Read Online The Last Wish, Introducing The Witcher by Andrzej Sapkowski - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrzej Sapkowski
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children,” repeated Geralt with his mouth full. “Without any reason, no doubt?”
“Of course not. Your health, Geralt!”
“And yours, Nivellen.”
“How's the wine? Have you noticed that it's made from grapes and not apples? But if you don't like it, I’ll conjure up a different one.”
“Thank you, it's not bad. Are your magical powers innate?”
“No. I’ve had them since growing this. This trap, that is. I don't know how it happened myself, but the house does whatever I wish. Nothing very big; I can conjure up food, drink, clothes, clean linen, hot water, soap. Any woman can do that, and without using magic at that. I can open and close windows and doors. I can light a fire. Nothing very remarkable.”
“It's something. And this…trap, as you call it, have you had it long?”
“Twelve years.”
“How did it happen?”
“What's it got to do with you? Pour yourself some more wine.”
“With pleasure. It's got nothing to do with me. I’m just asking out of curiosity.”
“An acceptable reason,” the monster said, and laughed loudly. “But I don't accept it. It's got nothing to do with you and that's that. But just to satisfy your curiosity a little, I’ll show you what I used to look like. Look at those portraits. The first from the chimney is my father. The second, pox only knows. And the third is me. Can you see it?”
Beneath the dust and spiderwebs, a nondescript man with a bloated, sad, spotty face and watery eyes looked down from the painting. Geralt, who was no stranger to the way portrait painters tended to flatter their clients, nodded.
“Can you see it?” repeated Nivellen, baring his fangs.
“I can.”
“Who are you?”
“I don't understand.”
“You don't understand?” The monster raised his head; his eyes shone like a cat's. “My portrait is hung beyond the candlelight. I can see it, but I’m not human. At least, not at the moment. A human, looking at my portrait, would get up, go closer and, no doubt, have to take the candlestick with him. You didn't do that, so the conclusion is simple. But I’m asking you plainly: are you human?”
Geralt didn't lower his eyes. “If that's the way you put it,” he answered after a moment's silence, “then, not quite.”
“Ah. Surely it won't be tactless if I ask, in that case, what you are?”
“A witcher.”
“Ah,” Nivellen repeated after a moment. “If I remember rightly, witchers earn their living in an interesting way—they kill monsters for money.”
“You remember correctly.”
Silence fell again. Candle flames pulsated, flicked upward in thin wisps of fire, glimmering in the cut-crystal chalices. Cascades of wax trickled down the candlestick.
Nivellen sat still, lightly twitching his enormous ears. “Let's assume,” he said finally, “that you draw your sword before I jump on you. Let's assume you even manage to cut me down. With my weight, that won't stop me; I’ll take you down through sheer momentum. And then it's teeth that'll decide. What do you think, witcher, which one of us has a better chance if it comes to biting each other's throats?”
Geralt, steadying the carafe's pewter stopper with his thumb, poured himself some wine, took a sip and leaned back into his chair. He was watching the monster with a smile. An exceptionally ugly one.
“Yeeees,” said Nivellen slowly, digging at the corner of his jaws with his claw. “One has to admit you can answer questions without using many words. It'll be interesting to see how you manage the next one. Who paid you to deal with me?”
“No one. I’m here by accident.”
“You're not lying, by any chance?”
“I’m not in the habit of lying.”
“And what are you in the habit of doing? I’ve heard about witchers—they abduct tiny children whom they feed with magic herbs. The ones who survive become witchers themselves, sorcerers with inhuman powers. They're taught to kill, and all human feelings and reactions are trained out of them.
“Of course not. Your health, Geralt!”
“And yours, Nivellen.”
“How's the wine? Have you noticed that it's made from grapes and not apples? But if you don't like it, I’ll conjure up a different one.”
“Thank you, it's not bad. Are your magical powers innate?”
“No. I’ve had them since growing this. This trap, that is. I don't know how it happened myself, but the house does whatever I wish. Nothing very big; I can conjure up food, drink, clothes, clean linen, hot water, soap. Any woman can do that, and without using magic at that. I can open and close windows and doors. I can light a fire. Nothing very remarkable.”
“It's something. And this…trap, as you call it, have you had it long?”
“Twelve years.”
“How did it happen?”
“What's it got to do with you? Pour yourself some more wine.”
“With pleasure. It's got nothing to do with me. I’m just asking out of curiosity.”
“An acceptable reason,” the monster said, and laughed loudly. “But I don't accept it. It's got nothing to do with you and that's that. But just to satisfy your curiosity a little, I’ll show you what I used to look like. Look at those portraits. The first from the chimney is my father. The second, pox only knows. And the third is me. Can you see it?”
Beneath the dust and spiderwebs, a nondescript man with a bloated, sad, spotty face and watery eyes looked down from the painting. Geralt, who was no stranger to the way portrait painters tended to flatter their clients, nodded.
“Can you see it?” repeated Nivellen, baring his fangs.
“I can.”
“Who are you?”
“I don't understand.”
“You don't understand?” The monster raised his head; his eyes shone like a cat's. “My portrait is hung beyond the candlelight. I can see it, but I’m not human. At least, not at the moment. A human, looking at my portrait, would get up, go closer and, no doubt, have to take the candlestick with him. You didn't do that, so the conclusion is simple. But I’m asking you plainly: are you human?”
Geralt didn't lower his eyes. “If that's the way you put it,” he answered after a moment's silence, “then, not quite.”
“Ah. Surely it won't be tactless if I ask, in that case, what you are?”
“A witcher.”
“Ah,” Nivellen repeated after a moment. “If I remember rightly, witchers earn their living in an interesting way—they kill monsters for money.”
“You remember correctly.”
Silence fell again. Candle flames pulsated, flicked upward in thin wisps of fire, glimmering in the cut-crystal chalices. Cascades of wax trickled down the candlestick.
Nivellen sat still, lightly twitching his enormous ears. “Let's assume,” he said finally, “that you draw your sword before I jump on you. Let's assume you even manage to cut me down. With my weight, that won't stop me; I’ll take you down through sheer momentum. And then it's teeth that'll decide. What do you think, witcher, which one of us has a better chance if it comes to biting each other's throats?”
Geralt, steadying the carafe's pewter stopper with his thumb, poured himself some wine, took a sip and leaned back into his chair. He was watching the monster with a smile. An exceptionally ugly one.
“Yeeees,” said Nivellen slowly, digging at the corner of his jaws with his claw. “One has to admit you can answer questions without using many words. It'll be interesting to see how you manage the next one. Who paid you to deal with me?”
“No one. I’m here by accident.”
“You're not lying, by any chance?”
“I’m not in the habit of lying.”
“And what are you in the habit of doing? I’ve heard about witchers—they abduct tiny children whom they feed with magic herbs. The ones who survive become witchers themselves, sorcerers with inhuman powers. They're taught to kill, and all human feelings and reactions are trained out of them.
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