Baptism of Fire (The Witcher #3)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

So it is all the stranger that real wars—and I have seen several real wars—have as much in common with discipline and order as a whorehouse with a fire raging through it. Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry

“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.” Geralt asked no further questions.

We’ll do a bit of reconnaissance. If it’s safe, I’ll make a call like a sparrow hawk.” “Like a sparrow hawk?” said Munro Bruys, anxiously moving his chin. “Since when did you know anything about mimicking bird calls, Zoltan?” “That’s the whole point. If you hear a strange, unrecognisable sound, you’ll know it’s me.

“That’s enough, Dandelion. You’re gossiping like an old woman.

Barber-surgeons, alchemists and the like exhume corpses from boneyards, in order to perform various excrements on them.” “Experiments.

“To hell with your smart-arsed chatter,” said Milva in annoyance. “Three dozen fancy words when three will do: it stinks of shit and cabbage!”

Assire var Anahid stood up, walked over to the window and stared at the spires and pinnacles of Nilfgaard—the capital of the Empire, called the City of the Golden Towers—shimmering in the setting sun.

“Stop deluding yourself. Even if they did survive, they won’t help us.” “Why not?” “For three reasons. Firstly, they have their own problems. Secondly, we’re lying tied up in a shed in the middle of a camp of several thousand soldiers.” “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.”

“Thank you for rescuing us,” he said. “But it would be best if we never met again. Am I making myself clear?” “Absolutely. Don’t waste time.”

The elf from Iorweth’s commando shook the warders’ hands off, stepped onto the block without hesitation and allowed the noose to be placed around his neck. “Long li—” The block was kicked out from under his feet.

The barber-surgeon did not move. And Milva suddenly saw what she ought to have seen long before: Regis did not cast a shadow. “Indeed,” he said slowly. “You don’t know what I am. And it’s time you did. My name is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy. I have lived on this earth for four hundred and twenty-eight years according to your reckoning, or six hundred and forty-two years by the elven calendar. I’m the descendant of survivors, unfortunate beings imprisoned here after the cataclysm you call the Conjunction of the Spheres.

“Get lost. Make yourself scarce and do it fast.” “To which far-flung corner should I make myself scarce?” Regis asked slowly. “You’re a witcher, after all. You know about me. When you’ve dealt with your problem, when you’ve sorted out whatever you need to sort out, you’ll probably return to these parts. You know where I live, where I spend my time, how I earn my keep. Will you come after me?” “It’s possible. If there’s a bounty. I am a witcher.” “I wish you luck,” Regis said, fastening his bag and spreading his cape. “Farewell. Ah, one more thing. How high would the price on my head have to be in order for you to bother? How high do you value me?” “Bloody high.” “You tickle my vanity. To be precise?” “Fuck off, Regis.” “I’m going. But first put a value on me. If you please.” “I’ve usually taken the equivalent of a good saddle horse for an ordinary vampire. But you, after all, are not ordinary.” “How much?” “I doubt,” the Witcher said, his voice as cold as ice, “I doubt whether anyone could afford it.” “I understand and thank you,” the vampire said, smiling. This time he bared his teeth. At the sight, Milva and Cahir stepped back and Dandelion stifled a cry of horror. “Farewell. Good luck.” “Farewell, Regis. Same to you.”

Perhaps he’ll realise the only activity that’s worth doing alone is wanking.”

“The hell with all of you, you cooperative fellowship of idiots, united by a common goal which none of you understand. And the hell with me too.”

“What a company I ended up with,” Geralt continued, shaking his head. “Brothers in arms! A team of heroes! What have I done to deserve it? A poetaster with a lute. A wild and lippy half-dryad, half-woman. A vampire, who’s about to notch up his fifth century. And a bloody Nilfgaardian who insists he isn’t a Nilfgaardian.” “And leading the party is the Witcher, who suffers from pangs of conscience, impotence and the inability to take decisions,” Regis finished calmly. “I suggest we travel incognito, to avoid arousing suspicion.” “Or raising a laugh,” Milva added.

For a war is raging, and disinformation is a weapon whose blade must always be kept sharp.

“If… and I’m asking purely theoretically… If…” “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.”

“Dandelion,” the Witcher burst out, turning around in the saddle. “Regis just told you to fuck off. He just said it more politely. Be so good as to shut your trap.”

“He who has spilt blood and he who has drunk blood,” the girl said, her head still lowered, “shall pay in blood. Within three days one shall die in the other, and something shall die in each. They shall die inch by inch, piece by piece… And when finally the iron-shod clogs wear out and the tears dry, then the last shreds will pass. Even that which never dies shall die.”

And when you use the blade to slaughter your Ciri’s persecutors, take one down for Caleb Stratton. And remember Zoltan Chivay and the dwarven forges.” “You can be certain I will,” Geralt said, taking the sword and slinging it across his back. “You can be certain I’ll remember. In this rotten world, Zoltan Chivay, goodness, honesty and integrity become deeply engraved in the memory.”

“Farewell, Zoltan,” Geralt finally said. “Perhaps the forces, the existence of which I’m slowly becoming convinced about, will permit us to meet again one day. I hope our paths cross again. I’d like to introduce Ciri to you, I’d like her to meet you. But even if it never happens, know that I won’t forget you. Farewell, dwarf.”

“But they’re your countrymen, Witcher,” Regis said. “I mean, they call you Geralt of Rivia.” “A slight correction,” he replied coldly. “I call myself that to make my name sound fancier. It’s an addition that inspires more trust in my clients.” “I see,” the vampire said, smiling. “And why exactly did you choose Rivia?” “I drew sticks, marked with various grand-sounding names. My witcher preceptor suggested that method to me, although not initially. Only after I’d insisted on adopting the name Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. Vesemir thought it was ridiculous; pretentious and idiotic. I dare say he was right.” Dandelion snorted loudly, looking meaningfully at the vampire and the Nilfgaardian. “My full name,” Regis said, a little piqued by the look, “is authentic. And in keeping with vampire tradition.”

“By the Great Sun,” Cahir grunted. “He deflected two arrows! Remarkable! I’ve never seen anything like it…” “And you never will again! That’s the first time I’ve ever managed two in a row! Now get down, will you!”

And so it was that a witcher and a Nilfgaardian roared savagely, whirled their swords and leapt forward together without a second thought—two brothers in arms, two allies and comrades—in an encounter with their common foe, in an uneven battle. And that was their baptism of fire. A baptism of shared fighting, fury, madness and death. They were going to their deaths, the two of them. Or so they thought. For they could not know that they would not die that day, on that bridge over the River Yaruga. They did not know that they were both destined for other deaths, in other places and times.