From the Publisher:

At the initiative of the editorial team at Nowa Fantastyka, and to provide proper context for the early-release excerpt of Andrzej Sapkowski’s novel Crossroads of the Crows, we present a passage from another of his works, Voice of Reason 4, part of the collection The Last Wish.

In this excerpt, Geralt recounts an event from his youth to Iola.

[…] until the day when I left Kaer Morhen and took to the road. I'd earned my medallion, the Sign of the Wolf's School. I had two swords: silver and iron, and my conviction, enthusiasm, incentive and . . . faith. Faith that I was needed in a world full of monsters and beasts, to protect the innocent. As I left Kaer Morhen I dreamed of meeting my first monster. I couldn't wait to stand eye to eye with him. And the moment arrived.

 'My first monster, Iola, was bald and had exceptionally rotten teeth. I came across him on the highway where, with some fellow monsters, deserters, he'd stopped a peasant's cart and pulled out a little girl, maybe thirteen years old. His companions held her father while the bald man tore off her dress, yelling it was time for her to meet a real man. I rode up and said the time had come for him, too - I thought I was very witty. The bald monster released the girl and threw himself at me with an axe. He was slow but tough. I hit him twice — not clean cuts, but spectacular, and only then did he fall. His gang ran away when they saw what a witcher's sword could do to a man . . .

 'Am I boring you, Iola?

'I need this. I really do need it. 'Where was I? My first noble deed. You see, they'd told me again and again in Kaer Morhen not to get involved in such incidents, not to play at being knight errant or uphold the law. Not to show off, but to work for money. And I joined this fight like an idiot, not fifty miles from the mountains. And do you know why? I wanted the girl, sobbing with gratitude, to kiss her saviour on the hands, and her father to thank me on his knees. In reality her father fled with his attackers, and the girl, drenched in the bald man's blood, threw up, became hysterical and fainted in fear when I approached her. Since then, I've only very rarely interfered in such matters.

Kaedwen is a land pressed between the Dragon Mountains to the north, the Blue Mountains to the east, and the impenetrable forests to the west.
        The hereditary kings of the Topp dynasty reign there. Their original capital was in ancient Ban Ard, but in the year 1130 post Resurrectionem, King Dagread gifted that stronghold to the sorcerers for use as a school and moved the capital to Ard Carraigh, situated in the heart of the land. Other major towns of Kaedwen include Ban Fearg, Daevon, Ban Fillim, and Ban Gleann.
        The coat of arms of the Topps and of the entire realm, has since time immemorial been the unicorn – d'or, licorne effrayée de sable.
        Surrounding the royal lands of Kaedwen are frontier territories held in common known as marches or marki. These lands are administered by margraves, or counts, whether hereditary or appointed by the king. The name derives from the role of those lands to act as the kingdom’s forward guard, advancing ever further, conquering and wresting new lands from the elves for Kaedwen, pushing the borders outward, and planting new markers, id est marki, further. The marches are as follows: the Western March, the Upper March, the Lakeside March, and the Lower March.

Baldwin Adovardo, Regni Caedvenie Nova Descriptio

—

Chapter One

Despite his most sincere efforts—and for rather important reasons—Geralt simply couldn’t focus on the mayor’s prattling. His attention was wholly consumed by the large stuffed crow on the mayor’s desk. The crow, leering at the witcher with its glassy eye, stood atop a base of green-painted clay, both its legs embedded into it. The crow then, for all its utterly lifelike appearance, could in no way be alive—of that there was no doubt. Why then, Geralt couldn’t help but marvel, had the crow already blinked at him several times with that glassy eye?

Would that be magic? Likely not, for his witcher medallion hadn’t twitched, nor vibrated—not even once, not even the faintest bit. Was it a hallucination then? A delusion? Perhaps caused by the fact that he’d been struck on the head a few times

“I’ll repeat the question,”  Mayor Bulava repeated the question. “I’ll repeat it, though I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”

Mayor Bulava had already assured Geralt multiple times that he wasn’t in the habit of repetition. And yet, he kept repeating himself, and often. Evidently enjoying it, despite not being in the habit.

