Warriors of God


By Andrzej Sapkowski

Translated by David French

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From the New York Times bestselling author of The Witcher: Reynevan—scoundrel, magician, possibly a fool—travels into the depths of war as he attempts to navigate the religious fervors of the fifteenth century.

When the Hussite leaders entrust Reynevan with a dangerous secret mission, he is forced to come out of hiding in Bohmeia and depart for Silesia. At the same time, he strives to avenge the death of his brother and discover the whereabouts of his beloved. Once again pursued by multiple enemies, he must contend with danger on every front. 
Full of gripping action replete with twists and mysteries, seasoned with magic and Sapkowski's ever-present wit, fans of the Witcher will appreciate this rich historical epic set during the Hussite Wars. 
Praise for the The Tower of Fools, book one of the Hussite Trilogy:
"This is historical fantasy done right." Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A fantastic novel that any fan of The Witcher will instantly appreciate.” The Gamer
“A ripping yarn delivered with world-weary wit, bursting at the seams with sex, death, magic and madness.” —Joe Abercrombie 
“Sapkowski's energetic and satirical prose as well as the unconventional setting makes this a highly enjoyable historical fantasy.” —Booklist

Also by Andrzej Sapkowski:
The Hussite Trilogy
The Tower of Fools
Warriors of God
Witcher collections
The Last Wish
Sword of Destiny
Witcher novels
Blood of Elves
The Time of Contempt
Baptism of Fire
The Tower of Swallows
Lady of the Lake
Season of Storms
The Malady and Other Stories: An Andrzej Sapkowski Sampler (e-only)
Translated by David French



The world, noble sirs, has lately grown bigger. And shrunk at the same time.

You laugh? Do I seem to talk nonsense? Does the one contradict the other? I shall soon prove it does not by any means.

Look out of the window, gentlemen. What view meets your eyes? The barn, you answer truthfully, and the privy beyond it. And what lies beyond the privy? Heed, if I ask the wench hurrying here with the ale, she will say that beyond the privy is a field of stubble, then Jachym’s homestead, the tar kiln and finally Mała Kozołupa. If I ask our innkeeper—a more worldly man—he will add that beyond Mała Kozołupa is Wielka Kozołupa, then the hamlet of Kocmyrów, the village of Łazy, then Goszcz, and beyond Goszcz there’s Twardogóra, I believe. But heed: more learned fellows with more enlightened minds—like you, for example—know that the world doesn’t end at Twardogóra, either; that beyond it is Oleśnica, Brzeg, Niemodlin, Nysa, Głubczyce, Opava, Nový Jičín, Trenčín, Nitra, Esztergom, Buda, Belgrade, Ragusa, Ioannina, Corinth, Crete, Alexandria, Cairo, Memphis, Ptolemais, Thebes… Well? Isn’t the world growing? Doesn’t it become ever larger?

Yet that still is not the end. Going beyond Thebes, up the Nile—which issues from its source in the Garden of Eden as the River Gihon—we come to the lands of the Ethiopes, and thence, as we know, to barren Nubia, sun-baked Kush, gold-bearing Ophir and the whole of vast Africa Terra, hic sunt leones. And beyond that is the ocean that surrounds all the Earth. But in that ocean, of course, are islands like Cathay, Taprobana, Bragine, Oxidrate, Gynosophe and Zipangu, where the climate is wonderfully fertile and jewels lie around in heaps, as described by the scholar Hugh of Saint Victor and Pierre d’Ailly, and also by Sir John Mandeville, who saw those marvels with his own eyes.

Thus, we have proved that over the course of those few centuries the world has grown markedly. For even if the world hasn’t increased in terms of matter, the number of new names certainly has.

How then, you ask, can we reconcile the claim that the world has also shrunk? I shall tell you and prove it. I only entreat you first not to mock or jibe, for what I shall say isn’t a figment of my imagination, but knowledge gleaned from books. And it doesn’t do to mock books, since their writing is the result of somebody’s arduous labour.

As we know, our world is a small piece of land, shaped like a round pancake with its centre in Jerusalem and all engirdled by the ocean. At the Occident, the edge of the Earth is formed by Calpe and Abila—the Pillars of Hercules—with the Strait of Gades between them.

And to the south, as I have just said, the ocean extends beyond Africa. In the south-east, the end of the mainland is marked by India inferior, which belongs to Prester John, as well as the lands of Gog and Magog. In the septentrional of the Earth is Ultima Thule, and there, ubi oriens iungitur aquiloni, lies the land of the Mongols, or Tartary, while to the east the world ends some way beyond Kiev, with the Caucasus.

