Nothing remained of their differences. Death, fear, hunger and adversity had made them ordinary. Very ordinary.
They did not inspire fear.
Jarre, for a moment thought that they would linger, but they simply cross paths and disappear into the woods, without bothering to look at the wagon and its passengers. They only left behind them a smell, an unpleasant smell that Jarre remembered from the field hospitals – the smell of misery, urine, and festering wounds.
They passed by without bothering to look at them.
But not all.
An elf with long dark hair, caked with dirt and dried blood, stopped her horse near the wagon. She sat in her saddle hunched over, her arm was in a bloody bandage which flies climbed on.
‘Toruviel,’ said one of her comrades, ‘En’ca digne, luned.’
Lucienne quickly realized what was happening. She knew what she was seeing in the elf, having been raised in a village, she had known the livid specter of hunger. Therefore, she reacted instinctive and unequivocal. She offered the elf some bread.
‘En’ca digne, Toruviel,’ repeated the elf. He was the only one of all the company wearing an emblem on his torn jacket sleeve of the silver lightning of the Vrihedd brigade.
The cripples in the wagon had remained still, not moving a muscle until that instant, suddenly shivering as if a spell had released them. In their hands, held out to the elves, as if by magic, appeared food, bread, cheese, slices of bacon and sausages.
And the elves, for the first time in a thousand years, spread their hands towards humans.
Lucienne and Jarre were the first people who saw the elves cry. Great choking sobs, not even trying to wipe the tears from their dirty faces. Refuting the claims that elves did not have tear ducts.
‘En’ca... Digne,’ repeated the elf with the lightning bolt on his sleeve. He then reached out and took the bread from Derkacz.
‘Thank you,’ he croaked, finding it difficult to adjust his lips to the strange language. ‘Thank you, man.’
After a while, seeing that everyone was finished, Lucienne clicked at the horses and jerked the reins. The wagon began to creak and rattle. They were silent.
It was approaching evening when they met armed horsemen. They were led by a woman with white, short-cropped hair, her face disfigured by scars. One bisected her face from the corner of her mouth in an arc to her eye. The woman was missing half of her right ear and her left arm below the elbow ended in a leather cuff with a brass hook, which the reins were wrapped around.
The woman, with a hostile look that betrayed her fierce desire for revenge, asked about the elves. About the Scoia’tael. The terrorists. The fugitives, survivors from a commando unit destroyed two days ago.
Jarre, Lucienne and the cripples in the wagon avoided eye contact with the white-haired, one-handed rider and indistinctly mumbled that they had not seen any elves or met anybody on the road.
You lie, thought the woman who was once Black Rayla. I know you are lying. You lie out of pity. But even so that will not help them, because I, White Rayla, do not know pity.
‘Hooray, dwarves! Long live Els Barclay!’
In Novigrad the pavement rumbled beneath the shod boots of the veterans of the Volunteer Army. The dwarves marched in a formation of five, waving their flags which depicted crossed hammers.
‘Long live Mahakam! Long live the dwarves!’
‘Glory and honor to them!’
Suddenly, someone in the crowd laughed. And soon everybody was laughing.
‘This is a scandal...’ gasped Hemmelfart. ‘An affront... It is unforgivable...’
‘Vile people,’ hissed the priest Willemer.
‘Pretend you do not see them,’ Foltest told them calmly.
‘We should not have skimped when dividing the spoils,’ said Meve sourly. ‘And refused to supplement the rations.’
The dwarven officers retained their seriousness and form, and stood before the grandstand and saluted. The non-commissioned officers and soldiers of the Volunteer Army, however, expressed their discontent against the austerity measures imposed by the kings and hierarch. Some of them, once past the grandstand, showed the kings a bent elbow, other made one of their favorite gestures – a clenched fist with an upright middle finger. Scholars describe the gesture as digitus infamis. Common people called it something worse.
The blush on the faces of the kings and the hierarch showed that they were familiar with both names.
‘We should not have insulted their greed,’ Meve insisted. ‘There people are very fastidious.’
