Preview: Chapter I of Sword of Destiny (Fan translation)
First off, I am a native English speaker who has studied Spanish for many years. As such, I am working on this translation based off the Spanish version of the book. I wanted to see what everyone thought so far. So here is the first chapter.
First off, I am a native English speaker who has studied Spanish for many years. As such, I am working on this translation based off the Spanish version of the book. I wanted to see what everyone thought so far. So here is the first chapter.
The Bounds of ReasonI“He’s not coming back out, I tell you.” explained a pock-marked man, shaking his head with conviction. “It’s been an hour and a half since he went down. He’s done for.” The townsfolk, huddled amongst the ruins, were silent, their gaze fixed on a black, open hole in the rubble--the ruined entrance to a subterranean tunnel. A fat man dressed in a yellow doublet shifted his weight from one leg to the other, cleared his throat and pulled his wrinkled cap from his head. “Let’s wait a bit longer.” He said, wiping the sweat from his sparse eyebrows. “What for?” snorted the pock-marked man. “That’s a basilisk down there in those dungeons, or have you forgotten, mayor? Anyone goes down there, that’s the end of them. You forgotten how many have died down there already? So, what are we waiting for?” “This was the agreement… wasn’t it?” murmured the fat man unsurely. “An agreement you made with a living man, not a dead man, mayor.” said the pock-marked man’s companion, a giant of a man in a leather butcher’s apron. “And he’s dead, as sure as the sun’s in the sky. He should have seen he was headed toward his death, like so many before. He didn’t even take a mirror down with him, just his sword. Even children know you can’t kill a basilisk without a mirror.” “You’ll save yourself some coin this way, mayor”, added the pock-marked man “now that there’s no one to pay for taking care of the basilisk. See yourself safely home, now. As for the sorcerer’s horse and valuables, we’ll take those for ourselves—sure be a shame if they went to waste.” “That’s right.” said the butcher. “That’s a fine old mare, and the saddlebags aren’t half empty either. Let’s just take a look inside…see what’s there…” “Well then! What is all this?” “Shut it, mayor. Keep your nose out of this before it gets broken.” warned the pock-marked man. “A fine old mare…” repeated the butcher. “Leave that horse in peace, my dear.” The butcher turned around slowly, toward the stranger who had entered through a hole in the wall, behind the multitude crowded around the entrance to the dungeons. The stranger had thick, brown hair and wore a dark brown tunic over a puffy cotton caftan and tall riding boots. He had no weapon of any kind. “Get away from the horse.” He repeated, with a wicked smile. “What have we here? A horse and saddlebags belonging to someone else, and you cast your languid eyes on them--put your filthy paws on them? Is this honorable?” The pock-marked man slipped his hand, little by little, inside the breast of his overcoat and glanced at the butcher. The butcher nodded in affirmation, and then signalled toward the crowd, out of which stepped two strong youths, their hair cut short. Both carried heavy clubs, like those used to stun beasts in a slaughterhouse. “And just who are you,” asked the pock-marked man without removing his hand from his coat, “to tell us what is and what isn’t honorable?” “That’s none of your business, my dear.” “You carry no weapons.” “True.” the stranger smiled even more perversely. “I do not carry them.” “That’s a shame.” the pock-marked man drew his hand from his coat, along with a large knife. “Such a shame not to carry arms…” The butcher also drew a blade, long like a woodland knife. The two youths took a step forward as they raised their clubs. “I don’t have to carry my weapons,” said the stranger without moving an inch, “My weapons travel with me.” Two young women emerged from behind the ruins with light, confident steps. In a second the crowd had opened, stepped back and dispersed like a herd of animals. The girls smiled. Their teeth flashed and their eyes were gleaming. They had two broad bands of tattoo going from the corner of each eye back to their ears. The muscles of their powerful thighs—visible beneath the lynx skins that hugged their hips—and those of their arms, naked and round above their steel-mail gloves, stood out playfully. From behind the mail-covered shoulder of each rose the hilt of a pair of identical sabers. Slowly, very slowly, the pock-marked man got down on one knee and laid his knife on the ground. From the hole in the ruins rose the sound of the scraping of rock against rock, a crunch, and then a pair of hands emerged from the darkness and seized