Andrzej Sapkowski's Witcher series is a global phenomenon with over thirty million copies sold and translated into over forty languages worldwide. Crossroads of Ravens is a new standalone novel following fantasy's most beloved monster hunter, Geralt of Rivia,on his first steps towards becoming a legend.
Witchers are not born. They are made.
Before he was the White Wolf or the Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia was simply a fresh graduate of Kaer Morhen, stepping into a world that neither understands nor welcomes his kind.
And when an act of naïve heroism goes gravely wrong, Geralt is only saved from the noose by Preston Holt, a grizzled witcher with a buried past and an agenda of his own.
Under Holt’s guiding hand, Geralt begins to learn what it truly means to walk the Path – to protect a world that fears him, and to survive in it on his own terms. But as the line between right and wrong begins to blur, Geralt must decide to become the monster everyone expects, or something else entirely.
This is the story of how legends are made – and what they cost.
Witcher Story Collections The Last Wish Sword of Destiny
The Witcher Saga Blood of Elves The Time of Contempt Baptism of Fire The Tower of Swallows Lady of the Lake
Standalone Witcher Novels Season of Storms Crossroads of Ravens
The Hussite Trilogy The Tower of Fools Warriors of God Light Perpetual
Translated from original Polish by David French
Release date:
September 30, 2025
Publisher:
Orbit
Print pages:
432
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In spite of his sincerest intentions—or actually for important reasons—Geralt could not concentrate at all on the alderman’s prattle. All his attention was being taken by the large stuffed crow on the table. The crow, glaring at the witcher with its glass eye, was standing on a plinth of green-painted clay, with both its feet stuck into it. Thus, the crow, despite looking utterly alive, could in no way have been so; there was no doubt about that. Why then, Geralt couldn’t help wondering, had the crow already winked its glass eye at him several times? Magic? Probably not, for his witcher medallion hadn’t twitched or vibrated, not once and not in the slightest. Might it then be a hallucination? Was he seeing things? Perhaps because of being punched in the head several times?
“I shall repeat the question,” Alderman Bulava repeated. “I shall repeat it, though it is not my custom.”
Alderman Bulava had already assured Geralt several times that he wasn’t in the habit of repeating himself. Even so, he kept doing it. He clearly enjoyed it, though it wasn’t his custom.
“I repeat my question: what really happened? What did you have against that deserter that you carved him up so terribly? Some old grievance? You see, I don’t believe at all that you cared for that peasant and his young daughter’s honour. That you were somehow coming to her aid. Like some damn knight errant.”
The crow glared. Geralt moved his arms, which were tied behind his back, trying to get the blood circulating. The twine was digging painfully into his wrists. He heard the heavy breathing of the village enforcer behind him. He was standing very close and Geralt was certain the man was just waiting for an excuse to punch him in the ear again.
Alderman Bulava wheezed, lounged back in his chair and stuck out his belly and velvet kaftan. Geralt stared at it and identified what the alderman had eaten that day, the previous day and the day before that. Concluding that at least one of those dishes had been served in tomato sauce.
“I thought,” the alderman said finally, “I’d never have to look on any of you witchers again. None have been seen for years. It was said that after the year one hundred and ninety-four few survived up there in the mountains. Then word had it that whoever was left had died of hunger or from the plague. But what have we here? One of them shows up right in my village. And the first thing he does is murder somebody. But when caught red-handed, he has the audacity to cite some bloody edicts.”
“On the strength of the titulary edicts of the year one thousand one hundred and fifty,” Geralt cleared his throat and croaked out, “issued by Dagread, King of Kaedwen and the borderland Marches, primo: witchers are permitted freely to practise their profession in the lands of the Kingdom and the Marches and are exempt from the jurisdiction of local powers—”
“First of all, primo,” Bulava interrupted sharply, “it’ll soon be half a century since Dagread turned to dust, and along with him his titulary despotic edicts. Second of all, primo, no king can exempt anyone from anything, for the king is far away in Ard Carraigh, while this place is governed by the local powers. Meaning me. And third of all, primo, you, chum, were not arrested for practising your profession, but for murder. Catching werewolves and killing leshens is your witcher work. No king privileged you to slaughter people.”
“I was acting in the defence—”
“Daryl!”
The enforcer obediently thumped Geralt, this time in the back of the neck.
“Your repetition is annoying,” said the alderman, looking up at the ceiling. “Do you know what happens when you annoy someone? Even a calm fellow like me?”
The crow glared with its glass eye. Geralt said nothing.
“You are not a witcher,” said Bulava finally. “You are a defect. You need to be repaired. You should be sent back to that mountain Fastness of yours folk talk of. I don’t know how things are done up there. It may be that a botch job like you is dismantled to be used to manufacture new and better witchers. After all, that’s what they do there, isn’t it? They assemble witchers from various human parts, sew or stick them together or something. I’ve heard all sorts. Thus, so as not to talk in vain… I will pack you off, you botched-up witcher, back to the mountains, beyond Gwenllech. In one week’s time.”
