‘The translation is mine. And I enriched the elven music register a bit did you notice?’
‘No.’
‘Just as I thought. Luckily the dryads know how to value art better than you. I read somewhere that they are unusually musical. I built my savvy plan on that, for what you by the way have not praised me yet.’
‘I praise’ said the witcher after a short pause. ‘It was really savvy. And most of all you were lucky – as always. Their bows are not infallible for 200 steps. And they usually dont wait, until someone crosses the river and starts singing. They are very sensitive to bad smells, so if the corpse is carried away by the Ribbon, the forest will not smell bad.’
‘Whatever’ cleared the poet his throat. ‘The main thing is, it worked and I found you. Geralt how do…’
‘Do you have your razor?’
‘He? Of course I do.’
‘I will borrow it tommorow morning. This beard is annoying me.’
‘Why coulnd`t the dryads.. Hmmm… True, they use their razors only for mushrooms. You know I will lend it to you. Hey, Geralt?’
‘Yes?’
‘I dont have any food. Can The Great Singer ask his hostesses for dinner?’
‘They dont eat dinner. Ever. And the guardians of the outskirts of Brokilon usually dont even eat breakfast. You will have to wait until midday. I got used to it.’
‘But if we go to their village, to the mysterious, in the inner of the forest hidden Duén Canell…’
‘We will never go there, Dandelion.’
‘How is that? I though that… They have given you asylum after all. They are… tolerating you after all.
‘That is a fitting word.’
Both of them were silent for a long time.
‘War’ said the poet at last. ‘War, hatred and contempt. Everywhere. In all hearts.’
‘You are poemizing.’
‘But it is true.’
‘Just as. Well, tell me what are you carrying to me. Tell me what happened in the world, while they were healing me here.’
‘First.’ Dandelion cleared his throat. ‘You tell me what really happened in Garstang.
‘Triss did not tell you?’
‘She did. But I want to hear your version too.’
‘Triss surely told you the more detailed and precise one. But tell me what happened while I was here in Brokilon…’
‘Geralt,’ choked Dandelion. ‘I…ôI really dont know what happened to Yennefer and Ciri… no one does. Triss also…’
The witcher jerked violently, the branches cracked.
‘Am I asking about Ciri or Yennefer?’ he muttered with a changed voice. ‘Talk about the war.’
‘You dont know anything? Did no news arrive here?’
‘Some did. But I want to hear it from you. Tell me please.’
‘Nilfgaard attacked Lyria and Aedirn,’ began the bard after a while. ‘Without any declaration of war. The reason said to be an attack by Demavends army on some border fortress while the sorcerers met in Thanedd. Some say it was a provocation, that those were Nilfgaardian forces dressed as Demavends soldiers. How it truly was, we will never know probably. In any case, the Nilfgaardian answer was very swift and massive. A massive army crossed the borders, one that had to be collected in Dol Angra for weeks, months even. Spalla and Scala, the Lyrian border fortresses were destroyed while marching. Rivia was prepared for months of siege, but surrendered after just 2 days. The merchants and guilds were demanding it. They were promised, that if the city opens its gates and pays ranson, it will not be ransacked…’
‘Was the promise honored?
‘It was’
‘Remarkable.’ The witchers voice changed again. ‘Honoring promises in these times? Not to mention, that in the past there were no promises, and no one expected them. The merchants and craftsmen did not open city gates in the past, but were defending the walls, everyone at their outpost or war machine.’
‘Money has no country Geralt. The merchants dont care under whose flag they earn money. And the Nilfgaardian paladins dont care whose taxes they collect. The dead don`t earn money, nor do they pay taxes.’
‘Continue.’
‘After the surrender of Rivia, the Nilfgaardian army continued to the north. They almost did not face any resistance. Demavend and Meve were pulling their soldiers back, because they could not create a line, and begin the decisive battle. So the Nilfgaardians got to Aldesberg. To prevent a blockade, Demavend and Meve decided to go to battle. The formation of their armies wasnt the best.. Dammit if there was more light I could draw you…’
‘Dont draw anything. To the point. Who won?’