the chipped edges of the wall. After the hands, little by little, a head appeared, with long white hair dirty with brick dust. Then, a very pallid face and the hilt of a sword over two shoulders. The crowd began to murmur. The white-haired man straightened and pulled a strange shape from the hole, an odd-looking small body covered in dust and blood. Holding the being by a salamander-like tail, he tossed it at the feet of the fat mayor without a word. The mayor jumped backward, tripped on a fragment of wall and looked at its twisted bird-like beak, membranous wings, talons like sickles and scaly feet. He saw its swollen neck, which he knew was once the color of lipstick but was now a dirty red. He saw its deep-set glassy eyes. “Here is the Basilisk”, said the white-haired man, cleaning the dust from his pants, “Just like we agreed. My two-hundred lintars, if it’s not too much trouble. I want good lintars, not too cut down. I will check them, I warn you.” The mayor, hands shaking, took out a small sack. The white-haired man glanced around, stopped his gaze a moment on the pock-marked man, saw the knife resting at his feet. He looked at the man in the brown tunic and the two young women in their lynx skins. “As always”, he said as he plucked the bag from the mayor’s nervous hands, “I risk my neck for you people in exchange for a few pennies and, meanwhile, you take my things from me. You people will never change damn it.” “We didn’t touch them”, murmured the butcher, stepping back. The club-wielding youths had long since hidden themselves back amongst the people, “We didn’t touch them—your things, sir.” “I’m delighted”, the white-haired man smiled. At the sight of his smile, which bloomed like an open wound on his pallid face, the crowd began to disperse rapidly. “And for that, in return, no one will touch you either, peasant. You will go peacefully, but quickly.” The pock-marked man, his back turned, also wanted to leave. The spots stood out on his suddenly pale face, giving him an even uglier appearance. “Hey, hold on”, the man in the brown tunic said to him. “You've forgotten something.” “What’s that, sir?” “You have raised a knife against me.” The tallest of the young women, who stood waiting with her legs spread wide, turned on her hips. The saber—none had seen when she had unsheathed it--flashed violently through the air. The pock-marked man’s head flew upward, tracing an arc, and came to rest near the hole to the dungeons. His body rolled stiff and heavy, like a fresh-cut tree trunk, among chunks of brick and rubble. The crowd screamed as one. The second of the young women, with her hand on the hilt of her saber, turned agilely, covering her back. It was not necessary. The crowd, stumbling and falling over the rubble, disappeared in the direction of the city as fast as their feet would take them. At the head of the crowd, leaping impressively was the mayor, slightly ahead of the butcher. “A beautiful strike,” commented the white-haired man coldly as he protected his eyes from the sun with a black-gloved hand. “A beautiful strike from a Zerrikanian saber. I bow before the mastery and beauty of a free warrioress. I am Geralt of Rivia. “And I am Borch, also called Three Jackdaws.” The unknown man signaled a faded shield-design on the front of his tunic: three dark-brown birds in a line centered on a gold field of a single piece. “And these are my girls, Tea and Vea. At least that is what I call them, because pronouncing their true names could cause one to bite their tongue. They are both, as you have guessed, Zerrikanian. “Thanks to them, or so it would seem, I still have my horse and my belongings. Thank you, warriors. I am grateful, and to you as well, Lord Borch.” “Three Jackdaws. And keep the 'lord' to yourself. Tell me, is there anything keeping you in this horse town, Geralt of Rivia?” “Quite the opposite.” “Perfect. I have a proposition: There is, not far from here, in the crossroads next to the road from the river-port, an inn. It is called The Pensive Dragon. Its kitchen is without equal in the entire country. I’m headed there just now with the intention of dining and spending the night. It would be an honor if you would accompany me.” “Borch”, the white-haired man stepped away from his horse, “I would like things to be clear between us. I’m a witcher.” “I imagined as much. And you said that as if you were saying ‘I am a leper’.” “There are those who prefer the company of a leper to that of a witcher”, Geralt said slowly. “And there are also those who prefer the company of sheep over that of women. In the end, all I can do is pity them. I stand by my proposal.” Geralt removed his glove, and the two shook hands. “I accept and am glad that we have met.” “Let’s be off then, before I starve to death.”
eace:
