Andrzej Sapkowski lives in Lodz. By profession he is a foreign trade specialist, but a few years ago he decided to start a full-time writing career. In 1986 he published his first short "Wiedzmin" (Hexer) reprinted here. In his stories and five-volume saga he has created a coherent, colourful fantasy universe, where the "hexer" Geralt lives, professional killer of monsters He has also published a role playing game. He has been given may awards, among others, he won the ESFS Award (1996) and the Zajdel Award (1990, 1992, 1993 and 1994). He has been translated into Czech, Russian, German and Lithuanian.

1

People said afterwards that the man had come in from the north through the Ropemakers' Gate. He arrived on foot, leading a heavily packed horse. It was late in the afternoon, so the ropemakers' and saddlers' stalls had already closed, and the streets were empty. The evening was warm, yet this man wore a black cloak. He attracted attention.

He stopped in front of "The Old Narakort" and stood there for a while, listening to the hum. of voices. As usual, at this time of the day the inn was crowded.

The stranger did not go in. He led his horse down the alley to a smaller inn, called "The Fox". This one was nearly deserted; it did not enjoy an excellent reputation.

The innkeeper lifted his gaze from a barrel of pickles and looked the newcomer up and down. The stranger, still clad in his cloak, stood there rigid and silent. "You'll have what?"

"Beer," the stranger replied in a grave voice. The innkeeper wiped his hands with his cloth apron and filled a pottery tankard. Its edge was notched.

The stranger did not seem old, even though his hair was almost utterly white. Under his cloak he wore a weathered leather doublet, laced at the neck and over the shoul-

ders. People noticed, when he took off the mantle, that strapped across his back was a sword. This would not be any odd; almost everybody in Wyzima carried some kind of weapon, but no one wore a sword on their back, as if it were a bow or a quiver.

The stranger did not sit down at the table with the others but kept standing at the bar, his keen eyes fixed upon the innkeeper. He pulled at his tankard.

"Looking for a room for tonight."

"There's none," the innkeeper grumbled as he examined the stranger's boots: dusty and dirty. "Go ask at The Old Narakort."

"I'd rather have it here."

"There's none," the innkeeper had eventually managed to discern this man's accent. He was a Riv.

"I can pay," the stranger said in a low voice with a trace of uncertainty.

And that was when things got unpleasant. A tall, pockmarked villain who had kept a grim eye on the stranger all the time since the man's arrival stood up and approached the bar. Two of his comrades loitered behind him.

"No rooms, ye rascal, ye Rivian vagabond," barked the longshanks, moving closer to the stranger. "We don't need varmints like ye here in Wyzima. It's a decent town!"

The stranger took his tankard and took a couple of steps back from the ruffians. He eyed the innkeeper but the man avoided his gaze. It would not even cross his mind to defend a Riv. Who likes the Rivs, after all?

"All Rivs 're thiefs," the pock-marked man continued, reeking of beer, garlic, and malice. "D'ye hear me, weed-eater?"

"He don't. Gotta shit in his ears," said one of those from behind him; the other chuckled.

"Pay and get out!" the pock-marked man shouted.

Only now did the stranger look at him. "I'm going to drink my beer."

"We'll help you," the longshanks jeered. He knocked the tankard out of the stranger's hand and grabbed the man's shoulder, at the same time clawing at his bandolier. Right

behind him, one of his cohorts lifted a fist, ready to strike. The stranger twisted throwing the pock-marked man off balance. The sword hissed in its scabbard and flashed in the candlelight. The air whirled. A customer shouted, and another rushed for the door. A chair fell with a crash, pottery plates splashed across the floor. The innkeeper, his lips trembling, gazed at the hideously cloven face of the pock-marked man, whose hands still clung to the edge of the bar, even though his body slid and slipped away as if drowning. The two others lay on the floor. One of them was still, the other writhed in a continuously spreading dark pool. A woman's voice penetrated the air with a shrill, hysterical cry. The innkeeper shuddered, breathed deeply and threw up.

The stranger made a few steps back towards the wall. Crouched, tense, alert, he held his sword with both hands, sweeping its point in the air. Nobody moved. Horror, like cold mud, congealed on people's faces, froze their limbs, took their breath away.

With a bang and a clang, three guards rushed into the inn. They must have been walking their rounds somewhere in the neighbourhood. Their leather-wrapped clubs were ready for use, but when they saw the corpses they drew their swords. The Riv clung to the wall and whipped a dagger out of his boot with his left hand.

"Drop it!" one of the guards cried in a trembling voice. "Drop it, scoundrel! You're coming with us!"

The second guard kicked a table out of the way.

"Get more men, Treska!" he shouted to the third one, who stood closer to the door.

"No need for that," the stranger said, lowering his sword. "I'll come freely."

"You will, but on the leash, you bloody roughneck!" the trembling guard cried. "Drop your sword or I'll chop your skull!"

The Riv straightened. It took him just an instant to clutch the blade under his left arm, while his right hand stretched out towards the guards and sketched a brief but

cunning sign in the air. The studs in the elbow-long cuffs of his doublet gleamed with sudden light.

The guards flinched, shielding their eyes with their forearms. One of the patrons sprang to his feet, another ran to the door. A woman screamed again wildly, piercingly.

"I'll come freely," repeated the stranger in a ringing steely voice. "And you three will go before me. Take me to the burgmaster, I don't know the way."

"Yes, sir," mumbled the guard, lowering his head. He walked to the door, glancing around warily. With their backs to the door, his companions followed. The stranger thrust his sword back into its scabbard, returned the dagger to his boot, and set off after the guards. As they passed the tables, the remaining customers averted their faces.

2

Velerad, the burgmaster of Wyzima, scratched his chin, musing. He was not superstitious or cowardly, but the idea of being alone with the white-haired man did not appeal to him. Finally he made up his mind.

