RUSELM'S BESTIARY
CHAPTER TEN ─ BUTCHER OF BLAVIKEN
DISCLAIMER: Much of this chapter is from Sapkowski himself, from The Last Wish, which I have edited and added my own touches to. Many Witcher fans haven't read the novels so if you like the writing in this chapter, I urge you to go give them a read! In this chapter, I've mixed my style with Sapkowski's since Ruselm is the addition to this entire scene with Renfri and the bandits.
RENFRI STOOD STIFFLY in front of the sorcerer's tower, a gorgeous jeweled dagger in her hands as she used the overly extravagant fish-head knocker once more. The brass ring fell heavily against the door once, twice, and for a third time. It blew steam but otherwise remained silent as she glared at it. Ruselm was told beforehand to stand just behind her and was still rooted in place until further instruction could be given.
"I know you're in there, Stregobor!" Renfri howled.
The fish-head remained motionless.
"I've brought a friend with me, have you seen him?" She continued. "He's quite like you!—Assuming he knows the ways of the world, assuming he can determine what fate really means. You would get along very well, I'd wager. The both of you and your cruelity."
Silence ensued.
Was this wizard even in his tower? Ruselm found himself doubting whether the man was even listening. His heart began a race in his chest the longer the fish-head remained silent. Time was ticking away. His time was ticking away.
Insects buzzed and filled the silence but everything was otherwise very still.
Renfri wasn't giving up. "His name is—well what does his name matter? You don't care, do you? You'll remain up there in your pretty little tower even if I slit his handsome throat. You'll watch from above and toast to your own health because that's what you are, Stregobor. You're a coward. A fucking useless, shitty coward."
Slit my throat? Ruselm found it suddenly hard to swallow.
The fish-head blew more steam, its jaws moving slowly. The voice that came from it was tired and small. And, for the first time that morning, it spoke. "Now watch your language, Princess."
"And why should I do that, wizard?" A smirk grew on Renfri's pretty features, victory made it clear that she was becoming more vicious. She knew she was succeeding.
"You've a guest with you, Princess," the fish-head remarked.
"A guest?" Renfri laughed, eyes flashing as she glanced back at Ruselm. His blood chilled at the sight of her. "He's no guest. Tell me, Stregobor, how long do you plan to stay in that tower of yours?"
"As long as it takes for you to leave me in peace."
"Like you left those girls in their towers to die in 'peace?' Don't you find it ironic that you're hiding in the very thing you entrapped others in?" Renfri was speaking quicker now, the words tumbling from her mouth just as fast as she could think them. "If you come down right now, I'll spare my guest, as you put it. He won't have to die. You, on the other hand, will, but I can be merciful. I can grant you a quick death but this is the only chance you get."
Very suddenly, and foolishly, Ruselm thought, the fish-head laughed.
There was a long pause as Renfri waited for the wizard to regain his breath to speak. The jaws of the fish moved as though he tried to contain the laughter but had miserably failed.
"Oh, Princess," the fish-head sounded condescending. "You can kill your guest if it pleases you. In fact, you can slaughter all of Blaviken if you so wish—I'll never leave this tower if you wait for me at the door." The wizard's next words were directed at Ruselm. "I apologize, young man, but my life is far more valuable than yours. I know secrets of kings and can accomplish feats you've only ever dreamed of. It's important that I live even if you must perish."
Renfri appeared offended. "Stregobor—"
"Don't start with me, demoness!" The fish-head continued. "I won't let you in to kill me, and I won't come out. Even if you prompted your guest to come inside of my tower, I would sooner smite him down where he stands rather than allow him a step closer. Not even Geralt can do your dirty work now, you fiend! Nobody comes in my tower. D'you hear me, Renfri? Nobody!"
"Oh fuck you, Stregobor!" Renfri shouted at the fish-head which remained impassive. "Fuck you and your fucking towers! Fuck the whole thing! Blaviken will die because of you, you coward!"
Stregobor did not answer.
Whirling around faster than a snake, Renfri turned to Ruselm and held the jeweled dagger to his throat. The flat of the blade was smooth and cool from the morning air, a sharp edge pressed tightly against his jugular as the princess considered taking his life.