The howling around Elskerdeg became a gruesome chant. None of the men sitting by the fire paid any attention.
The first to speak after the long silence was Boreas Mun.
‘The world has changed. Justice has been done.’
‘You overdid it a bit with the justice, my friend,’ the pilgrim smiled. ‘However, I agree that the world has changed. Adjusting to the fundamental laws of physics.’
‘I wonder,’ said the elf, ‘if we are thinking of the same laws.’
‘Every action,’ said the pilgrim, ‘has a reaction.’
The elf chuckled, but it sounded friendly.
‘A point to you, human.’
‘Stefan Skellen, son of Bertram Skellen, former Imperial Coroner, stand up. The Supreme Court of the eternal Empire by the grace of the Great Sun finds you guilty of crimes and abuse, of which you were charged. For the treason and active participation in a conspiracy against the Empire as well as the person of the Imperial Majesty. Your guilt has been ratified and proven and the Tribunal has found without any extenuation circumstances. Also His Imperial Majesty has exercised his right not to grant a pardon. Stefan Skellen, son of Bertram Skellen, you will be transported from this courtroom to the Citadel, where you will be held until the proper time comes. As a traitor to your homeland of Nilfgaard, you are unworthy to tread upon its ground; you will be laid on a wooden skid and dragged by horses to Millennium Square. As a traitor to his homeland of Nilfgaard, you are unworthy to breathe the air; you will be hanged by the neck on the gallows between heaven and earth. So you will stay there until you die. Then your body will be cremated and the ashes scattered to the winds on the four sides of the world. Stefan Skellen, son of Bertram Skellen, traitor. I the Chairman of the Supreme Court of the Empire, sentence you and this is the last time I will speak your name. From now on, let it be forgotten.’
‘We did it, we made it!’ Professor Oppenhauser shouted as he burst into the dean’s office. ‘We did it, gentlemen! Finally! Finally! It works! It moves! It works!’
‘Really?’ Jean La Voisier, professor of chemistry, called Carbonstinker by his students, asked skeptically. ‘Is it really possible? And how, out of curiosity, does it work?’
‘Perpetual motion!’
‘Perpetuum mobile?’ exclaimed Edmund Bumbler, the elderly zoology lecturer. ‘You’re not exaggerating, my dear colleague?’
‘Not at all!’ Oppenhauser exclaimed, jumping like a goat. ‘Not at all! It works! I’ve launched a functional mobile and it works! Without stopping! Perpetually! Forever and ever! There are no words to describe it, colleagues, you have to see it! Come with me, hurry!’
‘I’m eating breakfast,’ Carbonstinker protested, but his protest was lost in the commotion, excitement and widespread bustle.
The teachers, graduates and students stood up to collect their togas, caps and gowns and ran to the door, led by the shouting and gesticulation Oppenhauser. Carbonstinker dismissed them with a digitus infamis and returned to the roll on his plate.
The group of scholars were on the march ready to see the fruit of Oppenhauser’s thirty years of efforts, they ran quickly towards the office and were about to open the door when suddenly the ground trembled. Noticeably. And strongly. Very strongly.
It was a seismic shock, one of a series of shocks caused by the destruction of the castle Stygga the hiding place of the sorcerer, Vilgefortz. The seismic wave from far off Ebbing had
reached here to Oxenfurt.
With a clatter, several panes of stained glass fell from the front of the Department of Fine Arts. The dusty bust of Nicodemus de Boot, the first rector of the academic institution, fell from its pedestal. Carbonstinker’s cup of tea fell from the table where he was eating his roll. From a banana tree a freshmen from the physics department, Albert Solpietra, fell while trying to impress the female medical students.
The perpetual motion machine of Professor Oppenhauser, the legendary inventor, moved for the last time, before standing still. Forever. And it was never possible to restart it.
‘Long live the dwarves! Long live Mahakam!’