Geralt said nothing.
“Won’t you even ask, why in a week?” said the alderman, baring his yellow teeth. “You like to quote edicts and laws. Well, I also believe in the law. And the law says that comers-in shall not carry weapons in the borough. And you walked in here with a weapon.”
Geralt wanted to argue that he hadn’t walked, but had been hauled in. He didn’t manage to.
“The penalty is twenty lashes,” announced Bulava. “It will be administered by Daryl here, and he has a heavy hand. You won’t get back on your feet in less than a week. Righto, off with him. Take him to the village green, bind him to the post—”
“Whoa there,” said a man in a dun mantle with a very dirty hem, who was entering the chamber. “What’s this, Bulava, so hasty with the post and the horsewhip? You mean to mar this here witcher? Just hold on, nothing doing. I need him in one piece on the work site.”
“What do you think you’re doing, Blaufall, interrupting me in the execution of my duty?” said the alderman with his arms akimbo. “I already have to put up with you constantly taking men from the village for forced labour on the roads. But don’t interfere with my jurisdiction: it’s no business of yours. Crimes must be punished—”
“It’s a trifle, not a crime,” interrupted Blaufall. “There is no offence, simply self-defence and rescuing folk. Don’t make faces, don’t make faces, for I have a witness. If you please, fellow. Go on, fear not. Say what happened.”
Geralt recognised the peasant. It was the same one he had saved from being robbed the day before, and who had fled into the trees rather than thanking him. The father of the wench whom he recalled stripped down to her undergarments.
“I testify…” the peasant grunted, pointing a finger at Geralt. “I testify in words that this here youth rescued me from brigands… Saved my chattels… Delivered my daughter from being dishonoured… Freed the innocent girl from those murderous hands…”
“And that deserter,” Blaufall prompted, “fell on him with a hatchet. The youth was only defending himself. It was self-defence! Confirm the truth of it, fellow.”
“Aye, so it was… Right enough! M’lord alderman, yonder youth isn’t to blame!” The peasant was pale and speaking unnaturally loudly. “M’lord alderman! Release him, I beg. And here… Please take it, sir… By way of, hmm… Perhaps there were some costs or losses… I’ll gladly recompense…”
Bowing deferentially, the peasant handed the alderman a small pouch. Bulava swiftly secreted it into a pocket in his puffy trousers, so deftly there wasn’t even a clink of coins.
“Self-defence!” he snorted. “He carved the man up into slices with his sword. Innocent youth… I ought to—”
They went out to the village green. The bruisers shoved Geralt without untying his arms.
“Are you so hot-headed, Blaufall, as to even dig up a witness?” said the alderman. “Do you need this witcher so badly?”
“As if you didn’t know. We are building a road, a Highway. It will run from Ard Carraigh through the forests to Hengfors itself. And not just any old thing, not some track, but a road, dry and level, lined with balks and fascines, so that carts and wagons can travel along it. It’s a great thing, a Highway, bearing brisk trade, I mean from our lands with the North. They say the king himself has ordered haste. And there are monsters in the forest and in the bogs, a labourer dies every few days, killed or snatched away by some beast…”
“Since when have you cared about labourers? You always said they matter not; you lose one and another will soon—”
“Fuck the labourers, they’re mostly unpaid peasants. But occasionally a monster kills a foreman, and that disrupts my schedule, the business end of the work goes down the drain. Oh, what am I saying. I tell you; I need a witcher. I won’t meet my deadline, never mind my bonus going to hell, and then they’ll send inspectors. And inspectors—”
“Always find something,” said Bulava, nodding his head in understanding. “If it’s not building materials sold on the quiet, it’s inflated estimates, or—”
“Don’t stray from the subject,” said Blaufall grimacing. “And release the witcher at once, without delay. I’ll take him to the work site right away… Hey… What have we here?”
“Soldiers from the guardhouse,” said the alderman, shielding his eyes with a hand. “Captain Carleton’s men.”
About a dozen horsemen galloped onto the village green, kicking up dust and frightening chickens. Soldiers. Colourful, garish, and rather shabby. Only the two men at the head were dressed more smartly. The commander, a moustachioed man in an elk-hide jerkin with a gilt pendant, wearing a hat with a plume of ostrich feathers. And a long-haired elf with a band around his forehead in the green uniform of a scout.
“Captain Reisz Carleton, said Bulava, stepping forward in greeting. “Welcome, welcome. To what do we owe this honour?”
Captain Reisz Carleton leaned over in the saddle and spat vigorously. Then gave a sign to the scout. The elf rode over to the post with a horizontal timber and dextrously tossed a rope tied into a noose over it.