* * *
‘Did you hear the news sire?’ said one of the intendants, out of breath and sweating. ‘The messenger from the field arrived. We have won the battle! Victory! Ours, ours is the day! We have beaten the enemy, beaten them!’
‘Silence,’ frowned Evertsen. ‘My head hurts from your yelling. Of course, I heard: ours is the day, ours is the battle and victory too. That surprises me!
The accountants and registrars got silent, and looked surprisingly at their superior.
‘Are you not happy, sir Chamberlain?’
‘I am. But I can be happy silently.’
All were suddenly silent and looked around embarrassed. Amateurs, thought Evertsen, overconfident amateurs. Thats no surprise but up there, on the hill evern Menno Coehoorn and Elan Trahe are cheering, even the grey-bearded general Braibant, all are yelling and jumping, patting each other on the backs like kids. Victory! Ours is the day! And whose should it be? The kingdoms of Aedirn and Lyria could barely muster up three thousand cavalry and ten thousand footman, and about a fifth was cut off the battle during the first days, cut off in besieged outposts and fortresses. Part of the remaining army, the enemy had to reposition to the rear and guard their flanks, endangered by attacks of our light cavalry or the ambushes of Scoia’tael commandos. The remaining five or six thousand , in that no more than twelve hundred armored knights, stood in the fields in front of Aldesberg. Coehoorn threw a thirteen thousand army at them, in that ten banners of heavy cavalry, the blooming nilfgaardian knighthood. And now they are celebrating, brawling and demanding beer. Victory! What a surprise…
With one glance he summarized the piles of papers and maps on the table, lifted his head and looked around.
‘Now listen’ he told his underlings ‘I‘m giving orders.’
The accountants and registrars froze in anticipation.
‘Each one of you’ he began ‘listened to the speech of field marshal Coehoorn to the officers and soldiers yesterday. Please remember that what the marshal yesterday said to the soldiers, does not include you. You have other tasks and orders. Mine.’
Evertsen thought and rubbed his forehead.
‘War to the palaces, peace to the huts, said the officer yesterday. You know that principle, its taught at the Academy. This principle applied up until now, tommorow you will forget it. From tommorow morning applies a new principle, one that will become the unofficial motto of our campaign. That motto and my order is: War to everything that lives, fire to everything that can be burned. We can only leave a wasteland behind us. Tommorow we cross the line, on which a future peace treaty will be signed. On the land that will not belong to us, only burned land can remain. The kingdoms of Rivia and Aedirn will be burned to ashes! Remember Sodden? The time of revenge has come!’
Evertsen cleared his throat.
‘But before the army destroys everything’ he explained the silent registrars ‘is our task to extract as much as possible from this country and land, everything that will increase the power of our Empire. You, Audegast, you will collect and cart all agricultural crops and plants. Everything that remains on the fields that has now been destroyed by Coehoorns knights must be collected…
‘I dont have enough men sir Chamberlain…’
‘There will be enough slaves, get the locals to work. Marder and you… I forgot your name…’
‘Helwet. Evan Helwet, sir Chamberlain.’
‘You two will collect all living stock. Chase up all herds, watch during quarantines in isolated places. Kill the sick and suspicious ones, the others have to be guided to the south on marked routes.’
‘Yes sir!’
And now the special task, thought Evertsen, looking at his people. Whom to give that? All rookies, milk on their chins, they did not see a lot, did not experience a lot.. Ech, I need more experienced old subordinates… Wars, wars, always wars… Soldiers die fast, of course intendants die just as fast if we compare their ratio. But there is never a need for soldiers, as new ones always come. Everyone wants to be a soldiers, but who wants to be a registrar or accountant? Who wants to tell their families and friends, that their heroic deeds were collecting corn, counting sinking animals and weighing wax, how they lead convoys on bumpy roads, convoys that were full of loot, how they lead bellowing hers of animals, how they only felt dust, smells, and flies…
A special task. The Gulet iron factory with smelting furnaces. The kalamin works, the foundries and forges in Eysenlaan, fifty talents of a years production. The tin factories and laundries in Aldesberg. The distileries, malt, weaving and coloring factories in Vengenberg…
Dismantle and transport. That was the order of Emperor Emhyr – The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies. Two words. Dismantle and transport.