What a band, what soldiers, thought the hierarch Hemmelfart, as he bless the parade with his trembling hands. Who are they cheering here? The venal condottieri, the obscene dwarves, what kind of madness is this? In the end, who won this war, them or us? By the gods, I have to warn the monarchs. When historians and scribes are put to work, we must subject their works through censorship. Mercenaries, witchers, murderers for hire, non-humans and all kinds of suspicious items should disappear from the annals of mankind. We have to erase them. Not a word about them. Not a word.
And not a word about him too, he thought, clenching his lips and looking at Dijkstra, watching the parade with a clearly bored expression.
It will be necessary, thought the hierarch, to issue a command to the kings about Dijkstra. His presence is an insult to decent people. This atheist and villain. Let him disappear without a trace. And let him be forgotten.
This is what you think, you sanctimonious purple pig, thought Philippa Eilhart, effortlessly reading the hierarch’s mind. Do you want to rule, do you want to dictate and influence? Would you like to decide? Never! The only thing you can decide about is your hemorrhoids and even that is on your own ass, and you decisions there will not be relevant either.
And Dijkstra remains. As long as I need him.
Once you make a mistake, thought the priest Willemer, fixing his eyes on the shiny red lips of Philippa Eilhart. Or any of you make a mistake. And you’ll lose your conceit, arrogance and pride. The plots that you weave. Your immorality. Your atrocity and perversions to which you surrender, in which you live. All light will eventually leave, and the pestilence of your sins will spread when you make a mistake. The moment will come.
Because even if you do not make a mistake, I will find a way to defame you. Some misfortune will befall mankind – a curse, a plague, a pestilence of perhaps an epidemic... Then all the blame will be on you. You will be punished for not having been able to prevent the plague, by not knowing how to avoid its consequences. You will carry with you all the blame.
And then I will light the fire.
The old tomcat, called Ginger because of the color of his coat, died. Ugly. Convulsing in agony, clawing, vomiting blood and pus and suffering from bloody diarrhea. He meowed, even though he knew it was beneath his dignity. His meow was pitifully weak. He was losing strength quickly.
Ginger knew why he was dying. Or at least figured out what had killed him.
A few days ago a strange freighter entered the harbor at Cintra, an old grimy hulk, which carried on the bow a barely legible inscription “Catriona”. Ginger – obviously - could not read the name. A rat, walking down a mooring rope, came down to the dock. Just one. It was a mangy and dirty looking rat. And it was missing an ear.
Ginger bit the rat. He was hungry, but his instinct stopped his from devouring this abomination. However, several large, black, shiny fleas jumped from the rat and settled in his fur.
‘What happened to this cat?’
‘Probably been poisoned.’
‘Ugh, it stinks! Remove it from here, woman!’
Ginger stiffened and noiselessly opened his bloody mouth. He no longer felt the broom which the lady of the house thanked him with for his eleven years of catching mice. He was expelled from the house, dying in a gutter full of suds and urine. Dying and also wishing those ungrateful people would also fall ill. To suffer as much as he was.
His last wish was soon fulfilled. On a large scale. A scale so large a cat’s mind could not even imagine.
The woman, who expelled Ginger out into the gutter, paused and pulled her skirt up so she could scratch above her knee. It itched.
A flea had bitten her.
The stars twinkled brightly over Elskerdeg. The sparks from the fire vanished into this background.
‘Neither the peace of Cintra,’ said the elf, ‘nor the more pompous parade at Novigrad can be considered a turning point or milestone. What are their meaning? Governments do not create history with revenues and decrees and no one will accept their authority as truth. One of the brighter manifestation of human arrogance is your so-called historiography, trying to deliver opinions and verdicts on “past events” as you call them. This is typical of you humans, who nature has given an existence as fleeting as that of an insect or an ant, with your ridiculous life-spans under a hundred years. Your fleeting existence is trying to adapt to the complexity of the world. You refuse to take note that history is a process that constantly continues and never ends; it cannot be divided into sections from here to here, from date to date. It is not impossible to define history , let alone change it, by a proclamation by a monarch. Even if you win the war.’
