The Last Wish: Introducing The Witcher Page 6

  “Geralt. And your name, dear host?”

  “Nivellen. But they call me Degen or Fanger around here. And they use me to frighten children.”

  The monster poured the contents of an enormous chalice down his throat, after which he sank his fingers in the terrine, tearing half of it from the bowl in one go.

  “Frighten children,” repeated Geralt with his mouth full. “Without any reason, no doubt?”

  “Of course not. Your health, Geralt!”

  “And yours, Nivellen.”

  “How's the wine? Have you noticed that it's made from grapes and not apples? But if you don't like it, I’ll conjure up a different one.”

  “Thank you, it's not bad. Are your magical powers innate?”

  “No. I’ve had them since growing this. This trap, that is. I don't know how it happened myself, but the house does whatever I wish. Nothing very big; I can conjure up food, drink, clothes, clean linen, hot water, soap. Any woman can do that, and without using magic at that. I can open and close windows and doors. I can light a fire. Nothing very remarkable.”

  “It's something. And this…trap, as you call it, have you had it long?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “What's it got to do with you? Pour yourself some more wine.”

  “With pleasure. It's got nothing to do with me. I’m just asking out of curiosity.”

  “An acceptable reason,” the monster said, and laughed loudly. “But I don't accept it. It's got nothing to do with you and that's that. But just to satisfy your curiosity a little, I’ll show you what I used to look like. Look at those portraits. The first from the chimney is my father. The second, pox only knows. And the third is me. Can you see it?”

  Beneath the dust and spiderwebs, a nondescript man with a bloated, sad, spotty face and watery eyes looked down from the painting. Geralt, who was no stranger to the way portrait painters tended to flatter their clients, nodded.

  “Can you see it?” repeated Nivellen, baring his fangs.

  “I can.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I don't understand.”

  “You don't understand?” The monster raised his head; his eyes shone like a cat's. “My portrait is hung beyond the candlelight. I can see it, but I’m not human. At least, not at the moment. A human, looking at my portrait, would get up, go closer and, no doubt, have to take the candlestick with him. You didn't do that, so the conclusion is simple. But I’m asking you plainly: are you human?”

  Geralt didn't lower his eyes. “If that's the way you put it,” he answered after a moment's silence, “then, not quite.”

  “Ah. Surely it won't be tactless if I ask, in that case, what you are?”

  “A witcher.”

  “Ah,” Nivellen repeated after a moment. “If I remember rightly, witchers earn their living in an interesting way—they kill monsters for money.”

  “You remember correctly.”

  Silence fell again. Candle flames pulsated, flicked upward in thin wisps of fire, glimmering in the cut-crystal chalices. Cascades of wax trickled down the candlestick.

  Nivellen sat still, lightly twitching his enormous ears. “Let's assume,” he said finally, “that you draw your sword before I jump on you. Let's assume you even manage to cut me down. With my weight, that won't stop me; I’ll take you down through sheer momentum. And then it's teeth that'll decide. What do you think, witcher, which one of us has a better chance if it comes to biting each other's throats?”

  Geralt, steadying the carafe's pewter stopper with his thumb, poured himself some wine, took a sip and leaned back into his chair. He was watching the monster with a smile. An exceptionally ugly one.

  “Yeeees,” said Nivellen slowly, digging at the corner of his jaws with his claw. “One has to admit you can answer questions without using many words. It'll be interesting to see how you manage the next one. Who paid you to deal with me?”

  “No one. I’m here by accident.”

  “You're not lying, by any chance?”

  “I’m not in the habit of lying.”

  “And what are you in the habit of doing? I’ve heard about witchers—they abduct tiny children whom they feed with magic herbs. The ones who survive become witchers themselves, sorcerers with inhuman powers. They're taught to kill, and all human feelings and reactions are trained out of them. They're turned into monsters in order to kill other monsters. I’ve heard it said it's high time someone started hunting witchers, as there are fewer and fewer monsters and more and more witchers. Do have some partridge before it's completely cold.”

  Nivellen took the partridge from the dish, put it between his jaws and crunched it like a piece of toast, bones cracking as they were crushed between his teeth.

  “Why don't you say anything?” he asked indistinctly, swallowing. “How much of the rumors about you witchers is true?”