“Oho,” said Bulava and stood with his arms akimbo, looking back to see if his enforcers were standing behind him. “Well, if m’lord Captain hasn’t come to my village for a hanging? Ah, why, I can even see whose fate is the noose today. I see, I see those two in fetters… Ha, so m’lord Captain caught the rascals who deserted from his fort! The same who’ve been attacking peasants and maids in the woods?”
“I have no mind to hang them,” said Captain Reisz Carleton, twisting his moustache. “They will both run the gauntlet through the streets, being beaten with sticks. To teach them a lesson. And that is all. I have too few men to hang them for any old thing. And for some vagabond to murder them with impunity.”
The captain sat up straight in the saddle and raised his voice, addressing not just the alderman, but all the bruisers, Blaufall, his servants, and the small crowd of peasants that was now gathering.
“Why should I punish my soldiers? For what? For wilful desertion? For wanting to fuck a wench? Why, we sit in that guardhouse as if at the end of the world, like exiles, as if being punished. You can’t partake of ale or women there… Is it any wonder the boys occasionally seize some spoils, grab hold of some…
“Why the bloody hell are women wandering through the forests?” said Reisz Carleton, raising his voice. “And why did this fellow choose that route with his lass? Couldn’t he leave her at home? Is it surprising the lads fancied a bit of… I don’t commend it! I don’t commend it, but I understand! Master Aelvarr? Ready over there?”
“Ready, Captain.”
“Then bring the witcher here, Bulava. He killed one of my soldiers, so he’ll hang. One must give an example of terror. And don’t cut him down, alderman, let him hang for a while as a warning.”
Blaufall stepped forward, giving the impression of wanting to speak, but thought better of it. The enforcers caught hold of Geralt, but stood hesitantly. With reason, as it turned out.
Everything went suddenly quiet. And a chill wind seemed to blow.
A pitch-black horse ambled very slowly onto the village green, from behind the barns. It bore a rider. White-haired, in a black leather jerkin with silver studs on the shoulders. Two swords were sticking up above the rider’s right shoulder.
Very slowly, with some grace even, the black horse passed the peasants and the alderman. Coming to a halt in front of Captain Carleton’s riders.
For a moment there was silence. Then the black horse tossed its head. The rings on its bit jangled.
“Alderman Bulava,” said the white-haired rider in the silence, “will release the young witcher at once. He will return his horse, weapons and belongings. Immediately.”
“Yes…” said the alderman, coughing. “Of course, Master Holt.”
“This moment…”
“Captain Carleton.” The horseman bowed his head faintly. “Good day.”
“Master Witcher Preston Holt.” Reisz Carleton touched the rim of his hat. “Good day.”
“Captain,” said the horseman, raising his voice, “you will kindly deign to remove from here that elf, his rope and the rest of your men. You are no longer needed here. Today’s lynching has been called off.”
“Indeed?” said the captain, stiffening in the saddle and placing a hand on the crossguard of his sword. “Are you so cock-sure, Master Witcher?”
“Aye, that I am. Farewell. Alderman, is the lad at liberty? His effects returned to him?”
“Why, you motherfucker!” yelled one of Carleton’s horsemen, unsheathing his sword and urging his steed forward. “I’ll—”
He didn’t finish his sentence. The rider called Preston Holt raised one hand and made a short gesture. The air howled and whistled; the peasants covered their ears. The horseman screamed, flew from the saddle, and fell heavily and inertly before the hooves of his companions. Their horses shied, neighed, stamped their hooves, shook their heads; one reared up. The now riderless horse darted between the cottages, kicking and bucking.
A deathly silence descended.
“Anyone else?” asked Preston Holt, raising a gauntleted hand. “Anyone inclined to challenge me? Play the hero? No? I thought as much. I bid you farewell, gentlemen. Is the young witcher mounted?”
“I am,” Geralt replied.
“Then let us ride. Follow me.”
The Kingdom of Kaedwen was known throughout the inhabited world for its cold and capricious weather. Enclosed from the north by the barrier of the Dragon Mountains, and from the east by the great massif of the Blue Mountains, the land suffered from erratic and frequent visitations of air masses causing long and bitter winters, cold springs and short, rainy summers. As regards autumn, it varied—once sunny, warm and pleasant—once nothing of the kind.
Now, in the month of March, called “Birke” by the elves, the snow still remained here and there in ravines and hollows, while white patches lay in depressions in glades. The ice still covered some puddles and dykes in yellowing sheets. Although the sun gave off some warmth, when frosty winds blew from the mountains, they stung no less than in January.