And now we come to the crux of the matter. By which I mean the Portuguese. But more specifically the Infante Dom Henrique, Duke of Viseu, the son of King John. Portugal, it can’t be denied, is by no means a large kingdom, and the king’s infant was his third son in a row. So, unsurprisingly, Henry gazed more often and with greater hope from his palace in Sagres towards the sea than at Lisbon. He invited to Sagres astronomers and cartographers, wise Jews, navigators, sea captains and master boatbuilders. And thus it began.

In the Year of Our Lord 1418, the explorer João Gonçalves Zarco reached some islands called the Insulae Canariae, so called because of the vast multitudes of dogs found there. Soon afterwards, in 1420, the same Gonçalves Zarco and Tristão Vaz Teixeira sailed to the island christened Madeira. In 1427, the caravels of Diogo de Silves reached some islands which were named the Azores—only God and Diogo know why. But a few years ago, in 1434, another Portuguese, Gil Eanes, rounded Cape Bojador. And rumour has it that Infante Dom Henrique—who some are now beginning to call El Navegador or “the Navigator”is planning his next expedition.

Truly do I admire those seafaring explorers and hold them in great esteem. They are intrepid men. After all, it is terrifying to venture onto the ocean under sail. Why, there are squalls and storms, hidden rocks, magnetic mountains, rough and sticky seas. If there aren’t whirlpools, then there’s turbulence, and if not turbulence, then currents. It teems with a plenitude of sea monsters and serpents, tritons, hippocampi, mermen, dolphins and flatfishes. The sea is awash with diverse sanguisugae, polypi, octopodes, locustae, cancri, pistrixi et huic similia. The most dreadful place is at the end—for where the ocean finishes, beyond its edge, begins Hell. Why do you think the sun is so red when it sets? Because it reflects the infernal fires. What is more, there are holes spread over the entire ocean, and when a caravel imprudently sails over one, it tumbles straight into Hell. It is clear it was created in such an image to stop mortal man sailing the seas. Hell is the penalty for those who break the rules.

But, from my experience, it won’t stop the Portuguese, since navigare necesse est and there are islands and lands beyond the horizon that need discovering. Distant Taprobane must be drawn on maps, the route to mysterious Zipangu described on roteiros, and Insulae Fortunatae—the Isles of the Blessed—marked on portulan charts. One must sail ever further, in the wake of Saint Brendan along the route of dreams, to Hy-Brasil, towards the unknown. In order to make the unknown known.

And that is why—quod erat demonstrandum—our world is diminishing and shrinking, because soon everything will be visible on maps, portulan charts and roteiros. And suddenly everywhere will be close.

The world is shrinking and becoming depleted of one thing: legends. The further the Portuguese caravels sail, the more islands discovered and named, the fewer legends there will be. Another one vanishes like smoke. We have one less dream. And when a dream dies, darkness fills the place orphaned by the dream. Then monsters awake at once in that darkness, particularly when our minds are lulled. What? It has been said before? M’lord! Is there anything that has not already been said?

Oh, but my throat is dry… What would I say to a beer, you ask? By all means.

What do you say, devout brother of Saint Dominic? Aha, that it is time I stopped digressing and took up the story again? Of Reynevan, Scharley, Samson and the others? You are right, Brother. It is. Thus do I resume it.

Anno Domini 1427 dawned. Do you remember what it brought? Indeed. It cannot be forgotten. But I shall remind you nonetheless.

That spring, in March, I believe, certainly before Easter, Pope Martin V announced the papal bull Salvatoris omnium, in which he declared the need for another crusade against the Czech heretics. Pope Martin named Henry Beaufort, the Bishop of Winchester, the brother of the King of England, cardinal and legate a latere in the stead of Giordano Orsini, who was elderly and dreadfully feeble. Beaufort took up the matter vigorously. Soon a crusade was declared, meant to punish the Hussite apostates with fire and sword. The expedition was diligently prepared; money, of prime importance in a war, was meticulously collected, and this time—mirabile dictu—no one stole the cash. Some chroniclers believe the crusaders had become more honest. Others that the cash was guarded better.

