The Last Wish (37 page)

'You're very funny, Falwick.'

The soldiers surrounded the glade, forming a loose circle. Tailles and the witcher stood facing each other.

'Tailles? What do you say to an apology?'

The young knight screwed up his lips, folded his left arm behind his back and froze in a fencing position.

'No?' Geralt smiled. 'You don't want to listen to the voice of reason? Pity.'

Tailles squatted down, leapt and attacked without warning. The witcher didn't even make an effort to parry and avoided the flat point with a swift half-turn. The knight swiped broadly.

The blade cut through the air once more. Geralt dodged beneath it in an agile pirouette, jumped softly aside and, with a short, light feint, threw Tailles off his rhythm. Tailles cursed, cut broadly from the right, lost his balance for a moment and tried to regain it while, instinctively, clumsily, holding his sword high to defend himself. The witcher struck with the speed and force of a lightning bolt, extending his arm to its full length and slashing straight ahead. The heavy sword thundered against Tailles' blade, deflecting it so hard it hit the knight in the face. Tailles howled, fell to his knees and touched the grass with his forehead.

Falwick ran up to him.

Geralt dug his sword into the ground and turned around.

'Hey, guards!' yelled Falwick, getting up. 'Take him!'

'Stand still! To your places!' growled Dennis Cranmer, touching his axe. The soldiers froze.

'No, Count,' the dwarf said slowly. 'I always execute orders to the letter. The witcher did not touch Tailles. The kid hit himself with his own iron. His hard luck.'

'His face is destroyed! He's disfigured for life!'

'Skin heals.' Dennis Cranmer fixed his steel eyes on the witcher and bared his teeth. 'And the scar? For a knight, a scar is a commendable reminder, a reason for fame and glory, which the Chapter so desired for him. A knight without a scar is a prick, not a knight. Ask him, Count, and you'll see that he's pleased.'

Tailles was writhing on the ground, spitting blood, whimpering and wailing; he didn't look pleased in the least.

'Cranmer!' roared Falwick, tearing his sword from the ground, 'you'll be sorry for this, I swear!'

The dwarf turned around, slowly pulled the axe from his belt, coughed and spat into his palm.

'Oh, Count, sir,' he rasped. 'Don't perjure yourself. I can't stand perjurers and Prince Hereward has given me the right to punish them. I'll turn a deaf ear to your stupid words. But don't repeat them, if you please.'

'Witcher,' Falwick, puffing with rage, turned to Geralt. 'Get yourself out of Ellander.

Immediately. Without a moment's delay!'

'I rarely agree with him,' muttered Dennis, approaching the witcher and returning his sword,

'but in this case he's right. I'd ride out pretty quick.'

'We'll do as you advise.' Geralt slung the belt across his back. 'But before that I have words for the count. Falwick!'

The Knight of the White Rose blinked nervously and wiped his palms on his coat.

'Let's just go back to your Chapter's code for a minute,' continued the witcher, trying not to smile. 'One thing really interests me. If I, let us say, felt disgusted and insulted by your attitude in this whole affair, if I challenged you to the sword right now, what would you do?

Would you consider me sufficiently worthy to cross blades with? Or would you refuse, even though you knew that by doing so I would take you to be unworthy even to be spat on, punched in the face and kicked in the arse under

the eyes of the foot soldiers? Count Falwick, be so gracious as to satisfy my curiosity.'

Falwick grew pale, took a step back, looked around. The soldiers avoided his eyes. Dennis Cranmer grimaced, stuck his tongue out and sent a jet of saliva a fair distance.

'Even though you're not saying anything,' continued Geralt, 'I can hear the voice of reason in your silence, Falwick, sir. You've satisfied my curiosity, now I'll satisfy yours. If the Order bothers Mother Nenneke or the priestesses in any way, or unduly intrudes upon Captain Cranmer, then may you know, Count, that I'll find you and, not caring about any code, will bleed you like a pig.'

The knight grew even paler.

'Don't forget my promise, Count. Come on, Dandilion. It's time for us to leave. Take care, Dennis.'

'Good luck, Geralt.' The dwarf gave a broad smile. 'Take care. I'm very pleased to have met you, and hope we'll meet again.'

