There was a boom and a flash, and the column they had managed to jump away from at almost the last moment disintegrated. The shaft broke, the capital decorated with acanthus-leaves crashed to the floor, destroying a terracotta mosaic. A ball of lightning hurtled towards them with a hiss. Yennefer deflected it, screaming out a spell and gesticulating.
Vilgefortz walked towards them, his cloak fluttering like a dragon’s wings.
‘I’m not surprised at Yennefer,’ he said as he walked. ‘She is a woman and thus an evolutionary inferior creature, governed by hormonal chaos. But you, Geralt, are not only a man who is sensible by nature, but also a mutant, invulnerable to emotions.’
He waved a hand. There was a boom and a flash. A lightning bolt bounced off the shield Yennefer had conjured up.
‘In spite of your good sense—’ Vilgefortz continued to talk, pouring fire from hand to hand ‘—in one matter you demonstrate astounding and foolish perseverance: you invariably desire to row upstream and piss into the wind. It had to end badly. Know that today, here, in Stygga Castle, you have pissed into a hurricane.’
*
A battle was raging somewhere on the lower storeys. Someone screamed horribly, moaned, and wailed in pain. Something was burning. Ciri could smell smoke and burning, and felt a waft of hot air.
Something boomed with such force that the columns holding up the vault trembled and stuccoes fell off the walls.
Ciri cautiously looked around the corner. The corridor was empty. She walked along it quickly and silently, with rows of statues standing in alcoves on her right and left. She had seen those statues once.
In her dreams.
She exited the corridor. And ran straight into a man with a spear. She sprang aside, ready to dodge and somersault. And then she realised it wasn’t a man but a thin, grey-haired, stooped woman. And that it wasn’t a spear, but a broom.
‘A sorceress with black hair is imprisoned somewhere around here.’ Ciri cleared her throat. ‘Where?’
The woman with the broom was silent for a long time, moving her mouth as though chewing something.
‘And how should I know, treasure?’ she finally mumbled. ‘For I only clean here. Nothing else, just clean up after them,’ she repeated, not looking at Ciri at all. ‘And all they do is keep dirtying the place. Look for yourself, treasure.’
Ciri looked. There was a smudged zigzag streak of blood on the floor. The streak extended for a few paces and ended beside a corpse huddled up by the wall. Two more corpses lay further on, one curled up in a ball, the other positively indecently spread-eagled. Beside them lay crossbows.
‘They keep making a mess.’ The woman took a pail and rag, kneeled down and set about cleaning. ‘Dirt, nothing but dirt, all the time dirt. And I must clean and clean. Will there ever be an end to it?’
‘No,’ Ciri said softly. ‘Never. That’s what this world’s come to.’
The woman stopped cleaning. But didn’t raise her head.
‘I clean,’ she said. ‘Nothing more. But I’ll tell you, treasure, that you must go straight, and then left.’
‘Thank you.’
The woman bowed her head even lower and resumed her cleaning.
*
She was alone. Alone and lost in the maze of corridors.
‘Madam Yenneeefeeer!’
Up until then she had kept quiet, afraid of saddling herself with Vilgefortz’s men. But now . . .
‘Yeeneeeefeeer!’
She thought she’d heard something. Yes, for sure!
She ran into a gallery, and from there into a large hall, between slender pillars. The stench of burning reached her nostrils again.
Bonhart emerged like a ghost from a niche and punched her in the face. She staggered, and he leaped on her like a hawk, seized her by the throat, pinning her to the wall with his forearm. Ciri looked into his fishlike eyes and felt her heart drop downwards to her belly.
‘I wouldn’t have found you if you hadn’t called,’ he wheezed out. ‘But you called, and longingly, to cap it all off! Have you missed me so? My little darling?’
Still pinning her to the wall, he slipped his hand into the hair on her nape. Ciri jerked her head. The bounty hunter grinned. He ran his hand over her arm, squeezed her breast, and grabbed her roughly by the crotch. Then he released her and pushed her so that she slid down the wall.
And tossed a sword at her feet. Her Swallow. And she knew at once what he wanted.
‘I’d have preferred it in the ring,’ he drawled. ‘As the crowning achievement, as the grand finale of many beautiful performances. The witcher girl against Leo Bonhart! Eh, people would pay to see something like that! Go on! Pick up the weapon and draw it from the scabbard.’
