‘I have too few men, Chamberlain, sir—’
‘There will be enough slaves. Put them to work. Marder and you . . . I’ve forgotten your name . . . ?’
‘Helvet. Evan Helvet, Chamberlain, sir.’
‘You’ll be responsible for livestock. Gather it into herds and drive it to the designated points for quarantine. Beware of rot-foot and other diseases. Slaughter any sick or suspect specimens and burn the carcasses. Drive the rest south along the designated routes.’
‘Yes, sir.’
And now a special task, thought Evertsen, scrutinising his subordinates. To whom shall I entrust it? They’re all striplings, milk still wet on their cheeks, they’ve seen little, they’ve experienced nothing . . . Oh, I miss those old, hardened bailiffs of mine. Wars, wars, always wars . . . Soldiers are always falling, and in great numbers, but the losses among bailiffs, even though much fewer in number, are more telling. You don’t see the deficit among the active troops, because fresh recruits always keep replacing them, for every man wants to be a soldier. But who wants to be a bailiff or a reeve? Who, when asked by their sons on returning home what they did during the war, wants to say he measured bushels of grain, counted stinking pelts and weighed wax as he led a convoy of carts laden with spoils along rutted roads, covered in ox shit, and drove herds of lowing and bleating beasts, swallowing dust and flies and breathing in the stench . . . ?
A special mission. The foundry in Gulet, with its huge furnaces. The puddling furnaces, the zinc ore foundry and the huge ironworks in Eysenlaan, annual production of five hundred hundredweight. The foundries and wool manufactories in Aldersberg. The maltings, distilleries, weaving mills and dyeworks in Vengerberg . . .
Dismantle and remove. Thus ordered Emperor Emhyr, the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies. As simple as that. Dismantle and remove, Evertsen.
An order’s an order. It must be carried out.
That leaves the most important things. The ore mines and their yield. Coinage. Valuables. Works of art. But I’ll take care of that myself. In person.
Alongside the black columns of smoke which were visible on the horizon rose other plumes. And yet others. The army was implementing Coehoorn’s orders. The Kingdom of Aedirn had become a land of fires.
A long column of siege engines trundled along the road, rumbling and throwing up clouds of dust. Towards Aldersberg, which was still holding out. And towards Vengerberg, King Demavend’s capital.
Peter Evertsen looked and counted and calculated. And added up the money. Peter Evertsen was the grand chamberlain of the Empire; during the war the army’s chief bailiff. He had held that position for twenty-five years. Figures and calculations; they were his life.
A mangonel costs five hundred florins, a trebuchet two hundred, an onager at least a hundred and fifty, the simplest ballista eighty. A trained crew requires nine and a half florins of monthly pay. The column heading for Vengerberg, including horses, oxen and minor tackle, is worth at least three hundred marks. Sixty florins can be struck from a mark of pure ore weighing half a pound. The annual yield of a mine is five or six thousand marks . . .
The siege column was overtaken by some light cavalry. Evertsen recognised them as the Duke of Winneburg’s tactical company, one of those redeployed from Cintra, by the designs on its pennants. Yes, he thought, they have something to be pleased about. The battle won, the army from Aedirn routed. Reserves will not be deployed in a heavy battle against the regular army. They will be pursuing forces in retreat, wiping out scattered, leaderless groups. They will murder, pillage and burn. They’re pleased because it promises to be a pleasant, jolly little war. A little war that isn’t exhausting. And doesn’t leave you dead.
Evertsen was calculating.
The tactical company combines ten ordinary companies and numbers two thousand horse. Although the Winneburgians will probably not take part in any large battles now, no fewer than a sixth of their number will fall in skirmishes. Then there will be camps and bivouacs, rotten victuals, filth, lice, mosquitoes, contaminated water. Then the inevitable will come: typhus, dysentery and malaria, which will kill no fewer than a quarter. To that you should include an estimate for unpredictable occurrences, usually around one-fifth of the total. Eight hundred will return home. No more. And probably far fewer.
Cavalry companies continued to pass along the road; and infantry corps followed the cavalry. These, in turn, were followed by marching longbowmen in yellow jerkins and round helmets, crossbowmen in flat kettle hats, pavisiers and pikemen. Beyond them marched shield bearers, veterans from Vicovaro and Etolia armoured like crabs, then a colourful hodgepodge: hirelings from Metinna, mercenaries from Thurn, Maecht, Gheso and Ebbing . . .