‘Do not undertake a philosophical discourse,’ the pilgrim said. ‘As I said, I am a simple man. I will, however, draw attention to two things. Firstly, a short life protects us against decadence, forcing people to live intensely and fully to take advantage of every moment of life and enjoy it. I speak as a human being, but that same thought probably occurred to the long lived elves who were going off to fight in the Scoia’tael commandos. Correct me if I’m wrong.’
The pilgrim waited a reasonable amount of time, but no one corrected him.
‘Secondly,’ he continued, ‘it seems to me that the governments, thought not being able to change history, can with their interference create the illusion which is quite convincing. They have the tools and the methods.’
‘Oh yes,’ said the elf, turning his face away. ‘The powerful have tools and methods. And there is no arguing with them.’
The galley, bumped against the rail of the pier that was covered in piles of seaweed and shells. The moorings were thrown. There were shouts, oaths and commands.
Gulls collected garbage that floated on the surface of the water. On the shore a crowd was waiting –mostly soldiers.
‘End of the lines, elves,’ said the Nilfgaardian commander. ‘We are in Dillingen. The soldiers are waiting for you.’
He was right, they were waiting for them.
None of the elves – and certainly not Faoiltiarna – did not believe the assurances that they would receive fair trails and amnesty. The Scoia’tael officers from the Vrihedd brigade did not have any false hopes about the fate that awaited them after the Yaruga. Most were reconciled, stoically accepting it and resigned themselves. They were convinced that nothing else could surprise them.
They were wrong.
They were shoved from the galley. Their chains rattled noisily. They were driven down the pier and led to a boardwalk, between two rows of armed soldiers. There were civilians there too, whose quick eyes jumped from one prisoners face to another.
They will carry out the selection, thought Faoiltiarna. He was not mistaken. The chances of his scarred face being overlooked were not possible.
‘Isengrim Faoiltiarna. The Iron Wolf. What a nice surprise!’
The soldiers dragged him out of the crowd of prisoners.
‘Va Faill,’ Coinneach Dá Reo called after him, who was also identified and dragged off by other men who wore the bade of the red eagle of Redania. ‘Se’ved, cáerme se dea!’
‘You’ll see him,’ growled the civilian who had picked out Faoiltiarna, ‘but only in hell! They are already waiting for him in Drakenborg. Wait! Isn’t that Riordain? Take him!’
The next to be selected was Angus Bri Cri.
&
nbsp; They had only selected three of them. Only three.
Faoiltiarna realized what was happening and suddenly, to his surprise, he began to feel afraid.
‘Va Faill!’ Angus Bri Cri shouted, as he was dragged away with his other brethren. ‘Va Faill, fraeren!’
A soldier pushed him brutally.
They did not take them far. They came to a hut close to the marina. Just off the dock, which swayed with a forest of masts.
The civilian nodded. Faoiltiarna was pushed up against a pole, under a beam over which they had thrown a rope. They began to attach an iron hook to the rope. Riordain and Angus sat beside him on a bench.
‘Mister Riordain, Mister Bri Cri,’ said the civilian coldly. ‘You have been covered by the amnesty. The court has decided to be gracious. Justice must be satisfied, however,’ he added without waiting for a response. ‘for the families for those you have killed. The verdict has been handed down.’
Both elves did not have time to scream. From behind them a noose was thrown around their necks and pulled. They fell off of the bench and were dragged across the floor. With their hands cuffed they were unable to loosen the ropes. Executioners knelt on their chests. Knives flashed, drawing blood. The noose was not able to mute the sounds that made hair stand on end.
It took a long time. It always did.
‘Your verdict, Mister Faoiltiarna,’ said a third civilian to the elf, ‘has come with an additional specialty. Something extra...’
Faoiltiarna was not going to wait for any specialty. The locked handcuffs, which he had worked on for the last two nights, now opened as if by magic.
A terrible blow from the heavy chain toppled both of the soldiers guarding him. Faoiltiarna next jumped up and hit a civilian in the face with his chains, then jumped through a small window covered in cobwebs, sweeping away the glass and frame, and leaving remains of his blood and shreds of his clothes.