Анджей Сапковский - Lesser Evil

"There will be not another Tridam here," said Geralt with effort.

"There wouldn't be one. Stregobor jeered at me. He said I could slaughter all of Blaviken and add a few nearby villages, and yet, he shall not leave the tower. And he shall let nobody — you included — in. Why are you staring like that? Yes, I have cheated you. I have cheated throughout my life, if there was a need, why should I have made an exception for you?"

"Go away from here, Renfri."

She laughed.

"No, Geralt," she unsheathed her sword quickly and smoothly.

"Renfri."

"No, Geralt. You have made your choice. Now, it is my turn."

With one sharp move she tore her skirt off her hips, whirled it in the air, wrapping the cloth around her left forearm. Geralt backed, raised his hand, shaping his fingers together into a Sign. Renfri laughed again in a short sniggering laughter.

"To no avail, white-haired. Can't hurt me this way. Only the sword."

"Renfri," he repeated, "go away. If we but let the blades cross, I… will no longer… be able…"

"I know," she said. "But I cannot… I cannot do otherwise, either. I just cannot. We are what we are. You and me."

She advanced in light swaying paces. In her right, outstretched hand there was her sword glistening, in the left one, she had the skirt: its end trailing in the dust. Geralt took two steps back.

She jumped forward, waved her left hand: the skirt swished in the air. Following it close, partially out of sight, the sword flickered in a short, sparing cut. Geralt retreated, the cloth not even touching him, and Renfri's blade sliding down his inclined parry. Geralt mechanically parried it with the middle of the blade, and engaged both the swords in a short tierce, trying to wrench her weapon. It was a mistake. She parried his blow and immediately — her knees bent, and her hips swaying — she attacked, aiming at the face. Geralt hardly managed to parry that blow, and jumped aside from the cloth of the skirt falling down on him. He whirled in a pirouette, avoiding the blade flashing in rapid slashes, and jumped aside again. She bore straight into him, thrusting her skirt into his eyes and, half-turned, she made a flat cut from a reduced distance. He avoided being hit, turning close to her. He knew that trick. She turned together with him so that he felt her breath. She ran her blade across his chest. He felt the pain jerking his body, yet it didn't break his rhythm.

He turned once again, this time the other way, deflected the blade driven towards his temple, and attacked after a fast feint. Renfri jumped to the side, and prepared for a cut at head. Geralt, kneeling in a lunge, swiftly slashed her from below, with the foible of his sword, through the unprotected thigh and the groin.

She did not cry. Falling to her knee, she let her sword go, and clung with both her hands to the slashed thigh. Blood spurted in a bright stream from between her fingers onto her ornamented belt, onto the elken shoes, on the filthy cobbles. The mob, pressed into the little streets swayed and cried out.

Geralt sheathed the sword.

"Don't go!" she moaned, curling into a ball.

He did not answer.

"I… am… cold…"

He did not answer. Renfri moaned again, curling up even more. Little quick torrents of blood were filling the cracks between stones.

"Geralt… embrace me…"

He did not answer.

She turned her head and went still with a cheek touching the cobbles.

An extremely thin-bladed stiletto, so far concealed under her body, slipped from her stiffening fingers.

After a while, long as eternity itself, the hexer raised his head hearing the tattoo of Stregobor's stave on the cobbles. The sorcerer was hastily approaching, making his way among the corpses.

"What a carnage," he gasped, "I saw all of it, Geralt, I saw everything in the crystal…"

He came closer and bent down. In his flowing robe, leaning on the stave, he looked old, very old.

"One would not believe" he turned his head. "The Shrike, quite dead."

Geralt did not answer.

"Well, Geralt," the sorcerer stood up straight, "Go, get a cart.

We'll take her to the tower. Post-mortem is waiting."

He looked at the hexer and, having received no answer, bent down over the body.

Someone the hexer didn't know, reached for the hilt of his sword, and unsheathed it very quickly, indeed.

"Just touch her, you witch," said someone the hexer didn't know, "Just touch her, and your head rolls down to the cobbles."

"What? Geralt? Have you gone mad? You're wounded, in a shock! Postmortem is the only way to prove…"

"Do not touch her!"

Seeing the rising blade, Stregobor jumped aside and waved his stave.

"Right!" He shouted, "as you wish! But you will never know! You will never be sure! Never, you hear me, hexer?"

"Away!"

"As you wish," the sorcerer turned and hit his stave against the cobbles. "I am going back to Kovir. I'm not staying another day in this whistlestop. Come with me and stay not here! These people know nothing: they only saw you kill. And you kill in a nasty way, Geralt. What, you coming?"

Geralt did not answer, he didn't even look at him. He put back his sword. Stregobor shrugged his arms, and left making fast strides, tapping his stave rhythmically.

A stone sailed from the crowd and thudded on the cobbles. Another one followed, flying low over Geralt's arm. The hexer, standing straight, raised both the hands and made a quick gesture with them. The crowd murmured, and more stones were hurled but the Sign pushed them aside: they were passing by their target, protected with an invisible convex shield.

"Enough!!!" yelled Caldemeyn, "End it, dammit all!"

The crowd made a sound like a wave of the tide but the stones did not stop flying. The hexer did not move.

The sheriff approached him.

"Is that," he said, pointing with a sweeping gesture at the still bodies strewn all over the little square, "All over now? Is that the lesser evil you have chosen? Have you settled everything you deem necessary?"

"Yes." Answered Geralt, with an effort, after a pause.

"Is your wound serious?"

"No."

"Then, away with thee."

"Yes," said the hexer. He kept standing for one more moment, avoiding the sheriff's gaze. Then he turned slowly. Very slowly.

"Geralt."

The hexer looked round.

"Never return," said Caldemeyn, "Never."

Andrzej Sapkowski

Translation by Piotr Krasnowolski