'Breckenriggs!' Zoltan emphatically corrected, frowning. 'I'm starting to get tired of correcting your pronunciation, Zigrin. Take heed, when I get tired of something I kick it up the ass!'
'Where's the wedding? And when exactly?' Dandelion said soothingly. 'I ask because we will come. If you invite us, of course.'
'We have not yet reached a decision on where, when or how, or if we are even getting married,' muttered Zoltan, visibly confused. 'Yarpen has rushed things. I think Eudora has committed, but who knows what will happen? It is still bad times.'
'The second example of a girl's omnipotence,' continued Yarpen, 'is Geralt of Rivia, the witcher.'
Geralt pretended to be busy with a snail. Yarpen snorted.
'After miraculously finding his Ciri, he allows her to leave. He leaves her alone again, even though, as someone rightly pointed out here, it is still bad times. All of this happens to the witcher, because a woman wanted it. The witcher always does what this woman wants, a certain Yennefer of Vengerberg. If he at least got something from the sorceress in question... But he gets nothing. The truth. as King Dezmod used to say, looking at the chamber pot after relieving himself "The mind cannot comprehend this."'
'I suggest,' said Geralt, picking up a cup with a wry smile, 'to drink and change to topic of conversation.'
'Right,' Zoltan and Dandelion said in unison.
Wirsing carried a third and forth platter of snails to the table. Not forgetting, of course, the bread and vodka. The diners were beginning to get full, so it was not surprising that the toast were becoming more frequent. Nor was there any wonder that they spoke more philosophy and with increasingly thick speech.
'The evil we were fighting against,' insisted the witcher, 'is a manifestation of the action of chaos and their performances aimed to disturb the order. So, when evil spread, the order could not reign, and all that order was building fell apart, and nothing was left standing. The faint glow of wisdom and the timid flame of hope, embers that still retained the heat, rather than flash and then die away. Darkness ensued. And the darkness was filled with fangs, claws and blood.'
Yarpen Zigrin stroked his beard, smearing grease from the snails through it.
'You speak well, witcher,' he admitted. 'But, as young Cerro said to King Vridank on their first date "Does it have any practical uses?"'
'There is no ground for the existence of witchers,' Geralt did not smile, 'because the struggle of Good and Evil takes place now in an entirely different field of battle in a completely different way. The evil is no longer chaotic. It is no longer a blind force, unbridled, which a witcher has to face, a mutant as deadly as chaotic evil itself. Today Evil is governed by laws - because the laws serve them. They act in accordance with treaties and have signed for peace, because some treaties allow...'
'Settlers to be forcefully expelled,' Zoltan guessed.
'And not only that,' Dandelion added gravely. 'Not only that.'
'So what?' Yarpen Zigrin, sat back and folded his hands on his belly. 'We've all seen something. Everyone has been pissed on. Each lost a dream. That's what happens, it's always been like that and it always will be. We are the lowest, nothing more than these empty shells. What do you dislike, witcher? What is going on? The changes that the world is experiencing? The development? The progress?'
'Maybe.'
Yarpen was silent for a while, watching the witcher from under his bushy eyebrows.
'Progress,' he said at last, 'is like a herd of pigs. So that is the way you see progress, and that is how you judge it. Like a herd of pigs that walk through the courtyard of the farmhouse. The existence of the herd means profit. The pork knuckles. The sausages, the bacon. In short, there are a number of advantages! So you shouldn't pout and complain that there is shit everywhere.'
Everyone was quiet for a time, weighing his heart and conscience on all matters and important issues.
'I need a drink,' Dandelion finally said.
No one protested.
'Progress,' Yarpen Zigrin said into the silence, 'will, in the long run, brighten the darkness. the darkness will give way to the light. But not immediately. And, of course, not without a struggle.'
Geralt, staring out the window, smiled at his own thoughts and dreams.
'That darkness you speak of,' he said, 'is a state of spirit, not matter. To fight something you need to train something quite different than a witcher. It is time to start.'
'You will start to retrain? Is that what you were thinking?'
