The Sword of Destiny by Andrzej Sapkowski

Author:Andrzej Sapkowski
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3, pdf
Tags: Andrzej; Sapkowski; Witcher; Sword; Destiny

Braenn's presence alone did not protect Geralt from the wilderness. There were places where the dryad slowed her pace, advancing very carefully, feeling the ground, taking the witcher by the hand. He understood why: the pitfalls of Brokilone were legendary. There was talk of spiked pits, arrow traps, falling trees, the terrible "hedgehog": a ball bristling with spines that was attached to a rope and fell unexpectedly, clearing all in its path. There were also places where Braenn stopped and whistled melodiously. Whistles then answered her from the brush. There were places, too, where she stopped, her hand resting on an arrow in her quiver, ushering Geralt into silence and waiting, tensely, for the source of sounds in distant thickets.

They had to make camp despite the efficiency of their pace. Braenn invariably chose a place at a height where gusts of hot air regulated the temperature. They slept on dried ferns, very close to one another: a dryad custom. In the middle of the night, Braenn snuggled tightly against him. Nothing more. He took her in his arms. Nothing more. She was a dryad. It was only for warmth.

They resumed their journey at dawn, when it was still nearly dark.

II

They crossed a meadow dotted with lesser wooded slopes, following the meandering of the misty valleys and leaving behind them the large grassy clearings and devastated forests.

Braenn stopped once more. She inspected their surroundings. Her attitude might indicate that she had lost her way, but Geralt knew that was impossible. Taking advantage of the pause, he sat on a fallen trunk.

He heard then a scream. Short. Strident. Desperate.

Braenn immediately went down on one knee and retrieved two arrows from her quiver. Taking one between her teeth, she slotted the second and drew her bow, aiming judiciously through the bushes.

"Don't shoot!" Geralt cried.

He leapt over the tree trunk and crossed through the mountains of vegetation.

In a modest clearing at the foot of a rocky escarpment, a small figure dressed in a gray jacket was cornered. Five paces from him, something was approaching slowly and disturbing the grass. Something dark brown and measured in yards. At first, Geralt thought that it was a snake, but he noticed the yellow legs, moving, hooked, and the plated segments of its long thorax. He realized that this was not a snake. It was much more dangerous.

Pressed against the tree, the little one was continuously making plaintive little cries. The long quivering antenna of the giant centipede, sensing odors and heat, rose up from the grass.

"Don't move!" shouted the witcher, stamping to divert the attention of the insectoid.

But the centipede did not react: its antennae were busy locating the scent of its next victim. The monster moved into action, curled itself in an 'S' and charged. Its bright yellow legs twinkled through the grass with the regularity of a galley's oars.

"Yghern!" Braenn cried.

In two bounds, Geralt reached the clearing. He broke into a run, drawing the sword from the sheath on his back. With a blow from

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