‘Rrrrwa mother!’ croaked an invisible Field Marshal Duda.
Geralt raised his head, spat out the sand and saw a hilarious scene.
Only four people had not joined in the general panic, and one of which was against his will. The latter was the priest, his neck stuck in an iron grip by the Mayor Hector Laabs. The two other people were Zoltan and Percival. The gnome with a quick movement pulled up the back of the priest’s robe, the dwarf armed with pincers pulled from the fire a burning horseshoe and threw it down the pants of the priest. Released from Laabs grip, the priest rushed forward like a comet with a smoking tail, and his screams were drowned in the roar of the crowd. Geralt saw the mayor, gnome and dwarf go to congratulate each other for their success, when they fell straight into the next wave of the mob fleeing in panic. Everything disappeared in clouds of dust, the witcher could see nothing more, He had no time to look anyway as he was busy saving Dandelion, who had been knocked over by a pig running blind. When Geralt bent to lift the poet, someone knocked a ladder onto his back from a passing wagon. The weight knocked him to the ground. Before he could push the ladder off, fifteen people had run across it. When he finally managed to free himself, a wagon overturned with a crash, three sacks of wheat flour, costing a crown a pound fell onto the witcher. The sacks burst and the world was drowned it white clouds.
‘Get up, Geralt!’ yelled the troubadour.’ Get up, damn it!’
‘I can’t,’ gasped the witcher, blinded by the valuable flour and grabbing with both hands his knee which was immobilized with pain. ‘Save yourself, Dandelion...’
‘I won’t leave you!’
From the western edge of the camp they heard gruesome screams mixed with the sounds of galloping hooves and the neighing of horses. The yelling and hoof beats intensified, metal struck metal it sounded like a pieces of iron colliding with a bell.
‘A battle!’ cried the poet. ‘They’re fighting!’
‘Who? With who?’ Geralt sought to clear his eyes blinded by the flour and sand. Not far away, something began to burn; there was a breathtaking heat and a choking smoke cloud. The rumble of hoof beats grew louder, the earth shuddered. At first he saw a cloud of dust, then there were dozens of horse’ fetlocks at a canter. Everywhere around. He overcame the pain.
‘Under the wagon! Hide under the wagon, Dandelion, otherwise we’ll be trampled!’
‘Do not move...’ whined the poet clamped to the earth. ‘Let’s stay in place... I’ve heard that horses never step on a man lying on the...’
‘I’m not sure,’ Geralt gasped, ‘if the horses have heard about this. Under the wagon! Quick!’
At that moment, one of the horses who did not know about proverbs kicked him in the head in passing. The witcher’s eyes suddenly lit up with red and gold of all the constellations in the firmament, and a moment later an impenetrable blackness covered the sky and the earth.
The Rats jumped up, awakened by a protracted scream whose rumbling echoes multiplied on the cave walls. Asse and Reef took up their swords, Iskra cursed loudly, because her head hit a rocky protrusion.
‘What is it?’ Kayleigh screamed. ‘What’s happening?’
The cave was dark, though outside the sun was shining. The Rats rested after a night spent in the saddle fleeing pursuers. Giselher put a torch into the fire, lit it up, stood up and approached the place where Ciri and Mistle slept together, as usual, away from the rest of the gang. Ciri sat with her head bowed, Mistle covered it.
Giselher raised the torch. The others also approached. Mistle covered Ciri’s bare shoulder with a fur.
‘Listen, Mistle,’ the leader of the Rats said seriously, ‘I have never interfered into what you two do in bed. I have never said a word of derision. I always try to look the other way and ignore it. It is your affair and your preference; I have nothing against yourselves while you are discreet and quiet. But this time you’ve exaggerated a bit.’
‘Do not be stupid,’ Mistle broke in. ‘What do you think, that… The girl was screaming in her sleep! It was a nightmare!’
‘Did you scream, Falka?’
Ciri nodded.
‘Was it a terrible dream? What did you dream?’
‘Leave her alone!’
‘Shut up, Mistle. Falka?’
‘A person, someone I knew,’ Ciri stammered, ‘a horse kicked him. Hooves… I could feel how it tore… I felt his pain… His head and knee… It still hurts me. Forgive me. I have awakened.’
‘Do not apologize.’ Giselher said with tight lips, looking at Mistle. ‘You deserve the apology. A dream? Well, anyone could have a dream. Anyone.’