'The feeling's mutual, Dennis.'

They rode away with ostensible slowness, not looking back. They began to canter only once they were hidden by the forest.

'Geralt,' the poet said suddenly, 'surely we won't head straight south? We'll have to make a detour to avoid Ellander and Here-ward's lands, won't we? Or do you intend to continue with this show?'

'No, Dandilion, I don't. We'll go through the forests and then join the Traders' Trail.

Remember, not a word in Nenneke's presence about this quarrel. Not a word.'

'We are riding out without any delay, I hope?'

'Immediately.'

Geralt leant over, checked the repaired hoop of his stirrup and fitted the stirrup leather, still stiff, smelling of new skins and hard to buckle. He adjusted the saddle-girth, the travel bags, the horse-blanket rolled up behind the saddle and the silver sword strapped to it. Nenneke was motionless next to him, her arms folded.

Dandilion approached, leading his bay gelding.

'Thank you for the hospitality, Venerable One,' he said seriously. 'And don't be angry with me anymore. I know that, deep down, you like me.'

'Indeed,' agreed Nenneke without smiling. 'I do, you dolt, although I don't know why myself.

Take care.'

'So long, Nenneke.'

'So long, Geralt. Look after yourself.'

The witcher's smile was surly.

'I prefer to look after others. It turns out better in the long run.'

From the temple, from between columns entwined with ivy, Iola emerged in the company of two younger pupils. She was carrying the witcher's small chest. She avoided his eyes awkwardly and her troubled smile combined with the blush on her freckled, chubby face made a charming picture. The pupils accompanying her didn't hide their meaningful glances and barely stopped themselves from giggling.

'For Great Melitele's sake,' sighed Nenneke, 'an entire parting procession. Take the chest, Geralt. I've replenished your elixirs. You've got everything that was in short supply. And that medicine, you know the one. Take it regularly for two weeks. Don't forget. It's important.'

'I won't. Thanks, Iola.'

The girl lowered her head and handed him the chest. She so wanted to say something. She had no idea what ought to be said, what words ought to be used. She didn't know what she'd say, even if she could. She didn't know. And yet she so much wanted to.

Their hands touched.

Blood. Blood. Blood. Bones like broken white sticks. Tendons like whitish cords exploding from beneath cracking skin cut by enormous paws bristling with thorns, and sharp teeth. The hideous sound of torn flesh, and shouting — shameless and horrifying in its shamelessness.

The shamelessness of the end. Of death. Blood and shouting. Shouting. Blood. Shouting—

lola!'

Nenneke, with extraordinary speed considering her girth, rushed to the girl lying on the ground, shaken by convulsions, and held her down by her shoulders and hair. One of the pupils stood as if paralysed, the other, more clear-headed, knelt on lola's legs. Iola arched her back, opened her mouth in a soundless, mute cry.

'Iola!' Nenneke shouted. 'Iola! Speak! Speak, child! Speak!'

The girl stiffened even more, clenched her jaws, and a thin trickle of blood ran down her cheek. Nenneke, growing red with the effort, shouted something which the witcher didn't understand, but his medallion tugged at his neck so hard that he was forced to bend under the pressure of its invisible weight.

Iola stilled.

Dandilion, pale as a sheet, sighed deeply. Nenneke raised herself to her knees and stood with an effort.

'Take her away,' she said to the pupils. There were more of them now; they'd gathered, grave and silent.

'Take her,' repeated the priestess, 'carefully. And don't leave her alone. I'll be there in a minute.'

She turned to Geralt. The witcher was standing motionless, fiddling with the reins in his sweaty hands.

'Geralt . . . Iola—'

'Don't say anything, Nenneke.'

'I saw it, too ... for a moment. Geralt, don't go.'

'I've got to.'

'Did you see . . . did you see that?'

'Yes. And not for the first time.'

And?"

'There's no point in looking over your shoulder.'

'Don't go, please.'

'I've got to. See to Iola. So long, Nenneke.' The priestess slowly shook her head, sniffed and, in an abrupt move, wiped a tear away with her wrist.

'Farewell,' she whispered, not looking him in the eye.