The Diet of Frankfurt proclaimed Otto of Ziegenhain, Archbishop of Trier, commander-in-chief of the crusade. Everyone who could be was called to arms and soon the armies were ready. Frederick Hohenzollern the Elder, Elector of Brandenburg, reported with a force of soldiers. The Bavarians arrived under the command of Duke Henry the Rich, and Count Palatine John of Neumarkt, and his brother Count Palatine Otto of Mosbach also answered the call. The juvenile Frederick of Wettin, son of the infirm Frederick the Belligerent, Elector of Saxony, came to the rallying point. Raban of Helmstatt, Bishop of Speyer; Anselm of Nenningen, Bishop of Augsburg; and Frederick of Aufseß, Bishop of Bamberg—each came with a sizeable regiment. And Johann of Brunn, Bishop of Würzburg. And Thiébaudde of Rougemont, Archbishop of Besançon. Plus contingents from Swabia, Hesse, Thuringia and the northern Hanseatic cities.

The crusade set off at the beginning of July, in the week after the Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul, crossed the border and marched into Bohemia, leaving corpses and conflagrations behind it. On the Wednesday before the Feast of Saint James, the crusaders, reinforced by men of the Bohemian Catholic Landfried, stopped at Stříbro, which was occupied by the Hussite Sir Přibík of Klenové, and surrounded it, battering it cruelly with heavy bombards. Sir Přibík held on valiantly and thought not of surrender. The siege dragged on; time passed. The Elector of Brandenburg Frederick became impatient. Why, this is a crusade! he roared, advising that they proceed without delay to march on Prague. Prague, he said, is caput regni: whoever has Prague, has Bohemia…

The summer of 1427 was unbearably hot.

And what, you ask, did the Warriors of God say to that? What of Prague, you ask?


Prague stank of blood.

Chapter One

In which Prague stinks of blood, Reynevan is followed, and then—by turns—becomes bored by routine, is full of recollections and longing, celebrates, fights for his life and drowns in a feather bed. And all the while, Europe turns somersaults, gambols and frolics.

Prague stank of blood.

Reynevan sniffed both sleeves of his jerkin. He had only just left the hospital, and while there—as is usual in a hospital—blood had been let from almost everyone, boils were regularly lanced and amputations took place with a frequency worthy of a better cause. His clothing might have absorbed the smell; there’d have been nothing unusual about that. But his jerkin just smelled like a jerkin. And nothing else.

He raised his head and sniffed. From the north, over on the left bank of the River Vltava, came the smell of dried weeds being burned in orchards and vineyards. Moreover, from the river came the smell of mud and rotting flesh—the weather was hot, the water level had dropped considerably and the exposed banks and dried-out sandbars had for some time been supplying the city with unforgettable olfactory impressions. But this time it wasn’t the mud that stank. Reynevan was certain of it.

A light and changeable breeze was blowing intermittently from the Poříčí Gate to the east. From Vítkov. And the ground at the foot of Vítkov Hill might indeed have been giving off the smell of blood, since plenty of blood had soaked into it.

But that couldn’t be possible. Reynevan adjusted the shoulder strap of his bag and walked briskly down the lane. The smell of blood couldn’t be coming from Vítkov. Firstly, it was quite far away. Secondly, the battle had been fought in the summer of 1420. Seven years before. Seven long years before.

He passed the Church of the Holy Cross, making good speed, but the stench of blood hadn’t faded. On the contrary, it had had grown more intense. For now, all of a sudden, it was coming from the west.

Ha, he thought, looking towards the nearby ghetto, stones aren’t like soil; old bricks and plaster remember much, much lingers on in them. What they absorb stinks for a long time. And over there, outside the synagogue and in the streets and houses, blood flowed even more copiously than in Vítkov, and a little more recently. In 1422, during the bloody pogrom, at the time of the upheaval that erupted in Prague following the execution of Jan Želivský. Enraged by the execution of their popular tribune, the people of Prague had risen up to seek revenge, to burn and kill. The Jewish district, as usual, took the brunt of it. The Jews had nothing at all to do with Želivský’s death and weren’t in any way responsible for his fate. But who cared?

Reynevan turned beyond the graveyard of the Church of the Holy Cross, passed by the hospital, entered the Old Coal Market, crossed a small square and ducked into the gateways and narrow backstreets leading to Dlouhá třída. The smell of blood had faded into a sea of other scents, for the gateways and backstreets bore every imaginable stench.

