“Songs and ballads” – the musician bowed – “never end, dear lady, because poetry is eternal and immortal, it knows no beginning, it knows no end—”
“But what happened next?” The tradeswoman didn’t give up, generously rattling coins into the bucket Dandilion’s apprentice held out to her. “At least tell us about it, even if you have no wish to sing of it. Your songs mention no names, but we know the witcher you sing of is no other than the famous Geralt of Rivia, and the enchantress for whom he burns with love is the equally famous Yennefer. And the Child Surprise, destined for the witcher and sworn to him from birth, is Cirilla, the unfortunate Princess of Cintra, the town destroyed by the Invaders. Am I right?”
Dandilion smiled, remaining enigmatic and aloof. “I sing of universal matters, my dear, generous lady,” he stated. “Of emotions which anyone can experience. Not about specific people.”
“Oh, come on!” yelled a voice from the crowd. “Everyone knows those songs are about Geralt the Witcher!”
“Yes, yes!” squealed Baron Vilibert’s daughters in chorus, drying their sodden scarves. “Sing on, Master Dandilion! What happened next? Did the witcher and Yennefer the Enchantress find each other in the end? And did they love each other? Were they happy? We want to know!”
“Enough!” roared the dwarf leader with a growl in his throat, shaking his mighty waist-length, red beard. “It’s crap – all these princesses, sorceresses, destiny, love and women’s fanciful tales. If you’ll pardon the expression, great poet, it’s all lies, just a poetic invention to make the story prettier and more touching. But of the deeds of war – the massacre and plunder of Cintra, the battles of Marnadal and Sodden – you did sing that mightily, Dandilion! There’s no regrets in parting with silver for such a song, a joy to a warrior’s heart! And I, Sheldon Skaggs, declare there’s not an ounce of lies in what you say – and I can tell the lies from the truth because I was there at Sodden. I stood against the Nilfgaard invaders with an axe in my hand…”
“I, Donimir of Troy,” shouted the thin knight with three lions passant blazoned across his tunic, “was at both battles of Sodden! But I did not see you there, sir dwarf!”
“No doubt because you were looking after the supply train!” Sheldon Skaggs retorted. “While I was in the front line where things got hot!”
“Mind your tongue, beardy!” said Donimir of Troy flushing, hitching up his sword belt. “And who you’re speaking to!”
“Have a care yourself!” The dwarf whacked his palm against the axe wedged in his belt, turned to his companions and grinned. “Did you see him there? Frigging knight! See his coat of arms? Ha! Three lions on a shield? Two shitting and the third snarling!”
“Peace, peace!” A grey-haired druid in a white cloak averted trouble with a sharp, authoritative voice. “This is not fitting, gentlemen! Not here, under Bleobheris’ crown, an oak older than all the disputes and quarrels of the world! And not in Poet Dandilion’s presence, from whose ballads we ought to learn of love, not contention.”
“Quite so!” a short, fat priest with a face glistening with sweat seconded the druid. “You look but have no eyes, you listen but have deaf ears. Because divine love is not in you, you are like empty barrels—”
“Speaking of barrels,” squeaked a long-nosed gnome from his cart, painted with a sign for “Iron hardware, manufacture and sale”, “roll another out, guildsmen! Poet Dandilion’s throat is surely dry – and ours too, from all these emotions!”
“—Verily, like empty barrels, I tell ye!” The priest, determined not to be put off, drowned out the ironware gnome. “You have understood nothing of Master Dandilion’s ballad, you have learned nothing! You did not see that these ballads speak of man’s fate, that we are no more than toys in the hands of the gods, our lands no more than their playground. The ballads about destiny portrayed the destinies of us all, and the legend of Geralt the Witcher and Princess Cirilla – although it is set against the true background of that war – is, after all, a mere metaphor, the creation of a poet’s imagination designed to help us—”
“You’re talking rubbish, holy man!” hollered Vera Loewenhaupt from the heights of her cart. “What legend? What imaginative creation? You may not know him, but I know Geralt of Rivia. I saw him with my own eyes in Wyzima, when he broke the spell on King Foltest’s daughter. And I met him again later on the Merchants’ Trail, where, at Gildia’s request, he slew a ferocious griffin which was preying on the caravans and thus saved the lives of many good people. No. This is no legend or fairy-tale. It is the truth, the sincere truth, which Master Dandilion sang for us.”