Ruselm watched, helpless, as the options drifted before her sea-blue eyes. As beautiful as they were, as she was, it was hard to believe that such darkness lurked inside of her soul. He knew she had been dreadfully wronged but this... this was irredeemable. To slaughter an entire village for the sake of your own revenge? Innocent women and children? People who had nothing to do with Renfri's life?
He raised his chin almost imperceptibly, against Renfri's previous command to not move, and narrowed his eyes. Ruselm still couldn't speak, but his mind was filled with things to say.
Kill me then, Ruselm thought. Go on, do it.
Renfri was thinking hard.
Just one flick of your wrist and my artery is damaged beyond repair.
Just one moment, that's all it'll take.
Come on. Come on, already.
Fucking do it.
Renfri's arm slackened.
The knife left his throat, and her eyes became gentler than they were before. Breathing was suddenly easier for Ruselm now, like an unknown weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Coward.
"We're going to find the witcher," Renfri promised solemnly. She spoke as a woman who knew she was going to face Death. A woman who knew some of these words would be her last. In hindsight, Ruselm thought of this look in her eyes as Renfri's unspoken apology. "And we're going to see what choice he made."
SHADING HIS EYES with his hand, Civril watched the sun emerge from behind the trees. The marketplace was coming to life. Wagons and carts rumbled past and the first vendors were already filling their stalls with all manner of wares and goods to make profit off of. A hammer was banging, a cock crowing and seagulls screeched loudly overhead. Morning life had taken over the marketplace.
"Looks like a lovely day," Fifteen said pensively, eyeing a fat seagull.
Civril looked at him askance but didn't say anything. There was nothing left to say, after all. What came next was supposed to happen any time now.
"The horses all right, Tavik?" asked Nohorn, pulling on his gloves.
"Saddled and ready. But, there's still not many of them in the marketplace."
"There'll be more."
"We should eat."
"Later."
"Dead right. We'll have time later. And an appetite!" Tavik broke into a roarous laugh.
"Look," said Fifteen suddenly. The white-haired witcher was approaching from the main street, walking between stalls, coming straight toward them. His golden eyes were trained ahead, cutting through the crowd to pin Renfri's men to the very spots they stood upon. Other villagers paid Geralt no mind as he came past, too preoccupied with their own businesses to be bothered by the witcher's presence.
"Renfri was right," Civril said, eyeing Geralt cautiously. "Give me the crossbow, Nohorn."
He hunched over and, holding the strap down with his foot, pulled the string back. He placed the bolt carefully in the groove as the witcher continued to approach. Civril raised the crossbow, aimed it directly between his eyes. Civril's voice was strong but small, in a way. "Not one step closer, witcher!"
Geralt stopped about forty paces from the group. "Where's Renfri?" He raised his voice to carry across the space. The volume drew curious stares.
The half-blood's pretty face contorted. "At the tower, with a friend of yours. She's making the sorcerer an offer he can't refuse. But she knew you would come. She left a message for you."
A friend? Geralt thought. I've no friends.
"Who?"
He shrugged. "I didn't ask for his bloody name."
"Then describe him." Geralt's patience was wearing thin, though he didn't show it on his face. It was pertinent that he kept himself carefully measured in manners of business such as this. To let your enemy know what you were thinking and feeling was a dangerous thing.
"Opposite of you, I s'pose. Black hair, olive skin. Nazairian accent." Civril's smirk grew wide. "You're not very much of a friend, are you?"
The description sounded strangely familiar to the man Geralt had met in Sodden. What was his name? He scoured his brain for any remembrance of the man with handsome features. The wonderfully dark hair was a dead giveaway. Was it Russell? No... it was Ruselm!
Crazy bastard, Geralt remembered. Going warg-watching when he doesn't carry a weapon.
"He's not my friend." The witcher announced.
Civril didn't seem surprised. "Well he was looking for you. Now do you want to hear our lady's message or not?"
"Speak."
"'I am what I am. Choose. Either me, or a lesser.' You're supposed to know what it means."
The witcher nodded languidly, raised his hand above his right shoulder, and drew his sword, the one meant for fighting men. The blade traced a glistening arc above his head. Walking with slow movements, he made his way toward the group, eyes cold.
Civril laughed nastily, ominously. "Renfri said this would happen, witcher, and left us something special to give you. Right between the eyes."
The witcher kept walking, and the half-elf raised the crossbow to his cheek. It grew very quiet. The bowstring hummed, the witcher's sword flashed and the bolt flew upward with a metallic whine, spinning in the air until it clattered against the roof and rumbled into the shadow of a gutter.