Dlouhá třída, however, greeted him with the powerful and heady aroma of bread. As far as the eye could see, celebrated Prague bread and rolls lay golden and fragrant on bakers’ stalls and counters. Although he had breakfasted in the hospital and wasn’t hungry, he couldn’t resist and bought two fresh rolls at the first stall he came across. The rolls—called caltas—were shaped so erotically that, for a while, Reynevan wandered along Dlouhá třída in a dream, bumping into stalls, lost in thoughts that raged like desert winds about Nicolette. About Katarzyna of Biberstein. There were several extremely attractive women of various ages among the passers-by he bumped into and jostled, lost in thought. He didn’t notice them. He apologised absent-mindedly and went on, by turns chewing a calta and staring at it spellbound.

The stench of blood in the Old Town Square brought him to his senses.

Ah well, thought Reynevan, finishing the calta, perhaps that’s not so strange—blood is nothing new for these streets. Jan Želivský and nine of his companions were executed right here, in the old town hall, having been lured here that Monday in March. After that treacherous deed, the town hall floor was washed, and red foam streamed under the doors and flowed—it was said—all the way to the pillory in the centre of the town square, where it formed a huge puddle. And soon after, when the news of the tribune’s death provoked an outburst of fury and the lust for revenge in Prague, blood flowed along all the surrounding gutters.

People were walking towards the Church of Our Lady before Týn, crowding into the courtyard leading to its doors. Rokycana will be preaching, thought Reynevan. It’ll be worth listening to what Jan Rokycana has to say, he thought. It’s always paid to listen to Jan Rokycana’s sermons. Always. Particularly now, at a time when the current events are supplying subject matter for sermons at a simply alarming rate. Oh, he has plenty to preach about. And it’s worth listening to.

But there’s no time. There are more pressing matters, he thought. And there’s a problem. Namely, that I’m being followed.

Reynevan had become aware of being followed quite some time before. Right after leaving the hospital, by the Church of the Holy Cross. His pursuers were cunning, kept out of sight and hid themselves very adeptly. But Reynevan had cottoned on. Because it wasn’t the first time.

He knew—in principle—who was following him and on whose orders they were acting. Although it wasn’t especially important.

He had to lose them. He even had a plan.

He entered the thronged, smelly, noisy Cattle Market and mingled with the crowd heading towards the Vltava and the Stone Bridge. He needed to vanish and there was a good chance of doing so in the crowded bottleneck on the bridge, in the narrow corridor linking the Old Town with the Lesser Quarter and Hradčany, in the hubbub and crush. Reynevan wove through the crowd, jostling passers-by and earning insults.

“Reinmar!” One of the people he bumped into, instead of calling him a “whoreson” like the rest, greeted him with his baptismal name. “By God! You, here?”

“Indeed. Hey, Radim… What’s the bloody stink?”

“It’s clay and sludge.” Radim Tvrdík, a short and not very young man, pointed at the bucket he was lugging. “From the riverbank. I need it… For you-know-what.”

“I do.” Reynevan looked around anxiously. “I do, indeed.”

Radim Tvrdík was—as the enlightened few knew—a sorcerer. Radim Tvrdík was also—as even fewer members of that enlightened circle knew—obsessed with the idea of creating an artificial person, a golem. Everybody—even the more poorly enlightened—knew that the only golem ever to have been created was the work of a certain Prague rabbi whose name, probably misspelled, was given as “Bar Halevi” in surviving documents. Long ago, that Jew, so the story went, used clay, sludge and mud scooped from the bottom of the Vltava to make the golem. However, Tvrdík—and he alone—presented the view that the causative factor was played here not by ceremonies and spells, which were in any case well known, but rather by a specific astrological configuration that acted on the sludge and clay in question and their magical properties. However, having no idea what the precise planetary configuration might be, Tvrdík operated using trial and error, gathering clay as often as he could, hoping one day to finally chance upon the right kind. He also took it from various places. But that day he had gone too far; judging from the stench, he had taken it straight from near some shithouse or other.

“Not working at the hospital, Reinmar?” he asked, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.

“I took the day off. There was nothing to do. It was a quiet day.”

“Let’s hope it’s not one of the last,” said the magician, putting down his pail. “Times being what they are…”

Everybody in Prague understood, knew what “times” were being discussed. But they preferred not to talk about it and would cut short their speech. Cutting off one’s speech suddenly became widespread and fashionable. The custom demanded that the listener assume a thoughtful expression, sigh and nod meaningfully. But Reynevan didn’t have time for that.

