Cintra, she realised, returning to reality. And Thanedd island. He caught up to me here. He’s a demon. I’m surrounded by ghosts and phantoms from my nightmares. Bonhart is behind me, and him in front.
She could hear screaming and the pounding of boots.
The knight in the helmet with the feathers made a sudden move. Ciri overcame her fear. Swallow was yanked out of its sheath.
‘Do not touch me!’
The knight stepped back and to Ciri’s amazement she saw that his cloak hid a blond girl armed with a curved sabre. The girl slipped around Ciri and slashed with her sabre at a mercenary. The black knight, instead of attacking Ciri, swung a powerful slash and killed another mercenary. The other retreated into the hallway.
The blond girl rushed to the door, but could not close it. She brandished her sabre threateningly and screamed, pushing the mercenaries from the portal. Ciri watched as one of the mercenaries stabbed her with a spear, she watched as the girl fell to her knees. She jumped forwards and swung Swallow, slashing the sword horrible across one the mercenaries, the Black knight ran forward. The blond girl, still on her knees, drew an axe from her belt and threw it, hitting one of the men in the face. Then she reached the door, slammed it and the knight bolted it.
‘Uff!’ said the girl. ‘Oak and iron! It will take them some time before they can get through that door!’
‘They will not waste the time, they’ll seek another way,’ said the black knight matter-of-factly, the frowned suddenly, seeing the blood seeping from the girl’s leg. The blond waved her hand, it was nothing.
‘We have to get out of here,’ the knight took off his helmet and looked at Ciri. ‘I am Cahir Mawr Dyffryn, the son of Ceallach. I came here with Geralt. To rescue you, Ciri. I know that it is unbelievable.’
‘I’ve seen unbelievable things,’ Ciri said. ‘You have come a long way … Cahir … Where is Geralt?’
He stared at her. She remembered those eyes from Thanedd. Deep, blue, nice.
‘He is saving the sorceress,’ he said. ‘Here …’
‘Yennefer. Let’s go.’
‘Yeah,’ said the blond girl, knotting an emergency bandage around her thigh. ‘We have to kick a few asses! For Auntie!’
‘Let’s go,’ repeated the knight.
But it was too late.
‘Run,’ Ciri whispered, seeing who was coming down the second passage. ‘It is the devil incarnate. But he wants me and will not chase you … Go. Help Geralt …’
Cahir shook his head.
‘Ciri,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m surprised at you. I cross the whole world to see you, and now that I found you, to redeem myself, to save you and defend you. And you want me to run away now?’
‘You don’t know who you are dealing with.’
Cahir tugged on his gloves, removed his coat and wrapped it around his left arm. He waved his sword and swung it until it whistled in the air.
‘I would know.’
At the sight of the trio, Bonhart stopped. But only for a moment.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘There was a rescue? Your friends, witcheress? All right. Two more or less, it does not make a difference.’
Ciri suddenly thought of something.
‘Say goodbye to your life, Bonhart,’ she cried. ‘This is your end. Here is your match!’
Undoubtedly she exaggerated. Bonhart caught the false note in her voice. He looked suspicious.
‘The witcher? Really?’
Cahir swung his sword, standing in position. Bonhart did not waver.
‘Well, well, the witcher is younger than I believed,’ he hissed. ‘Look here, boy.’
He opened his mail shirt. On his chest glistened three silver medallions – an eagle, a cat and a wolf.
‘If you’re a real witcher,’ the Bounty hunter gritted his teeth, ‘know that soon your amulet will adorn my collection. And if you’re not the witcher, you’ll be dead before you can blink your eyes. It would be more sensible, in that case, to get out of my way and flee. I want this wench, I have nothing against you.’
‘Strong words,’ Cahir said calmly. ‘Let’s see what else you can do. Angouleme, Ciri, run!’
‘Cahir …’
‘Go,’ he said, ‘help Geralt.’
They ran off. Ciri helped the limping girl.
‘You asked for it,’ Bonhart narrowed his pale eyes, as he did he twirled his sword.
