‘These are all lies and slander.’ Dandelion bellowed. ‘In all that there is not one word of truth!’
‘Shut up or I’ll gag you. Combine the facts, Count. The witcher had Cirilla, now Emhyr Emreis has her. And the witcher is arrested mixed in with the vanguard of the Nilfgaardian patrol. What does it mean?’
Daniel Etcheverry shrugged.
‘What does it mean?’ Vissegerd repeated, leaning on Geralt. ‘What, miscreant? Speak up! How long have you been spies for Nilfgaard?’
‘I’m not a spy for anyone.’
‘I will tear strips from you!’
‘Do it.’
‘Mister Dandelion,’ the Count of Garramone said suddenly. ‘It would be better for you if you explained. The sooner the better.’
‘That’s what I’ve been waiting to do,’ the poet exploded, ‘but the lord Marshal threatened to gag me! We are innocent; it’s all blatant fabrication and hideous slander. Cirilla was kidnapped from Thanedd Island and Geralt was seriously wounded in her defense. Anyone can confirm this. Any wizard who was on Thanedd. And the Redanian Chancellor, Count Sigismund Dijkstra...’
Dandelion stopped suddenly, remembering that Dijkstra was completely unsuitable as a defense witness in this case, and invoking the wizards of Thanedd to improve their position was not a good idea either.
‘It is also an absurdity,’ he continued talking loudly and quickly, ‘accusing Geralt of kidnapping Ciri from Cintra. Geralt found the girl after the massacre of the city, wandering and hid her from others, Nilfgaard agents that were looking for her. I myself was captured by these agents and subjected to torture, to confess where he had hidden Ciri! I did not say a word and these agents are now dead, they did not know with whom they had started with.’
‘Your bravery,’ said the Count ‘was futile. Emhyr finally has Cirilla. As everyone knows he intends to marry her and make her the Empress of Nilfgaard. For the time being he is hailing her as the Queen of Cintra and the surrounding area, which causes us many problems.’
‘Emhyr,’ declared the poet, ‘could have sat on the throne of Cintra whenever he wanted. Ciri, whether she takes it however, has the right to the throne.’
‘The right?’ Vissegerd roared, splashing Geralt with saliva. ‘Shit, she has no right! Let Emhyr marry her if he wishes. Let her give him children and he can give her grants and titles, according to his whim. Queen of Cintra and the Skellige Islands, why not? Duchess of Brugge? The Countess of Sodden? Go ahead, we bow at the waist! And why, I humbly ask, not the Queen of the Sun and Moon? Her cursed and tainted blood has no right to the throne! Cursed blood, the whole female line of this family is cursed, vile creatures, beginning with Riannon! Ciri’s great-grandmother, Adalia played the harlot with her cousin as her mother Muriel, fornicated with everyone! From this blood only incestuous whores are born.’
‘Speak softly, Marshal.’ Dandelion said cheekily. ‘Before your tent hangs a banner with golden lions, and you are about to hail Ciri’s grandmother, Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra, for which most of your troops spilt blood for at Marnadal and Sodden as an amoral and adulterous bitch. And then I wouldn’t be so sure of the loyalty of your army.’
Vissegerd covered the distance between him and Dandelion in two steps and grabbed him by the front of his shirt and lifted him from the chair. The face of the Marshal which was a moment ago calm was now flushed a heraldic red. Geralt started to strongly worry about the health of his friend, when suddenly an Adjutant rushed in and excitedly started announcing that urgent and important news had been brought back by a patrol. Vissegerd released Dandelion, knocked over the chair and left.
‘Uff...’ groaned the poet, shaking his head and neck. ‘That was close, he would have strangled me... Can you loosen my bonds, Count?’
‘No Sir Dandelion, I can not.’
‘Are you going to give belief to such nonsense? That we are spies?’
‘My belief has nothing to do with it. You will remain bound.’
‘Pity,’ coughed Dandelion. ‘What demon possessed the Marshal? He suddenly fell upon me like a hawk.’
Daniel Etcheverry gave a crooked smile.
‘When you mention the loyalty of his troops, Sir Poet, you unwittingly touched on a sore point.’
