RUSELM'S BESTIARY
CHAPTER EIGHT ─ THE TRIDAM ULTIMATUM, PART ONE
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, everything up until Ruselm arrives is Sapkowski's work. After Ruselm is in Blaviken, though, is my own work.
THE GOLDEN COURT, the country town's elegant inn, was overly crowded and awfully noisy. The guests, both locals and visitors, were mostly engaged in activities typical for their nation or profession. Serious merchants argued with dwarves over the price of goods and credit interest. Less serious merchants pinched the backsides of the girls carrying beer, cabbage and beans. Local nitwits pretended to be well-informed. Harlots were trying to please those who had money while discouraging those who had none. Carters and fishermen drank as if there were no tomorrow, spilling alcohol all over their fronts. Some seamen were singing a song which celebrated the ocean waves, the courage of captains and the graces of mermaids, the latter graphically and in considerable detail, which the witcher expected nothing less from them.
"Exert your memory, friend," Caldemeyn said discretely to the innkeeper, leaning across the counter in order to be heard over the din. The alderman had met up with Geralt after he'd left Stregobor's tower, just after the kikimora had been disposed of. "Six men and a wench, all dressed in black leather studded with silver in the Novigradian style. I saw them at the turnpike earlier. Are they staying here or at The Tuna Fish?"
The innkeeper wrinkled his bulging forehead and wiped a tankard on his striped apron morosely. "Here, Alderman," he finally said. "They say they've come for the market but they all carry swords, even the woman. Dressed, as you said, in black. Clearly Novigradian."
"Well." The alderman nodded. "Where are they now? I don't see them."
"In the lesser alcove. They paid in gold."
"I'll go in alone," said Geralt, excusing himself from the innkeeper who continued to give him nasty sideways glances and the alderman. "There's no point in making this an official affair in front of them all, at least for the time being. I'll bring her out here."
"Maybe that's best." Caldemeyn nodded. "But be careful, I don't want any trouble."
"I'll be careful."
The seamen's song, judging by the growing intensity and number of obscene words, was reaching its grand finale. Geralt drew aside the curtain of the lesser alcove—stiff and sticky with dirt—which hid the entrance to the small space. Six men were seated at the table, stretched out to various degrees as they relaxed. Shrike wasn't with them.
"What'd'you want?" yelled the man who noticed him first. He was balding and his face was disfigured by a scar which ran across his left eyebrow, the bridge of his nose and his right cheek.
"I want to see Shrike." Geralt remained stoic, examining them each separately.
Two identical figures stood up—identical motionless faces and fair, disheveled, shoulder-length hair, identical tight-fitting black outfits glistening with silver ornaments. And with identical movements, the twins took identical swords from the bench into their identical hands.
"Keep calm, Vyr. Sit down, Nimir," said the man with the scar, leaning his elbows on the table. "Who d'you say you want to see, brother? Who's Shrike?"
"You know very well who I mean."
"Who's this, then?" asked a half-naked athlete, sweaty, girded crosswise with belts, and wearing spiked pads on his forearms. "D'you know him, Nohorn?"
"No," said the man with the scar. His name was Nohorn.
"It's some albino," giggled a slim, dark-haired man sitting next to Nohorn. Delicate features, enormous black eyes and pointed ears betrayed him to be a half-blood elf. "Albino, mutant, freak of nature. And this sort of thing is allowed to enter pubs among decent people? How cute."
"I've seen him somewhere before," said a stocky, weather-beaten man with a plait, measuring Geralt with an evil look in his narrowed eyes. He leaned forward on his elbows, Geralt stiffened slightly.
"Doesn't matter where you've seen him, Tavik," said Nohorn before he directed his next words to the witcher himself. "Listen here. Civril insulted you terribly a moment ago. Aren't you going to challenge him? It's such a boring evening."
"No," said the witcher calmly.
"And me, if I pour this fish soup over your head, are you going to challenge me?" cackled the man sitting naked to the waist.
"Keep calm, Fifteen," said Nohorn. "He said no, that means no. For the time being. Well, brother, say what you have to say and clear out. You've got one chance to clear out on your own. You don't take it, and the attendants will carry you out."
