And they died.
* * *
Ciri dashed into the village and galloped down the street. Splashes of mud flew from the hooves of the black mare.
* * *
Bonhart smashed his heel against Giselher, who was on the wall. The leader of the Rats showed no signs of life. No more blood flowed from his shattered skull.
Mistle, who was on her knees looking for her sword, ran both hands through mud and mire without realizing that she was kneeling in a rapidly growing red puddle. Bonhart slowly walked toward her.
‘Noooo!’
The bounty hunter raised his head.
Ciri launched herself from the running horse, stumbled, and fell to one knee.
Bonhart smiled. ‘A Rat,’ he said. ‘The seventh Rat. Glad you're here. You will complete my collection.’
Mistle found her sword, but was not able to lift it. She gasped and threw herself at Bonhart's feet, trembling fingers clutching his boots. She opened her mouth to scream, but instead of a cry a brilliant crimson torrent poured from her mouth. Bonhart stepped vigorously on her and pushed her into the dirt. But Mistle, who was holding her ripped open stomach, got back up.
‘Noooo’ yelled Ciri. ‘Miiistle!’
The bounty hunter heeded her cry without even turning his head. He swung wide and struck with a powerful, sweeping blow, as with a scythe, so that Mistle was pulled up from the ground and thrown against the wall, like a soft cloth doll, like a red smeared rag.
The cry in Ciri's throat died. Her hands trembled as she reached for her sword.
‘Murderer,’ she said, surprised at the strangeness of her voice. At the strangeness of her mouth, which was suddenly incredibly dry. ‘Murderer! Bastard!’
Bonhart watched her curiously, head tilted slightly to the side. ‘Do you want to die?’ He asked.
Ciri approached him and traced a semicircle around him. The sword in his raised and outstretched hands stirred, struck gravel, and feinted.
The bounty hunter laughed out loud. ‘Death,’ he repeated. ‘The little Rat wants to die!’
He turned slowly on the spot, not falling for the trap of the semicircle. But it didn't matter to Ciri. She seethed with anger and hatred, trembling with lust for murder. She wanted to throw herself at this terrible old man, wanted to feel the blade pierce his body. Wanted to see his blood as it oozed from slashed arteries in the rhythm of the heartbeat.
‘Well, Rat.’ Bonhart lifted the sword and spit on the edge. ‘Before you croak, show me what you've got! Play music!’
* * *
Six days later, Nycklar, the son of the coffin maker, told the story, ‘I really don't know how it was that they didn't kill each other at that first meeting. They certainly wanted to kill, you could tell. She, he, both of them. They pounced on each other and crossed swords. They might have exchanged two or three blows every instant. There was nobody who could count them by eye nor ear. They struck so fast, my lord, that it was indistinguishable. And they danced and jumped around each other like two weasels!’
Stefan Skellen, called The Owl, listened intently as he played with his riding whip.
‘They jumped away from each other,’ continued the lad, ‘and no one had a scratch. The Rat, you could tell, was mad as the devil and hissed like a cat who’s had its mouse taken away. But Mr. Bonhart was very quiet.’
* * *
‘Falka’ Bonhart grinned, baring his teeth like a real ghoul. ‘You really understand how to dance and handle a sword! You've made me curious girl. Who are you? Tell me before you die.’
Ciri breathed heavily. She recognized the feeling of terror. She understood what she had to do.
‘Tell me who you are, and I'll spare your life.’
She gripped her sword handle tighter. She had to penetrate his display and take him before he covered himself. She could not let him retaliate against her blows; she could not parry his blows without once more risking the pain and paralysis that had seized her elbow and forearm. She could not waste energy trying to dodge his blows, which only missed by a hair's breadth. Bypass his coverage, she thought. Immediately. In this meeting. Or die.
‘You will die, Rat,’ he said, and thrust his sword forward towards her. ‘Are not you afraid? That’s because you do not know what death looks like.’
Kaer Morhen, she thought as she jumped. Lambert. The comb. Salto.
She took three steps and performed a half-pirouette. When he attacked, ignoring the ruse, she did a back flip, letting herself fall into a squatting position, and pounced on him, dodged under his blade and twisted her wrist to deliver a powerful blow, supported by a strong rotation of the hip. Euphoria suddenly seized her; already she could almost feel the blade biting into his body.
