same steps as for two only there's one more dodge. Ready?'
'Yes.'
'Focus yourself. Relax. Breathe in, breathe out. Attack!'
'Ouch! Owwww… Damn it!'
'Don't swear. Did it hit you hard?'
'No, it only brushed me… What did I do wrong?'
'You ran in at too even a pace, you sped the second half-pirouette up a bit too much, and your feint was too wide. And as a result you were carried straight under the pendulum.'
'But Geralt, there's no room for a dodge and turn there! They're too close to each other!'
'There's plenty of room, I assure you. But the gaps are worked out to force you to make arrhythmic moves. This is a fight, Ciri, not ballet. You can't move rhythmically in a fight. You have to distract the opponent with your moves, confuse his reactions. Ready for another try?'
'Ready. Start those damn logs swinging.'
'Don't swear. Relax. Attack!'
'Ha! Ha! Well, how about that? How was that, Geralt? It didn't even brush me!'
'And you didn't even brush the second sack with your sword. So I repeat, this is a fight. Not ballet, not acrobatics- What are you muttering now?'
'Nothing.'
'Relax. Adjust the bandage on your wrist. Don't grip the hilt so tightly, it distracts you and upsets your equilibrium. Breathe calmly. Ready?'
'Yes.'
'Go!'
'Ouch! May you- Geralt, it's impossible! There's not enough room for a feint and a change of foot. And when I strike from both legs, without a feint…'
'I saw what happens when you strike without a feint. Does it hurt?'
'No. Not much…'
'Sit down next to me. Take a break.'
'I'm not tired. Geralt, I'm not going to be able to jump over that third pendulum even if I rest for ten years. I can't be any faster-'
'And you don't have to be. You're fast enough.'
'Tell me how to do it then. Half-pirouette, dodge and hit at the same time?'
'It's very simple; you just weren't paying attention. I told you before you started – an additional dodge is necessary. Displacement. An additional half-pirouette is superfluous. The second time round, you did everything well and passed all the pendulums.'
'But I didn't hit the sack because… Geralt, without a half-pirouette I can't strike because I lose speed, I don't have the… the, what do you call it…'
'Impetus. That's true. So gain some impetus and energy. But not through a pirouette and change of foot because there's not enough time for it. Hit the pendulum with your sword.'
'The pendulum? I've got to hit the sacks!'
'This is a fight, Ciri. The sacks represent your opponent's sensitive areas, you've got to hit them. The pendulums – which simulate your opponent's weapon – you have to avoid, dodge past. When the pendulum hits you, you're wounded. In a real fight, you might not get up again. The pendulum mustn't touch you. But you can hit the pendulum… Why are you screwing your nose up?'
'I'm… not going to be able to parry the pendulum with my sword. I'm too weak… I'll always be too weak! Because I'm a girl!'
'Come here, girl. Wipe your nose, and listen carefully. No strongman, mountain-toppling giant or muscle-man is going to be able to parry a blow aimed at him by a dracolizard's tail, giga-scorpion's pincers or a griffin's claws. And that's precisely the sort of weapons the pendulum simulates. So don't even try to parry. You're not deflecting the pendulum, you're deflecting yourself from it. You're intercepting its energy, which you need in order to deal
a blow. A light, but very swift deflection and instantaneous, equally swift blow from a reverse half-turn is enough. You're picking impetus up by rebounding. Do you see?'
'Mhm.'
'Speed, Ciri, not strength. Strength is necessary for a lumberjack axing trees in a forest. That's why, admittedly, girls are rarely lumberjacks. Have you got that?'
'Mhm. Start the pendulums swinging.'
'Take a rest first.'
'I'm not tired.'
'You know how to now? The same steps, feint-'
'I know.'
'Attack!'
'Haaa! Ha! Haaaaa! Got you! I got you, you griffin! Geraaaalt! Did you see that?'
'Don't yell. Control your breathing.'
'I did it! I really did it!! I managed it! Praise me, Geralt!'
'Well done, Ciri. Well done, girl.'
In the middle of February, the snow disappeared, whisked away by a warm wind blowing from the south, from the pass.
Whatever was happening in the world, the witchers did not want to know.
In the evenings, consistently and determinedly, Triss guided the long conversations held in the dark hall, lit only by the bursts of flames in the great hearth, towards politics. The witchers' reactions were always the same. Geralt, a hand on his forehead, did not say a word. Vesemir nodded, from time to time throwing in comments which amounted to little more than that 'in his day' everything had been better, more logical, more honest and healthier. Eskel pretended to be polite, and neither smiled nor made eye contact, and even managed, very occasionally, to be interested in some issue or question of little importance. Coen yawned openly and looked at the ceiling, and Lambert did nothing to hide his disdain.
They did not want to know anything, they cared nothing for
dilemmas which drove sleep from kings, wizards, rulers and leaders, or for the problems which made councils, circles and gatherings tremble and buzz. For them, nothing existed beyond the passes drowning in snow or beyond the Gwenllech river carrying ice-floats in its leaden current. For them, only Kaer Morhen existed, lost and lonely amongst the savage mountains.
That evening Triss was irritable and restless – perhaps it was the wind howling along the great castle's walls. And that evening they were all oddly excited – the witchers, apart from Geralt, were unusually talkative. Quite obviously, they only spoke of one thing -spring. About their approaching departure for the Trail. About what the Trail would have in store for them – about vampires, wyverns, leshys, lycanthropes and basilisks.
This time it was Triss who began to yawn and stare at the ceiling. This time she was the one who remained silent – until Eskel turned to her with a question. A question which she had anticipated.
'And what is it really like in the south, on the Yaruga? Is it worth going there? We wouldn't like to find ourselves in the middle of any trouble.'
'What do you mean by trouble?'
'Well, you know…'he stammered, 'you keep telling us about the possibility of a new war… About constant fighting on the borders, about rebellions in the lands invaded by Nilfgaard. You said they're saying the Nilfgaardians might cross the Yaruga again-'
'So what?' said Lambert. 'They've been hitting, killing and striking against each other constantly for hundreds of years. It's nothing to worry about. I've already decided – I'm going to the far South, to Sodden, Mahakam and Angren. It's well known that monsters abound wherever armies have passed. The most money is always made in places like that.'
'True,' Coen acknowledged. 'The neighbourhood grows deserted, only women who can't fend for themselves remain in the villages… scores of children with no home or care, roaming around… Easy prey attracts monsters.'