She did as he said. But she didn’t draw the blade, just slung it across her back so the hilt would be within reach.
Bonhart took a step back.
‘I thought it would suffice me to gladden my eyes with the sight of that surgery Vilgefortz is preparing for you,’ he said. ‘I was mistaken. I must feel your life flowing down my blade. I defy witchcraft and sorcerers, destiny, prophecies, the fate of the world, I defy the Elder and Younger Blood. What do all these predictions and spells mean to me? What do I gain from them? Nothing! Nothing can compare with the pleasure—’
He broke off. She saw him purse his lips, saw his eyes flash ominously.
‘I’ll bleed you to death, witcher girl,’ he hissed. ‘And afterwards, before you cool off, we’ll celebrate our nuptials. You are mine. And you’ll die mine. Draw your weapon.’
A distant thud resounded and the castle shuddered.
‘Vilgefortz,’ Bonhart explained with an inscrutable expression, ‘is reducing your witcher rescuers to pulp. Go on, girl, draw your sword.’
Shall I run away, she thought, frozen in terror, flee to other places, to other times? If only I could get far from him, if only. She felt shame: how can I run away? Leave Yennefer and Geralt at their mercy? But good sense told her: I’m not much use to them dead . . .
She focused, pressing her fists to her temples. Bonhart knew immediately what she was planning and lunged for her. But it was too late. There was a buzzing in Ciri’s ears, something flashed. I’ve done it, she thought triumphantly.
And at once realised her triumph was premature. She realised it on hearing furious yelling and curses. The evil, hostile and paralysing aura of the place was probably to blame for the fiasco. She hadn’t travelled far. Not even out of eyeshot – only to the opposite end of the gallery. Not far from Bonhart. But beyond the range of his hands and his sword. Temporarily, at least.
Pursued by his roar, Ciri turned and ran.
*
She ran down a long, wide corridor, followed by the dead glances of the alabaster caryatids holding up the arcades. She turned once and then again. She wanted to lose and confuse Bonhart, and furthermore she was heading towards the noises of the battle. Her friends would be where the fighting was raging, she was sure.
She rushed into a large, round room, in the centre of which a sculpture portraying a woman with her face covered, most probably a goddess, stood on a marble plinth. Two corridors led away from the room, both quite narrow. She chose at random. Naturally she chose wrongly.
‘The wench!’ roared one of the thugs. ‘We have her!’
There were too many of them to be able to risk fighting, even in a narrow corridor. And Bonhart was surely nearby. Ciri turned back and bolted. She burst into the room with the marble goddess. And froze.
Before her stood a knight with a great sword, in a black cloak and helmet decorated with the wings of a bird of prey.
The town was burning. She heard the roar of fire, saw flames flickering and felt the heat of the conflagration. The neighing of horses and the screaming of the murdered were in her ears. The black bird’s wings suddenly flapped, covering everything . . . Help!
Cintra, she thought, coming to her senses. The Isle of Thanedd. He’s followed me all the way here. He’s a demon. I’m surrounded by demon
s, by nightmares from my dreams. Bonhart behind me, him in front of me.
The shouting and stamping of enemies coming running could be heard behind her.
The knight in the plumed helmet suddenly took a step forward. Ciri overcame her fear. She yanked Swallow from its scabbard.
‘You will not touch me!’
The knight moved forward and Ciri noticed in amazement that a fair-haired girl armed with a curved sabre was hiding behind his cloak. The girl flashed past Ciri like a lynx, sending one of the approaching lackeys sprawling with a slash of her sabre. And the black knight, astonishingly, rather than attacking Ciri, slit open another thug with a powerful blow. The remaining ones retreated into the corridor.
The fair-haired girl rushed for the door, but didn’t manage to close it. Although she was whirling her sabre menacingly and yelling, the lackeys shoved her back from the portal. Ciri saw one of them stab her with a pilum, saw the girl fall to her knees. Ciri leaped and slashed backhand with Swallow, while the Black Knight ran up on the other side, hacking terribly with his long sword. The fair-haired girl, still on her knees, drew an axe from her belt and hurled it, hitting one of the bruisers right in the face. Then she lunged for the door, slammed it and the knight bolted it.
‘Phew,’ said the girl. ‘Oak and iron! It’ll take them some time to chop their way through that!’
