Stephen Hulin

  SEASON

  OF STORMS

  From ghoulies and ghosties

  And long legetty beasties

  And things that go bump in the night,

  Good Lord deliver us!

  Propitiatory prayer known as

  "The Cornish Litany",

  dated to the 14-15 century

  They say that progress illuminates the darkness. But there will

  always be darkness. And in that darkness there will

  always be Evil, in that darkness there will always be fangs

  and claws, murder and blood. There will always be things that go

  bump in the night. And we, witchers, are the ones

  who bump back at them.

  Vesemir of Kaer Morhen

  ANDRZEJ

  SAPKOWSKI

  SEASON

  OF STORMS

  THE WITCHER

  Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.

  Friedrich Nietzsche, Jenseits von Gut und Böse

  I believe gazing into the abyss to be a complete waste of time. There's plenty of things in the world more worthy of being gazed into.

  Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry

  Chapter One

  He lived only to kill.

  He lay on the sun-warmed sand. He sensed the tremors conducted by the capillary antennae and setae pressed to the ground.

  Though the tremors were still distant, Idr felt them clearly and precisely, he was able to determine not only the direction and speed of the prey, but also its weight. For most predators who hunted in a similar way, the weight of the prey was paramount – prowling, attack and chase meant the loss of energy, which needed to be compensated by the energy value of the food. Most predators similar to Idr would forego attacking if the prey was too small. But not Idr. Idr did not exist to eat and breed. He was not created for that.

  He lived to kill.

  Carefully moving his appendages, he crawled out of the hole, slithered through the rotten log, crossed the fallen tree in three leaps, and flitted through the glade like a ghost, he fell into the undergrowth, blended into the thicket. He moved, swift and silent, running and leaping as though an enormous grasshopper.

  He delved into the thicket, pressed the segmented plates of his abdomen against the ground. The tremors were becoming more and more tangible. The impulses from Idr's whiskerpads and setae arranged themselves into a picture. A plan. Idr knew how to reach his prey now, where cross its path, how to make it run, how to attack it from behind with a long leap, at which height to strike and cut with razor-sharp mandibles. The oscillations and impulses already heralded the joy he would feel, when the prey would struggle beneath his weight, the euphoria he would sustain tasting hot blood. The pleasure he would experience when the shriek of pain pierces the air. He trembled slightly, opening and closing his palps and pincers.

  The vibrations of the ground were very clear; they also became varied. There was more prey, probably three, possibly four. Two of them shook the ground in the usual manner, the third one's vibrations indicated a low weight and mass. The fourth one –if there really was one – caused irregular, weak and tentative jitters. Idr stopped, extended his antennae above the grass, and examined the movement of the air.

  The tremors of the earth finally signalled the moment Idr was waiting for. The prey separated. One of them, the smallest, stayed back. And the fourth one, the faint one, disappeared. It was a false signal, an erroneous echo. Idr ignored it. The small prey strayed even further away from the rest. The ground trembled stronger. And closer. Idr tautened his hind appendages, bounded and leapt.

  ***

  The little girl let out a shrieked in terror. Instead of running, she froze. And continued shrieking.

  ***

  The witcher rushed towards her, grabbing his sword as he leapt. And suddenly he realised that something was wrong. That he had been duped.

  The man pulling the brush cart screamed and Geralt saw him flying a fathom up, his blood gushing in wide streaks. He fell, only to be thrust into the air again, this time in two bloody pieces. He wasn't screaming any more. It was the woman who was shrieking now, paralysed with fear, just like her daughter.

  Though he didn't believe he would make it, the witcher managed to save her. He leapt and pushed with power, throwing the bloodstained woman off the road, into the wood, into the ferns. He immediately understood that this was also a trick. A ruse. A grey, flat, multi-legged and incredibly fast shape was already moving away from the cart and the first victim. It was pushing towards the second one. Towards the still shrieking little girl. Geralt rushed in pursuit.

  Had she continued to stay still, he wouldn't have made it. Thankfully, the girl demonstrated enough clarity of mind to run. The grey monster would have caught up to her quickly and effortlessly – it would have caught up, killed her and returned to kill the woman as well. And it would have been like that, had there not been a witcher there.

  He caught up to the monster, leapt, pinning one of its hind appendages with his heel. Had he not rebounded immediately, he would have lost a leg – the grey monster twisted with unbelievable agility, and its sickle-like pincers snapped, missing narrowly. Before the witcher could regain his balance, the monster bounded off the ground and attacked. Geralt defended himself with an instinctive, wide and rather chaotic sword swing, pushing the monster away. He didn't manage to hurt it, but he regained the upper hand.

  He sprang, slashing from the ear, smashing the carapace on the flat cephalothorax. Before the stunned monster regained its senses, he slashed once more, taking out its left mandible. The monster pounced on him, flailing its legs, trying to gore him like an aurochs with its remaining mandible. The witcher slashed off that one as well. With a quick reverse slash, he cut off one of the palps. And slammed again at the cephalothorax.

  ***

  It finally dawned on Idr that he was in danger. That he had to run, run far away, disappear, ensconce himself, and go into hiding. He lived only to kill. To kill, he needed to regenerate. He needed to run... Run...

