Blood of Elves

Dandilion's feet tore off the dirt floor. The poet whistled through his nose, unable to do anything more.

'Enough,' Rience snapped at last – he spoke almost immediately, yet it had seemed an age to Dandilion. The bard's feet touched the ground but, despite his most heart-felt desire, he could not kneel again – the tight drawn rope was still holding him as taut as a string.

Rience came closer. There was not even a trace of emotion on his face; the damp eyes had not changed their expression in the least. His tone of voice, too, remained calm, quiet, even a little bored.

'You nasty rhymester. You runt. You scum. You arrogant nobody. You tried to run from me? No one has escaped me yet. We haven't finished our conversation, you clown, you sheep's head. I asked you a question under much pleasanter circumstances than these. Now you are going to answer all my questions, and in far less pleasant circumstances. Am I right?'

Dandilion nodded eagerly. Only now did Rience smile and make a sign. The bard squealed helplessly, feeling the rope tighten and his arms, twisted backwards, cracking in their joints.

You can't talk,' Rience confirmed, still smiling loathsomely, 'and it hurts, doesn't it? For the moment, you should know I'm having you strung up like this for my own pleasure just because I love watching people suffer. Go on, just a little higher.'

Dandilion was wheezing so hard he almost choked.

'Enough,' Rience finally ordered, then approached the poet and grabbed him by his shirt ruffles. 'Listen to me, you little cock. I'm going to lift the spell so you can talk. But if you try to raise your charming voice any louder than necessary, you'll be sorry.'

He made a gesture with his hand, touched the poet's cheek with his ring and Dandilion felt sensation return to his jaw, tongue and palate.

'Now,' Rience continued quietly, 'I am going to ask you a few questions and you are going to answer them quickly, fluently and comprehensively. And if you stammer or hesitate even for a moment, if you give me the slightest reason to doubt the truth of your words, then… Look down.'

Dandilion obeyed. He discovered to his horror that a short rope had been tied to the knots around his ankles, with a bucket full of lime attached to the other end.

'If I have you pulled any higher,' Rience smiled cruelly, 'and this bucket lifts with you, then you will probably never regain the feeling in your hands. After that, I doubt you will be capable of playing anything on a lute. I really doubt it. So I think you'll talk to me. Am I right?'

Dandilion didn't agree because he couldn't move his head or find his voice out of sheer fright. But Rience did not seem to require confirmation.

'It is to be understood,' he stated, 'that I will know immediately if you are telling the truth, if you try to trick me I will realise straight away, and I won't be fooled by any poetic ploys or vague erudition. This is a trifle for me – just as paralysing you on the stairs was a trifle. So I advise you to weigh each word with care, you piece of scum. So, let's get on with it and stop wasting time. As you know, I'm interested in the heroine of one of your beautiful ballads, Queen Calanthe of Cintra's granddaughter, Princess Cirilla, endearingly known as Ciri. According to eye-witnesses this little person died during the siege of the town, two years ago. Whereas in your ballad you so vividly and touchingly described her meeting a strange, almost legendary individual, the… witcher… Geralt, or Gerald. Leaving the poetic drivel about destiny and the decrees of fate aside, from the rest of the ballad it seems the child survived the Battle of Cintra in one piece. Is that true?'

'I don't know…' moaned Dandilion. 'By all the gods, I'm only a poet! I've heard this and that, and the rest…'

'Well?'

'The rest I invented. Made it up! I don't know anything!' The bard howled on seeing Rience give a sign to the reeking man and feeling the rope tighten. 'I'm not lying!'

'True.' Rience nodded. 'You're not lying outright, I would have sensed it. But you are beating about the bush. You wouldn't have thought the ballad up just like that, not without reason. And you do know the witcher, after all. You have often been seen in his company. So talk, Dandilion, if you treasure your joints. Everything you know.'