Ciri closed her eyes. She was not sure Giselher was right.
He was woken by a kick.
He was lying on his back with his head resting on the wheel of the overturned wagon, beside him, crouched Dandelion. The man who had kicked him was wearing a round helmet and a jacket. Beside him was another. Both were hold the reins of horses, from their saddles hung spears and shields.
‘The miller or the devil?’
The other soldier shrugged. Dandelion, Geralt saw, did not take his eyes off of the shields. He too had long since noticed that on the shields were lilies. The emblem of the Kingdom of Temeria. The same sign was worn by other mounted soldiers that were swarming around. Most were busy catching horses and looting corpses. Corpses, which were mostly wearing black Nilfgaardian cloaks.
The encampment was a smoking ruin after the assault, but it appeared the peasants who survived did not flee too far. Mounted soldiers with lilies on their shields pushed them to form groups, shouting at them.
Milva, Zoltan, Percival and Regis were nowhere to be seen. Next to them sat the hero of the recent witch trial, the black cat, staring impassively at Geralt with golden eyes. The witcher was somewhat surprised, usually cats did not like to be any proximity of him. He did not have time to reflect on this unusual phenomenon as one of the soldiers hit him with a spear.
‘Get up, both of you! Hey, this white one has a sword!’
‘Drop the sword!’ shouted the other soldier, calling over others.
‘Drop the sword on the ground or I’ll put a spear through you!’
Geralt obeyed. He felt a ringing in his head.
‘Who the devil are you?’
‘Travelers.’ said Dandelion.
‘Sure,’ the soldier snorted. ‘Travelling home? Fleeing? Have you shed your colors and defected from your units? Many in this camp are such travelers, they tasted military bread but Nilfgaard scared the shit out of them! Some are old friends of ours! From our squad!’
‘And these traveler await another trip,’ laughed the other soldier. ‘A very short one! Up, on a branch!’
‘We are not deserters!’ cried the poet.
‘It shows. Listen to you lot.’
From the circle of archers on horseback came a detachment of light cavalry led by some men dressed in heavy armor and helmets with proud plumes on them. Dandelion looked at the approaching knights, wiped the flour from his clothes then spit into his hands and tousled his hair.
‘You, Geralt, remain silent.’ He warned. ‘I will speak. These are knights. They have defeated Nilfgaard. We haven’t done anything. I know how to talk when it comes to nobles. We must show them that they are dealing with their peers and not common people.’
‘Dandelion, for pity’s sake…’
‘Don’t worry, everything will be fine. I know the language when speaking with knights and nobles, half of Temeria knows me. Hey, out of the way, lackey, move! I would speak with your masters!’
The soldiers looked at him doubtfully, but raised their spears and reluctantly parted. Dandelion and Geralt walked towards the knights. The poet walked proudly and with lordly mien, little suited to somebody covered in flour.
‘Halt!’ shouted one of the knights. ‘Not another step! Who the fuck are you?’
‘And who am I to answer?’ Dandelion said with his hands on his hips. ‘And for what reason? Who are the noble l
ords who harass innocent travelers?’
‘You are not the one asking questions, scoundrel! Answer!’
The minstrel cocked his head and examined the coats of arms on the shields and mantles of the knights.
‘Three red hearts on a field of gold.’ He noted, ‘this implies that you are an Aubry. The head of the shield shows a label with three teeth and therefore you must be the firstborn son of Anzelm Aubry. I know your father well, Sir Knight. And you, Sir Knight, what do you bare on your coat of silver? A black column flanked by two griffins heads? The Papebrock family coat of arms, if I’m not mistaken and in such matters I am rarely wrong. The black column, so they say, reflects a savvy member of the family.’
‘Shut up, dammit.’ Geralt moaned.
‘I’m the famous poet Dandelion!’ boasted the bard, ignoring him. ‘Surely, you’ve heard of me. So lead me to your leader, your commander, because I’m used to talking to my equals!’
The armored horsemen were silent, but the expressions on their faces became increasingly less friendly and the fingers in their iron gauntlets gripped the reins tightly. Dandelion, apparently did not notice.
‘So what’s with you?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘What are you looking at, Sir Knight? Yes, I’m talking to you, Sir Black column. You should not make such a face. Someone apparently advised that if you narrow your eyes and thrust your jaw forward, you’d look more masculine, dashing and threatening? That someone deceived you. You look like someone who hasn’t been able to take a shit for a week!’
