“Screwed!”
“You must be asleep, Caleb. Screwed a double there! What's your bid?”
“A load of hearts!”
“Raise. Haaa! And what? Nobody screwed? Nothing to say, my lads? Open, Varda. Percival, you blink in his direction once more, I'll punch you so hard in the eyes, you won't be able to close them till winter.”
“Clubs.”
“Queen!”
“Followed by a King! Your Queen is fucked! I win and ha, ha, and I still have something I keep for a rainy day! A Jack, King, pair of ...”
“And ten of trumps! He who takes advantage, we chop the.... Ah bollocks! Oi, Zoltan? You're turning soft!”
“Fucking gnome. Eh, I would take this the club and ...”
Before Zoltan had a chance to pick up his club, a shrill scream came from the forest.
Geralt jumped up first. He cursed as he ran, because once again he felt the pain through his knee. Just behind him rushed Zoltan Chivay, seizing his sword wrapped in its skins on the cart. Percival Schuttenbach and the rest of the dwarves ran after them, armed with their clubs and at the back Dandelion followed, who'd been awakened by the screaming. From one side, Figgis and Munro appeared. Throwing their baskets of mushrooms down, both dwarves caught the fleeing children. Milva came out of nowhere, pulling an arrow from her quiver and pointing it in the direction the cry had come from.
But it wasn't necessary. Geralt had heard it, seen it and he knew what it was.
The child that had screamed, was a freckled girl with pigtails, maybe eight or nine years old. She was rooted to the spot a few steps in front of a pile of rotting tree trunks. Geralt jumped up quickly, grabbed her under the arm, interrupting her wild screech, and from the corner of his eye he spotted the movement between the logs. He retreated quickly, bumping into Zoltan and his dwarves. Milva, who also saw the movement among the stumps, stretched her bow.
“Don't shoot,” he hissed. “Take the little one away quickly. And get back, but take it easy. Do not make any sudden movements.”
At first it seemed that it was one of the rotting logs that had moved, as if it had suddenly become animated, to escape the sunlight and seek refuge in the shadow of the trees. It was only after a closer look it was possible to distinguish the other details, mainly four pairs of thin legs joined onto a dirty shell, mottled and divided into segments rather like armor.
“Take it easy.” Repeated Geralt quietly. “Do not provoke it. Don't be deceived by its apparent immobility. It's not aggressive, but it can move very quickly. If it feels threatened, it will attack, and its venom has no antidote.”
The creature crawled slowly on the logs. It watched Dandelion and the dwarves, slowly rotating, their eyes bulging, fixated. It barely moved. It polished the ends of its legs, lifting them one by one and carefully inspecting them, displaying its impressive, sharp mandibles.
“There was so much screaming,” said Zoltan without any emotion, who was standing next to the witcher. “That I thought it was something really terrible. For example, the Verden cavalry, or the an'givare. And here we have an overgrown crustacean. We must admit, nature can take interesting forms.”
“No I do not admit,” said Geralt. “That which is sitting there, is an eyehead. A creation of Chaos. A dying relic from the times before the conjunction of the spheres, if you know what I mean.”
“Sure, I know.” The dwarf looked into his eyes. “Although I am not a witcher, I know of Chaos and such beasts. I am just very curious as to what you will do with this relic. Specifically, I wonder how you will do it, witcher. Will you use your own sword or would you prefer my sihil?”
“Nice sword.” Geralt glanced at the sword, which Zoltan drew from its lacquered scabbard and deer skins. “But I will not need it.”
“Curious,” Zoltan repeated. “So we just stand here and look at it? Will the relic not feel threatened? Or maybe you want to turn back and ask the Nilfgaardians for help? What do you suggest, monster slayer?”
“Get me the ladle and cauldron lid from the cart.”
“What?”
“Do not argue with a specialist Zoltan.” said Dandelion.
Percival Schuttenbach made his way to the cart and in the blink of an eye provided the required items. The witcher winked at the company, then with all his strength began banging the spoon on the lid.
“Enough! Enough!” shouted Zoltan Chivay after a while, pressing his hands to his ears. “You fuck, you're going to damage the ladle! The shellfish has gone! He fled already, damn it!”