Geralt had set off from Kaer Morhen the day before the Equinox. That was the custom of witchers. It was thus practised because after the winter monsters were at their hungriest, and so vicious that folk in villages and settlements were inclined to indulge in the hiring of a witcher, even though during the hungry gap they had eaten their stores and were practically destitute. But Geralt never got the chance to be hired. For things went as they went; barely two days’ ride from the mountains and bang! the peasant and his daughter, the marauders, the bald enforcer with the rotten teeth, wham, bam, and here we are. He had found himself being judged by Alderman Bulava of Neuhold, and then being rescued from that and the threat of being lynched by soldiers from the nearby fort by the strange white-haired individual with two swords on his back, riding a black horse, whom Geralt was now following.
“I suggest,” said the strange individual, turning around in the saddle, “that we ride together for a time. Captain Carleton may still want to hang you; it was apparent he wants it very much. He isn’t stupid enough to come after me, but you, alone, could be an easy target. So, if my company doesn’t bother you—”
“Not a bit,” said Geralt hurriedly, urging on his dun mare. “Gladly… I… I am—”
“I know who you are. Did your hair turn white after the mutations? After the Transformations? Loss of pigment, like I had?”
“Aye… But how—”
“How did I know there was someone like you there? Because I follow what goes on up there in the Stronghold. And it reached my ears that some wunderkind called Geralt had finished his training and was soon to venture abroad.”
“But Vesemir—”
“Never mentioned me? He never let slip the name ‘Preston Holt’? I’ll explain: Vesemir and I have been moving in different orbits, so to speak, for some time. If you know what I mean.”
Geralt didn’t actually know what an orbit was, but nodded wisely.
They rode on for a while in silence. Side by side.
“So, you set off from Kaer Morhen,” Preston Holt said finally. “You perhaps didn’t have the best beginning, but that’s the way it is with beginnings. In any case, I don’t mean to chide you. Quite the opposite; I had a look at that marauder’s body and your cuts may be considered faultless. Unnecessary, perhaps; ill-considered, perhaps; inelegant, perhaps—but actually faultless.”
They fell silent again, watched a herd of cattle being driven onto a mountain pasture and the cowherd running from cow to cow in order to warm his frozen little feet in fresh, warm cowpats. The cowpats didn’t warm him up much, but the running did.
“They’re driving cows, though the grass is barely peeping out of the ground,” observed Holt. “It’s a sign the season’s begun and you’ll have no difficulty finding work, Geralt. The villages will soon be willing to pay for their herdsmen and livestock to be protected. Let’s ride over there into the birchwood, near the opening of the sough.”
“The opening of the what?”
“The sough. That open channel there leads to a sough, a tunnel once used to drain water from a mine. We are—as you no doubt know—in the part of the Kingdom of Kaedwen called the Upper March. The wealth of the Upper March is mines: mainly salt, but also silver, nickel, zinc, lead, lapis lazuli and others. At least that’s how things were; today most mines are close to being worked out. Nothing lasts for ever.”
Geralt didn’t comment.
“Do you see that hill up ahead? It’s called Podkurek, that’s how it appears on official maps. And it came about because around a hundred years ago a peasant named Podkurek quite by chance dug up there a nugget of silver the size of a large cabbage. A mine was established here right away, extending into the mountainside. Large amounts of silver and galena, which is lead ore, were mined. But the deeper the miners dug, the more problems they had with water. There are more soughs like this one, you’ll see them. Finally, the costs of drainage made the entire extraction unprofitable. The miners moved to other places. They left a labyrinth of corridors and goafs, now partly flooded. And now the best part: the abandoned and flooded mine has been occupied and taken over by roving cynocephaly. I imagine you know what they are, don’t you?”
“Cynocephaly,” recited Geralt, after taking a deep breath, “are small creatures resembling dog-headed monkeys. They are gregarious and live underground in the dark. They’re dangerous in packs—”
“Infernally dangerous,” interrupted Preston Holt. “And quite often torment the amateur miners that come here to dig in the slopes of Podkurek in search of silver, which you can still find here. Look, there’s the proof of my lecture: those light patches over there are the canvas sheets of wagons and tents. We’re heading right for a camp of intrepid diggers. The first this spring.”
The intrepid diggers greeted them initially with a delegation armed with shovels and stout cudgels. The menacing expressions of the welcome party sent a simple message: get out of here, strangers, we was ’ere first. Their expressions soon softened, however, when they saw that the newcomers weren’t unwanted competitors. Indeed, joy appeared on their previously unfriendly faces.
“Goodness me, thank the gods!” cried the chief digger, hiding behind his back a mattock, which only a moment earlier he had been twirling warningly. “Thanks be to the gods! Goodness me, why it’s the Most Honourable Witcher! And because we heard you were in the neighbourhood, we were meaning to send word to you. But instead, you arrive out of nowhere, out of nowhere!”
“That is my custom,” said Preston Holt, straightening up in the saddle. “To appear from nowhere to help those in need. For I am a wit. . .
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