Angouleme, who had left behind the two, waited for them in a bend in the road at the place where it went downhill, between a wall of rocks.
‘The pursuers,’ she panted, with dirt smeared on her face. ‘They are repositioning themselves, they will not leave us in peace… The miners have seen where we fled. We cannot stay on the road… We need to dive into the woods, where there are no paths… They depend on…’
‘No,’ said the witcher in an alarmed voice, hearing the broken sounds from his horses lungs. ‘We must stay on the road… On the direct and shortest route to Sansretour…’
‘Why?’
‘Now is not the time to talk. Forward! Get everything you can out of the horses…’
They galloped. The witcher's bay stallion gasped.
* * *
The bay was not fit to continue riding. His feet were stiff as sticks, he could barely walk, his flanks were heavy, and the air came out of him with a hoarse groan. Finally, he fell to his side, laid stiff, looked at the horsemen, and his reproachful eyes became cloudy.
Cahir's horse was in slightly better condition, but Cahir was in even worse. He fell down from his saddle and picked himself up, but only on all fours. He vomited violently, although he did not have much left to throw up.
When Geralt and Angouleme tried to touch his bloody head, he cried out.
‘Damn,’ said the girl. ‘They ruined his haircut.’
A considerable length of the skin over the forehead and temple of the young Nilfgaardian was replaced by skull bones. If the blood had not already formed an adhesive, the loose skin would have folded down to his ear. The sight was grim.
‘How did this happen?’
‘He simply had an axe thrown at his head. And the funniest thing is, it was neither a black nor any of Nightingale's men, but one of the miners.’
‘It does not matter who it was,’ the witcher wrapped Cahir's head tightly with a torn shirt sleeve. ‘What is important and fortunate is that the thrower had lousy aim and only scalped him, or else he would have a split skull. But the skull bone has still taken some hurt. And the brain has noticed as well. He could not keep himself in the saddle, even if the horse could carry his burden.’
‘What do we do? Your horse is dead, his is as good as dead, and the sweat drips from mine… and we are pursued. We cannot stay here…’
‘We have to stay here. Cahir and I. And Cahir's horse. You continue riding. Quickly. Your horse is strong, it will withstand the gallop. And even if you have to ride it to death… Angouleme, somewhere in the Sansretour Valley Regis, Milva and Dandelion are waiting for us. They know nothing and could fall into Schirru's hands. You have to find and warn them, and then all four off you ride for Toussaint. They will not pursue you there. Hopefully.’
‘And you and Cahir?’ Angouleme bit her lip. ‘What will become of you? Nightingale is not stupid, and if he sees the half-dead bay, he'll ransack every hole in the area! And you cannot go far with Cahir!’
‘Schirru, because he is the one who follows us, will ride after you.’
‘You think so?’
‘I'm sure. Ride.’
‘What should I tell the aunt, when I show up without you?’
‘You explain it. But not to her, only to Regis. Regis will know what to do. And we… If Cahir's scalp adheres more firmly to his skull, then we will walk to Toussaint. We find you there, somehow. Well, don't wait around, girl. To the horse and away. Do not let the pursuers reach you. Do not let them catch sight of you.’
‘Don't teach a grandfather to cough! Hang on! Until then!’
‘Until then, Angouleme.’
* * *
He did not move too far away from the road. He could not resist taking a look at their pursuers. But he basically feared no action on their part, because he knew that they wouldn't waste any time and would follow Angouleme.
He was not mistaken.
The riders passed by less than a quarter of an hour later. Although they shouted, argued, and rummaged through the bushes near the sight of the horse lying, they almost immediately took to the road again. They had undoubtedly come to the conclusion that the three fugitives were now riding two on a horse and that they could catch them quickly if they lost no time. Geralt saw that some of the pursuers' horses were not in the best condition.