  ***

  The witcher would not allow him to run. He caught up to him, stomped the back segment of the thorax to the ground, slashed with impetus from overhead. This time, the carapace gave in, a viscous green ichor gushing and flowing from the crack. The monster still struggled, its appendages flailing wildly at the ground.

  Geralt slashed with his sword, this time completely separating the flat frontlet from the rest.

  He breathed heavily.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. The breaking wind and a quickly darkening sky heralded a coming storm.

  ***

  At first sight, Albert Smulka, the newly appointed district administrator, brought to Geralt's mind a bulb of rutabaga – round, unwashed, crude and generally rather uninteresting. In other words, he was no different from most other district-level officials Geralt had to deal with.

  ‘'Tis true then,’ said the administrator. ‘You got problems, you get yourself a witcher.’

  ‘Jonas, my predecessor,’ he continued after a short pause, not having received any reaction from Geralt, ‘spoke very highly of you. To think I had him for a braggart. Never quite believe him, mind you. I know how things get turned into fairy tales. Especially among superstitious folk, it's miracle here, wonder there, or some other witcher of fabulous power. And now it turns out to be the truth, would you have it. See those woods there, past the stream, lotsa people been going missing there. And since it's the shorter path, they'd still used it, the numskulls... To their own doom. Wouldn't heed warnings. These days, you best not loiter 'round the
woods. Monsters and man-eaters everywhere. In Temeria, the Tukay foothills, that there was scary what'd happened, fifteen people killed by some forest wraith. A village called Horns. Probably heard about it. No? Anyway, hell, I'm telling the truth. Heard even the sorcerers investigated there, in Horns. But enough stories. We here in Angegis are hereby safe. Thanks to you.’

  He took a casket out of the locker. He spread a sheet of paper on the desk, dipped his quill in the inkwell.

  ‘You promised to kill the bogeyman,’ he said, without raising his head. ‘Turns out, you're true to your word. Unusual, for a drifter...Even saved those two. The woman and the girl. They thank you at all? Drop at your feet?’

  ‘They didn't,’ the witcher clenched his teeth. ‘They're still haven't fully recovered. And I will be gone before they do. Before they realise I used them as bait, assuming in my arrogance that I would defend all three of them. I will be gone before that girl realises it's my fault she's been made a half-orphan.’

  He felt bad. It was probably the elixirs. Probably.

  ‘That monstrum,’ the administrator sprinkled the paper with sand, then whisked it off to the floor, ‘real eyesore. Had a look at the carcass when they brought it in... What was it?’

  Geralt wasn't sure about that, but he was not about to admit it.

  ‘An arachnomorph.’

  ‘Pish! Call it what you want, damn thing. That the sword you sliced it up with? That blade? Mind if I have a look?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Ha, probably enchanted then... Must be worth a pretty penny... Tempting thing... Oh well, enough chit-chat, we haven't got all day. The deal is done, time for the payment. But first with the formalities. Sign the receipt. I mean, make a cross or some sort of sign.’

  The witcher took the receipt given to him, he turned around toward the light.

  ‘Look at him,’ the administrator shook his head, frowning, ‘you say what, he can read?’

  Geralt placed the paper on the table, pushed it towards the official.

  ‘A small error,’ he said calmly and quietly, ‘has crept into the document. We settled on fifty crowns. The receipt reads eighty.’

  Albert Smulka clasped his hands, rested his chin on them.

  ‘That's no error,’ he lowered his voice as well. ‘Rather, it's proof of gratitude. You killed a monstrous monster, certainly wasn't easy, that... The sum won't come as a surprise to no one.’

  ‘I don't understand.’

  ‘Bollocks. Don't play innocent. You're telling me that Jonas, when he was in charge, never gave you this kind of receipt? I'd bet my head that…;

  ‘That what?’ Geralt interrupted. ‘That he inflated bills? And that he shared half of what he purloined from the royal treasury with me?’

  ‘Half?’ The administrator scowled. ‘Let's not get carried away here, witcher. Got a high opinion of yourself, eh? You'll get a third. Ten crowns. That's still a substantial bonus for you. And I deserve more, even just due to my position. State officials need to be wealthy. The more affluent an official, the higher the prestige of the state. But what would you know about that, anyway. I'm tired of this conversation. Are you signing this or not?’

  The rain pounded against the roof, it was pouring outside.

  But there was no thunder any more, the storm had passed.

  Interlude

  Two days later

  ‘Please, dear,’ Belohun, King of Kerack beckoned, ‘Please, sit!’

  The vaulted room was decorated with a ceiling fresco depicting ships sailing among the waves, mermen and creatures that resembled lobsters. The fresco on one wall was a map of the world. The map, Coral had long since concluded was absolutely fantastic with the locations of continents and seas having very little in common with how they really were. But it was pretty and tasteful.

  Two pages ran up and set down a heavily carved armchair. The Sorceress sat down, putting her hands on the armrest so that her bracelets encrusted with rubies were clearly visible and would not go unnoticed.