'This Ciri,' panted the poet, 'was destined for the witcher. She's a so-called Child Surprise… You must have heard it, the story's well known. Her parents swore to hand her over to the witcher-'

'Her parents are supposed to have handed the child over to that crazed mutant? That murderous mercenary? You're lying, rhymester. Keep such tales for women.'

'That's what happened, I swear on my mother's soul,' sobbed Dandilion. 'I have it from a reliable source… The witcher-'

'Talk about the girl. For the moment I'm not interested in the witcher.'

'I don't know anything about the girl! I only know that the witcher was going to fetch her from Cintra when the war broke out. I met him at the time. He heard about the massacre, about Calanthe's death, from me… He asked me about the child, the queen's granddaughter… But I knew everyone in Cintra was killed, not a single soul in the last bastion survived-'

'Go on. Fewer metaphors, more hard facts!'

'When the witcher learned of the massacre and fall of Cintra he forsook his journey. We both escaped north. We parted ways in Hengfors and I haven't seen him since… But because he talked, on the way, a bit about this… Ciri, or whatever-her-name-is… and about destiny… Well, I made up this ballad. I don't know any more, I swear!'

Rience scowled at him.

'And where is this witcher now?' he asked. 'This hired monster murderer, this poetic butcher who likes to discuss destiny?'

'I told you, the last time I saw him-'

'I know what you said,' Rience interrupted. 'I listened carefully to what you said. And now you're going to listen carefully to me. Answer my questions precisely. The question is: if no one has seen Geralt, or Gerald, the Witcher for over a year, where is he hiding? Where does he usually hide?'

'I don't know where it is,' the troubadour said quickly. 'I'm not lying. I really don't know-'

'Too quick, Dandilion, too quick.' Rience smiled ominously. 'Too eager. You are cunning but not careful enough. You don't know where it is, you say. But I warrant you know what it is.'

1)andilion clenched his teeth with anger and despair.

'Well?' Rience made a sign to the reeking man. 'Where is the witcher hiding? What is the place called?'

The poet remained silent. The rope tightened, twisting his hands painfully, and his feet left the ground. Dandilion let out a howl, brief and broken because Rience's wizardly ring immediately gagged him.

'Higher, higher.' Rience rested his hands on his hips. 'You know, Dandilion, I could use magic to sound out your mind, but it's exhausting. Besides, I like seeing people's eyes pop out of their sockets from pain. And you're going to tell me anyway.'

Dandilion knew he would. The rope secured to his ankles grew taut, the bucket of lime scraped along the ground.

'Sir,' said the first ruffian suddenly, covering the lantern with his cloak and peering through the gap in the pigsty door, 'someone's coming. A lass, I think.'

'You know what to do,' Rience hissed. 'Put the lantern out.'

The reeking man released the rope and Dandilion tumbled inertly to the ground, falling in such a way that he could see the man with the lantern standing at the door and the reeking man, a long knife in his hand, lying in wait on the other side. Light broke in from the bawdy-house through gaps in the planks, and the poet heard the singing and hubbub.

The door to the pigsty creaked open revealing a short figure wrapped in a cloak and wearing a round, tightly fitting cap. After a moment's hesitation, the woman crossed the threshold. The

reeking man threw himself at her, slashing forcefully with his knife, and tumbled to his knees as the knife met with no resistance, passing through the figure's throat as though through a cloud of smoke. Because the figure really was a cloud of smoke – one which was already starting to disperse. But before it completely vanished another figure burst into the pigsty, indistinct, dark and nimble as a weasel. Dandilion saw it throw a cloak at the lantern man, jump over the reeking one, saw something glisten in its hand, and heard the reeking man wheeze and choke savagely. The lantern man disentangled himself from the cloak, jumped, took a swing with his knife. A fiery lightning bolt shot from the dark figure with a hiss, slapped over the tough's face and chest with a crack and spread over him like flaming oil. The ruffian screamed piercingly and the grim reek of burning meat filled the pigsty.