"I don't have anything to say to you." Geralt pressed. "I want to see Shrike. Renfri."
"Do you hear that, boys?" Nohorn looked around at his companions. "He wants to see Renfri. And may I know why?"
"No."
Nohorn raised his head and looked at the twins as they took a step forward, the silver clasps on their high boots jangling.
"I know," the man with the plait said suddenly. "I know where I've seen him now!"
"What's that you're mumbling, Tavik?"
"In front of the alderman's house! He brought some sort of dragon in to trade, a cross between a spider and a crocodile. People were saying he's a fucking witcher."
"And what's a witcher?" Fifteen asked stupidly. "Eh? Civril?"
"A hired magician," said the half-elf. "A conjurer for a fistful of silver. I told you, a freak of nature. An insult to human and divine laws. They ought to be burned, the likes of him."
"We don't like magicians," screeched Tavik, not taking his narrowed eyes off Geralt. "It seems to me, Civril, that we're going to have more work in this hole than we thought. There's more than one of them here and everyone knows they stick together."
"Birds of a feather." The half-breed smiled maliciously. "To think the likes of you walk the earth. Who spawns you freaks?"
"A bit more tolerance, if you please," said Geralt calmly, no small measure of annoyance creeping into his voice, "as I see your mother must have wandered off through the forest alone often enough to give you good reason to wonder where you come from yourself."
"Possibly," answered the half-elf, the wicked smile not leaving his face. "But at least I knew my mother. You witchers can't say that much about yourselves."
Geralt grew a little pale and tightened his lips. His own feelings about the matter of his mother were repressed, but the half-breed was right. Nohorn, noticing the witcher's reaction, laughed out loud.
"Well, brother, you can't let an insult like that go by! Those things that you have on your back look like swords. So? Are you going outside with Civril? The evening's so boring, as I've said before."
The witcher didn't react.
"Shitty coward," snorted Tavik.
"What did he say about Civril's mother?" Nohorn continued monotonously, resting his chin on his clasped hands. "Something extremely nasty, as I understood it. That she was an easy lay, or something. Hey, Fifteen, is it right to listen to some straggler insulting a companion's mother? A mother, you son of a bitch, is sacred!"
Fifteen got up willingly, undid his sword and threw it on the table. He stuck his chest out as though it were something to marvel at, adjusted the pads spiked with silver studs on his shoulders, spat and took a step forward.
"If you've got any doubts," said Nohorn, "then Fifteen is challenging you to a fistfight, witcher. I told you they'd carry you out of here. Make room."
Fifteen moved closer and raised his fists. Geralt cautiously put his hand on the hilt of his steel sword.
"Careful," he said. "One more step and you'll be looking for your hand on the floor."
Nohorn and Tavik leapt up, grabbing their swords. The silent twins drew theirs with identical movements. Fifteen stepped back. Only Civril didn't move. A new voice, feminine, interrupted the standstill.
"What's going on here, damnit? Can't I leave you alone for a single minute?"
Geralt turned around very slowly and looked into eyes the color of the sea itself. This was the girl he was looking for. She was almost as tall as him and she wore her dark hair unevenly cut, just below the ears. She stood with one hand on the door, wearing a tight, velvet jacket clasped with a decorated belt. Her skirt was uneven, asymmetrical—reaching down to her calf on the left side and, on the right, revealing a strong thigh above a boot made of elk's leather. On her left side, she carried a sword; on her right, a dagger with a huge ruby set in its pommel. Geralt knew it had to be expensive.
"Lost your voices?" The girl pushed.
"He's a witcher," mumbled Nohorn, eyes averted.
"So what?"
"He wanted to talk to you."
"So what?"
"He's a sorcerer!" Fifteen roared.
"We don't like sorcerers," snarled Tavik.
"Take it easy, boys," said the girl. "He wants to talk to me; that's no crime. You carry on having a good time. And no trouble. Tomorrow's market day. Surely you don't want your pranks to disrupt the market, such an important event in the life of this pleasant town?"
A quiet, nasty giggle reverberated in the silence which fell. Civril, still sprawled out carelessly on the bench, was laughing.