  “Practically nothing.”

  “And what's a lie?”

  “That there are fewer and fewer monsters.”

  “True. There's a fair number of them.” Nivellen bared his fangs. “One is sitting in front of you wondering if he did the right thing by inviting you in. I didn't like your guild badge right from the start, dear guest.”

  “You aren't a monster, Nivellen,” the witcher said dryly.

  “Pox, that's something new. So what am I? Cranberry pudding? A flock of wild geese flying south on a sad November morning? No? Maybe I’m the virtue that a miller's buxom daughter lost in spring? Well, Geralt, tell me what I am. Can't you see I’m shaking with curiosity?”

  “You're not a monster. Otherwise you wouldn't be able to touch this silver tray. And in no way could you hold my medallion.”

  “Ha!” Nivellen roared so powerfully the candle flames fell horizontal for a moment. “Today, very clearly, is a day for revealing great and terrible secrets! Now I’m going to be told that I grew these ears because I didn't like milky porridge as a child!”

  “No, Nivellen,” said Geralt calmly. “It happened because of a spell I’m sure you know who cast that spell.”

  “And what if I do?”

  “In many cases a spell can be uncast.”

  “You, as a witcher, can uncast spells in many cases?”

  “I can. Do you want me to try?”

  “No. I don't.” The monster opened his jaws and poked out his tongue, two span long, and very red. “Surprised you, hasn't it?”

  “That it has,” admitted Geralt.

  The monster giggled and lounged in his armchair. “I knew that would,” he said. “Pour yourself some more, get comfortable and I’ll tell you the whole story. Witcher or not, you've got an honest face and I feel like talking. Pour yourself more.”

  “There's none left.”

  “Pox on it!” The monster cleared his throat, then thumped the table with his paw again. A large earthenware demijohn in a wicker basket appeared next to the two empty carafes, from nowhere. Nivellen tore the sealing wax off with his teeth.

  “As no doubt you've noticed,” he began, pouring the wine, “this is quite a remote area. It's a long way to the nearest human settlement. It's because, you see, my father, and my grandfather too, in his time, didn't make themselves particularly loved by our neighbors or the merchants using the highway. If anyone went astray here and my father spotted them from the tower, they lost—at best—their fortune. And a couple of the nearer settlements were burnt because Father decided the levies were being paid tardily. Not many people liked my father. Except for me, naturally. I cried awfully when what was left of my father after a blow from a two-handed sword was brought home on a cart one day. Grandpa didn't take part in robbery anymore because, ever since he was hit on the head with a morningstar, he had a terrible stutter. He dribbled and rarely made it to the privy on time. As their heir, I had to lead the gang.

  “I was young at the time,” Nivellen continued, “a real milksop, so the lads in the crew wound me around their little fingers in a flash. I was
as much in command of them as a fat piglet is of a pack of wolves. We soon began doing things which Father would never have allowed, had he been alive. I’ll spare you the details and get straight to the point. One day we took ourselves as far as Gelibol, near Mirt, and robbed a temple. A young priestess was there too.”

  “Which temple, Nivellen?”

  “Pox only knows, but it must have been a bad one. There were skulls and bones on the altar, I remember, and a green fire was burning. It stank like nobody's business. But to the point. The lads overpowered the priestess and stripped her, then said I had to become a man. Well, I became a man, stupid little snot that I was, and while I was achieving manhood, the priestess spat into my face and screamed something.”

  “What?”

  “That I was a monster in human skin, that I’d be a monster in a monster's skin, something about love, blood…I can't remember. She must have had the dagger, a little one, hidden in her hair. She killed herself and then—

  “We fled from there, Geralt, I’m telling you—we nearly wore our horses out. It was a bad temple.”

  “Go on.”

  “Then it was as the priestess had said. A few days later, I woke up and as the servants saw me, they screamed and took to their heels. I went to the mirror…You see, Geralt, I panicked, had some sort of an attack, I remember it almost through a haze. To put it briefly, corpses fell. Several. I used whatever came to hand—and I’d suddenly become very strong. And the house helped as best it could: doors slammed, furniture flew in the air, fires broke out. Whoever could get out ran away in a panic: my aunt and cousin, the lads from the crew. What am I saying? Even the dogs howled and cowered. My cat, Glutton, ran away. Even my aunt's parrot kicked the bucket out of fear. I was alone, roaring, howling, going mad, smashing whatever came to hand, mainly mirrors.”

