Geralt remained silent, but still did not lower his eyes.
‘Well, you monster. You freak of nature. You hell spawn. What did you teach Cirilla after kidnapping her? How did you bring her up? Everyone can see how! That snake-in-the-grass is alive, and is lounging on the Nilfgaardian throne, as if it were nothing! And when Emhyr takes her to his bed she’s sure to spread her legs willingly, as if it were nothing too, the slut!’
‘Your anger is getting the better of you,’ Dandelion mumbled. ‘Is it chivalrous, marshal, to blame a child for everything? A child that Emhyr took by force?’
‘There are also ways against force! Chivalrous ones, noble ones! Were she really of royal blood, she would have found a way! She would have found a knife! A pair of scissors, a piece of broken glass. Why, even a bodkin! The bitch could have torn open the veins in her wrists with her own teeth! Or hanged herself with her own stockings!’
‘I don’t want to listen to you any longer, marshal,’ Geralt said softly. ‘I don’t want to listen to you any longer.’
Vissegerd ground his teeth audibly and leant over.
‘You don’t want to,’ he said, in a voice trembling with fury. ‘That is fortunate, because I don’t have anything more to say to you. Apart from one thing. Back then, in Cintra, fifteen years ago, a great deal was said about destiny. At the time I thought it was nonsense. But it turned out to be your destiny, Witcher. Ever since that night your fate has been sealed, written in black runes among the stars. Ciri, daughter of Pavetta, is your destiny. And your death. Because of Ciri, daughter of Pavetta, you shall hang.’
The Brigade joined Operation Centaur as a unit assigned to the 4th Horse Cavalry. We received reinforcements in the form of three squads of Verdenian light horse, which I assigned to the Vreemde Battle Group. Following the example of the campaign in Aedirn, I created two more battle groups from the rest of the brigade, naming them Sievers and Morteisen, each comprising four squadrons.
We set out from the concentration area near Drieschot on the night of the fourth of August. The Groups’ orders ran: Capture the Vidort-Carcano-Armeria territory; seize the crossing over the Ina; destroy any hostile troops encountered, but avoid significant points of resistance. Start fires, particularly at night, to light the way for the 4th Horse Cavalry. Induce panic among civilians and use their flight to block all of the arterial routes to the enemy’s rear. Feign encirclement to drive the retreating enemy forces towards the actual encirclements. Carry out the elimination of selected groups of the civilian population and prisoners of war to cause terror, intensify panic, and undermine the enemy’s morale.
The Brigade carried out the above mission with great soldierly devotion.
Elan Trahe,
For Imperator and Fatherland. The glorious trail of fire of the 7th Daerlanian Cavalry Brigade
Chapter Five
Milva did not have time to reach the horses and save them. She was a witness to their theft, but a helpless one. First she was swept along by the frantic, panic-stricken crowd, then the road was obstructed by careering wagons, and finally she became stuck in a woolly, bleating flock of sheep, through which she had to force her way as though it were a snowdrift. Later, by the Chotla, only a leap into the tall rushes growing in the marshes by the bank saved her from the Nilfgaardians’ swords as they ruthlessly cut down the fugitives crowded by the river, showing no mercy either to women or children. Milva jumped into the water and reached the other bank, partly wading and partly swimming on her back among the corpses being carried by the current.
And she took up the hunt. She remembered the direction in which the peasants who had stolen Roach, Pegasus, the chestnut colt and her own black had fled. And her priceless bow was still attached to her saddle. Tough luck, she thought, feet squelching in her wet boots as she ran, the others will have to cope without me for now. I must get my damn bow and horse back!
She freed Pegasus first. The poet’s horse was ignoring the heels digging into his sides. He was paying no heed to the urgent shouts of the inexperienced rider and had no intention of galloping; instead he trotted slowly through the birch wood. The poor fellow was being left a long way behind the other horse thieves. When he heard and then saw Milva over his shoulder, he jumped off without a second thought and bolted into the undergrowth, holding up his britches with both hands. Milva did not pursue him, overcoming her seething desire to exact some serious revenge. She leapt into the saddle in full flight, landing heavily and making the strings of the lute fastened to the saddlebags twang. A skilled horsewoman, she managed to force the gelding to gallop. Or rather, to the lumbering canter that Pegasus considered a gallop.
