You can do everything, whispered the flames, you have our strength, you can do anything. The world is at your feet. You are great. You are powerful.
Among the flames appeared a figure. A tall young woman with long, straight jet black hair. The woman laughed wildly, savagely as the fire whirled around her.
You are powerful! Those who have wronged you, do not know who you are! Get even! Make them pay! Make them all pay! Let them tremble with fear at your feet, hear their chattering teeth as they dare not loop up at your face! Make them beg for mercy! But show them no mercy! Make they pay! Make them pay for everything! Revenge!
Behind the dark haired lady was fire and smoke, smoke and rows of gallows, rows of poles, pitchforks and tables and piles of corpses. These were the bodies of Nilfgaardians, those who conquered and destroyed Cintra, who murdered the king and her grandmother Calanthe, those who killed people on the streets of the city. Swinging from a noose was a knight in black armour, the rope was creaking while a swirling murder of crows tried to peck at the eyes through the slits of a winged helmet. More gallows stretched away into the horizon, from them hung Scoia’tael, those who had killed Paulie in Kaedwen Dahlberg, and those who chased her on the island of Thanedd. On a pole, convulsed Vilgefortz the sorcerer, his beautiful and noble face was wrinkled and pale from the torment, the sharp and blood end of the pole was sticking out of his clavicle… Other sorcerers from Thanedd were kneeling on the floor, their hands tied behind their backs, sharpen poles awaited them…
Pole that had bundles of brushwood piled at their base, stretched to the horizon that shone with a smoke haze. On the nearest post, tied with chains was Triss Merigold… Beyond her was tied Margarita Laux-Antille… Mother Nenneke… Jarre… Fabio Sachs…
No. No. No.
Yes, screamed the black haired woman, death to them all, let them pay, despise them! They all wanted to damage or hurt you! Or may eventually want to hurt you! Despise them, because it has finally reached the times of contempt! Hatred, vengeance and death! Death to everybody! Death, sacrifice and blood!
Blood on your hands, blood on your clothes…
They betrayed you! They cheated you! Now you have the power to get even!
Yennefer, her lips cracked and broken, blood flowing from them, her hands and feet tied in chains, heavy chains attached to wet and dirty dungeon walls. Gathered around a scaffold a crowd yells, Dandelion the bard lays his head onto a stump, the blade of the executioner’s axe flashes brightly. The whores gathered under the scaffold spread their handkerchiefs to collect the blood in them… The howl of the crowd drowns out the blow that shakes the whole platform…
The betrayed you! Lied and cheated! Everyone! You were a puppet to them, you were a puppet on a stick! They used you! Condemned you to hunger, the burning sun, the thirst, the misery, the loneliness! It is the time of contempt and revenge! You have the power! You are powerful! Let the whole world tremble before you! Let the whole world tremble before the Elder Blood!
Witchers were then brought to the gallows. Vesemir, Eskel, Coen, Lambert. And Geralt… Geralt falters, he is covered in blood…
‘No!’
Around the fire, behind the wall of flames, a wild neighing, unicorns rears up, shaking their heads and beating his hooves. Their manes are as frayed as war banners, horns, long and sharp as swords. The unicorns are much larger then Little Horse. Where did they come from? How did so many of them get here? The flames roared higher, the black-haired woman raises her arms, her hands covered in blood. Her hair flowing in the heat.
Burn, burn, Falka!
‘Go away! Go away! I do not want this! I do not want your power! Burn, Falka!’
‘I do not want it!’
You want it! You want it! The desire and lust in you burns like a fire, pleasure enslaves you! This is the power, it is the Force, this is the power! The most delightful please in the world!
Lightning. Thunder. Wind. The pounding of hooves and neighing of crazed unicorns around the fire.
‘I do not want this power! I do not want it! I renounce it!’
She did not know whether the fire faded or her eyes darkened. She fell, feeling on her face the first drops of rain.
* * *
We must kill the Being, she cannot be allowed to exist. The Being is Dangerous. Confirmation.
Denial. The Being did not call the power to herself. She did it to save Ihuarraquax. The Being was compassionate. Thanks to this Being Ihuarraquax is back among us.