The troops marched briskly in spite of the intense heat, and the dust stirred up by their heavy boots billowed above the road. Drums pounded, pennants fluttered, and the blades of pikes, lances, halberds and guisarmes swayed and glittered. The soldiers marched jauntily and cheerfully. This was a victorious army. An undefeated army. Onward, lads, forward, into battle! On Vengerberg! Destroy our foe! Avenge Sodden! Enjoy this merry little war, stuff our money bags with loot and then home. And then home!
Evertsen watched. And calculated.
‘Vengerberg fell after a week-long siege,’ finished Dandelion. ‘It may surprise you, but the guilds courageously defended their towers and the sections of wall assigned to them until the very end. So the entire garrison and all the townspeople were slaughtered; it must have been around six thousand people. When news of it got out, a great flight began. Defeated regiments and civilians began to flee to Temeria and Redania en masse. Crowds of fugitives headed along the Pontar Valley and the passes of Mahakam. But not all of them managed to escape. Mounted Nilfgaardian troops followed them and cut off their escape . . . You know what I’m driving at?’
‘No, I don’t. I don’t know much about . . . I don’t know much about war, Dandelion.’
‘I’m talking about captives. About slaves. They wanted to take as many prisoners as possible. It’s the cheapest form of labour for Nilfgaard. That’s why they pursued the fugitives so doggedly. It was a huge manhunt, Geralt. Easy pickings. Because the army had run away, and no one was left to defend the fleeing civilians.’
‘No one?’
‘Almost no one.’
‘We won’t make it in time . . .’ Villis wheezed, looking around. ‘We won’t get away . . . Damn it, the border is so close . . . So close . . .’
Rayla stood up in her stirrups, and looked at the road winding among the forested hills. The road, as far as the eye could see, was strewn with people’s abandoned belongings, dead horses, and with wagons and handcarts pushed to the side of the road. Behind them, beyond the forests, black columns of smoke rose into the sky. Screams and the intensifying sounds of battle could be heard ever closer.
‘They’re wiping out the rearguard . . .’ Villis wiped the soot and sweat from his face. ‘Can you hear it, Rayla? They’ve caught up with the rearguard, and they’re putting them to the sword! We’ll never make it!’
‘We’re the rearguard now,’ said the mercenary drily. ‘Now it’s our turn.’
Villis blenched, and one of the soldiers standing close by gave a loud sigh. Rayla tugged at the reins, and turned around her mount, which was snorting loudly and barely able to lift its head.
‘There’s no chance of our getting away,’ she said calmly. ‘The horses are ready to drop. They’ll catch up with us and slaughter us before we make it to the pass.’
‘Let’s dump everything and hide among the trees,’ said Villis, not looking at her. ‘Individually, every man for himself. Maybe some of us will manage to . . . survive.’
Rayla didn’t answer, but indicated the mountain pass with a glance and a wave of her head, then the road and the rearmost ranks of the long column of refugees trudging towards the border. Villis understood. He cursed bitterly, leapt from his saddle, staggered and leaned on his sword.
‘Dismount!’ he y
elled to the soldiers hoarsely. ‘Block the road with anything you can! What are you staring at? Your mother bore you once and you only die once! We’re the army! We’re the rearguard! We have to hold back our pursuers, delay them . . .’
He fell silent.
‘Should we delay the pursuers, the people will manage to cross into Temeria, to cross the mountains,’ ended Rayla, also dismounting. ‘There are women and children among them. What are you gawping at? It’s our trade. This is what we’re paid for, remember?’
The soldiers looked at one another. For a moment Rayla thought they would actually run away, that they would rouse their wet and exhausted horses for a last, desperate effort, that they would race past the column of fugitives, towards the pass – and safety. She was wrong. She had misjudged them.
They upset a cart on the road. They quickly built a barricade. A makeshift barricade. Not very high. And absolutely ineffectual.
They didn’t have to wait long. Two horses, snorting and stumbling, lurched into the ravine, strewing flecks of froth around. Only one of them bore a rider.
‘Blaise!’
‘Ready yourselves . . .’ The mercenary slid from the saddle into a soldier’s arms. ‘Ready yourselves, dammit . . . They’re right behind me . . .’
The horse snorted, skittered a few paces sideways, fell back on its haunches, collapsed heavily on its side, kicked, stretched its neck out, and uttered a long neigh.