"Come on, Renfri," chuckled the half-blood. "Important... event!"
"Shut up, Civril. Immediately."
Civril stopped laughing. Immediately, the witcher noticed, his voice being cut off abruptly as though his vocal chords were being pressed down upon. He wasn't surprised. There was something very strange in Renfri's voice—something associated with the red reflection of fire on blades, the wailing of people being murdered, the whinnying of horses and the smell of blood. Others in the room must also have had similar associations—even Tavik's weather-beaten face grew pale after her command.
"Well, white-hair," Renfri broke the silence, turning to Geralt. "Let's go into the larger room. Let's join the alderman you came with. He wants to talk to me too, no doubt."
And she was right. At the sight of them, Caldemeyn, who was still waiting at the counter, broke off his quiet conversation with the innkeeper, straightened himself and folded his arms across his chest as though to appear more authoritative.
"Listen, young lady," Caldemeyn said severely, not wasting time with banal niceties, "I know from this witcher of Rivia here what brings you to Blaviken. Apparently you bear a grudge against our dear wizard."
"Maybe. What of it?" asked Renfri quietly, in an equally brusque tone.
"Only that there are tribunals to deal with grudges like that. He who wants to revenge a grudge using steel—here in Arcsea—is considered a common bandit. And also, that either you get out of Blaviken early in the morning with your black-wearing companions, or I throw you into prison, pre—" Caldemeyn glanced at the witcher, eyes helpless. "How do you say it, Geralt?"
"Preventively."
"Exactly." Caldemeyn nodded. "Understood, young lady?"
Renfri reached into the purse on her belt and pulled out a parchment which had been folded several times. "Read this, Alderman. If you're literate. And don't call me 'young lady.'"
Caldemeyn quickly took the parchment, spent a long time reading it, then, without a word, gave it to Geralt.
"'To my regents, vassals and freemen subjects,'" the witcher read out loud. "'To all and sundry. I proclaim that Renfri, the Princess of Creyden, remains in our service and is well seen by us; whosoever dares maltreet her will incur our wrath. Audoen, King—'Maltreat is not spelled like that." Geralt was displeased. "But the seal appears authentic."
"Because it is authentic," snapped Renfri, snatching the parchment from him. "It was affixed by Audoen, your merciful lord. That's why I don't advise you to maltreat me. Irrespective of how you spell it, the consequences for you would be lamentable. You are not, honorable Alderman, going to put me in prison. Or call me 'young lady.' I haven't infringed upon any laws here. For the time being."
"If you infringe by even an inch"—Caldemeyn looked as if he wanted to spit—"I'll throw you in the dungeon together with this piece of paper. I swear on all the gods, young lady. Come on, Geralt."
They turned to leave when Renfri caught Geralt's shoulder. "With you, witcher." Renfri said quietly. "I'd still like a word."
"Don't be late for supper," the alderman threw over his shoulder, halfway out the door, "or Libushe will be furious."
"I won't."
Geralt leaned against the counter. Fiddling with the wolf's head medallion hanging around his neck, he looked into the girl's blue-green eyes. Curiosity pricked the back of his mind as he looked at her, but he forced himself to stay silent until she had spoken her piece.
"I've heard about you," she started. "You're Geralt, the white-haired witcher from Rivia. Is Stregobor your friend?"
"No." He answered easily.
"That makes things easier."
"Not much." Geralt shrugged. "Don't expect me to look on peacefully."
Renfri's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Stregobor dies tomorrow," she said slowly, brushing the unevenly cut hair off of her forehead. "It would be the lesser evil if he died alone."
Ah, here it was again. The 'lesser evil' as they kept putting it. Geralt was getting tired of hearing that term used so loosely. A spark of anger burst into flame in his chest. "If he did, yes." Geralt couldn't deny the truth. "But in fact, before Stregobor dies, several other people will die too. I don't see any other possibility."
"Several, witcher, is putting it mildly."
"You need more than words to frighten me, Shrike."
"Don't call me Shrike. I don't like it." Renfri frowned. "The point is, I see other possibilities. It would be worth talking it over... but Libushe is waiting. Is she pretty, this Libushe?"