But even this pseudo-gallop was enough, for the horse thieves’ escape had been slowed by another tricky mount. The Witcher’s skittish Roach, the infuriating, sulky bay mare Geralt had so often sworn he’d exchange for another steed, whether it be an ass, a mule or even a billy goat. Milva caught up with the thieves just as Roach, irritated by a clumsy tug of the reins, had thrown her rider to the ground. The rest of the peasants had dismounted and were trying to get the frisky and excitable mare under control. They were so busy they only noticed Milva when she rode among them on Pegasus and kicked one of them in the face, breaking his nose. When he fell to the ground, howling and calling upon the Gods, she recognised him. It was Cloggy. A peasant who clearly had no luck in his dealings with people. Or, more particularly, with Milva.
Unfortunately, luck deserted Milva too. To be precise, it wasn’t her luck that was to blame, more her own conceit and her conviction – based on shaky practical evidence – that she could beat up any brace of peasants she happened to meet, in whatever manner she chose. When she dismounted she was punched in the eye and found herself on the ground. She drew her knife, ready to spill some guts, but was hit over the head with a stout stick so hard that it broke, blinding her with bark and rotten wood. Stunned and blinded, she still managed to grab the knee of the peasant beating her with the remains of the stick, when he unexpectedly howled and keeled over. The other yelled too, bringing both hands up to protect his head. Milva rubbed her eyes and saw that he was protecting himself from a rain of blows from a knout, dealt by a man riding a grey horse. She sprang up, dealing a powerful kick to the neck of the prostrate peasant. The rustler wheezed and flailed his legs, leaving his loins unprotected. Milva took advantage of that at once, channelling all her anger into a well-aimed kick. The peasant curled up in a ball, clamped his hands on his crotch and howled so loudly leaves fell from the birch trees.
Meanwhile, the horseman on the grey was busy with Cloggy, whose nose was streaming blood, and with the other peasant – he chased them away into the trees with blows from the knout. He returned in order to thrash the one on the ground, but reined in his horse; Milva had managed to catch her black and was holding her bow with an arrow already nocked. The bowstring was only pulled halfway back, but the arrowhead was pointing directly at the horseman’s chest.
For a moment, they looked at each other: the horseman and the young woman. Then, with a slow movement, he pulled an arrow with long fletchings from his belt and threw it down at Milva’s feet.
‘I knew I’d have the chance to give you back your arrow, elf,’ he said calmly.
‘I’m not an elf, Nilfgaardian.’
‘And I’m not a Nilfgaardian. Put that bow down, will you? If I wished you ill, I could have just stood by and watched those peasants kick you around.’
‘The devil only knows,’ she said through her teeth, ‘who you are and what you wish for me. But thanks for saving me. And for my arrow. And for dealing with that good-for-nothing I didn’t hit properly the other day.’
The roughed-up horse thief, still curled up in a ball, choked back his sobs, his face buried in the leaf litter. The horseman didn’t even look at him. He looked at Milva.
‘Catch the horses,’ he said. ‘We have to get away from the river, and fast too; the army’s combing the forests on both banks.’
‘We have to?’ s
he said, grimacing and lowering her bow. ‘Together? Since when were we comrades? Or a company?’
‘I’ll explain,’ he said, steering his horse and grabbing the chestnut’s reins, ‘if you give me time.’
‘The point is, I don’t have any time. The Witcher and the others—’
‘I know. But we won’t save them by letting ourselves get killed or captured. Catch the horses and we’ll flee into the forest. Hurry!’
His name’s Cahir, Milva recalled, glancing at her companion, with whom she was now sitting in the pit left by a fallen tree. A strange Nilfgaardian, who says he isn’t a Nilfgaardian. Cahir.
‘We thought they’d killed you,’ she muttered. ‘The riderless chestnut came running past us . . .’
‘I had a minor adventure,’ he answered drily, ‘with three brigands, as shaggy as werewolves. They ambushed me. The horse got away. The brigands didn’t, but then they were on foot. Before I managed to get a new mount, I’d fallen far behind you. I only managed to catch up with you this morning. Right by the camp. I crossed the river down in the gully and waited on the far bank. I knew you’d head east.’