“On your way, Radim,” he said, looking around. “I can’t stop here. And it’d be better if you didn’t, either.”


“I’m being followed. Which is why I can’t go down Soukenická Street.”

“Being followed,” said Radim Tvrdík. “By the usual chaps?”

“Probably. Cheerio.”


“What for?”

“It isn’t wise to try to lose your tail.”


“To the tailers, attempts to lose the tail are a clear sign that the tailee has a guilty conscience and something to hide,” the Czech explained most astutely. “Only a thief fears the truth. It’s sensible not to go down Soukenická Street. But don’t dodge, don’t weave around, don’t hide. Do what you usually do. Attend to your daily activities. Bore the trackers with your boring daily routine.”


“I’ve developed quite a thirst digging up sludge. Come to the Crayfish. Let’s have a beer.”

“I’m being followed,” Reynevan reminded him. “Aren’t you afraid—”

“What’s there to be afraid of?” The wizard picked up his pail.

Reynevan sighed. Not for the first time, a Prague magician had surprised him. He didn’t know if it was their admirable calm or simply a lack of imagination, but some of the local wizards often appeared unbothered by the fact that Hussites could be more dangerous than the Inquisition to anyone who indulged in black magic. Maleficium—witchcraft—was among the deadly sins punishable by death in the Fourth Article of Prague. The Hussites were no laughing matter where the Articles of Prague were concerned. Self-proclaimed “moderate” Calixtines from Prague were the equal of radical Taborites and fanatical Orphans in that respect. Any sorcerer who was caught was put in a barrel and burned at the stake in it.

They turned back towards the town square along Knifemakers Street, then Goldsmiths Street and finally St. Giles Street. They walked slowly. Tvrdík stopped by several stalls and shared some gossip with the stallholders he knew. As was standard, sentences were cut short more than once with “times being what they are…” which was received with wise expressions, sighs and knowing nods. Reynevan looked around but couldn’t see his pursuers. They were keeping well out of sight. He didn’t know how it was for them, but he was beginning to find the boring routine deadly boring.

Fortunately, soon after, they turned from St. Giles Street into a courtyard and passed through a gateway to emerge opposite the House at the Red Crayfish. And a small tavern named identically by the innkeeper without a scrap of imagination.

“Well I never! Just look! Why, if it isn’t Reynevan!”

Four men were sitting at a table on a bench behind the pillars on the ground floor. They were all moustachioed, broad-shouldered and dressed in knightly doublets. Reynevan knew two of them, so he also knew they were Poles. Even if he hadn’t, he could have guessed. Like all Poles abroad, these men were conducting themselves noisily and arrogantly, with ostentatious boorishness that in their opinion would emphasise their status and elevated social position. The funny thing was that since Easter, the status of Poles in Prague was extremely low and their social position even lower.

“Good day! Welcome, noble Asclepius!” One of the Poles, whom Reynevan knew as Adam Wejdnar, bearing the Rawicz coat of arms, greeted him. “Sit you down! Sit you down, both of you! Be our guests!”

“Why are you inviting him so readily?” said another of the Poles, grimacing with feigned disgust. He was also a Greater Pole, known to Reynevan as Mikołaj Żyrowski and sporting the Czewoja coat of arms. “Do you have a surfeit of cash or something? And besides, the quack works with lepers! He’s liable to infect us with leprosy—or something even worse!”

“I’m not working in the lazaretto now,” explained Reynevan patiently, not for the first time. “I’m working at Bohuslav’s hospice now, here in the Old Town by the Church of Saints Simon and Jude.”

“Yes, yes.” Żyrowski, who knew everything, waved a dismissive hand. “What are you drinking? Oh, blow it, forgive me. Let me introduce you. My lords Jan Kuropatwa of Łańcuchów bearing the Szreniawa arms and Jerzy Skirmunt bearing the Odrowąż. Excuse me, but what is that fucking smell?”

“Sludge. From the Vltava.”

Reynevan and Radim Tvrdík drank beer. The Poles were drinking Austrian wine and eating stewed mutton and bread. They were talking ostentatiously loudly in Polish, telling each other funny stories and responding to each one with thunderous guffaws. Passers-by turned their heads away, swearing under their breath. And occasionally spitting.

Since Easter, specifically since Maundy Thursday, the Czechs’ opinion of the Poles hadn’t been too high. Indeed, their position in Prague was also pretty low and evincing a downward trend.