‘Take them!’ shouted the eldest son of Anzelm Aubry, who carried the shield with three red hearts. The knight with the black column of the Papebrock family nudged his horse with his spurs.
‘Take them! And tie up the bastards!’
They walked behind the horses, dragged by ropes attached to their wrist and to the pommel of the saddles. They walked, sometimes ran, because the riders did not take pity on the horses nor the prisoners. Dandelion fell twice and was dragged on his stomach, screaming until they relented. The soldiers helped him to his feet with their spears and ruthlessly drove them further. Dust blinded their eyes, choked them and dug in their nose. Thirst burned in their throats.
Only one thing comforted them – the road was heading south. Geralt was finally moving in the right direction – and fairly quickly. However, he did not rejoice. He imagined the journey differently.
They arrived at a place at a time where Dandelion was horse from cursing mixed with cries for mercy, and the pain in Geralt’s elbows and knees had become a veritable torture, severe enough to make the witcher begin to consider radical, though desperate action.
They reached a military camp, scattered around a half-burned and ruined fortress. They were led past campfires and tents decorated with pennants of chivalry, surrounding a large bustling fairground by a huge, scorched palisade.
Upon seeing a trough for horses, Geralt and Dandelion pulled on their ropes. The riders were not initially willing to let them go to the water, but the son of Anzelm Aubry was reminded of Dandelion’s friendship with his father and took pity on them. They pushed between the horses, drank and washed their faces with their tied hands. A jerk on the ropes immediately returned them to reality.
‘Who have you brought me this time?’ asked a tall, thin knight in richly gilded armor, tapping the handle of an ornately decorated baton. ‘Don’t tell me it is more spies?’
‘Spies or deserters,’ confirmed the son of Anzelm Aubry. ‘They were caught in the camp by the Chotla, when we repelled the attack by the Nilfgaardians. They are very suspicious elements!’
The knight in the gilded armor snorted, then examined Dandelion closely, his hard, yet still young face brightened suddenly.
‘Nonsense. Untie them.’
‘But they are spies for Nilfgaard!’ protested the black column knight from the family of Papebrock. ‘Especially that one, the rascal, who barks like a dog in town. He says that he is a poet, the bastard!’
‘And he didn’t lie.’ smiled the knight in the gilded armor. ‘This is the bard Dandelion. I know him. Removed his bindings. And the other one too.’
‘Are you certain, Count?’
‘It was an order, Knight Papebrock.’
‘And you didn’t think that I might come in useful, right?’ Dandelion muttered to Geralt, rubbing his numb wrist where they had been bound. ‘So now you know. My reputation precedes me, everywhere I am known and honored.’
Geralt made no comment as he was busy massaging his own wrists, sore knees and elbows.
‘I beg you to forgive the zeal of these lads.’ Said the knight, with the title of Count. ‘They see Nilfgaardian spies everywhere. Every patrol brings a few of those suspected of being spies. That is, those who stand out among the refugees. And you, noble Dandelion, stand out. How did you get over the Chotla, among the refugees?’
‘We were on our way to Maribor from Dillingen,’ Dandelion invented, ‘when we got into this mess, I and my friend, also… a poet. Surely you know him, he is called Giraldus.’
‘Of course I do, of course, I’ve read your poems, Sir Giraldus.’ boasted the Count. ‘It’s an honor. My name is Daniel Etcheverry, Count of Garramone. On my honor, Master Dandelion, much has changed since you visited the court of king Foltest.’
‘Undoubtedly, a lot.’
‘Who would have thought,’ the Count frowned, ‘that this would happen. Verden held by Emhyr, Brugge basically conquered, Sodden is again on fire… and we fall back, constantly fall back… I’m sorry, I meant: we perform a tactical maneuver. Nilfgaard burns and loots all around, they are already on their way to banks of the Ina and they besiege the fortresses of Razwan and Mayena. And yet the army continues with these tactical maneuvers.’
‘When I saw your lilies at the Chotla,’ said Dandelion, ‘I was convinced it was an offensive.’