"Step outside," he ordered the guards. "And you, sit down. No, not here. Over there, if you please."

The stranger sat down. He no longer had his sword or black cloak.

"I'll hear you," said Velerad fingering a heavy mace lying on the table. "I'm Velerad, burgmaster of Wyzima. What do you want to tell me, bandit, before I send you to the dungeon? Three people killed, attempt at casting a spell; fine, quite fine. We used to impale people for such deeds here in Wyzima. But I'm a man of honour, so I'll hear you first. Speak."

The Riv opened his doublet and produced a scrap of white goatskin.

"You pin this at crossroads and in inns," he said quietly. "Is what it says true?"

"Ah," grumbled Velerad eyeing the runes ingrained in the hide. "This. I should have guessed before. Yeah, it's the truth and only truth. It's signed Foltest, the King, Lord

of Temeria, Pontar and Mahakam. Which means the truth. But the proclamation is one thing and the law another. I'm law and order here in Wyzima! I'll not have people butchered here! Got it?"

The Riv nodded.

Velerad gasped angrily. "Do you have your hexer's badge?"

The stranger reached into his tunic and drew out a rounded medallion hanging on a silver chain. It represented a wolfs head with bare fangs.

"You have a name of sorts? Any name; not to satisfy my curiosity, but to make our conversation easier."

"My name is Geralt."

"Geralt will do. From Rivia, judging from your accent?"

"From Rivia."

"Yeah. You know what, Geralt? Give this up," Velerad slapped the proclamation with open palm. "It's a serious business. Many have tried. This is not the same, man, as to slash a couple of scoundrels."

"I know. It's my profession, burgmaster. It reads three thousand oren reward."

"Three thousand," Velerad puffed himself up. "And the princess for wife, as people keep babbling, although His Majesty Foltest had not written so."

"I'm not interested in princesses," Geralt said calmly. He sat motionless with his hands on his knees. "It reads three thousand."

"What times are these!" the burgmaster sighed. "What lousy times! Say twenty years ago: who would have imagined, even in their wildest drunken dreams, that there would be such professions? Hexers! Wandering basilisk killers! Peddling dragon and undine-busters! Geralt? Does your profession allow you to drink beer?"

"Sure."

Velerad clapped his hands.

"Beer!" he shouted. "And you, Geralt, come closer. I don't care."

The beer was cold and foamy.

fools. People trust you hexers more. You are at least... clear-cut, as it were."

Geralt smiled, but did not reply.

"Well, back to the matter." The burgmaster peered into his tankard and poured beer into both. "Some of the sorcerers' advice seemed quite reasonable. One proposed to burn down the vampiress together with the palace and the sarcophagus, another suggested cutting off her head with a spade, the rest opted for stabbing various parts of her body with aspen sticks - during the day, of course, when the she-devil slept in her coffin, tired from the night's revels. And naturally there had to turn up one fool in a pointed hat on his bald skull, a hunchback eremite who figured out that it was all sorcery. He claimed that it could be undone and the vampiress might become again Foltest's beautiful daughter. All it would require is that someone spent an entire night in the crypt. You can imagine, Geralt, what a fool he was, to go for the whole night to the mansion. Needless to say, all that remained of him were the hat and stick. But Foltest stuck to this idea like a leech. He forbade all attempts to kill the vampiress and started inviting charlatans from every corner of the land to Wyzima to undo the spell and change the vampiress into a princess. What a colourful company they were! Some twisted hags, all sorts of cripples, all of them dirty, man, lousy and begging for mercy. And lo! how they worked charms - particularly in the company of a bowl and tankard. Sure, some of them soon got denounced by Foltest or the council, a couple even got hanged on the stockade, but too few, far too few. I would have hanged them all. Needless to say, the vampiress paid no attention to the frauds and their spells, and kept tearing people to pieces. And of course Foltest no longer lived in the palace. Nobody lived in the palace any more."

Velerad sipped his beer. The hexer was silent.

"And so it's been dragging on, Geralt, for six years now,

as the thing was born some fourteen years ago. There were

other problems during that time, for we had war with

Vizimir of Novigrad, but this was for proper, plain rea-

sons; a controversy over landmarks, and not over any kind of daughters or affinities.

"By the way, Foltest has begun to mention marriage. Now he inspects the portraits of princesses being sent from neighbouring kingdoms, though he used to throw them in the latrine. Yet from time to time the madness overcomes him again and then he sends mounted messengers to seek for new sorcerers. And he had offered this reward, which drew here some nuts, including knights errant and even one shepherd, a genuine half-wit, may he rest in peace. And the vampiress is living and kicking. The only problem is that from time to time she bites someone to death. You can get used to it. And these heroes who try to undo the spell bring us one profit: that the beast has her meal on the spot and doesn't wander outside the mansion. And Foltest has a new, quite nice palace."

"Nobody managed to settle this," Geralt lifted his head, "in these six years?"

"Obviously," Velerad gave Geralt a keen look. "Because most likely it's nothing to be settled and someone will have to come to terms with it. By someone I mean our beloved ruler, His Majesty Foltest, who keeps pinning these proclamations at crossroads. Only, there are fewer and fewer fools willing to answer them. There was one not long ago, but he wanted these three thousand in advance. So we put him in a bag and threw him into the lake."

"You find frauds everywhere."

"Yeah, everywhere. There are plenty of them." The burgmaster nodded, keeping his eye on the hexer all time. "That's why when you go to the palace, don't ask for gold in advance. If you go to the palace in the first place."

"I will."

"That's your problem. But heed my advice. And as for the reward, people started talking about its other part, as I'd mentioned before. The princess for wife. I don't know who made this up, but if the vampiress looks just as they say, the joke is particularly grim. However, there were idiots who ran to the palace when only this news about joining the royal family broke out. To be exact, there were

two shoemakers' apprentices. Why are the shoemakers so stupid, Geralt?"