‘What? What point?’
‘The soldier wept when they heard the news of Ciri’s death. And then there was another story. It turned out that the granddaughter of Calanthe was alive. That she was in Nilfgaard and enjoyed the favor of Emperor Emhyr. There were mass desertions. These people had left home and family, had fled to Sodden and Brugge, to Temeria, because they wanted to fight for Cintra, the blood of Calanthe. They wanted to fight for the liberation of their country, sought to expel the invaders from Cintra, to make sure the descendant of Calanthe regained the throne. And what happens? Calanthe’s blood returns to the throne of Cintra in honor and glory...’
‘As a puppet in the hands of Emhyr who kidnapped her.’
‘Emhyr wants to marry her. He wants her to sit beside him on the imperial throne, to confirm the titles and vassalage. Is this how the puppet acts? Cirilla was seen at the imperial court by ambassadors from Kovir. They claim that she was not abducted by force. Cirilla, the only heir to the throne of Cintra, came to the throne of Nilfgaard as an ally. Such is the news that has spread among the soldiers.’
‘Circulated by agents of Nilfgaard.’
‘I know,’ nodded the Count. ‘But the soldiers do not. When you cling to a deserter, you are punished by hanging, but I understand. They want to fight for their own country, for their own homes. For themselves, not for Temeria. Under their own banner. They can see here in the camp, the golden lion bows down before the lilies of Temeria. Vissegerd had eight thousand soldiers, including five thousand native Cintrans, the rest were Temerian units and volunteer knights from Brugge and Sodden. At this time the army has six thousand men. Those who have deserted have been solely Cintrans. Vissegerd’s army was decimated without a fight. Do you understand what it means to him?’
‘He loses prestige and position.’
‘Of course. A few hundred desert and the king Foltest removes the baton. Already, it is difficult to call this army Cintran. Vissegerd thrashes about, wanting to stop the desertions, thus he is spreading the rumors of the uncertain origin of Princess Cirilla and her ancestors.’
‘What of yourself, Count,’ Geralt could not help it. ‘You listen with clear distaste.’
‘You have noticed?’ Daniel Etcheverry smile slightly. ‘Vissegerd knows about my lineage... In short I am a relative to Ciri, Muriel Countess of Garramone, called the Fair, was Cirilla’s great-grandmother and also my great-grandmother. During family battles various legends of her romantic conquests were circulated, yet when some young upstart proclaims my ancestor was a whore, it fills me with disgust. But I do not react. Because I am a soldier. Do you understand my lords?’
‘Yes.’ said Geralt.
‘No.’ said Dandelion.
‘Vissegerd is the commander of this unit which is part of the Temerian army. And Cirilla in the hands of Emhyr, is a threat to the unit and the army, and to my king and country. I have no intention of denying rumors surrounding Vissegerd’s slander and undermining the authority of his commanded. I’m going to support him in proving that Cirilla is a bastard and has no rights to the throne. I will not resist the Marshal, or his decisions and orders. On the contrary, I will support him.’
The witcher twisted his lips into a smile. ‘You see Dandelion? The Count never for a moment took us for spies, otherwise we wouldn’t have been granted such a thorough explanation. The Count knows we are innocent. But he will not lift a finger when Vissegerd issues a verdict on us.’
‘Does this mean... Does this mean...’
The Count looked away.
‘Vissegerd,’ he said quietly, ‘is furious. You had bad luck falling into his hands. Especially you, Sir Witcher. I will try Mister Dandelion...’
He was interrupted by the entrance of Visseger
d, still red and angry as a bull. The Marshal approached the table, slammed his baton on it and deposited a map atop it, then turned to Geralt and drilled him with his eyes. The witcher did not lower his eyes.
‘A wounded Nilfgaardian, was caught by the patrol,’ drawled Vissegerd, ‘he managed to remove his bandages and bled out on the road rather than contribute to the defeat of his people. We wanted to use him, but he slipped between our fingers and left us with nothing but blood. A good lesson. It is unfortunate that witchers do not teach such things to the children of kings who they are educating.’
Geralt remained silent, but bowed his head.