An order is an order. It has to be fulfilled.
And the most important task. The gold mines and their yield. Money. Valuables. Artwork. But I will take care of that. Personally.
More pillars of smoke, visible in the sky, appeared. And more. The army was rigorously carrying out Coehoorns orders. The Kingdom of Aedirn was changing into a Kingdom of Fire.
With lots of rattling and rising clouds of dust, the colony of siege machines were rolling on the road. Onto the still resisting Aldesberg. And onto Vengenberg, the residential city of king Demavend.
Peter Evertsen was looking and counting. Calculating. Peter Evertsen was the main treasurer of the Empire and during the war the chief chamberlain of the Nilfgaardian army. He was in this position for twenty five years now. Numbers and calculations, that was his entire life.
Mangonel`s costs fifty florins, trebuchet`s two hundred, a petraria at least one hundred and fifty, the simplest ballista eighty. A trained crew takes nine and a half florins of monthly salary each. The colony marching on Vengenberg costs about three hundred pounds, including the horses, oxens, tools and minor equipment. 'From one mark of pure metal weighing half a pound to sixty Florins'
In front of the slow colony was the light cavalry. Evertsen recognized the symbols on some flags: the tactical banner of Prince Winneburg, which was transferred to the front from Cintra. Yes, he thought, they have something to look forward to. The battle is won, the Aedirnian army in ruins. The additional reinforcements will not participate in the heavy battles with the regular army. They will only intercept fleeing groups, surround dispersed squads without leaders, murder, pilage and burn. They are looking forward to it, because its the pleasant, cheerful soldiering. One that does not tire. Not kill.
Evertsen calculated.
The tactical banner is made of ten regular banners, that means two thousant riders. Because Winneburgs men will not fight in any bigger battle, in some insignificant fights only one sixth of them will die or be injured. On top of that, the camps, rotten proviant, dust, lice, mosquitos, infected water awaits them. And that, what can not be avoided in any war: typhoid. dysentery, malaria. The diseases usually kill one fourth of the soldiers. We cant forget the various accidents and unpredictable events, planned losses are another fifth. If we count all that, about eight hundred of them will return home and not more. Probably less.
More banners were marching on the road, behind the riders were the footman. Archers in yellow brigandines and round helmets, crossbowmen in flat kettle hats, pavisiers and pikemen were all marching north. Behind them the heavy infantry, the like crabs armored veterans from Thurn, Maecht, Gesso, Ebbing…
Ignoring the heat, the Nilfgaardians regiments were marching swiftly. Drums were rumbling, flags waving, tips of pikes, partisans, gizarms and halbers shining. The soldiers marched cheerfufly and courageously. That is how a winning army marches. A undefeatable army. Onwards men, into battle! Onto Vengenberg! To crush the enemy, take revenge for Sodden! To enjoy the happy war, loot and return home… Home!
Peter Evertsen was watching. And counting.
* * *
‘Vengenberg fell after a week,’ added Dandelion. ‘You will be surprised, but there the guilds defended bastions and their sections of wall until their last breath. The attackers killed the castle crew, defenders of the city and anyone who lived therein, six thousand people total. A massive escape ensued after that. The crushed squads and civilians began to escape to Temeria and Redania. Crowds of refugees stretched through the Pontar valley and Mahakaman foothills. But many were not able to escape; the nilfgaardian light cavalry were hunting them, cutting them off… Do you know why?’
‘I don‘t. I don‘t understand… I don‘t know much about warfare, Dandelion.’
‘They wanted prisoners. Slaves. They wanted to catch as many people as possible. That is the cheapest work force in Nilfgaard. Thats why they were so focused on hunting refugees. It was a big hunt on people, Geralt. An easy hunt. Because the army was routed and no one defended the poor.’
‘No one?’
‘Almost no one.’