Instead, there was a hard, piercing clang of metal on metal. And a sudden flash in her eyes, shock and pain. She felt as if she had fallen. He's parried back and beaten me, she thought. I'm dying, she thought.
Bonhart kicked her in the stomach. With a second kick, accurately targeted at her hurt elbow, he knocked the sword away from her hand. Ciri clutched her head, feeling a dull pain, but there was no wound under her fingers, no blood. I've taken a blow from his fist, she thought in horror. Only from his fist. Or from the sword hilt. He has not killed me. I was thrashed like a brat.
She opened her eyes.
The bounty hunter stood over her. Thin as a skeleton, he towered over her like a sick deciduous tree. He stank of sweat and blood.
He grabbed her by the hair, pulled her, and forced her to stand up. Immediately he dragged her away, screaming, to the wall Mistle was lying by.
‘So you do not fear death?’ He growled and pushed her head down. ‘Then look at that little Rat. This is death. This is how one dies. Look, there’s guts. This is blood. And that's shit, which she used to have inside of her.’
Ciri squirmed and writhed, but his hand held her in place and before long her only movements were twitching and dry retching. Mistle was still alive, but her eyes were dull and glassy, like a fish. Her hand – like a hawk’s talon – opened and closed, buried in mud and faeces. Ciri smelled the sharp, penetrating odour of urine.
Bonhart laughed out loud. ‘This little Rat is dying. In her own piss!’
He let go of her hair. Ciri slumped down to her hands and feet, shaking with sobs. Mistle was right beside her. Mistle's hand, the slender, delicate, soft, clever hands of Mistle…
…did not move.
* * *
‘He did not kill me. He tied me to the hitching posts, by both hands.’
Vysogota sat there motionless. He had been sitting similarly for a while now. He even held his breath. Ciri went on with her story, but her voice was increasingly dull, increasingly unnatural and increasingly uncomfortable.
‘He told those who gathered that they should bring him a bag of salt and a small barrel of vinegar. And a saw. I did not know… I couldn’t understand what he was doing. I was tied up… at the hitching posts… He called some servants and ordered them to hold me by the hair… and eyelids. He showed them how… So that I could neither turn my head away nor close my eyes. So I had to watch what he was doing. He must make sure that the goods didn't go bad, he said. That they did not decompose…’
Ciri’s voice cracked, her words stuck in her dry throat. Vysogota, who knew at once what he was about to hear, felt the bile rising in his throat like a flood.
‘He cut their heads off,’ Ciri said flatly. ‘With a saw. Giselher, Kayleigh, Asse, Reef, Spark… And Mistle. He cut off their heads… One by one. Before my eyes.’
* * *
If someone managed to sneak into the secret heart of the swamp and find the hut with the moss thatched roof, if they had peeked through the cracks in the shutters, they would have seen, in the dimly lit interior, a gray-bearded old man in a sheepskin coat and a girl with ash-blonde hair, whose face was disfigured by a scar on her cheek. They would have seen how the girl was shaking from fits of crying, as she sobbed in the arms of the old man, who trie
d to reassure her by clumsily stroking her hair and patting her quivering shoulders.
But that was not possible. No one could see that. The hut was well hidden in the reeds of the marsh. In an eternally shrouded fog desert that no one dared enter.
I'm often asked how it came to be that I decided to write down my memories. Many people are curious about the moment in which my memoirs had their origin – namely, the facts and circumstances regarding the event that is also the beginning of the transcript, and the catalyst that accompanied it. In the past I have given various false explanations and have lied many times, but I now want the truth be told, because today my hair is white and worn thin, and I know that the truth is a precious grain, whereas the lie is useless chaff.
But the truth is that the incident that was the catalyst for those first notes, from which my work later began, was a coincidence – namely that a pencil and paper were among the things my companions and I had stolen from the camp of the troops of Lyria. And so it came to pass…
Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry
CHAPTER THREE
It happened on the fifth day of September, after the new moon, on exactly the thirtieth day of our expedition – beginning with our departure from Brokilon, and six days after the Battle on the Bridge.