“I second that,” said a slender female warrior with her black hair smoothly brushed back and plaited into a thick braid. “I, Rayla of Lyria, also know Geralt the White Wolf, the famous slayer of monsters. And I’ve met the enchantress, Lady Yennefer, on several occasions – I used to visit Aedirn and her home town of Vengerberg. I don’t know anything about their being in love, though.”
“But it has to be true,” the attractive elf in the ermine toque suddenly said in a melodious voice. “Such a beautiful ballad of love could not but be true.”
“It could not!” Baron Vilibert’s daughters supported the elf and, as if on command, wiped their eyes on their scarves. “Not by any measure!”
“Honourable wizard!” Vera Loewenhaupt turned to Radcliffe. “Were they in love or not? Surely you know what truly happened to them, Yennefer and the witcher. Disclose the secret!”
“If the song says they were in love,” replied the wizard, “then that’s what happened, and their love will endure down the ages. Such is the power of poetry.”
“It is said,” interrupted Baron Vilibert all of a sudden, “that Yennefer of Vengerberg was killed on Sodden Hill. Several enchantresses were killed there—”
“That’s not true,” said Donimir of Troy. “Her name is not on the monument. I am from those parts and have often climbed Sodden Hill and read the names engraved on the monument. Three enchantresses died there: Triss Merigold, Lytta Neyd, known as Coral… hmm… and the name of the third has slipped my mind…”
The knight glanced at Wizard Radcliffe, who smiled wordlessly.
“And this witcher,” Sheldon Skaggs suddenly called out, “this Geralt who loved Yennefer, has also bitten the dust, apparently. I heard he was killed somewhere in Transriver. He slew and slew monsters until he met his match. That’s how it goes: he who fights with the sword dies by the sword. Everyone comes across someone who will better them eventually, and is made to taste cold hard iron.”
“I don’t believe it.” The slender warrior contorted her pale lips, spat vehemently on the ground and crossed her chainmail-clad arms with a crunch. “I don’t believe there is anyone to best Geralt of Rivia. I have seen this witcher handle a sword. His speed is simply inhuman—”
“Well said,” threw in Wizard Radcliffe. “Inhuman. Witchers are mutated, so their reactions—”
“I don’t understand you, magician.” The warrior twisted her lips even more nastily. “Your words are too learned. I know one thing: no swordsman I have ever seen can match Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. And so I will not accept that he was defeated in battle as the dwarf claims.”
“Every swordsman’s an arse when the enemy’s not sparse,” remarked Sheldon Skaggs sententiously. “As the elves say.”
“Elves,” stated a tall, fair-haired representative of the Elder Race coldly, from his place beside the elf with the beautiful toque, “are not in the habit of using such vulgar language.”
“No! No!” squealed Baron Vilibert’s daughters from behind their green scarves. “Geralt the Witcher can’t have been killed! The witcher found Ciri, the child destined for him, and then the Enchantress Yennefer, and all three lived happily ever after! Isn’t that true, Master Dandilion?”
“’Twas a ballad, my noble young ladies,” said the beer-parched gnome, manufacturer of ironwares, with a yawn. “Why look for truth in a ballad? Truth is one thing, p
oetry another. Let’s take this – what was her name? – Ciri? The famous Child Surprise. Master Dandilion trumped that up for sure. I’ve been to Cintra many a time and the king and queen lived in a childless home, with no daughter, no son—”
“Liar!” shouted a red-haired man in a sealskin jacket, a checked kerchief bound around his forehead. “Queen Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra, had a daughter called Pavetta. She died, together with her husband, in a tempest which struck out at sea, and the depths swallowed them both.”
“So you see for yourselves I’m not making this up!” The ironware gnome called everyone to be his witnesses. “The Princess of Cintra was called Pavetta, not Ciri.”
“Cirilla, known as Ciri, was the daughter of this drowned Pavetta,” explained the red-haired man. “Calanthe’s granddaughter. She was not the princess herself, but the daughter of the Princess of Cintra. She was the Child Surprise destined for the witcher, the man to whom – even before she was born – the queen had sworn to hand her granddaughter over, just as Master Dandilion has sung. But the witcher could neither find her nor collect her. And here our poet has missed the truth.”
