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All the world’s guardhouses stank of mould, sweat, leather and urine, as well as iron and the grease used to preserve it. It was no different in the Kerack guardhouse. Or it wouldn’t have been, had the classic guardhouse smell not been drowned out by the heavy, choking, floor-to-ceiling odour of farts. There could be no doubt that leguminous plants—most likely peas and beans—prevailed in the diet of the guardhouse’s crew. And the garrison was wholly female. It consisted of six women currently sitting at a table and busy with their midday meal. They were all greedily slurping some morsels
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Guard against disappointments, because appearances can deceive. Things that are really as they seem are rare. And a woman is never as she seems. Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry
Secundo, the liaison didn’t shock many of us, we’re no strangers to excesses of that kind. The turning point was your parting. When did it happen? A year ago? Oh, how time flies…”
“In that case, it’d be better if I went. I oughtn’t to visit you, we oughtn’t to be seen together. People are liable to think we fixed the bet.”
Wild nights! Wild nights! Were I with thee, Wild nights should be Our luxury! Emily Dickinson
“Please. I’d prefer to be thought of as a supernatural creature armed with a supernatural weapon. They hire me to be that and pay me to be that. Normality, meanwhile, is the same as banality, and banality is cheap. So I ask you to keep your trap shut. Promise?”
I am no stranger to a lady’s delighted look; plenty of women find my manly and wolfish features irresistible.
He, Ortolan, would give humanity the benefit of peace, even if it would first be necessary to destroy half of it.
This was strange, in so far as Ortolan was the inventor of a celebrated mandrake decoction, an elixir used by sorcerers in order to arrest the ageing process.
Meanwhile, they kept Ortolan convinced that the elixir was generally available, owing to which humanity was practically immortal and—consequently—absolutely happy.
For it was Cosimo Malaspina, and after him his student Alzur, yes, Alzur, who created the witchers. They invented the mutation owing to which men like you were bred. Owing to which you exist, owing to which you walk upon this earth, ungrateful one. You ought to esteem Alzur, his successors and their works, and not destroy them! Oh dear… Oh dear…”
Demons are creatures from different worlds than ours. Elemental planes… dimensions, spacetimes or whatever they’re called. In order to have any kind of experience with a demon you have to invoke it, meaning forcibly extract it from its plane. It can only be accomplished using magic—”
These aren’t the times of Geoffrey Monck’s first portals! Today teleportation is a common and absolutely safe thing. Teleportals are safe. And teleportals opened by me are absolutely safe.”
The Witcher sighed. He’d happened to observe the effects of the safe functioning teleportals more than once and he’d also helped sorting the remains of people who’d used teleportals. Which was why he knew that declarations about their safety could be classified along with such statements as: “my little dog doesn’t bite,” “my son’s a good boy,” “this stew’s fresh,” “I’ll give you the money back the day after tomorrow at the latest,” “he was only getting something out of my eye,” “the good of the fatherland comes before everything,” and “just answer a few questions and you’re free to go.”
Anxiety is never irrational, Geralt thought to himself. Aside from psychological disturbances. It was one of the first things novice witchers were taught. It’s good to feel fear. If you feel fear it means there’s something to be feared, so be vigilant. Fear doesn’t have to be overcome. Just don’t yield to it. And you can learn from it.
Potash, the sorcerers explained to Geralt, was obtained from the ash of the charcoal which was burned in the locality.
Charcoal is the only fuel that can achieve a high enough temperature for smelting. The furnaces near Dorian and Gors Velen couldn’t function without it, and smelting is the most important and most promising branch of industry. Because of demand, charcoal burning is a lucrative job, and economics, Witcher, is like nature and abhors a vacuum.
Although his instinct didn’t mislead him he didn’t kill, because he wasn’t certain. For he’s a good witcher and a good man. Shall I tell you, good witcher, what good people are? They’re people whom fate hasn’t blessed with the chance of profiting from the benefits of being evil. Or alternatively people who were given a chance but were too stupid to take advantage of it.
Firstly, he was still alive, and where there’s life there’s hope, as his preceptor in Kaer Morhen, Vesemir, used to say.
Thanks to Shevlov and his free company—and also to the piledrivers and their operation—the province of Riverside, part of the Kingdom of Redania, had increased in area that day. Quite significantly.
You owe him honour, obedience and levies. And you’re behind with your rent and taxes! By order of the king you are to settle your debts immediately. Into this here bailiff’s coffer.”
I know the theory of evolution, I know what creature humans evolved from, you don’t have to keep reminding me.
A dwarf was able to cover a distance of thirty miles a day, as many as a man on horseback, and, what’s more, carrying luggage that a normal man couldn’t even lift. A human was incapable of keeping up with an unburdened marching dwarf. And neither was the Witcher. Geralt had forgotten that, and after some time was forced to ask Addario to slow down a little.
A story is a largely false account, of largely trivial events, fed to us by historians who are largely idiots,’” smiled the Witcher.
“I won’t. She-foxes or vixens, or more precisely aguaras, only abduct elven children.”
The point is that a kidnapped child ceases to be a child. Changes occur in little girls abducted by she-foxes. They metamorphosise and became she-foxes themselves. Aguaras don’t reproduce. They maintain the species by abducting and transforming elven children.”
“No offence, but your explanations are as foggy as urine from an infected bladder,” Geralt commented calmly.
“Not exactly. Werewolves, werebears, wererats and similar creatures are therianthropes, humans able to shapeshift. The aguara is an antherion. An animal—or rather a creature—able to assume the form of a human.”
“It’s a scandal! Mammon is triumphing over probity! Pagan dwarves are treated better than people! I shall complain to the authorities!”
A mon retour (hé! je m’en désespere!) Tu m’as reçu d’un baiser tout glacé.
“Swords injure. And kill.” “So does life. Does the invitation still apply?”
A peasant’s cottage and farmyard is an arsenal; many have died from hoes, not to mention flails and pitchforks. I heard that someone was killed with the plunger from a butter churn. You can do harm with anything if you want to. Or have to. And while we’re on the subject, leave that pot of boiling water alone. And move away from the stove.”
It was as you said: what you used to be means more to people than what you are.
“After forty-two years of being a werewolf,” he said, meeting the Witcher’s gaze, “it was about time I finally bit someone to death.”
Then he attacked with a trained sequence of movements he had practised a hundred times.
“Don’t be soft…” said the commandant of the guardhouse, waving a dismissive arm. “Think nothing of it. And anyway, you’re an arse, and me and the girls are pissed off with you about that rumpus. So you’d better steer clear of us, or you’ll get a good hiding. Is that clear?”
My gleam penetrates the darkness, my brightness disperses the gloom.
“The notorious Cats,” said the poet, addressing the sorceress. “Witchers—but failures. Unsuccessful mutations. Madmen, psychopaths and sadists. They nicknamed themselves ‘Cats,’ because they really are like cats: aggressive, cruel, unpredictable and impulsive.
“What year is it?” “One thousand three hundred…” she said, raising her astonished eyes. “One thousand three hundred and seventy-three after the Revival.” “If so—” the white-haired man wiped his face with his hand in his sleeve “—Geralt of Rivia has been dead for many years. He died a hundred and five years ago. But I think he would be happy, if… He’d be happy if people remembered him after all those hundred and five years. If they remembered who he was. Why, even if they remembered the name of his horse. Yes, I think, he would be happy… If he could know it. Come. I’ll see you off.”