‘Just a counterattack.’ Daniel Etcheverry corrected him. ‘A surveying fight. We crossed and destroyed some Nilfgaardian patrols and Scoia’tael commandos that were spreading fires. What you see here is all that remains of the fortress of Armeria, when we conquered it back. And the fortresses Carcano and Vidort have been burned to the foundations… The whole south is awash in blood, fire and smoke… Oh, I’m boring you, gentlemen. You already know what’s happening in Brugge and Sodden, you followed the refugees through there. And my lads took you for spies! As an apology please accept an invitation to lunch. Some of the gentlemen of the nobility will be happy to meet you, Sir Poets.’
‘It is a true honor to us.’ Geralt bowed, stiffly. ‘But time flies. We need to get under way.’
‘But, please do not feel uneasy.’ Daniel Etcheverry smiled. ‘It is a simple soldier’s meal. Venison, hazel grouse, fruits, truffles...’
‘To decline,’ Dandelion swallowed and measured the witcher with a significant glance, ‘would be a grave insult. Let us go, my lord. This is your tent, the blue and gold?’
‘No. That tent is the commander’s. Blue and gold are the colors of his homeland.’
‘How is that?’ Dandelion was amazed. ‘I was sure this army was under your charge, Count.’
‘This is a separate branch of the Temerian army. I am the liaison officer of king Foltest, there are nobles here with me who are also fighting under the sign of Temeria. But the foundations of his army are subjects from other kingdoms. You see the banner before the command tent?’
‘Lions.’ Geralt stopped. ‘Golden lions on a blue field. That... That is the emblem of...’
‘Cintra.’ confirmed the Count. ‘These are exiles from the kingdom of Cintra, now occupied by Nilfgaard. Marshal Vissegerd leads them.’
Geralt turned to the Count and opened his mouth to say that an urgent matter would force them to nevertheless refuse the lunch invitation. He did not make it. He saw a group of officers approaching them, headed by a strong, thick, gray-haired knight in a blue cloak and gold chain armor.
‘Here, Sir Poets, is the Marshal Vissegerd in person.’ Daniel Etch
everry said. ‘Allow me the honor of introducing...’
‘There is no need.’ Marshal Vissegerd interrupted hoarsely, his eyes drilling into Geralt. ‘We have already been introduced. In Cintra, at the court of Queen Calanthe. At the engagement of Princess Pavetta. It was fifteen years ago, but I have a good memory. And you, bastard witcher, do you remember me?’
‘I remember.’ Geralt said and obediently let the soldiers bind his hands.
Daniel Etcheverry, Count of Garramone, tried to intercede for Geralt and Dandelion, when the soldier had settled them on chairs in the Marshal’s tent. When the soldiers left at Vissegerd’s order, the Count resumed his efforts.
‘This is the poet and troubadour Dandelion, Sir Marshal,’ he explained. ‘I know him. He is known throughout the whole world. It is not appropriate to do this to him. On my honor, I guarantee that he is not a Nilfgaardian spy.’
‘Do not swear so hastily, Count.’ said Vissegerd, not taking his eyes off the bound men. ‘Perhaps he is a poet, but he was captured in the company of this miscreant witcher, I would not vouch for him. It seems to me that you still don’t realize what bird you have caught in your snares.’
‘The witcher?’
‘Of course, Geralt, who is called the White Wolf. The same rogue who laid claim to the right of Cirilla, Pavetta’s daughter, granddaughter of Calanthe, the same Ciri of who there is so much talk of now. You are too young to remember those times, when the scandal was all that was talked about at the courts. But I was an eye witness to those events.’
‘And what binds him to the princess Cirilla?’
‘That dog,’ the Marshal pointed at Geralt, ‘contributed to the marriage of Pavetta, daughter of Queen Calanthe, to Duny, an unknown stranger from the south. From this shameful union was born Cirilla. Even before her birth she was promised to that bastard witcher as payment for his help in conducting the marriage. Have you heard of the Law of Surprise?’
‘Not at all. But keep talking, Marshal.’
‘The witcher,’ Vissegerd again pointed his finger at Geralt, ‘after the death of Pavetta, wanted to take the girl, but Calanthe wouldn’t allow it and threw him out. But he waited for the right time. When the war started with Nilfgaard and Cintra fell, he took advantage of the confusion and turmoil and kidnapped Ciri. He kept the girl hidden, because he knew that we were seeking her. And he eventually grew bored of her and sold her to Emhyr.’
Baptism of Fire Page 18