Now, my future readers, I will go back in time a little and describe the events that took place immediately after the glorious and momentous Battle on the Bridge. First, however, I want to bring a number of readers into the picture, those that have no knowledge of the Battle of the Bridge – whether it be due to other interests or as a result of general ignorance. So: That battle took place on the last day of August during the Great War. It was fought in Angren, on the bridge connecting the two shores of the river Yaruga near a fortress called the Red Binduga. The forces in that armed conflict were: the Army of Nilfgaard, The Army Corps of Lyria – led by Queen Meve, and us, our wonderful company – myself, the writer of these lines, the witcher Geralt, the vampire Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, the archer Maria Barring , called Milva, and Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, a Nilfgaardian who tended to stress, with an obstinacy that was worthy a better cause, that he was not a Nilfgaardian.
You, reader, might be unclear on how the Queen came be alive and in Angren, as you may have heard that she disappeared and perished along with her army when the Nilfgaardians thrust into Lyria, Rivia and Aedirn in July, which ended with the complete subjugation of those countries and their occupation by Imperial troops. Meve was not, however, killed in battle as was supposed, nor even taken into Nilfgaardian captivity. After they had regrouped, the brave Meve and a large portion of the survivors of the Lyrian Army recruited everyone they could, including mercenaries and ordinary bandits, and launched a guerrilla war against Nilfgaard. And wild Angren suited such a guerrilla war ideally – whether they needed a thicket to spring an ambush from or a thicket to hide in, Angren accommodated them. Because in Angren there are thickets everywhere. In fact, there is nothing in that area worth mentioning, except the thickets.
Meve's Crowd – which the army of the White Queen became known as – grew rapidly in strength and developed such bravado that they fearlessly crossed to the left bank of the Yaruga, deep behind enemy lines, in order to camp and harass the enemy to their heart's desire.
Here we return to our subject, namely the Battle on the Bridge. The tactical situation looked like this: Queen Meve's forces, after having camped on the left bank of the Yaruga for some time, wanted to flee to the right bank. However, they met a group of Nilfgaardians on the bridge who, after having camped on the right bank of the Yaruga for some time, wanted to flee to the left bank. We entered the above-mentioned situation from a central position, that is, starting from the middle of the river Yaruga and surrounded by armed men on both sides, right and left. Since we could thus escape to nowhere, we became heroes, covered with immortal fame. The battle was won by the Lyrians because they achieved what they intended, namely to escape to the right bank. The Nilfgaardians, who had fled in an unknown direction, had lost the battle. I realize that this all sounds pretty confusing and I promise to consult a military theorist before publishing. For now I am relying on the authority of Cahir aep Ceallach, the only soldier in our company – and Cahir has confirmed that, from the perspective of most military doctrines, winning a battle through the rapid escape of the battlefield is allowed.
Without a doubt, our company's part in the battle was glorious, however it had some negative effects. Milva, who was pregnant, suffered a tragic accident. Luck was kind enough to hold for the rest of us and no one else suffered serious harm. However, it soon wore off because we received no rewards, only thanks. The exception was the witcher Geralt. Because, contrary to his often proclaimed – and, as you can see, hypocritical – indifferent attitude and his often declared neutrality, the witcher Geralt displayed equally large and overly-spectacular zeal on the battlefield. In other words: He fought so remarkably well that it was impossible not to notice. And indeed, it did not go unnoticed – Meve, the Queen of Lyria, personally knighted him. However, this accolade soon revealed more inconveniences than advantages.
You must know, dear reader, that the witcher Geralt was always a modest, uncomplicated, balanced, and controlled man, who kept his feelings to himself and was as straightforward as a halberd shaft. However, the unexpected promotion and apparent favour of Queen Meve changed him – had I not known him better, I would have said that the glory had gone to his head. Rather than quickly and anonymously vanishing from the scene, Geralt rode around in the royal camp, delighting in the honour, enjoying the patronage and basking in the glory.
But fame and attention were the last things we needed. To those to who have forgotten, I call to mind that the afore-mentioned witcher Geralt, now knighted, was wanted in connection to the uprising on Thanedd, the island of magicians, by the intelligence services of all four kingdoms. To me, a person who has never been guilty of anything, they tried to attach the charge of espionage. In addition was Milva who, as it turned out, had collaborated with the Dryads and the Scioa'tael and had been involved in the infamous massacres of people on the edges of Brokilon Forest. On top of that was Cahir aep Ceallach, the Nilfgaardian who was, after all, a citizen of a hostile country, and whose presence on the wrong side of the front would not be easy to explicate and justify. As it turned out, the only member of our company whose career was not tainted with political or criminal affairs, was a vampire. Therefore, it was sufficient that only one of us needed to be exposed and identified in order to bring sharpened aspen stakes on all of us. Every day we spent in the shadow of Lyrian flags – which at first were spent comfortably, well fed and safe, by the way – increased the risk.