'Not at all. this job holds no interest to me. I will go into retirement.'
'Is that right!'
'I'm serious. no more being a witcher.'
There was a long silence, broken occasionally by the furious meows of the kittens as they scratched at each other in a game.
'No more being a witcher,' Yarpen Zigrin repeated. 'Ha! I don't know what to think about that, as old King Dezmod said when caught cheating at cards. But I have a very bad feeling.
Dandelion, you have travelled with him and spent a lot of time at his side. Has he shown other symptoms of paranoia?'
'Okay, okay,' said Geralt with a stony face. 'No more jokes, as King Dezmod said when all of his guests at a feast began to go livid and croak. I have said all that I had to say. And now down to actions.'
He picked up his sword, which was hanging on the back of his chair.
'Here is your Sihil, Zoltan Chivay. I return it to you with gratitude and recognition. It has been useful. It has helped me. It has saved lives. And taken lives.'
'Witcher...' the dwarf raised his hands in a defensive gesture. 'The sword is yours. I did not lend it to you, I gave it to you. As a gift...'
'Hush, Chivay. I give you back your sword. I'll no longer need it.'
'Quickly,' Yarpen said. 'Pour vodka into him, Dandelion, because he is talking like an old Schrader when he fell into the mine shaft on his head. Geralt, I know you've a deep temperament and a sensitive soul, but do not talk such crap, as you can see, Yennefer is not here, just us old wolves. Don't tell us old wolves stories of a witcher not needing a sword, the world is not like that. You are a witcher and you will need...'
'No, I won't,' Geralt gently denied. 'Perhaps this will surprise you old wolves, but I have come to the conclusion that it is foolish to piss in the wind. That it is foolish to stick my neck out for anyone. Even if that someone pays. An no, this is not an existential philosophy. Believe it, but suddenly, I have taken a tremendous affection for my own skin. I have come to the conclusion that it would be stupid to risk it in defense of others..'
'I noticed,' Dandelion nodded. 'On one hand, it is smart. On the other...'
'There is no other.'
'Yennefer and Ciri,' Yarpen asked after a little while, 'have something to do with your decision?'
'Much.'
'Then everything is clear,' Zoltan sighed. 'I have no clue how a master swordsman will adapt to normal life. But, try as I might, I cannot see you planting cabbages, although I do have respect for your choice... Innkeeper! This sword is a Mahakam Rune Sihil from the Rhundurin forge itself. It was a gift. If the recipient does not want it, then the one who gave it must take it back. Take it and hang it over your fireplace. Rename you inn to, "The Witcher's Sword". Then on winter nights we can tell stories about monsters and treasure, of bloody wars and bitter battles. Of death. Of deep love and unwavering friendship. About courage and honor and this sword will hang there, above the listeners and inspire the storyteller. Now pour me a drink, gentlemen, a glass of vodka, because I will continue and will be delivering profound truths and philosophies, including existential ones.'
they pour vodka into their glasses quietly and with dignity. They looked each other in the eye and drank. With no less dignity. Yarpen Zigrin cleared his throat, looked at his audience to make sure they were sufficiently focused and dignified.
'Progress,' he spoke with deliberation, 'will brighten the darkness, because that is what progress does, like, excuse the expression, an ass is for
shitting. Each time there will be more light, and we will be less afraid of the dark and the evil that lurks in it. Perhaps the day will come, when we will simply stop believing that something is hidden in the darkness. and we will laugh at that kind of fear. It will seem childish. And will bring shame! But there will always, always be darkness. And evil will always be waiting in the darkness, with its claws, fangs and blood. And witchers will always be necessary.'
They sat in meditation an silence, deep in thought, so deep that they did not noticed the increasing noise in the city - a sinister and menacing noise like the irritated buzzing of wasps.
They barely noticed how quiet and empty lakeside boulevard was until one person ran past, then another, then another.
Suddenly, shouting broke out in the city and the door of Wirsing's inn burst wide open and a young dwarf ran into the room. He was red with effort and had difficulty catching his breath.
'What is it?' Yarpen Zigrin lifted his head.
