Later, it was said the man came from the north, from Ropers Gate. He came on foot,
leading his laden horse by the bridle. It was late afternoon and the ropers’, saddlers’
and tanners’ stalls were already closed, the street empty. It was hot but the man
had a black coat thrown over his shoulders. He drew attention to himself.
The stranger was not old but his hair was almost entirely white. Beneath his coat he
wore a worn leather jerkin laced up at the neck and shoulders.
As he took off his coat those around him noticed that he carried a sword – not
something unusual in itself, nearly every man in Wyzim carried a weapon – but no
one carried a sword strapped to his back as if it were a bow or a quiver...
The stranger did not sit at the table with the few other guests. He remained standing
at the counter, piercing the innkeeper with his gaze. He drew form the tankard.
“Pay and leave!” yelled the pocked man.
Only now did the Rivian look at him.
“I’ll nish my beer.”
“We’ll give you a hand,” the pockmarked man hissed. He knocked the
tankard from the stranger’s hand and simultaneously grabbing him by the shoulder,
dug his ngers into the leather strap which ran diagonally across the outsider’s
chest. One of the men behind him raised a st to strike. The outsider curled up on
the spot, throwing the pockmarked man off balance. The sword hissed in its sheath
and glistened briey in the dim light. The place seethed. There was a scream, and
one of the few remaining customers tumbled towards the exit. A chair fell with a
crash and earthenware smacked hollowly against the oor. The innkeeper, his lips
trembling, looked at the horribly slashed face of the pocked man, who, clinging with
his ngers to the edge of the counter, was slowly sinking from sight. The other two
were lying on the oor, one motionless, the other writhing and convulsing in a dark,
spreading puddle. A woman’s hysterical scream vibrated in the air, piercing the ears
as the innkeeper shuddered…
From The Last Wish by Andrzej Sapkowski, translated by Danusia Stok,
published by Victor Gollancz, a member of the Orion Publishing Group
Welcome to the world of The Witcher – a world ravaged by postwar chaos, where
rulers, heedless to the misery of the common folk, have taken to amassing spoils
instead of rebuilding what has been destroyed. In these lands devastated by plagues,
amidst charred ruins and on blood-soaked battleelds, monsters and beasts have
proliferated. They testify to the eternal need for witchers, dedicated professional
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