“I’ll repeat my question: what was this really about? What did you have against that deserter that you hacked him up so awfully? Some old grudge? Because I cannot, you see, believe that it was about that farmer and about the lady’s honour of his daughter. That you came rushing to the rescue. Like some shitting gallant knight errant.”

The crow leered. Geralt shifted his hands bound behind him, trying to restore some blood flow. The cord cut painfully into his wrists. Behind his back, he could hear the heavy breathing of a village thug. The thug stood right behind him, and Geralt was certain he was just waiting for an excuse to cuff him in the ear again.

Mayor Bulava huffed, sprawled in his chair, and puffed out his belly, straining his velvet doublet. Geralt stared at the front of the doublet, piecing together what the mayor had eaten today, yesterday, and the day before. And that at least one of those meals, he concluded, had been with tomato sauce.

"I thought," said the mayor at last, "that I’d never have to lay eyes on one of you, witchers. Haven’t seen a witcher around here in years. They said that after ‘94, hardly any of you made it out alive, up there, in the mountains. Then the word was that the rest of you had died off too— from hunger or plague. And here you have it, one like you shows up, and right in my village. And the first thing you do is commit murder. Then, caught red-handed, you have the gall to invoke some ploughing decrees."

"By the authority of the royal decree of 1150," Geralt rasped, clearing his throat, "issued by Dagread, the King of Kaedwen and the Border Marches, primo: witchers are permitted to freely practise their trade within the territories of the Kingdom and the Marches and are exempt from the jurisdiction of local authorities..."

"First primo," Bulava interrupted sharply, "Dagread’s been dust for almost half a century now, and with him,  his autocratic decrees. Second primo, no king is going to exempt anyone out of anything around here, because the king is in Ard Carraigh, far away from here, and here rules the local authority. That means me. And third primo, brother, you’re not under arrest for practising your trade—but for murder. Catching werewolves and killing leshys, that’s your witcher’s work. But carving people up? No king gave you the privileges for that."

"I acted in defence—"

"Daryl!"

The thug obediently slammed his fist into Geralt’s neck this time.

“Your repetition,” the mayor said, looking up at the ceiling, “is irritating. Do you know what an irritation can lead to? Even in a calm man like me?”

The crow leered with its glassy eye. Geralt stayed silent.

“You,” Bulava finally said, “are not a witcher. You’re a defect. You need fixing. You should be sent back to that mountain lair of yours, that people talk about. I don’t know how it is with your lot. It’s possible that such a failure like you gets taken apart for component parts to use in a production of new, better witchers. Because that’s what you lot do there, isn’t it? They make witchers out of various human bits and pieces—assembled, stitched or glued together, or however it’s done. People say all sorts of things. So, not to waste words… I’ll send you back, you failed witcher, back to the mountains, beyond Gwenllech. In a week.”

Geralt stayed silent.

“You won’t even ask, why in a week?” The mayor bared his yellow teeth in a grin. “You like to invoke decrees and laws. Well, I’m all for the law, too. And the law says that outsiders aren’t allowed to carry weapons in this borough. And yet here you came, armed.”

Geralt wanted to protest that he hadn’t come in, but rather had been dragged in. He didn’t get the chance.

“The punishment,” Bulava declared, “is twenty lashes. The punishment will be carried out by Daryl here, and he has a heavy hand. You won’t be back on your feet before a week. Now, take him. To the square with him, tie him to the post...”

“Hold it, hold it,” said a man entering the room, halting the thugs. He wore a dull grey cloak, its hem noticeably grimy. “What’s got you, Bulava, so eager for that post and whip? You want to mangle up my witcher? No chance of that. I need the witcher whole and healthy for the construction.”

