ANDRZEJ SAPKOWSKI OSTATNIE ZYCZENIE PDF

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He came on foot, leading his laden horse by the bridle. It was hot but the man had a black coat thrown over his shoulders. He drew attention to himself. He stopped in front of the Old Narakort Inn, stood there for a moment, listened to the hubbub of voices. As usual, at this hour, it was full of people. The stranger did not enter the Old Narakort.

He pulled his horse farther down the street to another tavern, a smaller one, called The Fox. Not enjoying the best of reputations, it was almost empty. The innkeeper raised his head above a barrel of pickled cucumbers and measured the man with his gaze.

The outsider, still in his coat, stood stiffly in front of the counter, motionless and silent. His voice was unpleasant. The innkeeper wiped his hands on his canvas apron and filled a chipped earthenware tankard. The stranger was not old but his hair was almost entirely white. Beneath his coat he wore a worn leather jerkin laced up at the neck and shoulders.

As he took off his coat those around him noticed that he carried a sword— not something unusual in itself, nearly every man in Wyzim carried a weapon —but no one carried a sword strapped to his back as if it were a bow or a quiver.

The stranger did not sit at the table with the few other guests. He remained standing at the counter, piercing the innkeeper with his gaze. He drew from the tankard. He was Rivian. A pockmarked beanpole of a man who, from the moment the outsider had entered had not taken his gloomy eyes from him, got up and 8 approached the counter. Two of his companions rose behind him, no more than two paces away.

This is a decent town! He glanced at the innkeeper, who avoided his eyes.

It did not even occur to him to defend the Rivian. After all, who liked Rivians? Only now did the Rivian look at him. One of the men behind him raised a fist to strike. The outsider curled up on the spot, throwing the pockmarked man off balance.

The sword hissed in its sheath and glistened briefly in the dim light.

The place seethed. There was a scream, and one of the few remaining customers tumbled toward the exit. A chair fell with a crash and earthenware smacked hollowly against the floor. The innkeeper, his lips trembling, looked at the horribly slashed face of the pocked man, who, clinging with his fingers to the edge of the counter, was slowly sinking from sight.

The other two were lying on the floor, one motionless, the other writhing and convulsing in a dark, spreading puddle. The stranger retreated toward the wall, tense and alert.

He held the sword in both hands, sweeping the blade through the air. No one moved. Terror, like cold mud, was clear on their faces, paralyzing limbs and blocking throats. Three guards rushed into the tavern with thuds and clangs.

They must have been close by. They had truncheons wound with leather straps at the ready, but at the sight of the corpses, drew their swords. The Rivian pressed his back against the wall and, with his left hand, pulled a dagger from his boot. He quickly pinned his blade under his left arm and with his right hand raised toward the guards, swiftly drew a complicated sign in the air.

The clout-nails which studded his tunic from his wrists to elbows flashed. The guards drew back, shielding their faces with their arms. One of the customers sprang up while another darted to the door. The woman screamed again, wild and earsplitting. Take me to the castellan. He made toward the exit, looking around tentatively. The other two guards followed him out backward, hastily.

The stranger followed in their tracks, sheathing his sword and dagger. As they passed the tables the remaining customers hid their faces from the dangerous stranger. He was neither superstitious nor fainthearted but he did not relish the thought of being alone with the white-haired man.

At last he made up his mind. No, not there. Farther away, if you please. He no longer carried his sword or black coat. What do you have to say to me, you brigand, before you are thrown into the dungeon? Three killed and an attempted spell-casting; not bad, not bad at all. Men are impaled for such things in Wyzim. A proclamation is a proclamation, witcher, but law is law—and I take care of law and order in Wyzim.

I will not allow people to be murdered! They had truncheons wound with leather straps at the ready, but at the sight of the corpses, drew their swords.

The Rivian pressed his back against the wall and, with his left hand, pulled a dagger from his boot. He quickly pinned his blade under his left arm and with his right hand raised toward the guards, swiftly drew a complicated sign in the air. The clout-nails which studded his tunic from his wrists to elbows flashed.

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The guards drew back, shielding their faces with their arms. One of the customers sprang up while another darted to the door. The woman screamed again, wild and earsplitting. Take me to the castellan. He made toward the exit, looking around tentatively. The other two guards followed him out backward, hastily.

The stranger followed in their tracks, sheathing his sword and dagger.