‘Asked for it?’ echoed Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach dully. ‘No. It is my destiny!’
They rushed towards each other and collided violently. The blades clattered against each other, the corridor carried the sound of steel banging on steel.
‘Not bad,’ Bonhart gasped when they moved apart. ‘Not bad boy. But you’re not a witcher, that little bitch wanted to deceive me. It’s your turn. Prepare to die.’
‘Strong words.’
Cahir breathed deeply. The first encounter convinced him that his chances were slim. The old killer was too fast and strong. His only hope was that he rushed in order to chase Ciri, and clearly nervous.
Bonhart attacked again. Cahir parried, cut, ducked, jumped, grabbed his opponent’s wrist, pushed him to the wall and put his knee is his groin. Bonhart grabbed him by the face and slammed the hilt of his sword into the side of his head, once, twice, three times. Cahir blocked the third strike. He saw the flash of the blade and instinctively parried.
Too slowly.
* * *
There was a strict adherence to family tradition in the Dyffryn house that the body of a fallen relative was to be housed in the castle armoury and all the men in the family to visit and stay in an all day and night vigil. Women gathered in a remote wing of the castle, so as not to disturb the men, or distract them or interfere with their thoughts, with their sobbing and fainting spells.
Among the nobility of Vicovaro, sobbing and tears were not seen even among the women. It was considered tactless and a great dishonour. But in the Dyffryn house there were different traditions and they would not change. And had no intention of doing so.
At ten years old, Cahir’s youngest brother, Aillil was killed in Nazair and was lying in the castle armoury, due to custom and tradition he was not considered to be a grown man.
He was not invited to a gathering of men over the open coffin, but was not allowed to sit silent alongside his grandfather Gruffyd, his father Ceallach, his brother Dheran or his uncles and cousins. Understandably, he was neither allowed to mourn and faint in with his grandmother, his mother, his three sisters or his aunts and cousins. Small Cahir preferred running around the walls and fighting with his peers from families who came with their parents for the funeral, burial and ceremony. Cahir was devoted to making mischief by the walls. He fought with the other boys who claimed their older brothers fought the bravest at Naziar and not Aillil aep Ceallach.
‘Cahir! Come to me, my son!’
On the porch stood Mawr, the boy’s mother and her sister, Aunt Cinead var Anahid. His mother’s face was red and swollen from mourning and it frightened Cahir. It shook him that even such a comely woman, such as his mother, could look like a monster because of crying. He firmly decided that he would never cry, ever.
‘Remember, my son,’ Mawr sobbed, clutching her child to her breast so hard he could not breathe. ‘Remember this day. Never forget who put your dear brother Aillil to death. It was those damn Nordlings. Your enemies, my son. Be sure to hate them. Never stop hating that damn nation of murderers!’
‘I will always hate, mother,’ Cahir promised, somewhat surprised. First, his brother, Aillil had fallen fighting with honour. It had been a death worthy and enviable of a warrior. Why, then, spill tears for him? Second, it was no secret that Grandmother Eviva, Mawr’s mother, came from the Nordlings. His father in anger more than once had called his grandmother “she-wolf of the North”. Naturally, behind her back.
But his mother now wanted …
‘I hate them!’ he cried enthusiastically. I hate them all! And when I’m big and I have a real
sword, I’ll go to war and chop off their heads! You’ll see, Mother!’
His mother took a deep breath and began to sob. Aunt Cinead steadied her.
Cahir clenched his fists, shaking with anger. Anger and hatred towards those who had wronged his mother, making her so ugly.
* * *
Bonhart’s blow smashed his temple, cheek and mouth. Cahir dropped his sword and stumbled; the Bounty hunter swung and slashed him between his neck and collarbone. Cahir fell at the feet of the marble goddess, his blood, like a pagan sacrifice, pooled at the base of the statue.
* * *
Rumbling, the floor shook beneath their feet, a decorative shield fell to the floor with a crash. The corridor was filled with acrid smoke. Ciri wiped her face. The blond girl weighed on her like a millstone.
