Andrzej Sapkowski - Blood of Elves

"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, poetry 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 Lionness 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 to, 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 Dinners, 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-'