The dwarf, still breathless, pointed in the direction of the town. His eyes were wild.
'Take a deep breath,' Zoltan Chivay advised. 'And tell us what's wrong.'
Later it was claimed that the tragic events in Rivia were an unfortunate coincidence that was a spontaneous reaction, a sudden and unpredictable outburst of justified anger induced by the hostility of the dwarves and elves towards the humans of the city. It was argued that it was not the humans, but the dwarves that attacked first, that they provoked the violence. A dwarfish heckler insulted the noble Lady Nadia Esposito, a war orphan and that he used violence against her. Later when the nobles came to the defense of their friend, the dwarf called upon his relatives. A fight ensued, which soon became a real battle that , in the twinkling of an eye, engulfed the whole bazaar.
The battle degraded into a bloodbath, in a massive attack from the humans against the districts occupied by the non-humans and the district of the Elms. In less than an hour, since the incident at the bazaar to the intervention of the sorceresses, one hundred and seventy people were killed, about half of which were women and children.
This version of events is reflected in the works of Professor Emmerich Gottschalk of Oxenfurt.
But there are others who argue otherwise. How can this be spontaneous, this unpredictable explosion, that within minutes of there were carts on the streets of the bazaar handing out weapons among the humans? Where did the sudden righteous anger of this mob come from, of who the most visible and active members at the time of the massacre, were people whom nobody new, and who had only come to Rivia a few day s before the incident, and they disappeared without a trace? why did the military intervene so late? And why with such distaste?
Some scholars sought to interpret events in Rivia as a Nilfgaardian provocation, and there were others who argued that everything had been hatched by dwarves in league with the elves. Who were killing their own to discredit the humans.
Lost among the majority of scientific voices was a theory by a young, bold and eccentric lawyer, who - until he was silenced - claimed that the incident in Rivia was not from secret conspiracies, but ordinary and very common characteristics of the local population - ignorance, xenophobia, violence and profound brutalization.
Later, everyone grew board and stopped talking about the matter altogether.
'Into the cellar,' the witcher said grimly, listening to the approaching noise and the roar of the crowd. 'Get into the basement, dwarves! And without your stupid heroism!'
'Witcher,' Zoltan protested, clutching the handle of his axe. 'I cannot... They are killing my brothers...'
'Into the cellar. Think about Eudora. Do you want her to be a widow before the wedding?'
The argument worked. The dwarves ran to the cellar. Geralt and Dandelion hid the entrance with a rug. Wirsing, usually pale, was as white as buttermilk.
'I saw a pogrom in Maribor,' he stammered, looking at the entrance of the cellar. 'If they find them there...'
'Go to the kitchen.'
Dandelion was also pale. Geralt was not surprised. Until recently it was a formless and monotonous roar but now they could pick out individual voices. The sound of them lifted the hair on his head.
'Geralt,' moaned the poet. 'I have a certain resemblance to an elf...'
'Don't be stupid.'
Clouds of smoke appeared over the rooftops. A group of dwarves came running through the alleys. Dwarves of both sexes.
Two of them, without hesitation, jumped into the lake and started swimming, splashing hard and moving for the center of the lake. The rest scattered. Some turned towards the inn.
The mob poured into the street. They were faster than the dwarves. In their race was the lust for killing.
The cries of the victims drilled their ears, ringing on the stained glass windows of the premises. Geralt noticed that his hands had begun to tremble.
One of the dwarves was literally torn to pieces. Another was thrown to the ground and in seconds became a shapeless, bloody mass. A woman was massacred with pitchforks and spears. The child she was protecting was simply trampled, crushed to death beneath their feet.
Three dwarves - a man and two women - ran towards the inn. The roaring crowd raced after them.
Geralt took a deep breath. He stood up. Feeling the terrified eyes of Dandelion and Wirsing, he removed from the shelf above the fireplace, Sihil, the Mahakam sword forged in the foundry of Rhundurin itself.
'Geralt...' Dandelion moaned in a heartbreaking tone.
'Very well,' said the witcher, walking towards the exit. 'But this is the last time! Damn me, but it really is the last time!'