‘Faster … Run faster …’
‘I can’t,’ breathed the girl and sat down heavily on the floor. Ciri stunned, watched the blood oozing from her leg. She was pale as death.
Ciri knelt and quickly took off her scarf and belt and tried to make a tourniquet. But the wound was large and deep, and very high on the leg, too close to the groin. The blood would not stop flowing.
The girl grabbed her hand. Her fingers were as cold as ice.
‘Ciri …’
‘Yes.’
‘I am Angouleme. I did not believe … I did not believe that we would find you. But I followed Geralt … Because it was impossible not to follow. Did you know?’
‘I know. He is well.’
‘We found you … And I scoffed at Fringilla … Tell me …’
‘Don’t talk, please.’
‘Tell …’ Angouleme’s lips moved slower and with more difficulty. ‘Say, you’re still a princess … In Cintra … I’ll be rewarded, right? You’ll make me … a Countess? Tell me. Do not lie … Can you? Tell me.’
‘Don’t talk. Save your strength.’
Angouleme sighed, suddenly leaned forward and rested her forehead on Ciri’s shoulder.
‘I knew …’ she said quiet clearly. ‘I knew a whorehouse in Toussaint was a better idea.’
It took a long time before Ciri realised that she was holding a dead girl in her arms.
* * *
She saw him coming, watched by the dead eyes of the marble caryatids lining the arcade. She finally realised that escape was impossible that she could not escape him. That she would have to face him. There was no other choice.
But she was still scared.
She drew her weapon. Swallow’s edge softly sang as she pulled it from the sheath. She knew this song.
She retreated into a wide corridor, he followed her, holding his sword in both hands, blood trickled down the blade, heavy drops dripped onto the floor.
‘Dead,’ he said, stepping over the body of Angouleme. ‘Good. The boy also went down.’
Ciri felt overwhelmed by desperation. Her fingers tightened painfully on the hilt. She retreated.
‘You lied to me,’ Bonhart drawled. ‘The boy had no medallion. But something tells me that here in this castle is someone wearing a medallion. There will be someone old Leo Bonhart will find near the sorceress Yennefer. But first things first, viper. You and me. And our engagement.’
Ciri decided. She twirled Swallow and moved into position. She moved in a semicircle around him, going faster, forcing the Bounty hunter to rotate on the spot.
‘The last time,’ he said, ‘this trick was useless. Don’t you know how to learn from your mistakes?’
Ciri quickened her pace. The soft flowing movements of her sword were meant to disorientate and mesmerize. Bonhart turned and spun his sword.
‘This doesn’t work on me,’ he spat. ‘I’m bored by it!’
He took two quick steps to shorten the distance.
‘Music, maestro!’
Bonhart jumped and launched an attack, Ciri dodged with a pirouette, jumped and landed safely on her left leg and immediately struck. Even before her blade hit Bonhart’s, she was spinning around him and launching a smooth cut. She struck again, without expansion, from an unexpected and unusual bending of her elbow. Bonhart parried and used the momentum to attack from the left. Ciri saw it coming and with a slight bend of her knees she avoided the blade, but only by an inch. She went quickly on the attack, chopping and cutting. But Bonhart was waiting this time and deceived her with a feint. Unable to stop, and nearly off balance, Ciri was only saved by a lightning jump, but did not prevent the reach of Bonhart’s sword to her shoulder. At first she thought that the blade had only cut through the padded sleeve, but after a moment she felt warm liquid run down her arm.
The marble caryatids watched them with indifference.
Ciri retreated, but he stayed behind her, stooped over and flicking his sword from side to side like a scythe. Like a Grim Reaper, Ciri had seen in a fresco in the temple. The dance of Death, she thought. He approaches like the Grim Reaper.
She retreated. Hot, wet blood was running down her arm and onto her hand.
‘First blood to me,’ he said, looking at the trail of drops, which had been left behind on the floor. ‘Who will get the second, my princess?’
She retreated.
‘Look closely. This is the end.’
Bonhart was right. The hallway ended suddenly at an abyss. This wing of the castle was damaged and the floor had collapsed. Leaving of the structure – columns, timbers and beams. Downstairs on the ground was littered with debris.