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As they passed the tables the remaining customers hid their faces from the dangerous stranger. He was neither superstitious nor fainthearted but he did not relish the thought of being alone with the white-haired man. At last he made up his mind. No, not there.

Farther away, if you please. He no longer carried his sword or black coat. What do you have to say to me, you brigand, before you are thrown into the dungeon? Three killed and an attempted spell-casting; not bad, not bad at all. Men are impaled for such things in Wyzim. A proclamation is a proclamation, witcher, but law is law—and I take care of law and order in Wyzim. I will not allow people to be murdered! Do you understand?

Velerad snorted with anger. It pictured the head of a wolf, baring its fangs. Of Rivia I gather, from your accent? Do you know what, Geralt?

Many have tried and failed already. This, my friend, is not the same as roughing up a couple of scoundrels. This is my job, Velerad. And that proclamation offers a three thousand oren reward. He was sitting motionless, his hands on his knees. Twenty years ago who would have thought, even in a drunken stupor, that such a profession as a witcher would exist?

Itinerant killers of basilisks; traveling slayers of dragons and vodniks! Tell me, Geralt, are you allowed beer in your guild? What do I care? Mahakam, in the mountains, is teeming with bogeymen. Fairies and rusalkas snatch children from villages by the hundreds. We have diseases never heard of before; it makes my hair stand on end. And now, to top it all, this! Yes, I know them. Not firsthand perhaps, but from a good source. We hoped he would grow out of it.

But shortly after his coronation Foltest surpassed himself, jaw-droppingly: Adda was younger and they were always together, but nobody suspected anything except, perhaps, the queen… To get to the point: The situation was made even more tense because Vizimir of Novigrad wanted his daughter, Dalka, to marry Foltest and had already sent out his envoys. We had to restrain Foltest from insulting them, and lucky we did, or Vizimir would have torn our insides out. And now listen, because this is where it all starts.

Only a few saw what she bore, but one midwife jumped from the tower window to her death and the other lost her senses and remains dazed to this day. So I gather that the royal bastard—a girl—was not comely, and she died immediately. No one was in a hurry to tie the umbilical cord. Nor did Adda, to her good fortune, survive the birth.

Wisdom dictated that the royal bastard should have been burned or buried in the wilderness. Instead, on the orders of our gracious king, she was laid to rest in a sarcophagus in the vaults beneath the palace. Of course. About ten of them came running later, when it became known what lay in the sarcophagus.

And what scrambled out of it at night. Oh, no. For seven years after the funeral there was peace. Then one night—it was a full moon—there were screams in the palace, shouting and commotion! The infant had grown in the coffin—and how! In a word, she became a striga. And I think they regularly are.

No doubt you do, in your profession, but to me they are swindlers and fools.

You witchers inspire greater confidence in men. At least you are more straightforward. One suggested burning the striga together with the palace and the sarcophagus. Another advised chopping her head off.

Unfortunately one, a jester with a pointed hat and a bald pate, a hunchbacked hermit, argued it was magic: Someone simply had to stay in the crypt throughout the night, and that would be that. After which—can you imagine such a fool?

Little of him was left in the morning, only, I believe, his hat and stick.

ANDRZEJ SAPKOWSKI OSTATNIE ZYCZENIE PDF

He forbade any attempt to kill the striga and brought in charlatans from all corners of Wyzim to reverse the spell and turn her into a princess.

What colorful company! Twisted women, cripples, dirty and louse- ridden. It was pitiful. Of course some were quickly exposed as frauds by Foltest or the council.

A few were even hung on the palisades, but not enough of them. I would have hung them all.

ANDRZEJ SAPKOWSKI OSTATNIE ZYCZENIE PDF

Or that Foltest was no longer living in the palace. No one lived there anymore. Foltest sporadically hints at marriage and looks over portraits from neighboring courts, which he then throws down the privy. And every now and then this mania seizes hold of him again, and he sends horsemen out to look for new sorcerers. His promised reward, the three thousand, has attracted any number of cranks, stray knights, even a shepherd known throughout the whole region as a cretin, may he rest in peace.

But the striga is still doing well. Every now and again she gets her teeth into someone. You get used to it.

Foltest has a new palace, of course, quite a fine one.He pulled his horse farther down the street to another tavern, a smaller one, called The Fox. After all, who liked Rivians? What do I care? No one was in a hurry to tie the umbilical cord.

One of them starts taunting Geralt while his friends hold the witcher still, then proceeds to repeatedly punch the witcher in the stomach.

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