"I don't know. And how about hexers, burgmaster? Have they tried?"

"Of course they have. In most cases when they heard that they'd be supposed to break the spell, not to kill the monster, they shrugged and went away. That's where my respect for hexers comes from, Geralt. And then there was one more, younger than you, I don't remember his name, if he'd given any. This one tried."

"And?"

"Our toothy princess scattered his bowels around the castle for half the distance an arrow can fly."

Geralt nodded.

"That's all of them?"

"There was one more."

Velerad kept silent for a while. The hexer did not prompt him.

"Yeah," the burgmaster said at last. "There was another. At first, when Foltest threatened with the gallows if he killed or maimed the vampiress, he laughed at it and started packing. But then..."

Velerad lowered his voice again and leaned over the table, almost whispering.

"Then he decided to take the task upon himself. You see, Geralt, there are a couple of reasonable people here in Wyzima, some of them holding high posts, who are bored to the bone with this business. There've been rumours that these people persuaded the hexer not to stand on ceremony and witchcraft, but to slay the vampiress, and to tell the king that the spell didn't work, and the little royal daughter fell from the stairs, well, that there was an accident. The king would go berserk, of course, but all he'd do in the end, is that he wouldn't pay a single oren. This wretched hexer says then that we can go hunt the vampiress for free ourselves. So what could we do? We gathered funds, bargained... Only, it led to nothing."

Geralt raised his eyebrows.

"Nothing. I tell you," Velerad said. "The hexer was not eager to go at once, on the first night. He kept roving, stalking, rambling in the countryside. Finally, they say, he saw the vampiress, most likely in action, for the she-devil doesn't leave the crypt just to stretch her legs. He saw her, then, and ran away the same night. Never said good-bye."

Geralt made a grimace that probably was meant as a

grin.

"These reasonable people," he began, "probably still have that money? Hexers never take money in advance."

"Well," Velerad said, "most likely they have."

"Are there any rumours how much that can be?"

Velerad grinned. "Some say eight hundred..."

Geralt shook his head.

"Others," the burgmaster mumbled, "talk about a thousand."

"Not much, considering that rumours tend to magnify everything. The king, after all, gives three thousand."

"And don't forget about the bride," Velerad sneered. "What's all this talk about? You know you won't get those three thousand."

"How do I know that?"

Velerad thumped the table heavily with his fist. "Don't make me have second thoughts about hexers, Geralt! It's been six years and more! The vampiress makes mincemeat out of a couple of dozen people every year - well, now the number is lower for nobody will come near the palace. No, man, I believe in magic, I've seen a lot and believe to some extent, of course, in the abilities of mages and hexers. But this undo-the-spell business is bullshit, made up by a hunchback, snotty old man, who went crazy on a hermit's diet; bullshit that nobody believes. Nobody but Foltest. No, Geralt! Adda gave birth to a vampiress because she lay with her brother, that's the truth and no magic can help. The vampiress devours people, for such is her nature, and we have to kill her, just so and as usual. See, two years ago there was a dragon who used to feed on sheep in some damned hole close to Mahakam. The peasants gathered together and clubbed the brute with stakes and spades,

and didn't even consider it worthy boasting about. Yet here in Wyzima we wait for a miracle and bar our doors every full moon night, or we chain the criminals to a pole outside the mansion, expecting that the beast will be satisfied and go back to her coffin."

The hexer smirked. "Good idea. Has crime rate dropped since then?" "Not at all."

"How do I get to the palace? The new one." "I'll take you there. How about the reasonable people's proposal?"

"Why this haste, burgmaster?" Geralt answered with a question. "After all, an accident may really happen, without any ill intention. Reasonable people should consider then how to save me from the king's rage, and prepare these rumoured one and a half thousand oren." "It was a thousand only."

"No, master Velerad." The hexer sounded adamant. "That man who was offered one thousand ran away at the very sight of the vampiress, without bargaining. Which means that the risk exceeds one thousand. We shall see if it exceeds one and a half. I will bid you farewell beforehand, of course."

Velerad scratched his head. "One thousand, two hundred. Eh, Geralt?" "No, burgmaster. This is not an easy job. The king pays three and I must admit that it's sometimes easier to undo a spell than to kill. After all, someone would have already done away with the vampiress if it were so easy. You think they allowed her to eat them only because they were afraid of the king?"

"All right, man." Velerad shook his head grimly. "We've made a deal. But don't even mention the accident-at-work possibility to the king. That's my honest advice."

3

Foltest was slender and had a pretty, too pretty, face. The hexer judged that he was in his late thirties. He was

seated in a low chair carved in black wood, with his legs outstretched towards the fireplace. Two dogs lay close to the fire. At his side an elderly, heavily-built bearded man sat. Behind the king another man stood; richly clad, with a proud face. Some nobleman.

"A hexer from Rivia," said the king breaking the silence which followed Velerad's introduction.

Geralt bowed his head. "Yes, Sire."

"What made your hair so white? Magic? I see you're not old yet. All right, all right. I was joking, speak not. I dare presume you have some experience?"

"Yes, Sire."

"I'd be eager to listen to your stories."

Geralt bowed even lower.

"You know, Sire, that our code forbids us to speak about our job."

"A convenient code, master hexer, very convenient indeed. Now then, no details. Have you dealt with bugbears?"

"I have."

"With banshees or ghouls?"

"I have."

Foltest hesitated.

"With vampiresses?"

Geralt lifted his head and met the king's gaze.

"Yes, I have."

Foltest averted his eyes.

"Velerad!"

"At your service, your Majesty."

"Have you briefed him?"

"Yes, your Majesty. He maintains that the spell can be undone."

