes. Then he turned away slowly, very slowly.

'Geralt.'

The witcher looked round.

'Don't come back,' said Caldemeyn. 'Never come back.'