"He deflected it..." groaned Fifteen nervously. "Deflected it in flight—"
"As one," ordered Civril. Blades hissed as they were drawn from sheaths, the group pressed shoulder to shoulder, bristling with blades like a porcupine ready for the threat.
The witcher came on faster; his fluid walk became a run—not straight at the group quivering with swords, but circling it in a tightening spiral. As he circled the group, Tavik's nerve failed. He rushed the witcher, the twins following faithfully behind him. It was three versus one. In their panic, they surely believed the saying, 'Strength in numbers.'
"Don't disperse!" Civril roared, shaking his head and losing sight of the witcher. He swore and jumped aside, seeing the group fall apart, scattering around the market stalls. Tavik went first. He was chasing the witcher when he saw Geralt running in the opposite direction, toward him.
Tavik skidded, kicking up dust as he was trying to stop, but the witcher shot past before he could raise his sword. Tavik felt a hard blow just above his hip, fell to his knees and, when he saw his damaged hip, started screaming.
The twins simultaneously attacked the black, blurred shape rushing toward them, mistimed their attack and collided with each other as Geralt slashed Vyr across the chest and Nimir in the temple, leaving one twin to stagger, head down, into a cabbage stall, and the other to spin in place and fall limply into the gutter.
The marketplace boiled with vendors running away, stalls clattering to the ground and screams rising in the dusty air. Tavik tried to stumble to his trembling legs and fell painfully to the ground, the spitting image of a newborn foal on unsteady legs.
"From the left, Fifteen!" Nohorn roared, running in a semi-circle to approach the witcher from behind.
Fifteen spun. But not quickly enough.
He bore a thrust through the stomach, prepared to strike and was struck again in the neck, just below his ear. He took four unsteady steps and collapsed into a meat and fish cart, which rolled away beneath him. A pretty brunette who witnessed the gore shrieked and sped off between two buildings, away from the violence. Sliding over the slippery cargo, Fifteen fell onto the flagstones, silver with scales and red with blood.
Civril and Nohorn struck simultaneously from both sides, the elf with a high sweeping cut, Nohorn from a kneeling position, low and flat. The witcher caught both, two metallic clangs merging into one. Civril immediately leapt aside and tripped, catching himself against a stall as Nohorn warded off a blow so powerful it threw him backward to his knees.
Leaping up, he parried too slowly, taking a gash in the face parallel to his old scar. Civril bounced off the stall, jumping over Nohorn as he fell, missed the witcher and jumped away.
The thrust was so sharp, so precise, he didn't feel it; his legs only gave way when he tried to attack again. The sword fell from his hand, the tendons severed above the elbow. Civril fell to his knees and shook his head, trying and failing to rise. His head dropped, and among the shattered stalls and market wares, the scattered fish and cabbages, his body stilled in the center of a growing red puddle.
Without warning, Renfri suddenly entered the marketplace. With the Nazairian, the witcher noticed. She approached slowly with a soft, feline step, avoiding the carts and stalls. The crowd in the streets and by the houses, which had been humming like a hornet's nest, grew silent. Ruselm was half a step in front of Renfri, who held a concealed blade at his back.
Geralt stood motionless, his sword in his lowered hand. There was fear in Ruselm's eyes. Some stiffness about the way he moved told the witcher that perhaps Ruselm was not in control of himself as he hoped to be. He was now dealing with an unstable princess and an innocent bystander, one who had been... looking for him?
Renfri came to within ten paces and stopped, close enough to see that, under her jacket, she wore a short coat of chain mail, barely covering her hips. She grabbed one of Ruselm's arms, holding him back from walking further. "You've made your choice," she said slowly, realizing they were on different sides. "Are you sure it's the right one?"
"This won't be another Tridam," Geralt said with an effort. He ignored Ruselm's pleading look, those dark eyes trying their damnedest to catch his attention. He could only pay attention to Renfri right now.
"It wouldn't have been." Renfri explained. "Stregobor laughed in my face. He said I could kill Ruselm, butcher Blaviken and the neighboring villages and he wouldn't leave his tower. And he won't let anyone in, not even you. Why are you looking at me like that? Yes, I deceived you. I'll deceive anyone if I have to; why should you be special?"