Geralt straightened himself to leave, avoiding her question. It wasn't really something she wanted to know. "Is that all you had to say to me?"
"No. But you should go." Renfri gave him a little smile. "Libushe's waiting."
BLAVIKEN HELD A new sense of wonder and awe for Ruselm. Having never been so close to Arcsea before and only hearing of it by rather vague word of mouth, the young man was very interested in everything the country village had to offer.
His heart still aches when his thoughts wander, namely to the Old Bear, but the memory of the sin is still fresh. There are moments that Ruselm has to remind himself in a chiding tone, the kind a parent would use with their petulant child, that his pain will pass.
And for a moment, he believes his own lie.
The distraction a new town could offer, though. That was too good to pass up. So he allowed himself to be lured by Blaviken's dwellers and the mysterious way the town buzzed in apprehension—or was it anticipation?—of some fast-approaching event. New smells wafted under his nose; sizzling kabobs which skewered all manner of meat and vegetables, dried jerky, freshly baked bread and melting margarine, sweets like cookies or sugar dolls which Ruselm had been very fond of as a child, and even the otherworldly scent of melted cheese with mushrooms and fish tossed together had his mouth watering. Ruselm was hungry.
Every town could be summed together by its smell; something Ruselm was always determined to experience during his visits. Most travelers focused on the sights and sounds but he had always been more concerned with the feelings and emotions that could be evoked from him with the right smell or taste or with the way something looked.
Right now, he was calm and distracted, at least.
And hungry. Very, very hungry.
There was an old man off to the side of Blaviken's main road with a cabbage stand where he was lovingly rearranging the heads of cabbage. Beside him was another stand, a younger woman (younger than Ruselm) was selling what looked to be dried meat and fish. Just behind her shoulder hung a slab of sun-dried meat from a metal hook. Fish were displayed neatly on a little rack, their scales flaky but salted.
Ruselm approached the girl, a gentle smile on his face. "A good afternoon to you, miss!" He greeted her. "How much will a few coins get me at your fine stand?"
The girl, a pretty brunette with big doe eyes and the thinnest form he'd ever seen, returned his easy smile. She had a soft voice. "A good afternoon to you, too, sir. It'll get you five or so strips of meat. Maybe a bit of fish, if you'd prefer. I caught 'em myself."
Ruselm raised an eyebrow curiously.
"The fish, I mean."
"Of course," he laughed a little and dug some coins from his pocket, which he set on the counter in front of him. The man from the cabbage stand was unsuccessfully trying not to stare, his eyes burning holes into Ruselm's head. "I'll take whatever you give me."
She nodded and set to work sharpening a dull knife for a few moments, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the street.
Tsskk, tsskk. Tsskk, tsskk.
Ruselm waited patiently, watching the girl at work. She couldn't be more than fifteen, he guessed. Her cheeks revealed how she really was. Her cheekbones were prominent with a gaunt quality and her chin was pointy, she had a small forehead but her face was decorated by a spray of freckles covering her pale skin and dotting her nose. He knew better than to ask for her name, it probably wouldn't be given even if he did inquire.
Tsskk, tsskk. Tsskk, tsskk.
Satisfied with the blade of the knife, the girl turned to the meat hanging from its hook behind her and cut four individual strips about as long as Ruselm's forearm. She placed them in a small brown paper bag and turned to the fish on the rack, biting the inside of her cheek as she selected a small but succulent fish to put inside of the bag too.
With a smile, she pushed the bag across the counter and set about cleaning her knife.
"Thank you." Ruselm bowed his head as he grabbed the bag.
Moving on down the street, it wasn't long before Ruselm caught sight of what he knew to be an inn. 'The Golden Court' was its name, and despite such an elegant picture the name painted, the outside of the inn wasn't very promising. The wood was peeling, the doors creaked when he pushed them open with one hand, and the lighting inside wasn't very bright either. There was all manner of people inside of the inn and he could tell there were more present, too, hidden in the alcoves all around the main room.