"That I've known for years. How do you propose to do it, master hexer? Ah, yes, I've forgotten. Your code. All right. Just one small remark. I've already met a couple of hexers. You've told him, Velerad? Very well. That's how I know that you specialize in killing rather than in breaking spells. Which is out of the question. If a hair falls from my daughter's head, you'll lay yours on the block. That's all. Ostrit! and you, sir Segelin, stay here and give him as much in-

formation as he needs. They hexers always ask lots of questions. Give him food and a room in the palace. Don't let him hang about inns."

The king stood up, whistled at the dogs, and walked to the door, scattering straw on the chamber's floor. He turned at the door.

"You do it, hexer, and the reward is yours. I may add something if the job is done well. Of course the mob's talk about marrying the princess is false to the core. You don't presume that I might marry my daughter to some vagabond?"

"No, Sire, I don't."

"Good. That shows clearly that you're a reasonable man."

Foltest left, closing the door behind him. Velerad and the nobleman who had been standing until now immediately sat comfortably at the table. The burgmaster drank what was left in the king's goblet, peeped into the jar and swore. Ostrit, seated now in Foltest's armchair, patted the carvings and scowled at the hexer. The bearded man, Segelin, beckoned to Geralt.

"Take your seat, master hexer, take your seat. Dinner will be served in a minute. What do you want to discuss? The burgmaster has probably told you everything. I know him and know that he talks too much rather than too little."

"Just a couple of questions."

"Go ahead."

"The burgmaster told me that when the vampiress first appeared, the king called here a bunch of the Wise."

"So it was. But don't use the word vampiress, use princess instead. It's easier then to avoid making this mistake in the king's presence... which may cause some unpleasantness."

"Was there anyone well known among those Wise? Some big names?"

"There were such, then and later. I don't remember the names. How about you, sir Ostrit?"

"I don't remember," the nobleman answered. "But I know that some of them enjoyed fame and reputation. There was talk about it."

"Did all of them agree that the spell can be undone?"

Segelin smirked. "They were far from agreement in any matter. But such a notion was indeed raised. It was supposed to be an easy job that wouldn't require any magical skills; as I have it, it's enough that someone spend a night, a whole night from the sunset until the cock crows for the third time, in the crypt beside the sarcophagus."

Velerad snorted. "An easy job, indeed."

"I'd like to have the... princess described to me."

Velerad sprang to his feet.

"The princess looks like a vampiress!" he cried. "Like the most vampiresslike vampiress I've ever heard of! Her Royal Highness the King's daughter, the damned royal bastard, is three and a half feet high, resembles a hogshead, has a mouth full of daggerlike teeth from one ear to another, red eyes and a red shag! Her hands, clawed like a wolfs, hang down to the ground! I keep wondering why we don't send her portraits to friendly courts! The princess, let some pestilence take her to hell, is fourteen years old and it's high time to think about marrying her to a prince!"

Ostrit frowned and squinted at the door. "Calm down, burgmaster."

Segelin smiled faintly.

"The description, even though very colourful, was quite precise, and that's what master hexer needed, didn't he? Velerad has only forgotten to add that the princess moves with extraordinary speed and is much stronger than one might judge by her height and bearing. And her age of fourteen is a fact. If that matters."

"It does," the hexer said. "Does she attack people only during full moon?"

"Yes," Segelin answered. "I mean outside the old palace. Inside the palace people always used to dissapear at every moon phase. But she leaves the mansion only during full moon, not even every full moon."

"Has she ever attacked during the day?"

"No. Never."

"Does she always devour her victims?"

Velerad spat vigorously on the straw.

"Damn you, Geralt, it's almost dinner-time. Phew! Devours, gnaws a bit, leaves untouched - perhaps it depends on her humour. There was one with only his head eaten, some gutted, and some chewed to the bone, naked, as it were. Damned daughter of a bitch!"

"Careful, Velerad!" Ostrit hissed. "Say whatever you want about the vampiress but don't insult Adda in my presence, since you wouldn't have the nerve to do it to the king!"

"Has any of the attacked survived?" the hexer asked, pretending that he had not noticed the nobleman's anger.

Segelin and Ostrit exchanged glances.

"Yes," the bearded man said. "At the very beginning, six years ago, she attacked two soldiers guarding the crypt. One of them managed to escape."

"And later," Velarad interrupted, "there was this miller on the town's outskirts. Remember?"

4

The miller was brought in the next day, late in the evening, and let into the small room over the guardhouse where the hexer was accommodated. He was accompanied by a hooded soldier,

The talk did not prove very fruitful. The miller was frightened, he sputtered and stammered. His scars told the hexer more than words: the vampiress's jaws were imposing and her teeth sharp indeed, including very long upper fangs. Four of these, two on either side. Her claws must be sharper than a wildcat's, even if less curved. That was, by the way, what had enabled the miller to escape.

Having finished the scrutiny, Geralt nodded at the miller and the soldier, and dismissed them. The soldier pushed the man out the door and took off the hood. He turned out to be Foltest himself.

"Stay seated, don't stand up," the king said. "It's an unofficial visit. How did you like the interview? I heard you visited the mansion earlier today."

"Yes, your Majesty."

"When are you going to begin?"

"It's four days until full moon. Afterwards."

"You'd like to have a look at her beforehand?"

"No need for that. But when not hungry, the... princess... will be less energetic."

"The vampiress, master hexer, the vampiress. Let's leave aside diplomacy. She may become princess one day. That's what I've come to talk to you about, by the way. Tell me, unofficially, short and clear: will she be transformed to a princess or not? And don't you even think about hiding behind any kind of a code."

Geralt rubbed his forehead.

"All I can assert, your Majesty, is that the spell can be undone. And if I'm right, the proper way to do it is to spend the whole night in the mansion. The third cock's crow will break the spell, provided that it catches the vampiress outside her coffin. That's the usual way with vampiresses."

"So easy?"

"It's not easy. One has to survive that night, first of all. There are some anomalies possible as well. Three nights instead of one, for instance. One after another. There are also some... well... hopeless cases."