One of the horses concealed in the alder wood snorted and stamped its hooves. Dusk was falling. Mosquitoes whined annoyingly around their ears.
‘It’s quiet in the forest,’ Cahir said. ‘The armies have gone, the battle is over.’
‘The slaughter’s over, you mean.’
‘Our cavalry . . .’ he stammered and cleared his throat. ‘The imperial cavalry attacked the camp, and then troops appeared from the south. I think it was the Temerian Army.’
‘If the battle’s over, we should go back. We should search for the Witcher, Dandelion and the others.’
‘It would be better to wait until nightfall.’
‘There’s something horrible about this place,’ she said softly, tightening her grip on the bow. ‘It’s such a bleak wilderness. It gives me the shivers. Apparently quiet, but there’s always something rustling in the bushes . . . The Witcher said ghouls are attracted to battlefields . . . And the peasants were telling stories about a vampire . . .’
‘You aren’t alone,’ he replied under his breath. ‘It’s much more frightening when you’re alone.’
‘Indeed.’ She nodded, empathising with him. ‘After all you’ve been following us for almost a fortnight, all alone. You’ve been trudging after us, while surrounded by your people— You might say you’re not a Nilfgaardian, but they're still yours, aren’t they. Devil take me if I understand it; instead of going back to your own you’re tracking the Witcher. Why?’
‘It’s a long story.’
When the tall Scoia’tael leant over him Struycken, who was bound to a pole, blinked in fear. It was said there was no such thing as an ugly elf, that every single one of them was comely, that they were born beautiful. And perhaps the legendary commander of the Squirrels had been born beautiful. But now that his face was gashed by a hideous diagonal scar deforming his forehead, eyebrow, nose and cheek, nothing remained of his elven good looks.
The elf with the disfigured physiognomy sat down on a fallen tree trunk.
‘I am Isengrim Faoiltiarna,’ he said, leaning over the captive once again. ‘I’ve been fighting humans for four years and leading a commando for three. I have buried my brother, who fell in combat, four cousins and more than four hundred brothers in arms. In my struggle, I treat your imperator as my ally, as I have proved several times by passing intelligence to your spies, helping your agents and eliminating individuals selected by you.’
Faoiltiarna fell silent and made a sign with his gloved hand. The Scoia’tael standing alongside picked up a small birchbark canteen. The canteen gave off a sweet aroma.
‘I considered and consider Nilfgaard an ally,’ the elf with the scar repeated, ‘which is why I did not, initially, believe my informant when he warned that a trap was being laid for me. That I would receive instructions for a private meeting with a Nilfgaardian emissary, and that I would be captured then. I didn’t believe but, being cautious by nature, I turned up for the rendezvous a little earlier than expected and not alone. Much to my surprise and dismay, instead of the said emissary, there were six thugs waiting with a fishing net, ropes, a leather mask with a gag, and a straitjacket fastened with straps and buckles. Standard equipment used by your secret service during abductions I would say. Nilfgaard wanted to capture me, Faoiltiarna, alive, and transport me somewhere, gagged and securely fastened in a straitjacket. A curious affair, I would say. And one requiring some elucidation. I’m delighted that I managed to take alive at least one of the thugs who had been set on me – no doubt their leader – who will be able to furnish me with that elucidation.’
Struycken gritted his teeth and turned his head away, in order not to look at the elf’s disfigured face. He preferred to look at the birchbark canteen, and the two wasps buzzing around it.
‘And now,’ Faoiltiarna continued, wiping his sweaty neck with a scarf, ‘let’s have a little chat, Master Kidnapper. To make the conversation flow, let me clarify a few points. There is maple syrup in the canteen. Should our little chat not proceed in a spirit of mutual understanding and complete frankness, we shall copiously anoint your head with the aforementioned syrup, paying very close attention to your eyes and ears. Then we shall place you on an anthill, this one here to be precise, over which these charming, hardworking insects are scurrying. Let me add that this method has already proved its worth in the case of several Dh’oine and an’givare who evinced great stubbornness and a lack of candour.’
