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And in Temeria, Redania and Kaedwen it was all blamed on the Squirrels. For one thing, because a commando of Scoia’tael had supposedly come to the aid of the rebellious mages on Thanedd. For another, because an elf or possibly half-elf had supposedly stabbed and killed Vizimir, King of Redania. So the furious humans had gone after the Squirrels with a vengeance. The fighting was raging everywhere and elven blood was flowing in rivers…
In each of us lies a creditor and a debtor at once and the art is for the reckoning to tally inside us. We enter the world as a minute part of the life we are given, and from then on we are ever paying off debts. To ourselves. For ourselves. In order for the final reckoning to tally.”
Men are psychologically unstable, too prone to emotions; not to be relied upon in moments of crisis.”
Ambition is the undoing of men. They always want what they know to be impossible and unattainable. And they are unaware of the attainable.”
As you know, I was stuck in Brokilon for exactly thirty-six days… and nights too, when romantic nature was freezing my arse, crawling across my back and sprinkling dew on my nose—
“Have you ever had a horse that wasn’t called Roach?” “No,” answered the Witcher after a moment’s thought. “I haven’t. Spur on that castrated Pegasus of yours, Dandelion. We’ve a long road ahead of us.”
He wasn’t hurt; the injured leg, which had been treated in Brokilon, had simply crumpled under him without warning.
People are going to fight at a distance in the wars of the future. They’ll invent a weapon with such a long range that the two sides will be able to kill each other while completely out of eyeshot.”
“You’re heading, quite naturally, towards a conclusion,” he said. “But don’t bother; I know what you’re thinking. ‘There’s no point saving Ciri from a fate she’s been doomed to since the day of her birth. Because Ciri, who doesn’t need saving at all, will be quite ready to order the imperial guard to throw us down the stairs. Let’s forget about her.’ Right?”
“They say war’s a male thing,” Milva growled. “But they have no mercy on women; they have to have their fun. Fucking heroes; damn them all.”
And a dwarf attains maturity when his beard reaches his waist, which usually occurs at the age of fifty-five.
“A dwarf, even fully laden, can march thirty miles a day. Almost the same as a mounted human. I know the Old Road. Without those refugees you’d reach the Chotla in about three days.”
the long-nosed gnome. No match for the dwarves in terms of height or strength, he was their equal in stamina and considerably superior in agility. During the march he never stopped roaming around and rummaging in bushes; then he would pull ahead and disappear, only to appear and with nervous, monkey-like gestures signal from a considerable distance away that everything was in order and that they could continue. Occasionally he would return and give a rapid report about the obstacles on the track. Whenever he did, he would have a handful of blackberries, nuts or strange—but clearly tasty—roots
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“Unbridled altruism is a huge vice of mine,” he explained. “I simply have to do good. I am a sensible dwarf, however, and know that I’m unable to do everyone good. Were I to attempt to be good to everyone, to the entire world and to all the creatures living in it, it would be a drop of fresh water in the salt sea. In other words, a wasted effort. Thus, I decided to do specific good; good which would not go to waste. I’m good to myself and my immediate circle.”
It isn’t aggressive, but it moves like lightning. If it feels threatened it may attack and there’s no antidote for its venom.”
“Of course he gets it,” Milva said from behind him. “And I get it too. You don’t need anyone, Witcher. You show it often enough.”
“Three years ago. But I entered from the other side. I was heading for Brugge and wanted to take a short cut. How I got out I don’t remember. I was carried out on a wagon half-dead.”
As Geralt had expected, his witcher medallion didn’t even quiver; betrayed no sign of anything monstrous nearby.
“Twelve days have passed since I set out from Brokilon, during which I’ve travelled around sixty miles.
“To look at him you wouldn’t know if he was alive or stuffed. He almost never moves, which is just as well, because he farts every time he does. You can’t understand a word he’s saying because his beard and whiskers are stuck together with dried borscht.
He didn’t give a damn and doesn’t give a damn about them, because he considers the dwarves who’ve settled in the cities apostates.
And as regards punitive expeditions to Mahakam—don’t make me laugh, my dears. There’s no threat and never has been, because none of the kings would dare lay a finger on Mahakam. I’ll go further: even the Nilfgaardians, were they to manage to take control of the valleys surrounding the massif, wouldn’t dare touch Mahakam. Do you know why? I’ll tell you: Mahakam is steel; and not just any old steel. There’s coal there, there’s magnetite ore, boundless deposits. Everywhere else it’s just bog ore.”