“And who are you,” the mayor retorted, planting his hands on his hips, “to interfere in an execution, Blaufall? It’s enough I have to suffer you, constantly taking people from my village away for the labour levy. But don’t meddle in my jurisdiction—it’s none of your business, my jurisdiction. A crime must be punished...”

“Hogwash, not crime” Blaufall interrupted. “There’s no crime here, of any kind—it’s self-defence and saving people. Don’t pull faces, don’t pull faces, because I’ve got a witness right here. Go on now, goodman. Come, don’t be afraid. Tell him what happened and how.”

Geralt recognized the farmer. The same one he had rescued from a robbery yesterday, and who had fled into the forest instead of offering thanks. The father of the girl—Geralt remembered—stripped down to her shift.

“I testify...” the peasant spluttered, pointing a finger at Geralt. “I testify on my word that this young man came to my aid against brigands... Saved my property... my daughter from disgrace he saved... Delivered the innocent from the clutches of bandits...”

“And that the deserter,” Blaufall prompted, “charged at him with an axe. The young man was only defending himself. Self-defence! Confirm it, goodman, that’s how it happened.”

“That’s how it happened... Exactly so! Honourable mayor, the young man is not at fault!” The villager was pale and unnaturally loud. “Honourable mayor! Release him, I beg you. And here... Please, take this... To cover, hmm... maybe any costs or losses that might have been incurred... I’ll gladly compensate.”

Bowing obsequiously, the peasant handed the mayor a small purse. Bulava quickly tucked it into the pocket of his puffy trousers, so skillfully that the purse didn’t even jingle.

“Self-defence!” he snorted. “Cut a man to pieces with a sword—a swing like a bell-ringer. Innocent young man... I’d have him...”

They stepped out into the square. The thugs shoved Geralt forward without untying his hands.

“And you, Blaufall,” the mayor asked, “why are you so hot-headed, that you even dragged a witness here to me? Do you really need this witcher so badly?”

“And what, as if you don’t know? We’re building a road, the Great Road, from Ard Carraigh through the forests all the way to Hengfors, it’s supposed to be. And not just any path or track, but a proper highway, dry and level, paved with logs and brushwood so wagons and carriages can pass. It’s an important thing, the Great Road. It’ll carry heavy trade from our lands, that is, to the North.The king himself, I hear, ordered it to be hurried. But there are monsters in the woods and swamps—workers keep getting snatched—killed or kidnaped by beasts”

“And since when do you care about workers? You’ve always said that workers don’t matter—lose one, get another.”

“Workers, dogs plough them—they’re mostly from the labour levy anyway. But sometimes a monster gets a foreman, and that disorganises the work, halts the entire front. Ah, what’s there to talk about? I say—I need the witcher. If I miss the deadline, devils will take my bonus, but they’ll send an inspection too. And inspections...”

“Always find something,” Bulava nodded in understanding “Misappropriated materials, inflated cost estimates, something like that...”

“Don’t get off topic,” Blaufall grimaced. “Release the witcher immediately, no delays. I’ll take him to the site right away...Oh, what the—what’s going on?”

“Soldiers from the garrison,” the mayor said, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Master Carleton’s troops.”

Raising dust and scattering the chickens, about a dozen mounted soldiers galloped in to the square. Armed. Dressed in colourful, gaudy, and rather ragtag outfits. Only the two at the front looked more elegant. The commander—a moustachioed man in a salmon pink doublet, with a gilded pendant and a hat adorned with a plume of ostrich feathers. And a long-haired elf with a headband, in a scout’s green uniform.

“Master Captain Reiss Carleton,” Bulava greeted, stepping forward to meet them. “Welcome, welcome. To what do we owe this honour?”

Captain Reiss Carleton leaned in his saddle and spat with gusto. Then he gestured to the scout. The elf rode up to the post with the crossbeam and deftly tossed a noose-tipped rope over the saddle horn.