‘What, freak? Freak of nature. Creature of Hell. What did you teach Cirilla? What education did you give her? Everyone has seen it and knows it! That bastard lives, expanding the Nilfgaardian throne like its nothing! And when Emhyr takes her to bed, she will be willing, whore!’
‘Displaying yourself in anger,’ said Dandelion, ‘is not worthy of a knight. Sir Marshal, are you blaming everything on a child who was forcibly abducted in violence by Emhyr?’
‘Even a child can resist violence! Knights have ways, even kings. If she was really of royal blood, she would have found a way. Scissors, a piece of broken glass, even an awl! The whore could have slit her wrists with her own teeth! Hung herself with a stocking!’
‘I will hear no more, Vissegerd.’ Geralt said quietly. ‘I will hear no more.’
The Marshal audibly gritted his teeth and bent.
‘You will hear no more.’ He said in a voice trembling with rage. ‘This is fine because I have nothing more to say. Just one thing. Then, in Cintra, fifteen years ago, you talked a lot about destiny. I thought then that it was nonsense. But it was your destiny, witcher. Since that night, your fate was sealed, inscribed in black runes among the stars. Ciri, Pavetta’s daughter is your destiny. And your death. For Cirilla, Pavetta’s daughter, you’ll hang!’
CHAPTER FIVE
The “7th Daerlan” brigade was available to the operation as a separate branch of the Fourth Army Cavalry. We had just received support in the form of three companies of light cavalry, from Verden, which I gave to the Vreemde Battle Group. The rest of the brigade was involved in the Aedirn campaign, which I divided into Battle Groups: “Sievers” and “Morteisen”, each consisting of four squadrons.
We left the assembly point at Drieschot in the evening with the Fourth on the fifth of August. The order was for the Group was to reach the borders of Vidort, Carcano and Armeria, to capture the crossings of the Ina, destroying any enemy we encountered, but avoiding large points of resistance. Starting fires, especially at night, would illuminate the path of the Fourth Army, creating panic among the civilian population and blocking all roads behind the lines of the enemy with fugitives. Pretend to encircle and push the retreating enemy troops towards the direction of the actual boiler. Eliminating selected groups of civilians and prisoners to awaken panic, fear and further break the morale of the enemy. The tasks described here were carried out by the brigade with great soldier’s sacrifice.
Elan Trahe
For Emperor and homeland: The glorious trail of fire of the 7th Daerlan Cavalry Brigade
Milva did not manage to reach or save the horses. She witnessed the theft, but she was a witness who could not do anything. First, she was seized in a frenzied, panicked crowd, then the way was barred by rushing wagons and then she plunged into a flock of woolly sheep, which she waded through like a snow drift. She eventually jumped into the mud and reeds on the shore of the Chotla, which saved her form the swords of the Nilfgaardians who were mercilessly everyone, giving no quarter even to women or children. Milva threw herself into the water and escaped to the other side, partly wading, partly by swimming on her back among the corpses being washed away.
She continued her chase. She remembered the direction the peasants went in, who stole Roach, Pegasus, the chestnut stallion and her own black. And on the saddle of the black was her priceless bow. Nothing can be done, she thought as she started to run in her water-soaked boots, the others will just have to fend for themselves for now. I, damn it, I have to recover my bow and my horse!
She first recovered Pegasus. The Poet’s gelding was ignoring the kicks to the ribs and the cries of the peasant who was riding him. He would not gallop and walked among a birch grove sluggishly, lazy and slow. The peasant was left far behind the rest of the horse thieves. When he heard and saw Milva approaching from behind, he jumped off the horse without thinking directly into the bushes, while holding his pants with both hands. Milva did not pursue him, overcoming her strong desire to kill. She jumped into the saddle, ringing the lute strings strapped to the saddle. Familiar with the horse, she was able to force the gelding to a gallop. Or rather a sluggish run, which Pegasus considered a gallop.