‘They won’t waste time, they’ll search for another way,’ commented the Black Knight soberly, after which his face suddenly darkened on seeing the girl’s blood-soaked trouser leg. The girl waved a hand dismissively.
‘Let’s be away.’ The knight removed his helmet and looked at Ciri. ‘I’m Cahir Mawr Dyffryn, son of Ceallach. I came here with Geralt. To rescue you, Ciri. I know it’s unbelievable.’
‘I’ve seen more unbelievable things,’ Ciri growled. ‘You’ve come a long way . . . Cahir . . . Where’s Geralt?’
He looked at her. She remembered his eyes from Thanedd. Dark blue and as soft as silk. Pretty.
‘He’s rescuing the sorceress,’ he answered. ‘That—’
‘Yennefer. Let’s go.’
‘Yes!’ said the fair-haired girl, putting a makeshift dressing on her thigh. ‘We still have to kick a few arses! For auntie!’
‘Let’s go,’ repeated the knight.
But it was too late.
‘Run away,’ whispered Ciri, seeing who was approaching along the corridor. ‘He’s the devil incarnate. But he only wants me. He won’t come after you . . . Run . . . Help Geralt . . .’
Cahir shook his head.
‘Ciri,’ he said kindly. ‘I’m surprised by what you’re saying. I came here from the end of the world to find you, rescue you and defend you. And now you want me to run away?’
‘You don’t know who you’re up against.’
Cahir pulled up his sleeve, tore off his cloak and wrapped it around his left arm. He brandished his sword and whirled it so fast it hummed.
‘I’ll soon find out.’
Bonhart, seeing the three of them, stopped. But only for a moment.
‘Aha!’ he said. ‘Have the reinforcements arrived? Your companions, witcher girl? Very well. Two less, two more. Makes no difference.’
Ciri had a sudden flash of inspiration.
‘Say farewell to your life, Bonhart!’ she yelled. ‘It’s the end of you! You’ve met your match!’
She must have overdone it and he caught the lie in her voice. He stopped and looked suspiciously.
‘The Witcher? Really?’
Cahir whirled his sword, standing in position. Bonhart didn’t budge.
‘This witch has more of a liking for younger men than I expected,’ he hissed. ‘Just look here, my young blade.’
He pulled his shirt open. Silver medallions flashed in his fist. A cat, a gryphon and a wolf.
‘If you are truly a witcher—’ he ground his teeth ‘—know that your own quack amulet will soon embellish my collection. If you’re not a witcher, you’ll be a corpse before you manage to blink. It would be wise, therefore, to get out of my way and take to your heels. I want this wench; I don’t bear a grudge against you.’
‘You talk big,’ Cahir said calmly, twirling the blade. ‘Let’s see if your bite’s worse than your bark. Angoulême, Ciri. Flee!’
‘Cahir—’
‘Run,’ he corrected himself, ‘and help Geralt.’
They ran. Ciri was holding up the limping Angoulême.
‘You asked for it.’ Bonhart squinted his pale eyes and moved forward, whirling his sword.
‘I asked for it?’ Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach repeated dully. ‘No. It’s what destiny wants!’
They leaped at each other, quickly engaged, surrounding each other with a frantic kaleidoscope of blades. The corridor filled with the clang of iron, seemingly making the marble sculpture tremble and rock.
‘You aren’t bad,’ rasped Bonhart when they came apart. ‘You aren’t bad, my young blade. But you’re no witcher. The little viper deceived me. You’re done for. Prepare for death.’
‘You talk big.’
Cahir took a deep breath. The clash had convinced him he had faint chance with the fishy-eyed man. This man was too fast and too strong for him. The only chance was that Bonhart was in a hurry to get after Ciri. And he was clearly irritated.
Bonhart attacked again. Cahir parried a cut, stooped, jumped, seized his opponent by the belt, shoved him against the wall and kneed him hard in the crotch. Bonhart caught him by the face, battered him powerfully on the side of the head with his sword pommel; once, twice, thrice. The third blow shoved Cahir back. He saw the flash of the blade. He parried instinctively.
Too slowly.