“Ah, I see.” Bulava planted his hands on his hips and glanced over his shoulder to make sure his thugs were standing behind him. “Captain Carleton has come to my village for a hanging, it seems. Oh, I can even see who’s bound for the gallows today. I see, I see—those two over there in ropes. Ha, so, Captain, you’ve hunted down the deserters from your garrison, have you? The ones who’ve been skulking in my woods, attacking the peasants and wenches?”

“Those,” Captain Reisz Carleton twirled his moustache, “I don’t plan on hanging. The pair of them will be running the gauntlet of birch rods—so they’ll remember. That’s all. I’ve too few men to hang them for every little thing. Or to let some vagabond kill them with impunity.”

The captain straightened in his saddle and raised his voice, addressing not just the mayor but also the village thugs, Blaufall, his lackeys, and the growing crowd of villagers gathering to watch.

“What should I punish my soldiers for? What for? For leaving without permission? For wanting to fuck some wench? We’re all stuck here at the garrison like at the end of the world, like we’re exiled, like we’re being punished. You won’t find no ale, no women here... What do you expect? Of course, the boys sometimes go out on the prowl, grab someone...”

“And why the devil,” Reiss Carleton raised his voice, “are women wandering through the woods in the first place? And this goodman here, what’s his excuse, eh? Dragging his daughter along that way—couldn’t he leave her at home? And then wonder that the boys wanted...I don’t approve! I don’t approve, but I understand! Sergeant Aelvarr? Are we ready?”

“Ready, Captain.”

“Then bring me that witcher, Bulava. He killed one of my soldiers; he’ll hang for it. An example must be set. And don’t cut him down, mayor—let him dangle there. As a warning to the others.”

Blaufall stepped forward, made as if to speak, then stopped. The thugs grabbed Geralt, but hesitated, unsure. Rightly so, as it turned out.

Suddenly, an odd hush fell over the square, and some cold draft seemed to pass through. Slowly, from behind the barns, a sable, tar-black horse strode into the square. It carried a rider. White-haired, clad in a black leather coat studded on the shoulders with silver rivets. Over his right shoulder jutted the hilts of two swords.

Slowly, almost gracefully, the black horse passed the villagers and the mayor to stop in front of Captain Carleton’s cavalry. For a moment, there was silence. Then the black horse tossed its head.

The rings of its curb bit jingled.

“Master mayor Bulava,” the white-haired rider broke the silence, “will immediately release the young witcher. Return his horse, his weapons, and his belongings. At once.”

“Yes...” the mayor coughed. “Yes, master Holt. Right away...”

“Captain Carleton.” The rider inclined his head slightly. “Greetings.”

“Witcher Preston Holt,” Reisz Carleton touched the brim of his hat. “Greetings.”

“Captain,” the rider raised his voice, “kindly take your elf, his string, and the rest of your men and leave. You’re no longer needed here. Today’s lynching is canceled.”

“Is that so?” The captain straightened in his saddle, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “You seem very sure of yourself, master witcher.”

“Yes, I am sure.” The witcher’s voice was calm. “Farewell. Mayor, is the boy freed? Are his belongings returned?”

“Ah, you bastard!” one of Carleton’s mounted men roared, yanking his sword from its scabbard and spurring his horse forward. “I’ll...”

He didn’t finish. The rider, named Preston Holt, raised his hand and made a quick gesture. The air howled and whistled, forcing the villagers to cover their ears. The mounted man screamed, launched from his saddle as if fired from a catapult, and came down heavily, limply, under the hooves of his comrades’ horses. The other mounts spooked, snorted, stamped, and tossed their heads. One reared. The man’s horse bolted, galloping between the huts, kicking and bucking wildly.

Silence fell.

“Anyone else?” Preston Holt raised his gloved hand. “Anyone eager to make a stand? Play the hero? No? I thought as much. Farewell, gentlemen soldiers. Is the young witcher in the saddle?”

“He is,” Geralt replied.

“Then let’s be off. Follow me.”

© Andrzej Sapkowski

Nowa Fantasyka, Dec, 2024

Fan translation by DameGorthaur