When I strongly reminded Geralt of this, his face darkened a little, but he presented his motives to me, of which he had two. First, Milva still needed nursing and care after her unfortunate accident and there were field medics with the army. Second, Queen Meve's army was travelling east, towards Caed Dhu. Before our company had been forced to change direction and had been caught in the battle described above, we had also been travelling east, towards Caed Dhu – because we were hoping the Druids who live there could give us information that would be useful in the search for Ciri. Rampant horsemen and marauding mercenaries in Angren had been the reason we were forced to stray from the straight path to the Druids. Now, under the protection of friendly Lyrian army, and with the favour and affection of Queen Meve, we could openly travel the way to Caed Dhu, easily and safely.
I warned the witcher that the Queen's apparent favour was fickle and deceptive. The witcher would not listen. However, it was soon shown who was right. When news arrived from the east that a Nilfgaardian punitive expedition was marching to Angren from Klamat pass, the Lyrian army turned north without hesitation, towards Mahakam. As one can easily imagine, Geralt did not like this change of direction – he wanted to reach the Druids as quickly as possible, not Mahakam! Naive as a child, he rushed to Queen Meve to recei
ve a discharge from the army and the royal blessing for his private affairs. And at that moment the royal grace and favour came to an end, and the respect and admiration for the heroes of the Battle on the Bridge scattered like smoke. The knight Geralt of Riva was reminded in a cold, but firm tone of his duties to the Crown. The still-ailing Milva, the vampire Regis and the author of these lines were advised to join the column of refugees and civilians who followed the camp. Cahir aep Ceallach, a tall young man who looked nothing like a civilian, had a blue and white sash tied to him and was assigned to the so-called Free Company – a cavalry unit comprised of all sorts of scum the Lyrian Corps had picked up along the way. And so we were separated and it looked like it our expedition had come to a definite and irrevocable conclusion.
As you can imagine, dear reader, that was by no means the end. Yes, it was not even the beginning! As soon as Milva learned of the development of things, she immediately declared herself to be healthy and fit for travel – and issued the watchword to escape at the first opportunity. Cahir threw the royal colours in the bushes and disappeared from the Free Company, and advised Geralt to do the same from the exquisite luxury tents of the knighthood.
I will not indulge details about myself – my modesty does not allow me to highlight my own achievements in the company's escape – though they were not small. I will only state the facts: On the night between September fifth and sixth, our company quietly left the Corps of Queen Meve. Before we said farewell to the Lyrian army, we did not miss the opportunity to restock our provisions, where we were caught without permission by the quartermaster. Milva used the word ‘robbery’, but I think it is too strong. After all, we deserved a bonus for our participation in the memorable Battle for the Bridge. And if not a reward, at least satisfaction and compensation for the losses suffered. Apart from Milva's tragic accident and the numerous injuries and wounds Geralt and Cahir had sustained, all of our horses had been killed or maimed in the battle – excepting my trusty Pegasus and the wayward Roach, the mare of the witcher. So, as recompense, we took three thoroughbred horses and a pack horse. We also provided ourselves with as much equipment as we could fit into our hands – in fairness I should add that we threw half of it away later. As Milva noted before we started, if you steal in the dark, you don't know what you are getting. The most fiscally useful things came from the cache of the vampire, who sees better in darkness than in daylight. Regis also reduced the combat power of the Lyrian army by one fat, mouse gray mule, which he so ably led from the camp that not once did the animal neigh or stamp. Therefore, the stories of how animals sense vampires and react to their smell with panic must be dismissed as a myth – at least when it comes to certain animals and certain vampires. I should add that we still have this mouse-gray mule today. Later, after the pack horse was frightened by wolves and abandoned us in the forests of Riverdell, the mule bore all of our belongings – or rather what was left of them. The mule is called Draakula. It received the name from Regis just after he had stolen it, and retains it to this day. The name obviously amused Regis, and must surely have had some humorous meaning in the culture and language of vampires, but when we wanted him to explain it to us, he claimed that it was an untranslatable play on words.
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05] Page 8
