[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
care about politics, or the successions to thrones, or revolutions in palaces. I am here to
accomplish my task. Have you never heard of a sense of responsibility and plain honesty?
About professional ethics?'
'Careful to whom you speak, you vagabond!' Ostrit yelled furiously, placing his hand on the
hilt of his sword. 'I have had enough of this. I am not accustomed to hold such discussions!
Look at you - ethics, codes of practice, morality?! Who are you to talk? A brigand who's
barely arrived before he starts murdering men? Who bends double to Foltest and behind his
back bargains with Velerad like a hired thug? And you dare to turn your nose up at me, you
serf? Play at being a Knowing One? A Magician? You scheming witcher! Be gone before I
run the flat of my sword across your gob!'
The witcher did not stir. He stood calmly.
'You'd better leave, Lord Ostrit,' he said. 'It's growing dark.'
Ostrit took a step back, drew his sword in a flash.
'You asked for this, you sorcerer. I'll kill you. Your tricks won't help you. I carry a turtle-
stone.'
Geralt smiled. The reputation of turtle-stone was as mistaken as it was popular. But the
witcher was not going to lose his strength on spells, much less expose his silver sword to
contact with Ostrit's blade. He dived under the whirling blade and, with the heel of his hand
and his silver-studded cuff, hit him in the temple.
VI
Ostrit quickly regained consciousness and looked around in the total darkness. He noticed that
he was tied up. He did not see Geralt standing right beside him. But he realised where he was
and let out a prolonged, terrifying howl.
'Keep quiet,' said the witcher. 'Otherwise you'll lure her out before her time.'
'You damned murderer! Where are you? Untie me immediately, you louse! You'll hang for
this, you son-of-a-bitch!'
'Quiet.'
Ostrit panted heavily.
'You're leaving me here to be devoured by her! Tied up?' he asked, quieter now, whispering a
vile invective.
'No,' said the witcher. I'll let you go. But not now.'
'You scoundrel,' hissed Ostrit. 'To distract the striga?'
'Yes.'
Ostrit didn't say anything. He stopped wriggling and lay quietly.
'Witcher?'
'Yes.'
'It's true that I wanted to overthrow Foltest. I'm not the only one. But I am the only one who
wanted him dead. I wanted him to die in agony, to go mad, to rot alive. Do you know why?'
Geralt remained silent.
'I loved Adda. The king's sister. The king's mistress. The king's trollop. I loved her Witcher,
are you there?'
'I am.'
'I know what you're thinking. But it wasn't like that. Believe me, I didn't cast any spells. I
don't know anything about magic. Only once in anger did I say . . . Only once. Witcher? Are
you listening?'
1 am.
'It's his mother, the old queen. It must be her. She couldn't watch him and Adda It wasn't
me. I only once, you know, tried to persuade them but Adda Witcher! I was besotted, and
said . . . Witcher? Was it me? Me?'
'It doesn't matter anymore.'
Witcher? Is it nearly midnight?'
'It's close.'
'Let me go. Give me more time.'
'No.'
Ostrit did not hear the scrape of the tomb lid being moved aside, but the witcher did. He leant
over and, with his dagger, cut the magnate's bonds. Ostrit did not wait for the word. He
jumped up, numb, hobbled clumsily, and ran. His eyes had grown accustomed enough to the
darkness for him to see his way from the main hall to the exit.
The slab blocking the entrance to the crypt opened and fell to the floor with a thud. Geralt,
prudently behind the staircase balustrade, saw the misshapen figure of the striga speeding
swiftly and unerringly in the direction of Ostrit's receeding footsteps. Not the slightest sound
issued from the striga.
A terrible, quivering, frenzied scream tore the night, shook the old walls, continued rising and
falling, vibrating. The witcher couldn't make out exactly how far away it was - his sharpened
hearing deceived him but he knew that the striga had caught up with Ostrit quickly. Too
quickly.
He stepped into the middle of the hall, stood right at the entrance to the crypt. He threw down
his coat, twitched his shoulders, adjusted the position of his sword, pulled on his gauntlets. He
still had some time. He knew that the striga, although well fed after the last full moon, would
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]