"Yeah," Foltest said huffily, "that's what I'd heard from some people. Kill the monster, since it's incurable. I'm certain, master hexer, that they'd already spoken to you. Eh? To slay the bloodsucking urchin without scruples, right away, and tell the king that there was no other way. The king won't pay but we will. A very comfortable way. And cheap. For the king will have the hexer beheaded or hanged and they will keep their gold."

"Will the king definitely have the hexer beheaded in such case?" The hexer made a wry grimace.

Foltest looked the Riv straight in the eyes for a while.

"The king doesn't know," he said at last, "but the hexer should take it into consideration anyway."

Now it was Geralt's turn to stay silent.

"I'm going to do my best," he said after a while. "But if things turn nasty I'll have to defend myself. You, your Majesty, have to bear this possibility in mind, too."

Foltest rose.

"You don't get the point. That's not what it's all about. It's clear that you'll kill her, if things turn hot on you, whether I like it or not. Otherwise she'll kill you, for sure and irreversibly. I don't say it aloud but I wouldn't punish anyone who'd kill her in self-defence. But I won't have her slain without any effort to save her. There were arson attempts in the old palace; they shot at her with arrows, dug pits, put traps and snares, until I hanged some of them. But that's not what it's all about. Listen to me, master hexer!"

"I'm all ears."

"After this third cock crows there will be no more vampiress, if I get you right. So what will there be?"

"If everything turns right, a fourteen-year-old girl."

"Red-eyed? With crocodile-like teeth?"

"A normal girl. Only that..."

"What?"

"Physically."

"A fine kettle of fish! What about her mind? A bucket of blood for breakfast every day? A maiden's leg?"

"No. It's hard to say... what about her mind. I gather, something like a three, four-year-old child. She'll need care for some time."

"That's clear. Hexer?"

"Yes, Sire?"

"Can this reoccur? Some time later?"

The hexer was silent.

"Ah," the king said. "It can. So what then?"

"If she dies after some days of coma, you'll have to burn her body. Quickly."

Foltest looked dispirited.

"I don't think, however," Geralt added, "that it should come to this. But to be on the safe side I will give you some guidance, Sire, how to reduce the danger."

"Now? Isn't it too early, master hexer? What if..."

"Now," the Riv interrupted. "Various things happen, your Majesty. You may as well find the uncharmed princess and my corpse in the crypt in the morning."

"That bad? Despite my permission for self-defence? Which, I have the feeling, you didn't care about very much."

"I'm serious, your Majesty. The risk is great. So please listen. The princess should always wear a sapphire on a silver chain around her neck. All the time. Night and day. One with an inclusion will do best."

"What's an inclusion?"

"An air bubble inside the jewel. Besides, you should burn juniper, broom, and hazelwood, on the fireplace in her bedroom from time to time."

Foltest pondered it for a while.

"Thank you for your advice, master hexer. I'll keep to it, if... Now you listen to me carefully. If you see that she is a hopeless case, kill her. If you break the spell and the girl will be... not normal... if there is any doubt at whether you fully succeeded, kill her as well. Don't be afraid, I'll pose no threat to you. I'll shout at you in public, I'll expel you from my palace and from the town, but nothing more. I won't reward you, of course. You may bargain, you know with whom."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Geralt." Foltest addressed the hexer by his name.

"Yes, your Majesty."

"How much truth is there in these rumours that the child was what she was because Adda was my sister?"

"Not much. A spell must be cast, there are no self-casting spells. But I suppose that your relationship with your sister was the reason for this spell and thus the cause of its result as well."

"That's what I'd thought. That's what some of the Wise said, too, even though not all of them. Geralt? Where do such things come from? I mean spells, magic."

"I don't know, your Majesty. The Wise research the sources of such phenomena. For us hexers it's enough to know that focused will can cause such things. And to know how to fight them."

"Kill them?"

"In most cases, yes. That's what we usually get paid for. Few people want to have the spells undone, your Majesty. Normally they just want to be free from danger. And if

a monster has human blood on its claws, vengeance comes into play as well."

The king rose, paced for a while and stopped before the hexer's sword hanging on the wall.

"With this?" he asked without turning to Geralt.

"No. This one is against people."

"I've heard about it. You know what, Geralt? I'll go with you to the crypt."

"Out of the question."

Foltest turned, his eyes blazing.

"Do you know, witchman, that I've never seen her? Not when she was born and never... after. I was afraid. I may have no chance to see her now, eh? I have at least the right to see how you murder her."

"Out of the question, I insist. It's certain death. For me as well. If my attention, my will is weakened... No, your Majesty."

Foltest turned and walked to the door. Geralt thought for a moment that he would leave without a word, without a farewell gesture, but the king stopped and looked at him.

"There's an air of trustworthiness about you," he said. "Even though I know what sort of scamp you are. I was told about things that happened in the inn. I'd bet that you killed these rogues only for fame, to shake the people, to shake me. I'm certain that you could have stopped them without bloodshed. I'm afraid that I'll never know if you're going to save my daughter or to kill her. But I accept that. I have to accept that. You know why?"

Geralt did not answer.

"Because I think," the king said, "that she suffers. Doesn't she?"

The hexer gazed steadfastly at the king. He did not nod, did not turn his head, did not make a smallest gesture, but Foltest knew. He knew the answer.

5

Geralt peered out from the mansion's window for the last time. It was getting dark quickly. The dull lights of

Wyzima twinkled over the lake. Around the mansion was a desolation, a no-man's land, by which the city protected itself during the six years, leaving nothing but some ruin, rotten beaming and the remains of a jagged stockade that obviously was not worthy pulling down and removing. The king relocated his residence to the farthest side of the town. A squat tower of the new palace was a black silhouette against the darkening sky.

The hexer walked to the dusty table in one of the empty, plundered chambers, where he prepared himself without haste, quietly, meticulously. He knew that he had plenty of time. The vampiress would not emerge from her crypt before midnight.