There were very few black coated Nilfgaardian light cavalry among the pursuers; it was dominated by Nightingale's brightly clothed bandits. Geralt couldn't make out whether Nightingale himself participated in the pursuit, or whether he had cleaned and bandaged his slashed face.
As the sound of hooves faded into the distance, Geralt got out of his hiding place in the bracken, lifted the moaning and groaning Cahir, and held him steady. ‘The horse is too weak to carry you. Can you walk?’
The Nilfgaardian made a sound that could just as easily have been confirmation as denial. Or something else. But he set one foot in front of the other, and that's what mattered.
They went down into a ravine, into a stream bed. Cahir fell down the last dozen steps on the slippery slope, pretty desolate as he slipped down. He crawled to the stream, drank plenty of water, and poured some over his bandaged head. The witcher did not urge him to hurry – he just breathed a deep breath, gathering strength.
They went up the creek, where he assisted Cahir and simultaneously pulled the horse to be. They trudged through the water, placing their feet against rocks and fallen logs. After a while Cahir could go no further – he no longer obediently put one foot in front of the other, he no longer moved, the witcher had to drag him. They could not go on like this, especially as the stream bed was interrupted by waterfalls and rapids. Geralt groaned and carried the wounded man on his back. The horse that he towed along behind him did not make his life any easier either. When they finally came out of the ravine, the witcher collapsed on the wet forest floor and lay breathing heavily, completely exhausted, beside the groaning Cahir. He lay there a long time. In the back of his knee, an angry pain began to throb.
Cahir finally showed some signs of life, and shortly afterwards – miraculously – he stood up, cursed himself, and held his head. They continued on. Initially Cahir moved quickly. Then he slowed down. Then he fell.
Geralt took turns carrying him on his back and dragging him, groaning, pushing against rocks. Pain raged in his knee, and black and fiery bees swarmed in his vision.
‘A month ago…’ Cahir began to moan from his back. ‘Who would have thought that you would be carrying me on your back…’
‘Be quiet, Nilfgaardian… don't waste your strength talking…’
When they finally reached the rocks and cliffs, it was almost dark. The witcher had not dared hoped to find a cave, yet he found one – he dropped powerlessly in the first available hole.
* * *
The cavern was littered with a sole human skull, ribs, pelvis and other bones. But – more importantly – there were also dry branches.
Cahir had a fever and was shaking and twitching in spasms. He bravely and confidently endured the suturing of the flap of skin, done with the aid of a curved needle and thread. The crisis came later in the night. Geralt decided to kindle a fire in the cave, ignoring the security issue. It was raining and storming outside, so it was hardly likely that someone roamed the area, watching for firelight. And Cahir and had to warm up.
He was feverish all night. He trembled and groaned. He was delirious. Geralt could not sleep – he had to keep the fire going. And his knee ached with demonic pain.
* * *
The young Nilfgaardian became stronger and stronger as the morning approached. He was pale and covered in sweat, and Geralt could feel the heat he gave off. His articulation was slightly impeded by his chattering teeth. But he spoke. And he spoke with confidence. He complained of a headache – a normal occurrence for someone who had been hit in the head with an axe and had the skin, along with the hair, severed from his head.
Geralt divided his time between dawns and restless evenings gather
ing trickling rainwater from the rocks and birch bark bowls. Both Cahir and he were tormented by thirst.
‘Geralt?’
‘Yes.’
Cahir straightened the logs in the fire with the help of a leg bone he had found.
‘In the mine, as we fought… I was scared, you know?’
‘I know.’
‘For a moment it looked as if you had gone berserk. As if nothing mattered to you… except for killing…’
‘I know.’
‘I feared,’ concluded Cahir quietly, ‘that you would in your state you would kill Schirru. And from the dead we could not gather any information.’
Geralt cleared his throat. He liked the young Nilfgaardian more and more. Not only was brave, but also intelligent.