  On the sorceress’s head was a ruby diadem and a ruby necklace sat nestled in her deeply scooped neckline. All specially selected for the royal audience. She wanted to make an impression. And she did. King Belohun’s eyes dilated and not from the rubies in her cleavage.

  Belohun, son of Osmyk, was a first generation king. His father made a considerable fortune in the sea trade who also seemed to spend little time at sea. He outdid the competition and monopolised the shipping in that region, and named himself king. The act of self-styled coronation was not formalised in any way and did not upset the status quo, raise major objections or spark protests. During earlier wars and conflicts, Osmyk learned the limits and competency of his neighbours, Verden and Cidaris. It became known were Kerack began, where it ended and who ruled there. And since he ruled there, as its king, he was entitled to such a title.

  As is the natural order of things, the title and the power passed from father to son, so no one was surprised after the death of Osmyk, the throne was taken by his son, Belohun. Osmyk had four sons, all renounced their right to the Crown, on even supposedly voluntarily. In this way Belohun, reigned for the last twenty years in Kerack, in accordance with family tradition of syphoning profits from shipbuilding industry, transport, fishery and piracy.

  And now, on the throne, on a dais, in a sable cap, with a sceptre in his hand, King Belohun granted audiences. The majestic lout like a beetle on a pile of cow dung.

  ‘Dear, Lady Lytta Neyd,’ he welcomed, ‘Our favourite sorceress, Lytta Neyd. You’ve come to visit Kerack again. And surely for a longer period?’

  ‘I’ve come for the sea air.’ Coral provocatively crossed her legs, demonstrating her fashionable shoes. ‘With gracious permission from your Royal Majesty.’

  The king looked at his sons sitting next to him. Both sat as straight as poles and in no way resembled their father who was bony, wiry and not very tall.

  They did not look like brothers. The elder, Egmund, had hair as black as a raven, while Xander, the younger, was mostly blond. They both looked at Lytta without affection. Obvious annoyed at her privilege, under which a sorceress in the presence of a king sat and an audience was granted to her in a chair. This privilege was common place and one could not ignore it if one wanted to pass as civilized. Belohun’s son were eager to pass as such.

  ‘You have my permission,’ Belohun spoke slowly. ‘With certain conditions.’

  Coral raised her hand and pointedly looked at her nails to indicate her opinion of Belohun’s conditions. The king did not understand the signal. Or if he did, he skilfully concealed it.

  ‘It has come to my ears,’ he huffed angrily, ‘dear Lady Neyd, that you help women who do not want to have children with magic potions. And those who are already pregnant, you remove the foetus. And we here in Kerack, believe these dealings are immoral.’

  ‘These women have a natural right,’ Coral said dryly, ‘so ipso facto it cannot be immoral.’

  ‘Women,’ the king drew his skinny frame up on the throne, ‘are entitled to expect from a man only two gifts: in the summer, pregnancy, and in the winter a measure of his seed. The first and second gifts are to anchor the woman in the house. The house is in fact the appropriate place for a woman, assigned by nature. A woman with a swollen belly and children clinging to her skirts, mind does not wander and get filled with silly ideas, and it ensure a man’s peace of mind. A man with a calm mind can work hard because wealth and prosperity are his ruler. Working tirelessly, bringing a sweat to his brow, but calm knowing that there are no silly ideas in his woman’s head. But if a woman can persuade someone to let her give birth when she wants and when she doesn’t want, to have matters her way, then dear, the social order begins to waver.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Prince Xander, having long been looking for an occasion to interject. ‘That’s it precisely!’

  ‘A woman averse to motherhood,’ continued Belohun, ‘a woman who is not tethered to a hou
sehold, cradle or children, soon becomes lustful, the thing is, after all, obvious and inevitable. Then a man will lose his peace of mind, and where his original harmony was, something will begin to fester, and without that harmony there is no governance. And without that governance, the justification for the daily drudgery is gone. And this affects me. As such thoughts can only be a step to unrest. To rebellion or revolt. Do you understand, Lady Neyd? By giving these potions to prevent pregnancy or enabling their interruption, you are destroying the social order and inciting riot and rebellion.’

  ‘Yes,’ Xander interjected. ‘That’s right!’

  Lytta said nothing and retained her semblance of authority and imperiousness. Belohun knew perfectly well that as a sorceress she was untouchable, and the only thing the king could do was talk. She refrained, however, from reminding him that his kingdom smelled for a long time of lack of governance and more like cat piss, the only harmony the inhabitants knowing was from a musical instrument, a type of accordion. And that trying to force women into maternity was not only demonstrating his misogyny but cretinism.

  ‘In your long recital,’ she said instead, ‘you persistently come back to the topic of wealth and prosperity. I understand you perfectly, as my own prosperity is my belief. And nothing in the world will give me anything like the prosperity it provides. I believe that a woman has the right to give birth, when she wants and not give birth if she does not want to, and I do not dispute this, everyone eventually has a right to their own views. I will note that the medical assistance provided to women is quite a significant source of my income. We have a market economy, O King. And you are interfering in the source of my income. Because my income, as you well know, goes to the Chapter of Sorcerers. The brotherhood reacts remarkably badly to the depletion of its income.’

  ‘Are you trying to threaten me, Lady Neyd?’