But even this pseudo-gallop was enough to catch the horse thieves, since their escape was slowed by a more unusual horse: Roach, the witcher’s bay mare, which Geralt had promised more than once to replace with a donkey, mule or even a goat. Milva overtook the thieves when the unskillful rider pulling on Roach’s reins fell to the ground and the rest of the peasants jumped from their saddles, trying to tame the frisky, kicking mare. They were so busy that they did not noticed when Milva came up on Pegasus and kicked one in the face, breaking his nose. When he fell back, crying and begging for divine help, she recognized him. It was Clogs. He apparently had no luck with the people he encountered. And especially Milva.
Milva, unfortunately also ran out of luck. Specifically speaking, luck was not to blame, but her own arrogance and belief she could beat up a couple of peasants a much as she wished. But when she dismounted from the saddle, she was suddenly punched in the eye and not knowing how ended up on the ground. She drew her knife, determined to spill some guts, but was hit over the head with a thick stick, which broke, covering her eyes with bark and rotten wood. Stunned and blinded, she managed to grab the knee of the peasant who still held the remains of the stick; however, suddenly the peasant fell down screaming. The other shouted and covered his head with both hands. Milva wiped her eyes and saw that he was being covered in blows from a whip from a rider on a gray horse. She rose and hit the peasant in the neck. Wheezing the thief’s legs buckled. Milva used this as an advantage to vent her rage in a kick. The peasant curled up, clutching his hands to his crotch and screamed until leaves rained down from the surrounding birches.
The rider on the gray horse, managed to drive the other man and Clogs, who was still bleeding from his nose, into to the forest with blows from his whip. He turned his horse back towards the howling man, but pulled it up short. For Milva had already caught up to her black horse and in her hand held her bow with an arrow already on the string. The string was only at half tension, but the tip of the arrow was pointed directly at the rider’s chest. For a moment the rider and the girl stared at each other. Then the rider, with slow movements, drew from his belt an arrow with long feathered fletching and threw it at Milva’s feet.
‘I knew,’ he said calmly, ‘I would get the chance to give you back your arrow, elf.’
‘I’m not an elf, Nilfgaardian.’
‘I’m not a Nilfgaardian. So put down the bow. If I wished you any evil, I would have let those peasants beat you.’
‘The devil knows who you are,’ she said, ‘but thank you for the help. And my arrow. And for the evil bastard I kicked.’
The horse thief, who had been kicked was curled in a ball and began to sob, with his face buried in the leaves. The rider did not look at him. He watched Milva.
‘Catch the horses,’ he said. ‘We need to move away from the river quickly, the army is spread through the forest on both banks.’
‘We?’ Milva frowned, lowering the bow. ‘Together? Since when are we friends? Or companions?’
‘I’ll explain,’ he said turning his horse and grabbing the reins of the chestnut stallion, ‘if you give me time.’
‘That’s the thing we don’t have. The witcher and the rest…’
‘I know. But we will not be able to save them if we are killed or captured. Grab the horses and follow me into the forest. Hurry!’
He is called Cahir, Milva recalled, casting a look at her strange companion who was sitting on a fallen tree. The strange Nilfgaardian who says he isn’t a Nilfgaardian. Cahir.
‘We thought that you had been killed,’ she said, ‘the chestnut caught up to us without a rider.’
‘I had a small adventure,’ he answered dryly. ‘Three bandits, hairy as werewolves, jumped out at me in an ambush. The horse ran away. The bandits didn’t manage to, but they were on foot. Before I managed to find a new mount, I was far behind you. I only caught up this morning before you entered the camp. I crossed the river and waited for you on this bank, because I knew you were heading east.’
One of the horses hidden in the alders stamped it’s hoof. It was growing dark. Mosquitoes began to buzz around their ears.
‘The woods are quiet.’ Cahir said. ‘The army is gone. The battle must be over.’
‘The massacre, you mean.’
‘Our cavalry…’ he stammered, clearing his throat. ‘The imperial cavalry struck the camp, and then from the south your army attacked. Probably Temerian.’
‘If the fighting is over then we must go back there. We need to look for the witcher, Dandelion and the others.’
‘It will be wiser to wait until nightfall.’
‘This is a horrible place,’ she said softly, squeezing her bow. ‘Grim and chilling. Not even a breeze moves through here, but something keeps making noises in the bushes… The witcher talked about ghouls being attracted to battlefields… And the peasants spoke of vampires…’