‘I am in the imperial service!’ the spy screamed, blanching. ‘I am an officer of the imperial military intelligence, a subordinate of Lord Vattier de Rideaux, Viscount of Eiddon! My name is Jan Struycken! I protest—’
‘What awful luck,’ the elf interrupted him, ‘that these red ants, greedy for maple syrup, have never heard of the viscount. Let us begin. I shall not ask who gave the order for my abduction, because it is obvious. So my first question shall be: where was I to be taken?’
The Nilfgaardian spy struggled against the ropes and jerked his head, for it seemed to him the ants were already crawling over his cheeks. But he remained silent.
‘Too bad,’ Faoiltiarna said, breaking the silence and gesturing to the elf with the canteen. ‘Apply the syrup.’
‘I was to transport you to Nastrog Castle in Verden!’ Struycken yelled. ‘On the orders of Viscount de Rideaux!’
‘Thank you. And what awaited me there?’
‘An interrogation . . .’
‘What was I to be asked about?’
‘About the events on Thanedd! Untie me, I beg you! I’ll tell you everything!’
‘Of course you will,’ the elf sighed, stretching. ‘Particularly since we’ve already made a start, and in matters like these that’s usually the most difficult part. Continue.’
‘I was ordered to make you confess where Vilgefortz and Rience are hiding! And Cahir Mawr Dyffryn, son of Ceallach!’
‘How comical. A trap laid to ask me about Vilgefortz and Rience? Whatever would I know about them? What could link me with them? And Cahir? That’s even more comical. I sent him to you, did I not? Just as you requested. In fetters. Are you saying the package didn’t arrive?’
‘The unit which was sent to the designated rendezvous point was slaughtered . . . Cahir was not among the dead . . .’
‘Ah. And Lord Vattier de Rideaux became suspicious? But instead of sending another emissary to the commando and asking for an explanation, he immediately laid a trap for me. And ordered me dragged to Nastrog in chains and interrogated about the incidents on Thanedd.’
The spy said nothing.
‘Didn’t you get it?’ the elf said and bent his head, bringing his hideous face towards Struycken. ‘That was a question. And it ran: what’s this all about?’
‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know, I swear . . .’
Faoiltiarna beckoned with a hand and pointed. Struycken howled, thrashed around,
swore on the Great Sun, pleaded his innocence, wept, tossed his head about and spat out the syrup, which had been thickly smeared over his face. Only when he was carried over to the anthill by four Scoia’tael did he decide to talk – although the consequences of speaking were potentially more dreadful than the ants.
‘Sire . . . Should anyone find out about this, I’m dead meat . . . But I shall disclose it to you . . . I’ve seen confidential orders. I’ve eavesdropped . . . I’ll tell you everything . . .’
‘Of course you will.’ The elf nodded. ‘The record on the anthill is an hour and forty minutes, and belongs to a certain officer from King Demavend’s special forces. But even he talked in the end. Very well, begin. Quickly, coherently and to the point.’
‘The Imperator is certain he was betrayed on Thanedd. The traitor is Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, a sorcerer, and his assistant Rience. But mostly Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. Vattier . . . Viscount Vattier is not certain whether you Scoia’tael also had a hand in the treachery, if only unwittingly . . . Which is why he ordered you to be seized and delivered in secret to Nastrog Castle . . . Lord Faoiltiarna, I’ve been working in the secret service for twenty years . . . Vattier de Rideaux is my third boss . . .’
‘More coherently, please. And stop shaking. If you’re frank with me, you’ll still be able to serve a few more bosses.’
‘Although it was kept absolutely confidential, I knew . . . I knew who Vilgefortz and Cahir were supposed to capture on the island. And it looked like they had succeeded. Because they brought that . . . you know . . . that princess from Cintra to Loc Grim. I thought they'd pulled it off and that Cahir and Rience would become barons, and that sorcerer a count at least . . . But instead the Imperator summoned Tawny Owl – I mean, Lord Skellen – and ordered him and Lord Vattier to capture Cahir . . . And Rience, and Vilgefortz . . . Anyone who might know anything about Thanedd and that incident was to be tortured . . . Including you . . . It didn’t take much to guess, you know, that it was treachery. That a sham princess had been brought to Loc Grim . . .’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 89