On the table in front of him stood a small, metal-fitted box. He opened it. Inside, in cells lined with dry grass, stood tightly packed vials of dark glass. The hexer took out three of them.

From the floor he lifted an oblong bundle wrapped thickly in sheepskin and tied with leather straps. He unbound it and took out a sword with an ornamented hilt and a black, glossy scabbard covered with runes and symbols. He unsheathed the blade, which shone with a clear, mirrorlike gleam. The blade was forged from pure silver.

Geralt whispered a short spell and drank the liquid from two vials, putting his left hand on the sword's pommel after each sip. Then he sat down on the floor wrapped tightly in his black cloak. There was not a single stool in the chamber. Not that there was any in the entire mansion, most

likely.

He sat motionless, with his eyes closed. His breath, regular at first, quickened and became harsh and unquiet. And then it stopped completely. The mixture that gave him complete control over his body consisted mainly of hellebore, thorn apple, hawthorn and spurge. The rest of its ingredients had no names in any human tongue. For a man who would not have been used to it from childhood, as Geralt was, it would be a deadly poison.

The hexer turned his head violently. His inhumanly sharpened hearing easily caught the rustling steps in the nettle-overgrown yard. It could not be the vampiress; it

was too early yet. Geralt flung the sword over his back, hid the bundle in a ruined fireplace, and ran down the stair as quietly as a bat.

There was light enough in the yard for the hexer and the approaching man to see each other. His visitor, who proved to be Ostrit, flinched, and his face twisted in an involuntary grimace of fear and revulsion. The hexer smiled wryly; he knew what he looked like. A potion of banewort, aconite, and eyebright turns one's face chalk-white and dilate the pupils to the size of the whole iris. This mixture allows one to see in pitch-black darkness, which was what Geralt had been after.

Ostrit regained self-control almost instantly. "You look as if you were already dead, conjurer," he said. "It's certainly fear. But don't be afraid. I've come to release you."

The hexer was silent.

"Haven't you heard what I said, you Rivian charlatan? You're saved. And rich." Ostrit heaved a large purse in his hand and cast it to the ground before Geralt. "One thousand oren. Take it, saddle your horse, and get out of here!" The Riv remained silent.

"Don't glare at me like that!" Ostrit shouted. "And don't waste my time. I'm not going to stay here until midnight. Don't you see? I don't want you to break the spell. No, don't presume you understand. I'm not with Velerad and Segelin. I don't want you to kill her. Just get out of here. All is to remain as it's been."

The hexer did not move. He did not want the nobleman to realize how much faster his movements and reactions had become. It was getting dark quickly, and that was to the hexer's advantage, for even dusk was too bright for his dilated pupils.

"And why, sir, should everything remain as it was before?" he asked, doing his best to pronounce each word slowly.

Ostrit lifted his head haughtily, "That's none of your business."

"What if I've already guessed?"

"How very interesting."

"It will be easier to remove Foltest from his throne if the vampiress harasses people even more, if the nobility as well as the commoners are sick with the royal folly, won't it? I rode through Redania and Novigrad. One can hear rumours there that people in Wyzima look for king Vizimir as liberator and the true sovereign. But I don't give a damn about politics, succession, and revolutionary plots, sir Ostrit. I have a job here to be done. Have you never heard of the sense of duty and simple honesty? Of professional

ethics?"

"Remember who you're talking to, vagabond!" Ostrit shouted, furious, putting his hand on his sword's hilt. "Enough from you! I'm not used to discussing my business with just anyone! Look at him: ethics, code, morals?! Look who's talking! A rogue who murdered people upon his arrival. Who bows low to Foltest, and bargains behind his back with Velerad like some mercenary bandit. And you dare put on airs, knave? Pretend to be a Wise? a Magician? a Sorcerer? You lousy hexer! Get out of here before my sword meets your face!"

Not a single muscle of the hexer twitched. He stood

motionless.

"You should get out of here, sir Ostrit," he said. "It's

getting dark."

Ostrit took a step back, drawing his sword in an instant.

"You wanted it, conjurer. I'll kill you. No tricks of yours will help you. I have a turtle stone with me."

Geralt smiled wryly. The rumour of the turtle stone's might was as popular as it was wrong. But the hexer did not intend to waste his strength on casting spells, or to expose his silver sword to Ostrit's touch. He ducked under the whirling blade and hit the nobleman in one temple with his studded wrist.

6

Ostrit came round soon and examined his situation in complete darkness. He noticed that he was tied. He could

not see Geralt standing by. But he realized where he was, and screamed shrilly, terrifically.

"Shut up," the hexer said. "Lest you draw her here too soon."

"You bloody murderer! Where are you? Release me at once, you bastard! You'll be hanged for this, son of a bitch!"

"Shut up."

Ostrit panted heavily.

"You're leaving me here as her prey! Tied?" he asked less boisterously, and added a dirty name almost in whisper,

"No," the hexer answered. "I'll free you. But not yet." "You scoundrel," Ostrit hissed. "To distract the vampiress?" "Yes."

Ostrit lay silent and stopped tossing.

"Hexer?"

"Yes."

"It's right that I plotted to remove Foltest. Not I alone. But I alone wanted his death, I wanted him to die in pain, to go mad, to rot alive. You know why?"

Geralt was silent.

"I loved Adda. The king's sister. The king's mistress. The king's whore. I loved her... Are you here... hexer?"

"I'm here."

"I know what you're thinking. But it wasn't so. Believe me I didn't cast any spells. I know nothing about sorcery. Only once in anger did I say... only once. Hexer? Are you listening?"

"I am."

"It was his mother, the old queen. It was certainly her. She couldn't bear that he and Adda... It wasn't me. I only once tried to talk him out of this, and Adda... Hexer! I was muddled and I said... Hexer? Was it me? Was it me?"

"It doesn't matter any more."

"Hexer? Is midnight close?"