“And how he ran!” Percival was delighted. “Up went the dust! Its damp, and there was still dust behind him, by my beard!”
“The eyehead,” Geralt explained coolly, handing the dwarves back their battered kitchen utensils, “has an extremely sensitive and warped sense of hearing. It has no ears, but it still listens so to speak, using its entire body. In particular, the metallic sound it is not able to bear. It feels pain when...”
“Even from its bowels,” Zoltan interrupted. “I know because I also experienced this, when you started banging on the lid. If the monster has more sensitive hearing than me, I pity him. It will not come back here at least? Will he not bring his friends?”
“I do not think many of his species are still alive. As for this one, he will certainly not return to this area soon. There's no need to worry.”
“Monsters aside,” the dwarf frowned. “Your concert with the cooking pan was probably heard from the Skellig Islands, and it's possible that some music lovers are already headed this way. It would be better if we weren't here when they arrive. Pack up the camp boys! Hey, women, get dressed and round up the children! Come on, get moving!”
When they stopped for the night, Geralt decided to finally clarify some things that had been bothering him. Zoltan Chivay did not seem as if he intended on playing a round of cards, so the witcher found no problem in drawing him to a secluded place for a man to man chat. He began without beating about the bush.
“Tell me, how did you know I am a witcher?”
The dwarf's eyes flashed at him and he smiled slyly.
“I could brag to you about my insight. I could say how I notice that your eyes change color at dusk like the sun. I could also say, that I am well travelled and have heard a lot about Geralt of Rivia. But the truth is more banal. Do not look at me with those menacing eyes, wolf. You are discreet, but your friend the bard sings and talks, his mouth doesn't close. That's how I know your profession.”
Geralt refrained from asking the next question. And rightly so.
“Well, okay.” Said Zoltan. “Dandelion blurted everything. He must have felt that we appreciate honesty, and that we are sympathetic towards you. He did not need to test us, because we do not hide our nature. In short: I know why you must head to the South in such a hurry. I know of the urgent and important matter that leads you to Nilfgaard. I know who you are looking for there. And not just because of the rumors of the poet. I lived in Cintra before the war and heard stories about the child of surprise and the white haired witcher, bound by destiny.”
Geralt remained silent.
“The rest,” said the dwarf, “is a matter of observation. You are a witcher, a monster slayer, however, you let that vile beast escape. The monster had only frightened the child, he'd done nothing wrong, so you dropped your sword, and hit the lid of a cauldron. Because you are no longer a witcher, but a noble knight, who rushes to rescue kidnapped or oppressed virgins.”
The witcher still said nothing.
“You drill me with your eyes. You are worried I will betray you. You wonder how I will turn this secret against you. Do not torment yourself. We will go to the Ina together, and help each other. We both face the same goal: to survive and move on. In order to continue the noble mission, or to simply live, but so as not to have to be ashamed in the hour of death. You think that everything has changed. The world has changed. And yet this world is, the same. And you're the same as you were. Do not torment yourself.”
/> “Forget separating from us.” Zoltan resumed his monologue, not embarrassed by the silence of the witcher. “Give up on your long and lonely journey to the South, through Brugge and Sodden to the Yaruga. You have to look for another way to Nilfgaard. If you want I will counsel you...”
“No need,” Geralt rubbed his knee, which after a few days the pain had still not abandoned. “Keep your advice, Zoltan.”
He found Dandelion playing cards with the cheering dwarves. Without a word, he took the poet's sleeve and pulled him into the forest. Dandelion immediately realized what was going on, one look at the witcher's face was enough.
“Oi parrot,” Geralt said quietly. “Gossip. Big mouth. I should tear out your tongue, you blockhead. You need a bit between your teeth.”
The troubadour was silent, but his face remained calm.
“When it was first known that you were coming with me,” continued the witcher. “Some reasonable people were astonished. They were amazed that I would allow you to travel with me. They advised me to take you to a lonely place, strangle you, rob you and then hide your body in the hollow of a tree under a carpet of leaves. I really regret not having listened.”