  Nivellen paused, sighed and sniffed.

  “When the attack was over,” he resumed after a while, “it was already too late. I was alone. I couldn't explain to anyone that only my appearance had changed, that although in this horrible shape, I was just a stupid youngster, sobbing over the servants’ bodies in an empty manor. I was afraid they'd come back and kill me before I could explain. But nobody returned.”

  The monster grew silent for a moment and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I don't want to go back to those first months, Geralt. It still leaves me shaking when I recall them. I’ll get to the point. For a long time, a very long time, I sat in the manor, quiet as a mouse, not stirring from the place. If anyone appeared, which rarely happened, I wouldn't go out. I’d tell the house to slam the shutters a couple of times, or I’d roar through the gargoyle, and that was usually enough for the would-be guest to leave in a hurry. So that's how it was, until one day I looked out of the window one pale dawn and—what did I see? Some trespasser stealing a rose from my aunt's bush. And it isn't just any old rosebush: these are blue roses from Nazair. It was Grandfather who brought the seedlings. I flew into a fury and jumped outside.

  “The fat trespasser, when he got his voice back—he'd lost it when he saw me—squealed that he only wanted a few flowers for his daughter, that I should spare him, spare his life and his health. I was just ready to kick him out of the main gate when I remembered something. Stories Lenka, my nanny—the old bag—used to tell me. Pox on it, I thought, if pretty girls turn frogs into princes, or the other way round, then maybe…Maybe there's a grain of truth in these stories, a chance…I leapt four yards, roared so loud wild vine tumbled from the wall, and I yelled, ‘Your daughter or your life!’ Nothing better came to mind. The merchant, for he was a merchant, began to weep, then confessed that his daughter was only eight. Are you laughing?”

  “No.”

  “I didn't know whether to laugh or cry over my shitty fate. I felt sorry for the old trader. I couldn't watch him shake like that. I invited him inside, made him welcome and, when he was leaving, I poured gold and precious stones into his bag. There was still a fair fortune in the cellar from Father's day. I hadn't quite known what to do with it, so I could allow myself this gesture. The merchant beamed and thanked me so profusely that he slobbered all over himself. He must have boasted about his adventure somewhere because not two weeks had gone by when another merchant appeared. He had a pretty large bag ready with him. And a daughter. Also pretty large.”

  Nivellen extended his legs under the table and stretched until the armchair creaked.

  “I came to an understanding with the merchant in no time,” he continued. “He'd leave her with me for a year. I had to help him load the sack onto his mule; he wouldn't have managed by himself.”

  “And the girl?”

  “She had fits at the sight of me for a while. She really thought I’d eat her. But after a month we were eating at the same table, chatting and going for long walks. She was kind, and remarkably smart, and I’d get tongue-tied when I talked to her. You see, Geralt, I was always shy with girls, always made a laughing stock of myself, even with wenches from the cowshed with dung up to their knees, girls the lads from the crew turned over this way and that at will. Even they made fun of me. To say nothing of having a maw like this. I couldn't even make myself say anything about why I had paid so dearly for a year of her life. The year dragged like the stench following marauding troops until, at last, the merchant arrived and took her away.

  “I locked myself in the house, resigned, and didn't react for several months to any of the guests who turned up with daughters. But after a year spent with company, I realized how hard it was to live without anyone to talk to.” The monster made a noise which was supposed to be a sigh but came out more like a hiccup.

  “The next one,” he said after a while, “was called Fenne. She was small, bright and chirpy, a real gold-crest. She wasn't frightened of me at all. Once, on the anniversary of my first haircut, my coming of age, we'd both drunk too much mead and…ha, ha. Straight after, I jumped out of bed and ran to the mirror. I must admit I was disappointed, and despondent. The trap was the same as it ever was, if with a slightly more stupid expression. And they say the wisdom of ages is to be found in fairy tales. It's not worth a shit, wisdom like that, Geralt.