"It is."

"Let me free. Give me some more time."

"No."

Ostrit didn't hear the grating sound of the slab being pushed aside, but the hexer did. He stooped and cut the nobleman's bonds with his dagger. Ostrit did not wait for any words; he sprang to his feet, limped stiffly, and then ran. His eyes got accustomed to the darkness enough for him to see the way out of the main chamber to the gates.

The slab blocking the crypt entrance jerked out of the floor with an echoing crash. Hidden cautiously behind a staircase rail, Geralt saw the vampiress's monstrous shape, pursuing swiftly and surely Ostrit's trail. She herself did not make the smallest sound.

A horrible, tremulous, maddened cry pierced the night; the old walls shivered, and the sound reverberated, rising and falling. The hexer couldn't estimate the distance precisely; his oversensitive ear was unreliable, but he knew that the vampiress was caught Ostrit fast. Too fast.

He walked to the crypt entrance, tossed off his cloak, and moved his shoulders to adjust the sword's position. Next he drew on his gauntlets. He still had some time. The vampiress, even though no longer ravenous after feasting during the nights of full moon, would not abandon Ostrit's corpse too soon. Heart and liver were a rich source of nutrients to compensate for her long sleep.

The hexer settled down to wait. According to his instincts, three hours were yet left till daybreak. The cock's crow could only deceive him. And probably there was not a single cock in the neighbourhood, anyway.

He heard her. She walked slowly, shuffling along on the tiles. And then he saw her.

Velerad's description was accurate. A disproportionately large head upon a short neck was surrounded by a matted, curly halo of reddish hair. The eyes shone in darkness like two carbuncles. The vampiress stood frozen and stared at Geralt. Suddenly she opened her mouth as if boasting the rows of white, pointed teeth, and then snapped her jaw shut with a crack like the slarnmed lid of a chest. And immediately she charged, aiming her bloody claws at the hexer.

Geralt leapt out of her path and then whirled to face her. The vampiress touched him, whirled as well, and slashed at the air with her claws. She did not lose momentum, but charged again, right away, from a half-turn, snapping her teeth just in front of Geralt's breast. The Riv leaped aside again, changed the direction thrice in one fluttering pirouette, thus bewildering the vampiress. In mid-leap he clubbed the side of her head with his silver-studded gauntlet.

The vampiress roared as she fell, filling the mansion with rumbling echoes, and scrabbled on the floor wailing dully, menacingly, furiously.

Geralt grinned viciously. The first test was successful, as he had hoped. Silver was deadly for the vampiress, just like for most monsters created by means of sorcery. So there was a chance; the beast was not unlike the others, which could guarantee successful spell-breaking. The silver sword might remain the last resort to save the hexer's life.

The vampiress did not hurry with another charge. This time she approached the man slowly, baring her fangs and slavering hideously. Geralt backed away in a semicircle, calculating every step. Darting here, feinting there, he bewildered the vampiress, so that she could not judge when to leap. All the while, he loosened a long, thin, strong chain with a weight on one end. The chain was made from silver.

The vampiress braced herself and leaped. At that instant, Geralt slashed forward with the chain, which like a coiling snake wrapped itself around the monster's shoulders, neck, and head. The vampiress collapsed on the floor with a deafening yelp. As she rolled on the floor, it was impossible to say whether her bellows were from fury or from the scalding silver. Geralt was content; to kill the monster, if he wished to, posed no problem at the moment. But the hexer did not unsheathe his sword. As yet nothing in the vampiress's behaviour suggested that she might present an incurable case. Geralt fell back a good bit and, never taking his eye from the wriggling shape on the floor, breathed deeply, concentrating his mental powers.

The chain broke, and the silver links fell in every direction like rain, ringing on the stone. Howling with blind fury, the vampiress swooped on her attacker. Without haste, Geralt raised his right hand and sketched the Aard Sign.

The vampiress recoiled as if hit with a hammer, but she did not fall; instead she extended her claws and bared her fangs. Her hair whipped around her face as if she pushed against a strong wind. With obvious difficulty, wheezing, she stalked Geralt. And she stalked nearer and nearer.

Geralt was worried; he had not assumed that such a simple Sign might paralyse the vampiress completely, but still he had not expected that she might break it so easily. He could not maintain the Sign for long; it was too exhausting, and the monster was only ten steps away. So he released the Sign suddenly and jerked aside. As he had hoped, it took the vampiress by surprise. She dived forward and lost her balance, slipped on the tiles, and crashed down the stair into the crypt. From downstairs came now her hellish howl.

To gain time, Geralt jumped on the staircase leading to a gallery. He had not climbed even half the flight when the vampiress burst out of the crypt and raced after him like a giant black spider. The hexer waited until she followed him onto the stair, and then jumped over the rail and down. The vampiress veered on the steps, took off, and flew after him in an incredible vault of over twelve yards. She was no longer easily deceived by his pirouettes; her claws marked the Riv's leather doublet twice. But another desperately powerful blow of the gauntlet's silver nails hurled the monster away throwing her off-balance. Geralt felt anger rise in him; he swayed, arched his body back, and crashed the monster on the floor with a mighty kick in her side.

Her roar this time was so loud that paint fell from the

ceiling.

The vampiress jumped to her feet, trembling with rage and craving for the kill. Geralt drew his sword and waited for her. Circling the vampiress, he swung the sword er-

ratically, out of keeping with his gait. The vampiress did not leap; she advanced slowly, following the bright blade with her gaze.

Suddenly Geralt halted, and stood motionless with his sword up.

Surprised, the vampiress stopped too. The hexer drew a slow semicircle with his sword and took a step towards her. Then another. And then he leaped, swinging the blade above his head.