“Is it revealing such a great secret, to say who you are and where you are going?” Dandelion suddenly lost his temper. “Should we be suspicious of everyone and pretend all of the time? These dwarves ... they are our company ...”
“I do not have a company.” He growled. “I don't have one. I do not want to have one. I don't need it. Do you understand?”
“Sure, he understands.” Milva said from behind his back. “And I understand. You don't need anybody, witcher. You often show it.”
“I am not conducting a personal war,” he turned sharply. “These companions are unnecessary to me because I'm not going to Nilfgaard to save the world, to overthrow the evil Empire. I'm going to find Ciri. That's why I have to go alone. Forgive me if this sounds uncomfortable in your ears, but I do not give a damn about the rest. And now go away. I want to be alone.”
When after a while he turned round, he saw only Dandelion had gone.
“I had the dream again,” he stated dryly. “Milva, I'm losing time. I'm losing time! She needs me. She needs help.”
“Tell me,” she said quietly. “Get it out. Even if it was terrible, tell me.”
“It was not terrible. In my dream ... She danced. She danced in a smoky hut. And she was, damn it, happy. Music was playing, someone yelled ... The whole hut shook from the cries and the music... And she danced, danced, and stamped her feet ... And over that damn roof shack, in the cold, night air ... danced death. Milva ... Maria ... She needs me.”
Milva turned her eyes.
“She's not the only one,” she whispered. So he could not hear.
At the next stop, the witcher showed interest in Zoltan's sword, the sihil, which he had taken a brief look at during the affair with the eyehead. Without hesitation, the dwarf stripped the weapon of its deer skins and removed it from its sheath.
The sword measured about forty inches, and weighed no more than thirty five ounces. The blade was covered in mysterious runic signs that gave it a bluish color and it was sharp as a razor. With a little practice you could've shaved with it. The handle, twelve inches long, was wrapped in strips of salamander skin, it had a cylindrical copper cap which served as a pommel, and then the hilt, although quite small, was very ornate.
“A beautiful thing.” Geralt whirled the sihil, it whistled as he passed it in a flash from his left hand to his right using two fingers. “In fact, it's a pretty piece of iron.”
“Huh!” Percival Schuttenbach snorted. “A piece of iron! Take a better look at it, because in a moment you will say it's a piece of horseradish.”
“I once had a better sword.”
“And I don't deny that,” Zoltan shrugged. “Because inevitably it came from our forge. You witchers, know how to brandish your swords, but do not make them. They are only made in Mahakam, beneath Mount Carbon.”
“Dwarves temper the steel,” added Percival, “And forge the main layers. But we gnomes, deal with the decorative cut and sharpening. In our workshops. Using our Gnomish technology, as once we made our gwyhyrs, the best swords in the world.”
“The sword I wear now,” Geralt bared his blade. “Comes from Brokilon, from the catacombs of Craag An. I got it from the Dryads. It is a first-class weapon, and yet neither dwarven or gnomish. This is an elven blade, a hundred or two hundred years old.”
“He has no fucking idea!” Cried the gnome, taking the sword in hand and running his fingers along the blade. “The finish is Elven, yes. Handle, hilt and pommel. It also has elven etchings, engraving, and ornamentation. But the blade was forged and sharpened in Mahakam. And it is true that it was forged a few centuries ago, because you can easily see, the steel is inferior and the craftsmanship more primitive. Here, put Zoltan's sihil next to it, do you see the difference?”
“I see. But mine does not give the impression of being less well made.”
The gnome snorted and waved his hand. Zoltan smiled proudly.
“The cut of the blade,” he explained with a magisterial tone, “and the feel of the blade, is not what differentiates it from mine. The thing is, your sword is a simple composition of steel and iron, and the blade of my sihil has been forged from an alloy of refined graphite and borax ...”
“Modern technology!” Percival could not resist, he had heated up a bit since the conversation had lead onto matters he knew well. “The construction and composition of the blade comprise of several layers of soft core and hard steel, not the soft steel ...”