  “Well, Fenne quickly tried to make me forget my worries. She was a jolly girl, I tell you. Do you know what she thought up? We'd both frighten unwanted guests. Imagine: a guest like that enters the courtyard, looks around, and then, with a roar, I charge at him on all fours with Fenne, completely naked, sitting on my back and blowing my grandfather's hunting horn!”

  Nivellen shook with laughter, the white of his fangs flashing. “Fenne,” he continued, “stayed with me for a year, then returned to her family with a huge dowry. She was preparing to marry a tavern owner, a widower.”

  “Carry on, Nivellen. This is interesting.”

  “You think so?” said the monster, scratching himself between the ears with a rasping sound. “All right. The next one, Primula, was the daughter of an impoverished knight. The knight, when he got here, had a skinny horse, a rusty cuirass and incredible debts. He was as hideous as cow dung, I tell you, Geralt, and spread a similar smell. Primula, I’d wager my right hand, was conceived while he was at war, as she was quite pretty. I didn't frighten her either, which isn't surprising, really, as compared to her parent I might have appeared quite comely. She had, as it turned out, quite a temperament and I, having gained some self-confidence, seized the moment by the horns. After two weeks Primula and I already had a very close relationship. She liked to pull me by the ears and shout, ‘Bite me to death, you animal!’ and ‘Tear me apart, you beast!’ and other equally idiotic things. I ran to the mirror in the breaks, but just imagine, Geralt, I looked at myself with growing anxiety. Less and less did I long to return to my former shape. You see, Geralt, I used to be a weakling and now I’d become a strapping fellow. I’d keep getting ill, I’d cough, my nose would run, but now I don't catch anything. And my teeth? You wouldn't believe how rotten my teeth had been! And now? I can bite through the leg of a chair. Do you want me to bite a
chair leg?”

  “No, I don't.”

  “Maybe that's good.” The monster opened his mouth wide. “My showing-off used to amuse the girls and there aren't many whole chairs left in the house.” Nivellen yawned, his enormous tongue rolling up into a tube.

  “This talking has made me tired, Geralt. Briefly: there were two after Primula, Ilka and Venimira. Everything happened in the same way, to the point of boredom. First, a mixture of fear and reserve, then a thread of sympathy thy reinforced by small but precious gifts, then ‘Bite me, eat me up,’ Daddy's return, a tender farewell and an increasingly discernible depletion of the treasury. I decided to take longer breaks to be alone. Of-course, I’d long ago stopped believing that a virgin's kiss would transform the way I looked. And I’d come to terms with it. And, what's more, I’d come to the conclusion that things were fine as they were and that there wasn't any need for changes.”

  “Really? No changes, Nivellen?”

  “It's true. I have a horse's health, which came with the way I look, for one. Secondly, my being different works on girls like an aphrodisiac. Don't laugh! I’m certain that as a human, I’d have to give a mighty good chase to get at a girl like, for example, Venimira, who was an extremely beautiful maid. I don't suppose she'd have glanced twice at the fellow in the portrait. And thirdly: safety. Father had enemies, and a couple of them had survived. People whom the crew, under my pitiful leadership, had sent to their graves, had relatives. There's gold in the cellar. If it wasn't for the fear inspired by me, somebody would come and get it, if only peasants with pitchforks.”

  “You seem quite sure,” Geralt remarked, playing with an empty chalice, “that you haven't offended anyone in your present shape. No father, no daughter. No relative or daughter's betrothed—”

  “Leave off, Geralt.” Nivellen was indignant. “What are you talking about? The fathers couldn't contain themselves for joy. I told you, I was incredibly generous. And the daughters? You didn't see them when they got here in their dresses of sackcloth, their little hands raw from washing, their shoulders stooped from carrying buckets. Even after two weeks with me, Primula still had marks on her back and thighs from the strap her knightly father had beaten her with. They walked around like princesses here, carried nothing but a fan and didn't even know where the kitchen was. I dressed them up and covered them with trinkets. At the click of a finger, I’d conjure up hot water in the tin bath Father had plundered for my mother at Assengard. Can you imagine? A tin bath! There's hardly a regent, what am I saying, hardly a lord who's got a tin bath at home. This was a house from a fairy tale for them, Geralt. And as far as bed is concerned, well…Pox on it, virtue is rarer today than a rock dragon. I didn't force any of them, Geralt.”