‘You've done well to send Angouleme away,’ continued Cahir, rattling his teeth lightly. ‘This is not for girls… Even for those like her. This we need to do for ourselves, as a pair. We are chasing the consequences. But not to kill in a berserker state. You think this is for revenge… Geralt, revenge must not be our purpose. We need to capture this half-elf… force him to tell us where Ciri is…’
‘Ciri is no longer alive.’
‘That's not true. I do not believe she is dead… And you do not believe it either. Admit it.’
‘I do not believe it.’
Outside, the storm howled and the rain roared. Inside the cave it was snug. ‘Geralt?’
‘I'm listening.’
‘Ciri lives. I had another dream… Yes, something happened at the equinox, something fatal… Yes, no doubt, I also felt and saw… But she lives… She absolutely lives. We must hurry… But not to revenge and murder. To her.’
‘Yes. Yes, Cahir. You're right.’
‘And you? Have you had any more dreams?’
‘Yes,’ said the witcher bitterly. ‘But very rarely since we crossed the Yaruga. And I cannot remember them at all after waking. Something inside me has stopped, Cahir. Something has burned. Something inside me has been torn completely…’
‘That's okay, Geralt. I dream enough for the both of us.’
* * *
They journeyed forth at dawn. It had stopped raining, it even looked as if the sun was trying to find some hole in the gray clouds that covered the sky.
They rode slowly, together on a horse with a Nilfgaardian military bridle.
The horse stumbled on the gravel, but did better on the steps along the shores of Sansretour River, which led to Toussaint. Geralt knew the way. He had been here once before. Much had changed. However, much had not changed – the brook in the Sansretour Valley still gradually more and more became the Sansretour River. The Amell Mountains still towered above them along with Gorgon, the Devil's Mountain.
There were some things that simply never changed.
* * *
‘A soldier does not question commands,’ said Cahir as he touched the bandage on his head. ‘He does not analyze them, he does not think about them, and he does not expect an explanation of their meaning. This is the first thing they taught us soldiers. So you can you guess that I did not hesitate to follow the command that was given to me. Not even a fleeting thought in my head questioned why I should be looking for some Cintrierin princess. Orders are orders. Of course, I was annoyed because I wanted to win fame with the knighthood, with the regular army… But working for the Intelligence Service is also an honour for us. If only it had been a more difficult task to capture some important prisoners… But a girl?’
Geralt threw the backbone of a trout into their camp fire. They had caught many fish the evening before in a creek that emptied into the Sansretour. The trout were in the spawning season and light.
He listened to Cahir's story, his curiosity struggling against a deep sense of regret.
‘All in all, it was a coincidence,’ said Cahir while gazing into the fire. ‘The purest coincidence. We had, as I later learned, a spy in the court of Cintra, a chamberlain. As we were about to conquer the city and were preparing to besiege the castle, this spy slipped out and hinted that they would try to smuggle the princess out of town. There were several groups formed, just like mine. My group randomly encountered Ciri.’
‘It began with a chase through the city quarters, which were already burning. That was a real hell. Nothing but the hiss of the flames and fire walls. The horses did not want to continue, and neither did the people. My subordinates, there were four, began to curse, scream, and think I had lost my mind and would lead them to destruction… I barely managed, with great difficulty, to keep them under control.’
‘We continued to pursue the escapees through this boiling fire and caught up to them. Suddenly we had them right in front of us – five Cintrierin. And then they began to cut and thrust, even before I could call that they should surrender the girl. The one who carried her on his saddle fell first, and she landed on the ground. One of my men picked her up and pulled her onto his horse, but he did not get far, because one of the Cintrierins stabbed him in the back, all the way through his body. I saw the sword protrude an inch from Ciri's head, and she fell again to the ground. She was almost fainting from fear. I saw how she were pressed to the slain and tried to crawl under them… Like a kitten with a dead cat…’
He paused and swallowed saliva. ‘She did not even know that she clung to an enemy. To a comparatively hated Nilfgaardian.’