But the Being has the Force. If she wanted to use…
She will not use it. Never. She renounced it. Completely. The Force has gone. It’s very strange…
You never understand Beings.
I do not have to understand. End this Beings existence. Before it is too late. Confirmation.
Denial. Let us go. We will leave the Being to her Destiny.
* * *
She did not know how long she lay on the stones, shaking trembling, starring at the sky changing colours. It was alternately dark and light, cold and hot and she lay helpless, dry and empty like the skin of the rodent corpse, drained and spit out by the crater.
She did not think about anything. She was alone, empty. She had nothing and she did not feel anything within herself. There was no thirst, hunger, fatigue or fear.
She was dead, even the will to survive. There was just a great, cold, terrifying emptiness. She felt this emptiness throughout her whole being, with in every cell of her body.
She felt blood on the inside of her thigh. She was indifferent to it. She was empty. She had lost everything.
The sky changed colours. She did not move. Did it make sense to move in a void?
She did not move when she heard the sounds of hooves and horseshoes around her. She did not react to the loud cheers and shouts, the excited voices, the snorting of the horses. She did not move when the strong hands grabbed her hard. She was lifted from the ground and hung limp and powerless. She did not respond to the jerking and shaking or for the sharp, abrupt questions. She did not understand them and did not want to understand.
She was empty and indifferent. She accepted with indifference the water that was splashed onto her face. When they put the canteen to her lips she drank. Indifferent.
She was indifferent as well when they hoisted her in to the saddle. Her groin was sensitive and sore. She was trembling, so they wrapped her in a blanket. She was limp and weak and kept slipping from the saddle, so they tied her with a belt to the rider who sat behind her. The rider stank of sweat and urine. She was indifferent.
All around her were riders. And many horses. Ciri looked at them indifferently. She was empty, she’d lost everything. Nothing mattered.
Nothing.
Not even the fact that the knight who commanded the riders wore a helmet with the wings of a bird of prey.
"When the criminal's stake had been lit and the flames reached her, she began insulting all the knights, barons, mages and councillors gathered in the square in such foul language that they were all filled with dread. Though wet logs had been stacked to prevent the hag from burning too quickly and provide her a chance to suffer in the flames, dry wood was soon added to the fire to end the execution more swiftly.
She must truly have harboured a demon inside her as she uttered not a single scream though she sizzled fair enough. Instead, she began cursing horribly.
"An avenger shall be born from my own blood," she cried. "From the defiled Elder Blood, a destroyer of nations and worlds will rise! He shall avenge my torment! Death, death and revenge upon you and your offspring!" That was all she managed to articulate before she perished. Such was the death of Falka, her punishment for the innocent blood she had spilled."
by Roderick de Novembre
History of the World Volume III
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Look at her. Sunburned, full of wounds, dirty. She is still drinking like a sponge and hungry. I fear for her. She came from the east, I tell you. Passed through the Korath. Through t
he Frying Pan.’
‘Stories! Nobody survives the pan. She came west from the mountains by the passage of Suchaka. She is barely on the edge of the Korath and she had already had enough. When we found her she had already fallen and her spirit broken.'
'It is uninhabited for many miles to the west of here. Where did she come from?'
‘She walked, perhaps rode. For who knows how long. There were horse footprints beside her own. Must have been thrown from the horse in the Suchaka, would explain why she is beaten and bruised.’
‘Why is this story so important to Nilfgaard, out of curiosity? When the governor sent for us, I thought that some noble lady was lost. And what is this? An ordinary slut, a sweeper in rags, and on top of that dumb and brainless. I don’t know if we have found the girl who was…’
‘She is. And she is no ordinary girl. An ordinary girl, we would have found dead.’
‘She’s not far off. And rain wouldn’t have saved her. Plague, the oldest of beggars cannot remember it raining on the Pan. The clouds always pass by the Korath… Even when it rains in the valley, no drop falls there!’
‘Another week in these hills and there will be nothing to eat… Hey, you cocksucker! Do you like beef jerky? How about dry bread?’