"Get out of here, Renfri."
She laughed. "No, Geralt."
Pushing Ruselm to the side, she drew her sword, quickly and nimbly. With a quick bark to the Nazairian, telling him to stand absolutely still, Renfri turned back to Geralt with a glint in her eye.
Geralt glowered. "Renfri."
"No. You made a choice. Now it's my turn."
With one sharp move, she tore the skirt from her hips and spun it in the air, wrapping the material around her forearm. Geralt retreated and raised his hand, arranging his fingers in the Sign. Renfri laughed hoarsely.
"It doesn't affect me. Only the sword will."
"Renfri," he repeated. "Go. If we cross blades, I—I won't be able—"
"I know," she said. "But I, I can't do anything else. I just can't. We are what we are, you and I. Even he"—she jerked her head in Ruselm's direction—"can't help what he is. And you see that, right? You see that there are certain things we cannot change?"
Renfri didn't wait for an answer. She moved toward him with a light, swaying step, her sword glinting in her right hand, her skirt dragging along the ground from her left. She leapt, the skirt fluttered in the air and, veiled in its tracks, the sword flashed in a short, sparing cut.
Geralt jumped away; the cloth didn't even brush him, and Renfri's blade slid over his diagonal parry. He attacked instinctively, spinning their blades, trying to knock her weapon aside. It was a mistake.
She deflected his blade and slashed, aiming for his face. He barely parried and pirouetted away on his heel, dodging her dancing blade and jumping aside again. This was the way a witcher of the School of the Wolf was taught to fight; it was routine, he knew the steps to this dance. It was only a matter of time before someone slipped up, fatally.
Renfri fell on him, threw the skirt into his eyes and slashed flatly from short range, spinning.
Spinning with her, he avoided the blow. She knew the trick and turned with him, their bodies so close he could feel the touch of her breath as she ran the edge across his chest. He felt a twinge of pain, ignored it. There was more to worry about.
He turned again, in the opposite direction, deflected the blade flying toward his temple, made a swift feint and attacked. Renfri sprang away as if to strike from above as Geralt lunged and swiftly slashed her exposed thigh and groin from below with the very tip of his sword.
She didn't cry out.
Falling to her side, Renfri dropped her sword and clutched her thigh. Blood poured through her fingers in a bright stream over her decorated belt, elk-leather boots, and onto the dirty flagstones. The clamor of the swaying crowd, crammed in the streets, grew as they saw blood and the clamor of war faded.
Geralt put up his sword. He spared Ruselm a fleeting glance, aware that the man still couldn't control his own faculties.
"Don't go..." Renfri suddenly moaned, curling up in a ball. Her eyes began to close shut as the sweet darkness began to envelop her. Geralt didn't reply. "I'm... cold..."
He said nothing.
She moaned again, curling up tighter as her blood flowed into the cracks between the stones. "Geralt... Hold me..."
The witcher's eyes grew empty as he stared at Renfri. Any second now, she would pass on to the darkness and Ruselm would be free of her influence. There would be no reason to fear her any longer.
Gracefully, she turned her head, resting her cheek on the flagstones and was very still. A fine dagger, hidden beneath her body until now, slipped from her numb fingers and clattered noisily against the flagstones. Off to his left, Ruselm couldn't contain the gasp that surged through him; he was free.
"You..." Ruselm had trouble forming words. He spoke slowly, voice thick. "You killed her."
Geralt said nothing.
"Geralt, it's not right for me to say this but thank you." He ran a shaky hand through his black hair, eyes flickering from side to side as if to catch up on every detail he had been unable to witness during his time under Renfri's power. "I was not capable of doing anything."
After a long moment, the witcher raised his head, hearing Stregobor's staff tapping against the flagstones. The wizard was approaching quickly, avoiding the corpses. He turned his golden eyes to Ruselm and offered a stiff nod. Geralt knew what it was like to be powerless, once upon a time. He wouldn't wish it on anyone.
"What slaughter," Stregobor panted as he came within distance. "I saw it, Geralt. I saw it all in my crystal ball..." He came closer, bent over. In his trailing black robe, supported by his staff, he looked old. "It's incredible." He shook his head. "Shrike's dead."
Geralt didn't reply.
