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Authors: Andrzej Sapkowski
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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.
VII
"Out of the whole fleet," announced Gyllenstiern, "we saved only a baggage wagon, Majesty, not including that of the Reavers. Of the escort, only seven archers have survived. On the other side of precipice, the path has completely disappeared. As far as we can see, to the curve of the cliff, nothing but a pile of rocks and a smooth wall remain. It's not known if all the individuals present on the bridge at the time of its collapse still live."
Niedamir did not answer. Standing to attention in front of him, Eyck of Denesle fixed him with a fevered gaze.
"We are incurring the Wrath of the Gods," said the knight, raising his arms. "We have sinned, King Niedamir. It was to be a crusade; a crusade against evil. Because the dragon is evil, yes, every dragon is evil incarnate. Evil is nothing to me: I'll crush it under my foot... destroy it... yes, just as is commanded by the Gods and Holy Scripture."
"Is he delirious?" said Boholt, becoming sullen.
"I don't know," replied Geralt, readjusting his mare's harness. "I didn't understand a thing he said."
"Hush," demanded Jaskier "I'm trying to memorize his words. They might be able to serve me for my rhymes."
"The Holy Book says," Eyck continued, all in a rage, "that a serpent shall appear from the chasm, a dreadful dragon with seven heads and ten horns. On its hindquarters shall sit a woman dressed in purple and scarlet, a golden chalice in her hands, and on her forehead shall be inscribed the mark of her profound and complete debasement!"
"I knew it!" interrupted Jaskier merrily. "It's Cilia, the wife of Burgrave Sommerhalder!"
"Keep quiet, sir poet," Gyllenstiern commanded. "And you, Knight of Denesle, speak further, by the grace of the Gods."
"In order to fight evil," continued Eyck with grandiloquence, "it is necessary for oneself to have a pure heart and conscience with head held high! But whom do we see here? Dwarves, pagans who are born in blackness and revere dark powers! Blasphemous magicians, assuming divine right, power and privilege! A witcher, odious mutant, accursed and unnatural creation. Are you therefore surprised that punishment smites us? Let us cease
pushing the limits of divine grace! I urge you, O King, that you purge this vermin from our ranks before..."
"Not even a single word about me," Jaskier interrupted him, complaining. "No word about poets. And yet I tried my best!"
Geralt smiled at Yarpen Zigrin who stroked the sharp edge of the axe that hung on his belt with a slow and steady movement. Amused, the dwarf grinned.
"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.
VII
"Out of the whole fleet," announced Gyllenstiern, "we saved only a baggage wagon, Majesty, not including that of the Reavers. Of the escort, only seven archers have survived. On the other side of precipice, the path has completely disappeared. As far as we can see, to the curve of the cliff, nothing but a pile of rocks and a smooth wall remain. It's not known if all the individuals present on the bridge at the time of its collapse still live."
Niedamir did not answer. Standing to attention in front of him, Eyck of Denesle fixed him with a fevered gaze.
"We are incurring the Wrath of the Gods," said the knight, raising his arms. "We have sinned, King Niedamir. It was to be a crusade; a crusade against evil. Because the dragon is evil, yes, every dragon is evil incarnate. Evil is nothing to me: I'll crush it under my foot... destroy it... yes, just as is commanded by the Gods and Holy Scripture."
"Is he delirious?" said Boholt, becoming sullen.
"I don't know," replied Geralt, readjusting his mare's harness. "I didn't understand a thing he said."
"Hush," demanded Jaskier "I'm trying to memorize his words. They might be able to serve me for my rhymes."
"The Holy Book says," Eyck continued, all in a rage, "that a serpent shall appear from the chasm, a dreadful dragon with seven heads and ten horns. On its hindquarters shall sit a woman dressed in purple and scarlet, a golden chalice in her hands, and on her forehead shall be inscribed the mark of her profound and complete debasement!"
"I knew it!" interrupted Jaskier merrily. "It's Cilia, the wife of Burgrave Sommerhalder!"
"Keep quiet, sir poet," Gyllenstiern commanded. "And you, Knight of Denesle, speak further, by the grace of the Gods."
"In order to fight evil," continued Eyck with grandiloquence, "it is necessary for oneself to have a pure heart and conscience with head held high! But whom do we see here? Dwarves, pagans who are born in blackness and revere dark powers! Blasphemous magicians, assuming divine right, power and privilege! A witcher, odious mutant, accursed and unnatural creation. Are you therefore surprised that punishment smites us? Let us cease
pushing the limits of divine grace! I urge you, O King, that you purge this vermin from our ranks before..."
"Not even a single word about me," Jaskier interrupted him, complaining. "No word about poets. And yet I tried my best!"
Geralt smiled at Yarpen Zigrin who stroked the sharp edge of the axe that hung on his belt with a slow and steady movement. Amused, the dwarf grinned.
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