‘Rayla . . .’ wheezed Blaise, looking away. ‘Give me . . . Give me something. I’ve lost my sword . . .’
Rayla, looking at the smoke from fires rising into the sky, gestured with her head to an axe leaning against the overturned cart. Blaise seized the weapon and staggered. The left leg of his trousers was soaked in blood.
‘What about the others, Blaise?’
‘They were slaughtered,’ the mercenary groaned. ‘Every last man. The entire troop . . . Rayla, it’s not Nilfgaard . . . It’s the Squirrels . . . It was the elves who overhauled us. The Scoia’tael are in front, ahead of the Nilfgaardians.’
One of the soldiers wailed piercingly, and another sat down heavily on the ground, burying his face in his hands. Villis cursed, tightening the strap of his cuirass.
‘To your positions!’ yelled Rayla. ‘Behind the barricade! They won’t take us alive! I swear to you!’
Villis spat, then tore the three-coloured, black, gold and red rosette of King Demavend’s special forces from his spaulder, throwing it into the bushes. Rayla, cleaning and polishing her own badge, smiled wryly.
‘I don’t know if that’ll help, Villis. I don’t know.’
‘You promised, Rayla.’
‘I did. And I’ll keep my promise. To your positions, boys! Grab your crossbows and longbows!’
They didn’t have to wait long.
After they had repelled the first wave, there were only six of them left alive. The battle was short but fierce. The soldiers mobilised from Vengerberg fought like devils and were every bit as savage as the mercenaries. Not one of them fell into the hands of the Scoia’tael alive. They chose to die fighting. And they died shot through by arrows; died from the blows of lance and sword. Blaise died lying down, stabbed by the daggers of two elves who pounced on him, dragging him from the barricade. Neither of the elves got up again. Blaise had a dagger too.
The Scoia’tael gave them no respite. A second group charged. Villis, stabbed with a lance for the third time, fell to the ground.
‘Rayla!’ he screamed indistinctly. ‘You promised!’
The mercenary, dispatching another elf, swung around.
‘Farewell, Villis,’ she said, placing the point of her sword beneath his sternum and pushing hard. ‘See you in hell!’
A moment later, she stood alone. The Scoia’tael encircled her from all sides. The soldier, smeared with blood from head to foot, raised her sword, whirled around and shook her black plait. She stood among the elves, terrible and hunched like a demon. The elves retreated.
‘Come on!’ she screamed savagely. ‘What are you waiting for? You will not take me alive! I am Black Rayla!’
‘Glaeddyv vort, beanna,’ responded a beautiful, fair-haired elf in a calm voice. He had the face of a cherub and the large, cornflower-blue eyes of a child. He had emerged from the surrounding group of Scoia’tael, who were still hanging back hesitantly. His snow-white horse snorted, tossed its head powerfully up and down and energetically pawed at the bloodstained sand of the road.
‘Glaeddyv vort, beanna,’ repeated the rider. ‘Throw down your sword, woman.’
The mercenary laughed horribly and wiped her face with her cuff, smearing sweat mixed with dust and blood.
‘My sword cost too much to be thrown away, elf!’ she cried. ‘If you want to take it you will have to break my fingers! I am Black Rayla! What are you waiting for?’
She did not have to wait long.
‘Did no one come to relieve Aedirn?’ asked the Witcher after a long pause. ‘I understood there were alliances. Agreements about mutual aid . . . Treaties . . .’
‘Redania,’ said Dandelion, clearing his throat, ‘is in disarray after Vizimir’s death. Did you know King Vizimir was murdered?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Queen Hedwig has assumed power, but bedlam has broken out across the land. And terror. Scoia’tael and Nilfgaardian spies are being hunted. Dijkstra raged through the entire country; the scaffolds were running with blood. Dijkstra is still unable to walk so he’s being carried in a sedan chair.’
‘I can imagine it. Did he come after you?’
‘No. He could have, but he didn’t. Oh, but never mind. In any case, Redania – plunged into chaos itself – was incapable of raising an army to support Aedirn.’
‘And Temeria? Why didn’t King Foltest of Temeria help Demavend?’
‘When the fighting began in Dol Angra,’ said Dandelion softly, ‘Emhyr var Emreis sent an envoy to Vizima . . .’