‘Ask her in Elvish. Or Nilfgaardian. Perhaps she doesn’t understand common. She is elf spawn…’
‘She is an oaf. When I put her on the horse this morning, she sat like a puppet made of wood.’
‘Get your eyes fixed.’ The powerful and balding one called Skomlik flashed his teeth. ‘You won’t get far in the Trappers. She is neither stupid nor crazy. She is only pretending. She is a rare and cunning bird.’
‘Why is she so important to Nilfgaard? The promised reward has sent patrols everywhere… Why?’
‘I don’t know. But it would not hurt to ask her… With a stick across her back, ask your… Ha! Was she looking at me? She understands everything, she’s been listening attentively. Hey, girl! I’m Skomlik, a hunter, of the so called Trappers. And this is, a stick –called stick! Do you like the skin on your back? Then start talking…’
‘Enough! Silence!’
The command was shouted, loudly which did not tolerate any opposition which came from the other fire, where sat the knight and his squire.
‘Bored Trappers?’ The knight asked menacingly. ‘Then get to work! The horses need cleaning! Get my armour and weapons clean! Get to the forest for firewood! And do not touch the girl! Understood?’
‘Certainly, Lord Sweers’ Skomlik muttered. His comrades bowed their heads.
‘Get to work! Carry out his orders!’ The Trappers began to bustle.
‘Destiny punished us with this bastard.’ Muttered one. ‘The governor had nothing else to do but put us in league with a fucking knight…’
‘I’ll say’ muttered a second under his breath, looking sideways ‘After all it was us Trappers who found the girl. Our noses were the ones that made us ride the Suchaka.’
‘Right. The credit will be ours and so will the reward… We’ll get the money, florins in a heap at our feet, for us Trapper, and we’ll thank the governor…’
‘Shut the fuck up’ hissed Skomlik ‘they’re going to hear you…’
Ciri was left alone by the fire. The Knight and the Squire looked at her questioningly, but did not speak.
The Knight was an old man but strong, with a stern countenance marked by scars. During the trip, he always wore the helmet with the wings of a bird, but they were not the wings Ciri had seen in her nightmares, and then again on the island of Thanedd. He was not the Black Knight of Cintra. But he was a Nilfgaardian Knight. When giving orders, he spoke smoothly, but with a distinct accent, the accent was similar to elves. With his squire, a boy not much older than Ciri, he spoke in a language similar to the Elder Speech, but less melodious, more harsh. It must have been the Nilfgaardian tongue. Ciri, who was well acquainted with the Elder Speech, understood most of the words. But she did not betray this. During the first stop on the edge of the desert they called the Frying Pan or Korath, the Nilfgaardian knight and his squire showered her with questions. She did not respond because she was stunned and confused and only half conscious. After several days of travel, when they left the rocky cliffs and enter into a green valley, Ciri came to her senses, she began at last to see the world around her and react sluggishly. But she still did not answer the questions, so the knight stopped addressing her. It seemed that he was not paying attention. He dealt with only the wild men who called themselves the Trappers. They also asked. They were very aggressive.
But the winged helmet Nilfgaardian immediately called them to order. It was clear who was the master and who the servant.
Ciri pretended to be dumb, but carefully listened. Slowly she began to understand the situation. She had fallen into the hands of Nilfgaard. Nilfgaard had been looking for her and found her, probably following the route she had taken from where the chaotic teleporter from Tor Lara had sent her. What Yennefer had failed to do, what Geralt had failed to do, the winged helmet knight from Nilfgaard and his band of Trappers had succeeded.
What happened on Thanedd to Yennefer and Geralt? Where was she? She had a terrible suspicion. The Trappers and their leader, Skomlik, talked in a simplistic and clumsy version of the common language, but with a Nilfgaardian accent. The Trappers were normal people, but served a Knight of Nilfgaard. The Trappers were happy at the thought of a reward that the governor would pay for finding Ciri. In florins.
The only countries where the currency was the florin and the people served governors that managed the imperial provinces, where in the South.
* * *
The next day, on the banks at the edge of a stream, Ciri started thinking about the possibility of escape. Her magic could help. Carefully, she tried a simple spell, a weak telekinesis. But her fears were confirmed. There wasn’t even a spark of magical energy. After playing with the fire, her magical ability had left her entirely.