The vampiress ducked and retreated from the blade, backing this way and that. Geralt charged at her again; the blade flickered in his hand. The hexer's eyes burned with a sinister light; he growled hoarsely behind clenched teeth. The vampiress flinched again, pushed by the force of concentrated hatred, rage and violence that emanated from her human attacker, hitting her in waves, breaking into her brain and guts. Frightened to the bone with a feeling unknown to her before, she uttered a shaken little squeak, turned, and rushed wildly into the dark maze of the mansion's halls.

Geralt stood trembling in the middle of the chamber. Alone. It took a long time, he thought, before this dance on the brink of a precipice, this mad, macabre battle ballet brought the expected results, allowed him to meld with his enemy's mind, and reach to the latent load of concentrated will. This evil, morbid will which had brought the abomination into being. The hexer shuddered when he recalled the moment when he absorbed this evil in order to throw it back at the monster as if by reflection in a mirror. He had never before met such concentration of hatred and killing rage, not even among the basilisks, who were notorious for the venom of their malice.

It's for the best, he thought, walking towards the crypt entrance, glossy black like a great pool in the floor. It was for the best, for it made the blow that the vampiress received the stronger. This would give him some more time for further action before the monster could recover from the shock. Geralt doubted he could perform this effort again that night. The elixirs' effect was ebbing away, and there

were still long hours left till the break of day. The vampiress must not get to the crypt before first light, otherwise all Geralt's effort would be wasted.

He came down the stair. The crypt was small and contained three stone sarcophagi. The lid of the one nearest to the entrance was pushed half aside. Geralt took the third vial from under his tunic, drank its contents, entered the crypt, and climbed into the sarcophagus. As he had expected, it was a double tomb, for the mother and the daughter.

He closed the lid only when he heard the vampiress's yells above him again. He lay down on his back beside Adda's mummified corpse, and sketched the Yrden Sign on the lower side of the slab. He laid his sword on his breast and set a tiny hour-glass filled with phosphorescent sand. He crossed his hands. He could no longer hear the vampiress's shrieks as she scoured the mansion. He could no longer hear anything as the herbs Paris and celandine began to produce their effect.

7

When Geralt opened his eyes, the sand in the hour-glass had already run out, which meant that his trance had been even longer than necessary. He strained his ears but heard nothing. His senses were back to normal again. He took his sword in his hand, drew his fingers across the sarcophagus' lid, muttered a short spell, and moved the slab a few inches aside.

Silence.

Geralt pushed the stone lid further and sat up. Sword in hand, he peered out of the tomb. The crypt was dark but the hexer knew that it was dawn outside. He struck a fire and lighted a tiny lamp which cast strange shadows on the crypt's walls when he lifted it.

Empty.

Aching, numb, and cold, he scrambled out of the sarcophagus. And then he spotted her. She lay on her back beside the tomb, naked and senseless.

She was not on the pretty side. Very slender, with small pointed breasts, dirty. Her tawny-red hair was almost waist-length. He put the lamp on the slab and knelt beside her. Her lips were pale, and on her cheekbone there was a large bruise from his fist. Geralt stooped over her, took off the gauntlet, put the sword aside, and offhandedly lifted her upper lip with his finger. Her teeth were normal. He reached for her hand buried in the tangled hair. He never felt the fingers when he noticed her open eyes. Too late.

She slashed at his neck with her claws and cut deep. Blood burst into her face. Howling, she aimed at the eyes with her other hand. He crashed on her, caught her by both wrists, and pinned her down to the floor. She snapped her teeth, too short now, right in front of his eyes. He headbutted her and clutched her wrists more firmly. She had only a fraction of her previous strength left, so she just wriggled under him and howled, spitting blood, his blood, flooding her mouth. The blood flow was quick. There was no time left. The hexer cursed and bit her strong in the neck just below her ear; he clenched his teeth until the inhuman howl changed into a little plaintive wail, and then a choking moan - the weeping of an abused fourteen-year-old girl.

He let her go when she stopped moving, knelt back, tore a piece of cloth from a sleeve pocket, and pressed it to his neck. He felt the sword lying by, put it across the comatose girl's throat, and bent over her palm. Her nails were dirty, broken, but... normal. Absolutely normal.

The hexer raised himself with difficulty. The sticky, wet grey of dawn was already trickling in through the crypt's entrance. He walked towards the door but then reeled and sat heavily on the floor. Blood oozed through the soaked cloth and flowed on his hand and into the sleeve. He unbuttoned his doublet, tore at the shirt, ripped and rent the cloth, and tied it around his neck, knowing that there was not much time left, that he was going to faint soon...

He did it in time. And then he fainted.

On the other side of the lake, in Wyzima, a cock, ruffling its feathers in the cold damp of the morning, crowed harshly for the third time.

8

What he saw were the whitewashed walls and beamed ceiling of the room over the guardhouse. He moved his head and moaned painfully, making a wry mouth. His neck was bandaged: thickly, solidly, professionally.

"Lie down, hexer," Velerad said. "Lie down, don't move."

"My... sword..."

"Sure, sure. The most important thing is of course your silver hexer's sword. It's here, don't be anxious. The sword and the chest as well. And three thousand oren. Yes, yes, don't speak. It's me who's the old fool, and you're the wise hexer. Foltest's kept saying this for two days now."

"Two..."

"Yeah, two days. She cut you pretty badly; we could investigate the inner workings of your throat quite easily. You lost buckets of blood. Fortunately we ran for the mansion just after the third cock. Nobody slept in Wyzima that night. It was impossible. You made a hell of a noise there. Aren't you tired with my talk?"

"The... prin... cess?"

"The princess as a princess. Thin. And a bit stupid in a way. She weeps all time. And wets her bed. But Foltest says this would change. I hope it won't for worse, what do you think, Geralt?"

The hexer closed his eyes.

"All right, I'm leaving now." Velerad stood up. "Rest here. Geralt? Before I go, could you tell me why you tried to bite her to death? Eh? Geralt?"

The hexer was asleep.

Translated by Agnieszka Fulińska