He went out onto the porch, then jumped off it and cut a hulking man in a masonry smock, then a woman that threatened him with a shovel. He then amputated the hand of a woman who was grasping the hair of one of the dwarves. With two quick diagonal cuts he finished off the men kicking one of the fallen dwarves.
He waded into the crowd. Quickly moving in semicircles. He slashed wide, seemingly at random - knowing that such swings were more spectacular than violent. He did not want to kill them. He just wanted to wounded them.
'An elf! An elf!' someone in the mob shouted as if possessed. 'Kill the elf!'
What nonsense, he thought, Dandelion might look like an elf, but I don't look like an elf in any way.
He spotted the person who had shouted, maybe a soldier, for he was wearing uniform and high boots. He advanced through the crowd, dodging like an eel. The soldier was protecting himself with a pike, holding it with both hands. Geralt chopped at the pole, severing fingers. He spun, causing another large cut, screams of pain and a fountain of blood.
'Mercy!' A lad said on his knees before him, peering through his disheveled hair. 'Mercy!'
Geralt spared him, stopping his arm and sword, using the attacking impetus to complete his turn. From the corner of his eye he saw the disheveled young man with a smirk on his face and saw what he was holding in his hands. He changed the direction of his movement,
trying to escape. But he was caught in the crowd. And for a split second he was mired in the crowd.
He could only watch at the pitchfork that was flying towards his body.
The fire in the huge fireplace went out. A gust of wind from the mountains whistled through the crevices of the walls and screamed through the improperly closed shutters of Kaer Morhen, Home of the Witchers.
'Damn it!' Eskel said, standing up and going to the cupboard. 'Seagull of vodka?'
'Vodka,' Geralt and Coën said with one voice.
'Sure,' interjected Vesemir, hidden in the shadows, 'Yes, of course! Drown your stupidity in vodka. Damn fools!'
'It was an accident...' muttered Lambert. 'She had already mastered the comb...'
'shut your big mouth, you idiot! I don't want to hear any more! I warned you, if something happened to that little girl...'
'Enough,' Coën interrupted him, softly. 'She sleeps peacefully. Deep and healthy. She will wake up a bit sore, but that's it. About the trance, and wha
t happened, she will not even remember it.'
'As long as you remember,' said Vesemir, panting angrily. 'Cabbage heads! Pour for me too, Eskel.'
They were silent for a long time, listening intently to the howling gale.
'We will need to call someone,' Eskel finally said. 'We will need to bring a sorcerer here. What is happening to the girl, it is not normal.'
'That is her third trance.'
'But the first time she has spoken clearly.'
'Repeat to me again what she said,' Vesemir said, emptying his cup in one gulp. 'Word for word.'
'I cannot repeat it verbatim,' Geralt said, staring into the embers. 'But the sense of it, if you can make sense of it, was as follows - Coën and I will die. The teeth will be our undoing. We will both be killed by teeth. He two. And me three.'
'It is quite likely,' snorted Lambert. 'that you'll be killed from bites. Teeth can kill any of us at any time. But you two, if that prophecy is truly prophetic, will be finished off by some very jagged monsters.'
'Or festering gangrene because of bad teeth,' Eskel agree, apparently quite serious. 'But we are not missing any teeth.'
'I,' said Vesemir reprovingly, 'would not take the matter lightly.'
The witchers were silent. The wind howled through the walls of Kaer Morhen.
The disheveled lad, as if afraid of what he had done, let go of the pitchfork. The witcher, unable to repress a cry of pain, bent forward, stuck in his belly, the pitchfork unbalanced him and he fell to his knees, and slid onto the pavement. Blood spilled with a murmur and a splash worthy of a waterfall.
Geralt tried to stand. Instead he collapsed on his side.
The sounds that surrounded him, acquired resonances and echoes, heard as if underwater. His eyes deceived him, with impaired perspective and completely false geometry.
He saw the crowd disperse. They escaped from those who were coming to his aid. Zoltan and Yarpen with axes, Wirsing with his butcher knife and Dandelion armed with a broom.