“Oh yes, he’s missed the truth indeed,” butted in a sinewy young man who, judging by his clothes, was a journeyman on his travels prior to crafting his masterpiece and passing his master’s exams. “The witcher’s destiny bypassed him: Cirilla was killed during the siege of Cintra. Before throwing herself from the tower, Queen Calanthe killed the princess’s daughter with her own hand, to prevent her from falling into the Nilfgaardians’ claws alive.”
“It wasn’t like that. Not like that at all!” objected the red-haired man. “The princess’s daughter was killed during the massacre while trying to escape from the town.”
“One way or another,” shouted Ironware, “the witcher didn’t find Cirilla! The poet lied!”
“But lied beautifully,” said the elf in the toque, snuggling up to the tall, fair-haired elf.
“It’s not a question of poetry but of facts!” shouted the journeyman. “I tell you, the princess’s daughter died by her grandmother’s hand. Anyone who’s been to Cintra can confirm that!”
“And I say she was killed in the streets trying to escape,” declared the red-haired man. “I know because although I’m not from Cintra I served in the Earl of Skellige’s troop supporting Cintra during the war. As everyone knows, Eist Tuirseach, the King of Cintra, comes from the Skellige Isles. He was the earl’s uncle. I fought in the earl’s troop at Marnadal and Cintra and later, after the defeat, at Sodden—”
“Yet another veteran,” Sheldon Skaggs snarled to the dwarves crowded around him. “All heroes and warriors. Hey, folks! Is there at least one of you out there who didn’t fight at Marnadal or Sodden?”
“That dig is out of place, Skaggs,” the tall elf reproached him, putting his arm around the beauty wearing the toque in a way intended to dispel any lingering doubts amongst her admirers. “Don’t imagine you were the only one to fight at Sodden. I took part in the battle as well.”
“On whose side, I wonder,” Baron Vilibert said to Radcliffe in a highly audible whisper which the elf ignored entirely.
“As everyone knows,” he continued, sparing neither the baron nor the wizard so much as a glance, “over a hundred thousand warriors stood on the field during the second battle of Sodden Hill, and of those at least thirty thousand were maimed or killed. Master Dandilion should be thanked for immortalising this famous, terrible battle in one of his ballads. In both the lyrics and melody of his work I heard not an exaltation but a warning. So I repeat: offer praise and everlasting renown to this poet for his ballad, which may, perhaps, prevent a tragedy as horrific as this cruel and unnecessary war from occurring in the future.”
“Indeed,” said Baron Vilibert, looking defiantly at the elf. “You have read some very interesting things into this ballad, honoured sir. An unnecessary war, you say? You’d like to avoid such a tragedy in the future, would you? Are we to understand that if the Nilfgaardians were to attack us again you would advise that we capitulate? Humbly accept the Nilfgaardian yoke?”
“Life is a priceless gift and should be protected,” the elf replied coldly. “Nothing justifies wide-scale slaughter and sacrifice of life, which is what the battles at Sodden were – both the battle lost and the battle won. Both of them cost the humans thousands of lives. And with them, you lost unimaginable potential—”
“Elven prattle!” snarled Sheldon Skaggs. “Dim-witted rubbish! It was the price that had to be paid to allow others to live decently, in peace, instead of being chained, blinded, whipped and forced to work in salt and sulphur mines. Those who died a heroic death, those who will now, thanks to Dandilion, live on forever in our memories, taught us to defend our own homes. Sing your ballads, Dandilion, sing them to everyone. Your lesson won’t go to waste, and it’ll come in handy, you’ll see! Because, mark my words, Nilfgaard will attack us again. If not today, then tomorrow! They’re licking their wounds now, recovering, but the day when we’ll see their black cloaks and feathered helmets again is growing ever nearer!”
“What do they want from us?” yelled Vera Loewenhaupt. “Why are they bent on persecuting us? Why don’t they leave us in peace, leave us to our lives and work? What do the Nilfgaardians want?”
“They want our blood!” howled Baron Vilibert.
“And our land!” someone cried from the crowd of peasants.
“And our women!” chimed in Sheldon Skaggs, with a ferocious glower.