Around five thousand Polish knights the first time, and around five hundred the second, had come to Prague with Sigismund Korybut, Jogaila’s nephew, pretender to the Bohemian crown. Many had seen in Korybut hope and salvation for Hussite Bohemia, and the Poles had fought valiantly for the Chalice and Divine Law, shedding blood at the Battles of Karlštejn, Jihlava, Retz and Ústí. In spite of that, even their Czech comrades-in-arms didn’t like them, in part because the Poles routinely found hilarious the Czech language in general and Czech names in particular, but also because Korybut’s treachery had seriously damaged the Polish cause. The hope of Bohemia was thus a total failure: for the Hussite king in spe was in cahoots with Catholic lords, had betrayed the matter of sub utraque specie Communion and broken the Four Articles he had sworn to uphold. The plot was uncovered and foiled, Jogaila’s nephew found himself in prison rather than on the Bohemian throne, and the people began to treat Poles with downright hostility. Some of them left Bohemia at once. But some remained, thereby apparently showing their disapproval of Korybut’s treachery and their support for the Chalice, and declaring their readiness to fight on for the Hussite cause. And what of it? The Czech people continued to dislike them. It was suspected—not without reason—that the Poles couldn’t give a stuff about the Hussite cause. It was claimed they’d stayed because, primo, they had nothing and nowhere to go back to. They had marched to Bohemia as wastrels pursued by courts and warrants, and now, to make matters worse, they had all—Korybut included—been saddled with curses and infamy. And because, secundo, they were only fighting in Bohemia in the hope of lining their pockets and gaining spoils and land. And because, tertio, they weren’t actually fighting, but rather taking advantage of the absence of the Czechs to fuck their wives.

All of those claims were genuine.

Hearing Polish spoken, a passing Praguian spat on the ground.

“My, they really don’t seem to like us,” observed Jerzy Skirmunt, in his comical accent. “Why’s that? How odd.”

“I couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss.” Żyrowski stuck out his chest, displaying the silver horseshoe of the Czewoja arms to the street. Like every Pole, he subscribed to the ridiculous view that as a nobleman, even though a totally impoverished one, he was equal in Bohemia to the Rožmberks, Kolovrats, Šternberks and all the other wealthy families put together.

“Perhaps you couldn’t,” said Skirmunt, “but it’s still odd, my dear.”

“The people are astonished.” Radim Tvrdík’s voice may have been calm, but Reynevan knew him too well. “Astonished to see armed knights carelessly making merry at a tavern table. These days. Times being what they are…”

He trailed off in accordance with the custom. But the Poles weren’t in the habit of observing customs.

“Meaning when the crusaders are marching on you, eh?” Żyrowski chortled. “With a great force, wielding fire and sword, leaving only scorched earth behind them? And any moment—”


  • "Sapkowski's love for the period is clear as he touches on notorious historical events and figures ... The carefully painted landscapes and intricate politics effortlessly draw readers into Reinmar's life and times. This is historical fantasy done right."—Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Tower of Fools
  • "A ripping yarn delivered with world-weary wit, bursting at the seams with sex, death, magic and madness."—Joe Abercrombie on Tower of Fools
  • "Sapkowski's energetic and satirical prose as well as the unconventional setting makes this a highly enjoyable historical fantasy. Recommended for Sapkowksi's many existing fans."—Booklist on Tower of Fools
  • "[The Tower of Fools] is a fantastic novel that any fan of The Witcher will instantly appreciate . . . Reynevan is an intelligent dope who follows his heart, his accompanying cast of characters is thoroughly developed and just as intriguing, and the worldbuilding employed by Sapkowski is impeccable."—The Gamer on Tower of Fools
  • “Sapkowski’s primary draw is his ability to weave rich historical context with a complex atmosphere of magic and superstition . . . [The Tower of Fools] is quite rewarding for readers ready to take the plunge.”—BookPage on Tower of Fools

On Sale
Oct 19, 2021
Page Count
656 pages

Andrzej Sapkowski

About the Author

Andrzej Sapkowski was born in 1948 in Poland. He studied economy and business, but the success of his fantasy cycle about the Witcher Geralt of Rivia turned him into a bestselling writer. His work has received Poland’s Janusz A. Zajdel prize five times, as well as Great Britain’s David Gemmell Award for Fantasy, in 2009. In 2016, he received the World Fantasy Award—Life Achievement. The Witcher has been adapted to a successful video-game franchise, and is now a series on Netflix.

Learn more about this author