*
It was a strictly observed tradition in the Dyffryn family that all male members would hold a silent vigil lasting a whole day and night over the body of a fallen kinsman once he was inhumed in the castle armoury. The women – gathered in a remote wing of the castle so as not to disturb the men, not to distract them or disrupt their reflections – would sob, keen and faint. When brought round they sobbed and keened again. And da capo.
Sobbing and weeping, even among women, Vicovarian noblewomen, was an unwelcome faux pas and a great dishonour. But among the Dyffryns that and no other was the tradition and no one ever changed it. Or meant to change it.
The ten-year-old Cahir, the youngest brother of Aillil, who had fallen in Nazair and was then lying in the castle armoury, was not yet a man in terms of customs and traditions. He was not allowed to join the group of men gathered around the open coffin, and he was not permitted to sit in silence with his grandfather Gruffyd, his father Ceallach, his brother Dheran or the whole collection of uncles and cousins. Neither was he permitted, naturally, to sob and faint along with his grandmother, mother, three sisters and the whole collection of aunts and cousins. Cahir clowned about and made mischief on the castle walls along with the rest of his young relatives who had come to Darn Dyffra for the obsequies, funeral and wake. And he pummelled any boys who considered that the bravest of the brave in the fighting for Nazair were their own fathers and older brothers, but not Aillil aep Ceallach.
‘Cahir! Come here, my son!’
In the cloister stood Mawr, Cahir’s mother, and her sister, his aunt Cinead var Anahid. His mother’s face was red and so swollen from weeping that Cahir was terrified. It shocked him that weeping could make such a monster out of such a comely woman as his mother. He made a firm resolution never, ever, to cry.
‘Remember, son,’ Mawr sobbed, pressing the boy so hard to her breast he couldn’t catch his breath. ‘Remember this day. Remember who took the life from your dear brother Aillil. The damned Nordlings did it. Your foes, my son. You are ever to hate them. You are to hate that damned, murderous nation!’
‘I shall hate them, mother of mine,’ Cahir promised, somewhat surprised. Firstly, his brother Aillil had died the praiseworthy and enviable death of a warrior, in battle, with honour. What was one to shed tears over? Secondly, it was n
o secret that his grandmother Eviva – Mawr’s mother – was descended from Nordlings. Papa had more than once called his grandmother in anger ‘She-Wolf from the North’. Behind her back, naturally.
Well, but if mother is now ordering me . . .
‘I shall hate them,’ he pledged eagerly. ‘I already hate them! And when I’m big and have a real sword I’ll go to war and chop off their heads! You’ll see, ma’am!’
His mother took a breath and began sobbing. Aunt Cinead held her up. Cahir clenched his little fists and trembled with hatred. With hatred for those who had wronged his mamma, making her so ugly.
*
Bonhart’s blow clove his temple, cheek and mouth. Cahir dropped his sword and staggered, and the bounty hunter cut him between his neck and collar bone using the force of a half-turn. Cahir tumbled at the feet of the marble goddess, and his blood splashed the statue’s plinth, like a pagan sacrifice.
*
There was a boom, the floor trembled beneath feet and a shield fell with a thud from a wall panoply. Acrid smoke trailed and crept along the corridor. Ciri wiped her face. The fair-haired girl she was supporting weighed her down like a millstone.
‘Quick . . . We must run quicker . . .’
‘I can’t run any quicker,’ said the girl. And suddenly sat down heavily on the floor. Ciri saw with horror a red puddle begin to spill out and collect beneath the seated girl, beneath her blood-soaked trouser leg.
The girl was as white as a sheet.
Ciri threw herself on her knees beside her, pulled off her scarf and then her belt, trying to apply tourniquets. But the wound was too severe. And too near her groin. The blood kept dripping.
The girl grasped her by the hand, her fingers as cold as ice.
‘Ciri . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Angoulême. I didn’t believe . . . I didn’t believe we’d find you. But I followed Geralt . . . Because it’s impossible not to follow him. Isn’t it?’
‘It is. That’s how he is.’
‘We found you. And rescued you. And Fringilla mocked us . . . Tell me . . .’
‘Don’t say anything. Please.’
‘Tell me . . .’ Angoulême was moving her lips slower and slower, and with greater difficulty. ‘Tell me. You’re a queen, aren’t you . . . In Cintra . . . We’ll be in your good graces, won’t we? Will you make me a . . . countess? Tell me. But don’t lie . . . Can you? Tell me!’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 191