* * *
‘We wont make it…’ coughed Willis, looking over his shoulder. ‘We wont escape…
Ah hell, the border is so close… so close…’
Rayla stood up in her callipers and looked in the direction they came in. The road was wounding up around pines from the valley. Everywhere the eye could see, there was luggage, thrown away in a hurry, in the ditches along to road were broken carts and dead horses and cattle. Even further away from the forest, black columns of smoke were rising. And one could audibly hear roars and noise – the echoes of battle.
‘The back train,’ Willis wiped the sweat and dust of his face. ‘Do you hear Rayla? They catched up to our back train! They will kill them!’
‘Now we are the back train,’ said the mercanary dryly ‘Its our turn.’
Willis grew pale, one of the soldiers listening let out a deep breath. Rayla yanked her reins, turned her tired horse around.
‘We would not have made it anyway,’ she stated. ‘The horses would collapse after a while. They would catch up and kill us before we got to the pass.’
‘Lets throw away what we can, and disappear into the forest,’ proposed Willis, but did not look at Rayla. ‘Individually, every man for himself. Perhaps we will… survive.’
Rayla did not answer, only gestured with a head movement toward the pass, the winding road, the last latecomers of the long crowd fleeing to the border. Willis understood. He swore stupidly and jumped to the ground. He stumbled and leaned against his sword.
‘Down from the horses!’ she shouted hoarsely at the soldiers. ‘Block the road with anything you can find! What are you looking at? Once our mothers bore us and once we have to die! We are soldiers! We are the back train! We have to stop the hunting dogs, stall…’
He stopped talking.
‘If we delay the pursuit, the people will get to the other side of the mountains, to Temeria,’ finished Rayla and also dismounted. ‘There in front of us are women and children. Why do you look so surprised? It is our work! They paid us for that, did you forget?’
The soldiers were looking at each other awkwardly. Rayla thought for a moment, that they will start running away, that they would force the tired horses to a last, desperate struggle, that they will ride to the colony – to the salvation of the pass. She was wrong. She guessed them wrong.
In a narrower place, they rolled over an abandoned cart. They hurriedly built a barricade. A makeshift one. A low one. An insufficient one.
They
did not wait for long.
Two horses came to the glen. They panted, stumbled, shook dust of their bodies. Only one of them had a rider.
‘Blaise!’
‘Prepare yourself…’ blurted the mercanary out and fell from his saddle onto the outstretched hands of the defenders. ‘Prepare yourself… shit, they are behind me…’
The horse croaked, did a few stepped to the side, as if he was dancing, fell to the ground, rolled to the side and weakly nickered.
‘Rayla…’ rasped Blaise, looking away from the haunted animal. ‘Give me somthing… A weapon. I lost my sword…’
The warrior, still watching the pillars of smoke rising to the sky from the fires in the valley, gestured with her head toward the cart. An axe was leaning against it. Blaise took it and hefted it. When he stood up, blood was dripping from his left pant leg.
‘What about the others, Blaise?’
‘Dead’ whispered the mercanary. ‘All of them. The whole division… Rayla, its not Nilfgaard… Its the elves. Squirells… Scoia’tael are going ahead, ahead of the regular army.’
One of the soldiers was not ashamed to whimper, another one fell to the ground and hid his face in his palms. Willis swore and tightened the belts of his cuirass.
‘On your positions!’ called Rayla. ‘Onto the barricade! They wont get us alive! That I promise!’
Willis spat, tore off the three colored, black-golden-red cockade of the special forces of king Demawen and threw it away. Rayla smoothed and rubbed her own badge. She smiled crookedly:
‘I dont know if it will help you Willis. I really dont know.’
‘Rayla, you promised me…’
‘I did. And I will fulfill my promise. On your positions lads! Get the crossbows.!’
They did not wait long.
After they repelled the first wave, only six of them were left. The battle was short but tough. The conscripts from Vengenberg were fighting like wolves, they matched the battle-hardened soldiers in their ferocity. No one wanted to fall into Scoia’tael hands alive. They chose death in battle. And they died hit by arrows, pierced by pikes, sliced by swords. Blaise died laying down, sliced up by the knifes of two elves, that jumped on him after they pulled him from the barricade. But none of the two elves stood up again. Blaise also had a knife.
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 03] Page 22