Ruselm whirled on Stregobor, fury behind his eyes. His hands did not shake as he thrust a finger in the wizard's face, white teeth flashing every time he opened his mouth. "You!" The Nazairian spat. Geralt looked between them, only moving his eyes. "You were all too happy to allow Death to take me! I wasn't allowed to speak, Wizard, but I have plenty to say to you and you will sit here and hear it! Firstly—"
The witcher put a hand on Ruselm's shoulder, stopping him. "Easy."
"Geralt!" Ruselm shoved his hand away as his brow furrowed. He lowered his voice to speak in a tone only he could hear. "You should've heard the awful things he was saying! He's terrible, Geralt—"
"I know."
"Then let me—!"
"No."
Ruselm fell silent, fuming to himself as he watched Geralt turn to Stregobor with coldness in his eyes. This, Ruselm decided, was something he could watch.
"Well, Geralt." The wizard straightened himself. He cast a wary glance at Ruselm but offered no comment on their previous situation. "Fetch a cart and we'll take her to the tower for an autopsy."
He looked at the witcher and, not getting any answer, leaned farther over the body. She had to be getting colder now with all of her blood spilled on the street below her and nothing to warm her body any longer. Ruselm crossed his arms over his chest and glanced down at Renfri, anger leaving his features. Geralt wondered what he was thinking before Stregobor made a move to turn and call the villagers for a cart.
Someone the witcher didn't know found the hilt of his sword and drew it. "Touch a single hair of her head," said the person the witcher didn't know, "touch her head and yours will go flying to the flagstones."
He was eerily calm. His confidence in those words made the wizard startle.
"Have you gone mad? You're wounded, in shock! An autopsy's the only way we can confirm—"
"Don't touch her."
Stregobor, seeing the raised blade, jumped aside and waved his staff. "All right!" he shouted. "As you wish! But you'll never know! You'll never be sure! Never, do you hear, witcher?"
"Be gone."
"Yeah," Ruselm's sharp gaze cut deeply into Stregobor. "Get out of here, you coward."
"As you both wish." The wizard turned away, his staff hitting the flagstones. "I'm returning to Kovir. I'm not staying in this hellhole another day. Come with me rather than rot here, eh witcher? These people don't know anything, they've only seen you killing. And you kill nastily, Geralt. Well, are you coming?"
Geralt didn't reply; he wasn't looking at him. He put his sword away.
"That means no." Ruselm waved the wizard off.
Stregobor shrugged and walked away, his staff tapping rhythmically against the ground.
A stone suddenly came flying from the crowd and clattered against the flagstones. A second followed, whizzing past just above Geralt's shoulder, nearly hitting the Nazairian in the process. The witcher, holding himself straight, raised both hands and made a swift gesture with them. The crowd heaved; the stones came flying more thickly but the Sign, protecting them behind an invisible oval shield, pushed them aside.
Ruselm's jaw slackened as he stared at the stoning, appalled it was happening. Clearly, he thought, they misunderstand the situation! What are they doing?
"Enough!" yelled Caldemeyn as he shoved his way through to the front of the gathering. "Bloody hell, enough of that! We're not animals, you hear?"
The crowd roared like a surge of breakers but the stones, as requested, stopped flying. The witcher stood, motionless, the author by his side. The alderman approached them, sparing Ruselm a brief glance and friendly nod. He turned to Geralt, features grim.
"Is this," he began, with a broad gesture indicating the motionless bodies strewn across the square, "how your lesser evil looks? Is this what you believed necessary?"
"Yes," replied Geralt slowly, with an effort.
"Is your wound serious?"
"No."
"In that case, get out of here."
"Yes," said the witcher. He stood a moment longer, avoiding the alderman's eyes. Then he turned away slowly, very slowly.
Ruselm, mouth open now, flustered for a moment. "Alderman," he started, "this isn't Geralt's fault. He stopped Renfri from—"
Caldemeyn closed his eyes and sighed heavily. This action made Ruselm's jaw tighten again. He knew, without asking, that the witcher's deed would do nothing to make the people of Blaviken happy. There were dead men, and a dead princess they'd have to deal with. Not to mention the consequences once King Audoen... shit.
Silently, Ruselm turned to follow Geralt. There was nothing he could say to fix this. They were walking away just when the alderman called out again, voice grave. He sounded regretful.
"Geralt."
The witcher looked round.
"Don't come back," said Caldemeyn. "Never come back."