‘We were alone,’ he continued, after a short pause, ‘She and I, and all around nothing but corpses and fire. Ciri began creeping into the puddles of water and blood, but they had already begun to steam strongly. A house collapsed, I saw sparks and smoke, then could hardly see anything. The horse did not want to go there. I called out to her and asked her to come to me, yelling myself hoarse trying be heard over the fires roar. She saw and heard me, but did not react. The horse would not move forward, and I couldn't help it. I had to dismount. I held my hand to pick her up, but with the other I had to hold the reins. The horse pulled on them so violently that he nearly knocked me over. When I picked her up, she began to scream. Then she stiffened and fainted. I wrapped her in a coat that had been soaked in a puddle, mud, filth and blood. And away we rode. Straight through the fire.’
‘I do not know by what miracle we found our way out of there. But we suddenly emerged found ourselves at the river. Unfortunately, at the place where the Nordlings were fleeing. I threw away my officer's helmet, because even though the wings were burned, they would have immediately recognized me. The rest of my uniform was so scorched that it could not betray me. But if the girl would regained consciousness and would have screamed, they would have massacred me. I was lucky.’
‘I rode a mile with them, then stayed behind and hid in the bushes next to the river, which constantly carried corpses by.’
He paused, cleared his throat, and felt his bandaged head with both hands. And he blushed. Or perhaps it was only the reflection of the flames?
‘Ciri was terribly dirty. I had to clean her… She did not resist, did not scream. She trembled, her eyes were closed. Every time I touched her to wash or dry, she tensed and stiffened… I knew I should talk to her and she might calm down… But suddenly I could not find any words in your language… In the language of my mother, which I've known since childhood. I could not find any words, so I wanted to calm her down by contact, by gentleness… But she stiffened and whimpered… as a young bird…’
‘She had nightmares about that,’ whispered Geralt.
‘I know. Me too.’
‘What was next?’
‘She fell asleep. And I also. From exhaustion. When I awoke, she was no longer with me. She was nowhere. The rest I do not remember. Those who found me claimed that I was running in circles and crying like a wolf. They had to tie me up. When I calmed down, people took me in front of the Enlightenment, the subordinates of Vattier de Rideaux. They were concerned about Cirilla. Where she was, where and whither she had fled, the manner in which she had fled from me, why I let her escape. And again, from the beginning: W
here she was, where she had fled… I cried with anger against an emperor who likes chasing little girls. I cried for a year while sitting in a cell in the Citadel. But then I was pardoned, because I was needed. On Thanedd, someone was needed who spoke the common language and knew how Ciri looks. The Emperor wanted me to go to Thanedd… And this time could not fail. I had to bring him Ciri.’ He paused.
‘Emhyr gave me a chance. I could not refuse it. That would have meant absolute, total, lifelong disgrace and exile. I could not refuse, even had I wanted to. And I did not want to refuse. Because you know, Geralt… I could not forget her.’
‘I'm not going to lie. I've seen her constantly in dreams. Rather than the skinny child she was on the river when I washed her. I have… I see her still, as a woman – beautiful, confident, provocative… With details such as a fire-red rose tattooed in her groin…’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I do not know, do not know myself… But it was and still is. I see her still in the dreams, just as I had seen her in a dream back then… So I agreed to take the mission on Thanedd. That's why I wanted to join you later. I… I still want to once again… to see her once again, to touch her hair, to look into her the eyes… I want to see her. Strike me dead if you want. But I'm going to stop pretending. I think… I think I love her. I beg you, do not laugh.’
‘I am not laughing.’
‘This is the reason why I ride with you. Do you understand?’
‘Do you want her for yourself or for your Emperor?’
‘I'm a realist,’ he whispered. ‘I could never marry her. But as the wife of the Emperor, I could at least see her every now and then.’
‘As a realist,’ snorted the witcher, ‘you have to see that we must first find her and save. Assuming that your dreams do not lie and Ciri really still alive.’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05] Page 24