Sidling up to the counter where the innkeeper stood, wiping glasses on his striped apron, Ruselm flashed the older man a bright smile. They exchanged no words as he pulled a strip of meat from the bag, tearing it in half to a manageable size. The meat was salted and seasoned with spices bearing a kick so strong it reminded the Nazairian of the old breakfast Sibren was in charge of making for him and his father every morning.
Ruselm chewed thoughtfully, content to sit in silence.
That was until a dark brunette approached him, her hair unevenly cut and curling inward at the ends. Her skin was fair, her eyes such a blue that Ruselm decided he could easily drown in their depths, and she was just a little taller than he was. There was some measure of darkness to her features, whether it lurked behind her eyes or within the smirk that crept onto her lips as she made eye contact with Ruselm.
He wasn't entirely sure whether he liked the shadows of her features or not.
"What's in your bag?" Her voice reminded him of something too good to be true.
Ruselm half-turned to face the woman as she sat beside him. The innkeeper carefully turned away, making a show to mind his own business as he avoided eye contact with both Ruselm and the girl. He opened the top of the bag and moved to show her.
"Meat, a fish." Ruselm shrugged. She leaned over, looking inside.
Without a word, the woman reached her hand in and grabbed the other half of the dried meat he'd torn in half. She took a contemplative bite, watching Ruselm's surprise as he closed the bag again and leaned back in his seat.
"It's good," she remarked.
He hummed his agreement, mind whirling with questions. Who was she? Why did she take some of his food? Why did he feel a sense of impending danger and pain every time their eyes met? What made her approach him? What did she want?
"Tell me," her voice had some hidden command behind it. Ruselm was listening closely. "What brings you to Blaviken?"
Before Ruselm could take time to think about his answer, the words spilled out of him. They were all truthful. "I'm here because I heard this is where a witcher is. I've come looking for him, I want to talk to him."
What was that? It was like he'd had no control of himself.
"Geralt of Rivia?"
Ruselm's answer came as quickly as the last one. "Yes."
Strange. Scary, even.
The woman appeared satisfied with his answer. She nodded and chewed morosely on another bite of the dried meat, tearing a piece free with her teeth like a cat viciously eating their next, and possibly last, meal. "What've you got to talk to him about?"
He opened his mouth but wanted to stop himself. There was a pause in the one-sided conversation, one which she quickly noticed. Her eyes narrowed and another strange feeling, an entity that wasn't part of him, washed over his senses.
Ruselm caved against his own will. "Thetdow. And his work."
Her lips curled into a self-satisfied smile. "What's your name?"
"Ruselm."
"Of Nazair, I'm guessing."
"Of Nazair."
"Quaint." She remarked, eyes roving over his attire very briefly. "I'm Renfri."
He inclined his head, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. The feeling from before faded, ebbing away slowly into the abyss. Renfri was making Ruselm begin to question where this was going. "Renfri," he repeated, testing the name. It suited her in a bad kind of way. "Every time you ask a question, I answer it before I even know what I'm going to say. Why?"
Renfri's smirk became devilish. "Why do you think?"
Ruselm's mind turned over itself, the cogs working to form a clear answer. Why? Could she be using magic? It would be unlike any he'd witnessed or heard of before. Was Renfri just charismatic? One glance at the woman made Ruselm think otherwise. What was the answer?
The young man shrugged, more than a little perturbed.
"You don't think I'm some witch? A cursed monster?" She sounded surprised.
"No," said Ruselm. "If you're using magic, it would have to be some of which that has never been encountered before. And you're clearly not a monster. I just don't know how you're doing it."
Renfri seemed content with his answer. Then she said, "I can make people do things. I can make men do things,"—her correction didn't go unnoticed—"just by saying something. They can't deny me."
"And why is that?" Ruselm tilted his head, curiosity lining his features. He leaned closer to Renfri as he moved to the edge of his seat, taking a small bite of the meat he had yet to finish that sat clutched between his fingertips. She was certainly an interesting character, he had to give her that. If the things Renfri claimed were true, it would only make sense that he answered every question she posed because of this unnatural ability. He briefly wondered how she came to have it in the first place.
"You ever heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?"