Ciri hesitated. She moved onto a horizontal beam, and kept retreating from him. Bonhart’s eyes watched her every move. It saved her. Abruptly, he lunged at her, running across the beam, his sword flashing with cuts and feints. She knew his intention. One bad parry or any other error and she would lose her balance and fall down to the broken lower floor.
This time Ciri was not fooled by his feints. Just the opposite. Bonhart skilfully cut from the right. Seeing her rival hesitate a split second, she launched a new blow to his right hand, so fast and strong that Bonhart rocked the beam. He would have fallen if not for his height. He stretched his left hand and caught hold of an overhead beam, keeping his balance. But he briefly lost his concentration. And for Ciri that was enough. She launched a powerful cut, straining her sword arm to its maximum length.
He did not even flinch when Swallow’s blade, with a whistle cut him from his chest to his left shoulder. He immediately struck back with such force that if Ciri had not jumped back, the blow would have split her in half. She jumped to an adjacent beam, falling into a kneeling position and raised her sword horizontally above her head.
Bonhart looked at his shoulder and raised his left hand, down which already ran a scarlet trickle. He watched the drops falling down into the abyss.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Now I know you can learn from your mistakes.’
His voice trembled with rage. But Ciri knew him to well. He was calm, focused and ready to kill.
He jumped onto her beam his sword twirling and rushed at her like a storm, running confidently, without hesitation, not even looking at his feet. The beam creaked and dust trickled downwards. He pressed her with blows, forcing her to walk backwards. His attacks were so continuous that Ciri could not jump or spin; she simply had to stop the blows and try to avoid them.
She noticed a glint in his fish eyes. She knew what it was.
He was trying to corner her against a pillar, pushing her like a spider under a trestle. Pushing her to a point where there was no escape. She had to do something. And suddenly she knew what.
Kaer Morhen. The Pendulum.
‘You’re not deflecting the pendulum, your deflecting yourself from it. You’re intercepting its energy, which you need in order to deal a blow. Do you see?’
‘Yes, Geralt.’
Suddenly, swift as an attacking snake, she counterattacked. Swallow hissed through the air and collided with Bonhart’s sword. At the same time Ciri bounced and jumped to an adjacent beam. She landed, miraculously keeping her balance. She ran a few steps and lightly
jumped again, back to the Bonhart’s beam, landing behind him. He turned just in time, slashing almost blindly where she had landed.
He missed her by a hair; the strength of the blow staggered him. Ciri struck like lightning. She slashed from a lunge and again fell to her knees. The slash was powerful and accurate.
He froze with his sword at his side. She watched the long, straight, smooth cut on his jacket start to ooze blood.
‘You …’ Bonhart shuddered. ‘You …’
He lunged at her. However, it was slow and clunky. She escaped by jumping back and he could not keep his balance. He fell to one knee, but it slipped off the timber because the wood was slick with his blood. For a moment he looked at Ciri.
Then he fell into the abyss.
She watched as he fell to the floor, raising a geyser of dust, lime and blood. She saw his sword fall a few feet away from him. He lay motionless, with arms flung wide, tall and thin. Badly wounded and quite vulnerable. But still scary.
It took a while, but he finally moved and groaned. He tried to lift his head. He moved his legs. He moved his hands. He crawled to a pillar and leaned against its foot. He moaned again and probed his bloody chest and abdomen with both hands.
Ciri jumped. She landed a few feet away in a crouch, as softly as a cat. She saw his fish eyes widen in fear.
‘You won …’ he croaked, looking at Swallow’s blade. ‘You won, witcheress. It was a pity it was not in the arena … It would have been a spectacle …’
She did not answer.
‘I gave you that sword, remember?’
‘I remember everything.’
‘Why me …’ he moaned. ‘You will not hurt or murder a defenceless man … You are too … noble.’
She looked at him for a long time. A very long time. Then sent bent down, His fish eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. But she only tore the medallions from around his neck – the eagle, the cat and the wolf. Then she turned and walked towards the exit.
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 06] Page 37