“Slowly, slowly,” the dwarf stopped him. “He's not a metallurgist Schuttenbach, don't bore him with the details. I'll explain it to him straight. The good steel, witcher, hard steel, magnetite, is extremely difficult to sharpen. Why? Because it is hard! When we do not have the technology, as used to be the case for us and is the case for you today, and want to get a sword with a sharp blade, you must coat the edges with a soft steel, less resistant to treatment. Your Brokilon sword was made with this method. Modern blades are made the opposite way - a soft core with a hard edge. Treatment is time consuming and as I said, requires modern technology. But the result is a blade, that can cut a cambric cravat in the air.”
“Can your sihil do that?”
“No.” The dwarf smiled. “You can count the number of swords made like that on one hand and few of them left Mahakam. But I guarantee that the mucky crab we crossed paths with yesterday would not have survived my sihil, the shell would not have provided much resistance. You would have cut it to pieces without much effort.”
The talk of swords and metallurgy continued for some time. Geralt listened with interest, shared his own experiences, and took the opportunity to enrich his knowledge asking about this and that, examining and testing Zoltan's sihil. He did not know that the very next day he would have to demonstrate the theory with practice.
The first sign that people lived in the area, was a very regular stack of bark chips, which Percival Schuttenbach had spotted by the road while he was at the front of the group.
Zoltan stopped the procession and sent the gnome to scout further. Percival disappeared, and after half an hour he returned at full speed, excited and breathless, waving from afar. He reached them, but instead of immediately informing them, he grabbed his long nose with his fingers and blew with all his might, producing a sound reminiscent of a shepherd's horn.
“Don't scare the animals!” Snapped Zoltan Chivay. “And talk. What's up ahead?”
“A hamlet,” the gnome panted, wiping his fingers on his many-pocketed overcoat. “In the clearing. Three cottages, a barn, a shed, a few hutches ... A dog runs about in the yard, and the chimney smokes. Food is being prepared, oatmeal, milk and more.”
“What, you were in the kitchen?” Dandelion laughed. “You looked in the pots? How do you know it was oatmeal?”
The gnome looked at him with superiority, and Zoltan snorte
d angrily.
“Don't insult him, poet. He knows the smell of food a mile away. If he says that its oatmeal, its oatmeal. Damn, I don't even like it.”
“Why not? I like oatmeal. I'd be happy to eat it.”
“Zoltan is right,” said Milva. “And you be quiet, Dandelion, because it's not poetic. If there's milk in the oatmeal, then there is a cow. And any peasant, would have noticed the fumes of the fires, taken his cow and escaped into the woods. So why does he stay? We should go into the forest, make a detour. It smells bad to me.”
“Calm down, calm down,” muttered the dwarf. “We will be ready to escape if needs be. Maybe the war is over? Maybe the Temerian army has finally advanced? How would we know in this place? Maybe there was a big battle, Nilfgaard was pushed back, maybe the front is behind us, and the peasants and their cows returned home? We need to find out. Figgis, Munro, both of you stay here and keep your eyes open. We will do a little reconnaissance. If there is danger, I'll let you know with the call of the Sparrowhawk.”
“Call of the Sparrowhawk?” Munro Bruys anxiously played with his beard. “But you have no idea how to imitate birdsong, Zoltan.”
“Exactly. When you hear a strange noise, that you do not recognize, that'll be me. Percival, you lead. Geralt, you going with us?”
“We'll all go.” Dandelion dismounted. “If it's a trap, we'll be safer in a large group.”
“I'll leave Field Marshal here.” Zoltan took the parrot from his shoulder and handed it to Figgis Merluzzo. “He may decide to suddenly launch his profanities at point blank range, and our stealth approach would go to hell. Come on.”
Percival quickly led them to the edge of the forest, through dense bushes of wild lilac. Ahead of the bushes, the terrain sloped slightly, ending in a piled heap of gnarled tree stumps. Beyond, lay a large clearing. Milva peered cautiously.
The gnome's report had been accurate. In the middle of the clearing there were three cottages, a barn and several hutches covered with moss. A huge puddle of manure glistened in the yard. The buildings and a small rectangle of grass, which was rather disheveled, were surrounded by a low fence, broken in parts. Behind the fence, a gray dog barked. On the roof of a cottage stood a column of smoke, lazily crawling through a hole in the thatch.