She fell back into indifference. She withdrew into herself and sank into apathy. For a long time.
Until the day they rode through a moor and the Blue Knight crossed their path.
* * *
‘Ai, ai’ Skomlik muttered, looking at the horse that barred their way. ‘It is Varnhagen, from the fortress of Sarda…’
Horsemen approached. At the head, on a powerful horse, was a giant wearing iron armour which shone with blue tones. Alongside him was another man in armour, behind were two riders in simple grey clothes, undoubtedly pages.
The winged helmet Nilfgaardian approached them, holding his dancing bay one step away. His squire stroked the hilt of his sword and swung into the saddle.
‘Stay back and take care of the girl.’ He shouted at Skomlik and the Trappers. ‘Do not meddle!’
‘We are not drunks,’ Skomlik said quietly as the squire moved away. ‘We are not drunks that interfere with the quarrels of the Lords of Nilfgaard…’
‘Will there be a fight Skomlik?’
‘Inevitably. Between Sweers and Varnhagen there is hatred of family and blood vengeance. Guard the girl. If we are lucky, we will take all the reward for her.’
‘It’s a sure thing that Varnhagen is also looking for the girl. If he prevails, we will only be four…’
‘Five.’ Skomlik smiled. ‘That one behind Sarda is my family. You’ll see, this brawl will benefit us and not the knights…’
The knight in blue armour reined in his horse. The knight with the winged helmet stood opposite. Blue’s companion stayed behind. His strange helmet was adorned with two leather straps that hung from his visor and looked like two big moustaches or walrus tusks. Across his saddle he held a menacing weapon, which resembled a little spear, much like what was used by the guards of Cintra, but with a much shorter haft and a longer spearhead.
Winged and Blue exchanged a few words. Ciri could not hear what, but the tone of the two knights left no room for doubt. These were not words of friends. Blue suddenly rose in the saddle,
pointed sharply at Ciri and said something loudly and angrily. Winged shouted in response equally angry and waved his hand covered in an armoured gauntlet, presumably to tell Blue to go away. And so it began.
Blue spurred his spurs into the sides of his dapple and leaned forward; raising the axe he had carried attached to his saddle. Winged edged forward his bay and drew his sword from its sheath. However before the armed men had time to engage in the fight, Two Tusks attacked, spurring his horse into a gallop with the haft of his spear. Winged squire threw himself at him, drawing his sword, but Two Tusks shifted in his saddle and jabbed his spear into the squire’s chest. The long spearhead pierced with a bang through the breastplate, the squire cried piercingly and fell from his horse onto the ground with both hands gripping the shaft that was sticking from his chest.
Winged and Blue collided with a crash and thud. The axe was more dangerous but the sword was faster. Blue was hit in the shoulder; a piece of metal flew to one side, the rider turned and pulled the reins, he reeled in the saddle, crimson streaks started to flow down the blue armour. The fighters separated at a gallop. The winged Nilfgaardian turned his horse, but Two Tusks fell upon him, grabbing his sword with both hands, readying to strike. Winged pulled on the reins, but Two Tusks leading his horse with only his knees, galloped alongside. Winged managed to hack at him in passing. Before Ciri‘s eyes, the metal cracked and sheets of blood burst forth.
Blue had already returned, brandishing his axe and yelling. Both armoured opponents exchanged blows and broke apart. Two Tusks fell back onto Winged, horses colliding and swords rang. Two Tusks cut at Winged, smashing into his bracers and shield. Winged straightened and struck a powerful blow into the right side of Two Tusks’ breastplate. Two Tusks swayed in the saddle. Winged stood in his stirrups and swung again with force, and tore between the shoulder and helmet. The broad and sharp sword pierced with a loud bang on the metal, and got stuck. Two Tusks tensed and shuddered. The horses withdrew, kicking and biting the bit. Winged leaned against the saddlebow and pulled at the sword. Two Tusks slipped from his saddle under the hooves of the horses. The horse’s shoes struck and crushed the armour.
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 03] Page 29