Several people started to laugh – as quietly and furtively as they could. Even though the idea that anyone other than another dwarf would desire one of the exceptionally unattractive dwarf-women was highly amusing, it was not a safe subject for teasing or jests – especially not in the presence of the short, stocky, bearded individuals whose axes and short-swords had an ugly habit of leaping from their belts and into their hands at incredible speed. And the dwarves, for some unknown reason, were entirely convinced that the rest of the world was lecherously lying in wait for their wives and daughters, and were extremely touchy about it.
“This had to happen at some point,” the grey-haired druid declared suddenly. “This had to happen. We forgot that we are not the only ones in this world, that the whole of creation does not revolve around us. Like stupid, fat, lazy minnows in a slimy pond we chose not to accept the existence of pike. We allowed our world, like the pond, to become slimy, boggy and sluggish. Look around you – there is crime and sin everywhere, greed, the pursuit of profit, quarrels and disagreements are rife. Our traditions are disappearing, respect for our values is fading. Instead of living according to Nature we have begun to destroy it. And what have we got for it? The air is poisoned by the stink of smelting furnaces, the rivers and brooks are tainted by slaughter houses and tanneries, forests are being cut down without a thought… Ha – just look! – even on the living bark of sacred Bleobheris, there just above the poet’s head, there’s a foul phrase carved out with a knife – and it’s misspelled at that – by a stupid, illiterate vandal. Why are you surprised? It had to end badly—”
“Yes, yes!” the fat priest joined in. “Come to your senses, you sinners, while there is still time, because the anger and vengeance of the gods hangs over you! Remember Ithlin’s oracle, the prophetic words describing the punishment of the gods reserved for a tribe poisoned by crime! ‘The Time of Contempt will come, when the tree will lose its leaves, the bud will wither, the fruit will rot, the seed turn bitter and the river valleys will run with ice instead of water. The White Chill will come, and after it the White Light, and the world will perish beneath blizzards.’ Thus spoke Seeress Ithlin! And before this comes to pass there will be visible signs, plagues will ravish the earth – Remember! – the Nilfgaard are our punishment from the gods! They are the whip with which the Immortals will lash you sinners, so that you may—”
“Shut up, you sanctimonious old man!” roared Sheldon Skaggs, stamping his heavy boots. “Your superstitious rot makes me s
ick! My guts are churning—”
“Careful, Sheldon.” The tall elf cut him short with a smile. “Don’t mock another’s religion. It is not pleasant, polite or… safe.”
“I’m not mocking anything,” protested the dwarf. “I don’t doubt the existence of the gods, but it annoys me when someone drags them into earthly matters and tries to pull the wool over my eyes using the prophecies of some crazy elf. The Nilfgaardians are the instrument of the gods? Rubbish! Search back through your memories to the past, to the days of Dezmod, Radowid and Sambuk, to the days of Abrad, the Old Oak! You may not remember them, because your lives are so very short – you’re like Mayflies – but I remember, and I’ll tell you what it was like in these lands just after you climbed from your boats on the Yaruga Estuary and the Pontar Delta onto the beach. Three kingdoms sprang from the four ships which beached on those shores; the stronger groups absorbed the weaker and so grew, strengthening their positions. They invaded others’ territories, conquered them, and their kingdoms expanded, becoming ever larger and more powerful. And now the Nilfgaardians are doing the same, because theirs is a strong and united, disciplined and tightly knit country. And unless you close ranks in the same way, Nilfgaard will swallow you as a pike does a minnow – just as this wise druid said!”
“Let them just try!” Donimir of Troy puffed out his lion-emblazoned chest and shook his sword in its scabbard. “We beat them hollow on Sodden Hill, and we can do it again!”
“You’re very cocksure,” snarled Sheldon Skaggs. “You’ve evidently forgotten, sir knight, that before the battle of Sodden Hill, the Nilfgaard had advanced across your lands like an iron roller, strewing the land between Marnadal and Transriver with the corpses of many a gallant fellow like yourself. And it wasn’t loud-mouthed smart-arses like you who stopped the Nilfgaardians, but the united strengths of Temeria, Redania, Aedirn and Kaedwen. Concord and unity, that’s what stopped them!”

Blood of Elves by Andrzej Sapkowski / Fantasy have rating