The Saga of the Witcher: Blood of Elves, Time of Contempt, Baptism of Fire, The Tower of the Swallow and The Lady of the Lake by Andrzej Sapkowski

Author:Andrzej Sapkowski [Sapkowski, Andrzej]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473232464
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2020-06-10T16:00:00+00:00

‘Don’t worry, my lord,’ the field surgeon said, tapping and feeling the Witcher’s back. ‘The bridge is down. We aren’t in danger of being attacked from the other bank. Your comrades and the woman are also safe. Is she your wife?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, and I thought . . . For it’s always dreadful, sire, when pregnant women suffer in wars . . .’

‘Be silent. Not a word about it. What are those banners?’

‘Don’t you know who you were fighting for? Who would have thought such a thing were possible . . . That’s the Lyrian Army. See, the black Lyrian eagle and the red Rivian lozenges. Good, I’m done here. It was only a bump. Your back will hurt a little, but it’s nothing. You’ll recover.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I should be thanking you. Had you not held the bridge, Nilfgaard would have slaughtered us on the far bank, forcing us back into the water. We wouldn’t have been able to flee from them . . . You saved the queen! Well, farewell, sire. I have to go, others need me to tend to their wounds.’

‘Thanks.’

He sat on a log in the port, weary, sore and apathetic. Alone. Cahir had disappeared somewhere. The golden-green Yaruga flowed between the piers of the ruined bridge, sparkling in the light of the sun, which was setting in the west.

He raised his head, hearing steps, the clatter of horseshoes and the clanking of armour.

‘This is he, Your Majesty. Let me help you dismount . . .’

‘Thtay away.’

Geralt lifted up his eyes. Before him stood a woman in a suit of armour, a woman with very pale hair, almost as pale as his own. He saw that the hair was not fair, but grey, although the woman’s face did not bear the marks of old age. A mature age, indeed. But not old age.

The woman pressed a batiste handkerchief with lace hems to her lips. The handkerchief was heavily blood-stained.

‘Rise, sire,’ one of the knights standing alongside whispered to Geralt. ‘And pay homage. It is the Queen.’

The Witcher stood up. And bowed, overcoming the pain in his lower back.

‘Did you thafeguard the bridge?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

The woman took the handkerchief away from her mouth and spat blood. Several red drops fell on her ornamented breastplate.

‘Her Royal Highness Meve, Queen of Lyria and Rivia,’ said a knight in a purple cloak decorated with gold embroidery, standing beside the woman, ‘is asking if you led the heroic defence of the bridge on the Yaruga?’

‘It just seemed to happen.’

‘Theemed to happen?’ the queen said, trying to laugh, but not having much success. She scowled, swore foully but indistinctly, and spat again. Before she had time to cover her mouth he saw a nasty wound, and noticed she lacked several teeth. She caught his eye.

‘Yes,’ she said behind her handkerchief, looking him in the eye. ‘Thome thon-of-a-bitch thmacked me right in the fathe. A trifle.’

‘Queen Meve,’ the knight in the purple cloak announced, ‘fought in the front line, like a man, like a knight, opposing

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