‘Blast!’ hissed Bronibor, staring at the closed doors. ‘What are they spending so long debating? Why did Foltest abase himself so, to enter negotiations? Why did he give an audience to that Nilfgaardian dog at all? He ought to have been executed and his head sent back to Emhyr! In a sack!’
‘By the gods, voivode,’ choked the priest Willemer. ‘He is an envoy, don’t forget! An envoy’s person is sacrosanct and inviolable! It is unfitting—’
‘Unfitting? I’ll tell you what’s unfitting! It is unfitting to stand idly by and watch as the invader wreaks havoc in countries we are allied to! Lyria has already fallen and Aedirn is falling! Demavend will not hold Nilfgaard off by himself! We ought to dispatch an expeditionary force to Aedirn immediately. We ought to relieve Demavend with an assault on the Jaruga’s left bank! There are few forces there. Most of the regiments have been redeployed to Dol Angra! And we’re standing here debating! We’re yapping instead of fighting! And on top of that we are playing host to a Nilfgaardian envoy!’
‘Quite, voivode,’ said Duke Hereward of Ellander, giving the old warrior a scolding look. ‘This is politics. You have to be able to look a little further than a horse’s muzzle and a lance. The envoy must be heard. Emperor Emhyr had reason to send him here.’
‘Of course he had reason,’ snarled Bronibor. ‘Right now, Emhyr is crushing Aedirn and knows that if we cross the border, bringing Redania and Kaedwen with us, we’ll defeat him and throw him back beyond Dol Angra, to Ebbing. He knows that were we to attack Cintra, we’d strike him in his soft underbelly and force him to fight on two fronts! That is what he fears! So he’s trying to intimidate us, to stop us from intervening. That is the mission the Nilfgaardian envoy came here with. And no other!’
‘Then we ought to hear out the envoy,’ repeated the duke, ‘and take a decision in keeping with the interests of our kingdom. Demavend unwisely provoked Nilfgaard and has suffered the consequences. And I’m in no hurry to die for Vengerberg. What is happening in Aedirn is no concern of ours.’
‘Not our concern? What, by
a hundred devils, are you drivelling on about? You consider it other people’s business that the Nilfgaardians are in Aedirn and Lyria, on the right bank of the Jaruga, when only Mahakam separates us from them? You don’t have an ounce of common sense . . .’
‘Enough of this feuding,’ warned Willemer. ‘Not another word. The king is coming out.’
The chamber doors opened. The members of the Royal Council rose, scraping their chairs. Many of the seats were vacant. The crown hetman and most of the commanders were with their regiments: in the Pontar Valley, in Mahakam and by the Jaruga. The chairs which were usually occupied by sorcerers were also vacant. Sorcerers . . . Yes, thought Willemer, the priest, the places occupied by sorcerers here, at the royal court in Vizima, will remain vacant for a long time. Who knows, perhaps for ever?
King Foltest crossed the hall quickly and stood by his throne but did not sit down. He simply leaned over, resting his fists on the table. He was very pale.
‘Vengerberg is under siege,’ said the King of Temeria softly, ‘and will fall any day now. Nilfgaard is pushing northwards relentlessly. The surrounded troops continue to fight, but that will change nothing. Aedirn is lost. King Demavend has fled to Redania. The fate of Queen Meve is unknown.’
The Council was silent.
‘In a few days, the Nilfgaardians will take our eastern border, by which I mean the mouth of the Pontar Valley,’ Foltest went on, still very softly. ‘Hagge, Aedirn’s last fortress, will not withstand them for long, and Hagge is on our eastern border. And on our southern border . . . something very unfortunate has occurred. King Ervyll of Verden has sworn fealty to Emperor Emhyr. He has surrendered and opened the strongholds at the mouth of the Jaruga. Nilfgaardian garrisons are already installed in Nastrog, Rozrog and Bodrog, which were supposed to have protected our flank.’
The Council was silent.
‘Owing to that,’ continued Foltest, ‘Ervyll has retained his royal title, but Emhyr is his sovereign. Verden remains a kingdom but, de facto, is now a Nilfgaardian province. Do you understand what that means? The situation has turned about face. The Verdenian strongholds and the mouth of the Jaruga are in Nilfgaard’s hands. I cannot attempt to cross the river. And I cannot weaken the army stationed there by forming a corps which could enter Aedirn and support Demavend’s forces. I cannot do that. Responsibility for my country and my subjects rests on me.’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 57