But not everyone knows Mahakam exports steel. To the kingdoms, but to Nilfgaard too. And should anyone lay a finger on us, we’ll wreck the workshops and flood the mines. And then you humans will continue fighting, but with oaken staves, flint blades and asses’ jawbones.”
For a few centuries the elves pretended there weren’t any humans at all. They gazed up at the sky, smelled the flowers, and at the sight of a human averted their vulgarly bedaubed eyes. But when that strategy turned out to be ineffective they suddenly roused themselves and took up arms. They decided to kill and be killed. And we? The dwarves? We adapted. No, we didn’t subordinate ourselves to you, don’t get that into your heads. We subordinated you. Economically.”
Land and territory is what integrates elves. In your case it’s the clan. Wherever your clan is, that’s your homeland. Even if an exceptionally short-sighted king were to attack Mahakam, you’d flood the mines and head off somewhere else without any regrets.
How many years you have to work before submitting an application for a permanent wife.
“Scopolamine,” Regis mumbled softly.
“In the case of higher vampires—never, I agree,” Emiel Regis said softly. “From what I know alpors, katakans, moolas, bruxas and nosferats don’t mutilate their victims. On the other hand, fleders and ekimmas are pretty brutal with their victims’ remains.”
“When I was younger, I wasted my time and energy several times chasing after delusions and superstitions which had been seen and colourfully described by an entire village, including the headman. Once I spent two months living in a castle which was supposedly haunted by a vampire. There was no vampire. But they fed me well.”
I’ve never understood why the fight for survival manifests itself in a reluctance to dig latrines.”
I know the ways and deeds of sorcerers and I know what that decoct is made of! The witch boiled up a cat alive!”
“Baptism of fire? If so, I believe the divine judgement is unambiguous. The girl is innocent. Her defenders are innocent. And I, just imagine, am also innocent.”
“I can’t,” the Witcher groaned, blinded by the precious flour, seizing in both hands his knee, which had been shot through by an overwhelming pain. “Save yourself. Dandelion…” “I won’t leave you!”
Vissegerd had eight thousand men, of which five thousand were native Cintrans; the rest consisted of Temerian reserve units and volunteer chivalry from Brugge and Sodden. At this moment the corps numbers six thousand. And all the deserters have been from Cintra.
When he fell to the ground, howling and calling upon the Gods, she recognised him. It was Cloggy. A peasant who clearly had no luck in his dealings with people. Or, more particularly, with Milva.
According to those orders I selected a special squad from the commando, which would be answerable only to Cahir.
The sentries were professional soldiers, which could be discerned by their remarkable ability to communicate using sentences constructed entirely of pronouns and coarse expletives.
“And the third reason? You mentioned three.” “Thirdly,” the Witcher replied in a tired voice, “the monthly quota on miracles was used up when the woman from Kernow found her missing husband.”
The Witcher realised he was dealing with a person who, for the first time in his life, had been wounded and was in pain. Who, for the first time in his life, was seeing his own blood in such quantities.
“I have to admit you’ve got a real talent for winning people over. Though the entire world seems to be out to get you, you disregard the comrades and allies wanting to help you.”
For, after all, they are components of the penance, the expiation of guilt you want to earn. A baptism of fire, I’d say. You’ll pass through fire, which burns, but also purges.
Life differs from banking because it has debts which are paid off by running up debts with others.”
“Ignorance”—Regis smiled—“is no justification for ill-conceived actions. When one doesn’t know or has doubts it’s best to seek advice…”
And later those who wanted children, but ought not to have them, were secretly given contraceptive agents. Those who didn’t want children, but ought to have them, were given placebos of liquorice water instead of the promised agents.
“I’ve never liked her,” Sheala de Tancarville said, shrugging her shoulders. “I’ve never approved of her lifestyle. But I’ve never questioned her abilities.”
“He’s invulnerable to fire.”
“He can become invisible if he wishes. He can bewitch with his gaze, and put someone in a deep sleep. He did that to the guards in Vissegerd’s camp. He can assume the form of a bat and fly. I presume he can only do those things at night, during a full moon, but I could be wrong.
“I don’t know,” the Witcher replied honestly and frankly. “I don’t know if I’d be capable of killing him. I truly would prefer not to be forced to try.”
“I don’t drink blood,” Regis interrupted. “Haven’t for many years. I gave it up.”
I don’t touch blood. Not at all and never. I stopped drinking it when it became a problem for me. A serious problem, which I had difficulty solving.
