‘By the Gods. . .’ The girl shuddered and gripped her bow tightly in her sweating fist. ‘Did you hear that noise? What was it?’
‘A wolf.’
‘Or a ghoul . . . Or some other hell spawn. There must be a whole load of dead bodies in the camp . . . A pox on it, I’m not crossing that river at night!’
‘Fine, we’ll wait until dawn . . . Milva? What’s that strange . . . ?’
‘Regis . . .’ the archer said, stifling a shout at the scent of wormwood, sage, coriander and aniseed. ‘Regis? Is that you?’
‘Yes, it’s me,’ the barber-surgeon replied, noiselessly emerging from the gloom, ‘I was worried about you. But you’re not alone, I see.’
‘Aye.’ Milva released Cahir’s arm, noticing he had already drawn his sword. ‘I’m not alone and he’s not alone any more. But that’s a long story, as some people would say. Regis, what about the Witcher? And Dandelion? And the others? Do you know what’s happened to them?’
‘Indeed I do. Do you have horses?’
‘Yes, they’re hidden in the willows . . .’
‘Then let’s head southwards, down the Chotla. Without delay. We must reach Armeria before midnight.’
‘What about the Witcher and the poet? Are they alive?’
‘Yes. But they’re in a bit of difficulty.’
‘What kind of difficulty?’
‘It’s a long story.’
Dandelion groaned, trying to turn around and get into a slightly more comfortable position. It was, however, an impossible task for someone lying trussed up like a ham to be smoked in a pile of soft wood shavings and sawdust.
‘They didn’t hang us right away,’ he grunted. ‘There’s hope for us still. We aren’t done for yet . . .’
‘Would you mind shutting up?’ the Witcher said, lying back calmly and looking up at the moon, visible through a hole in the roof of the woodshed. ‘Do you know why Vissegerd didn’t hang us right away? Because we’re to be executed publicly, at dawn, while the entire corps are mustered before moving out. For propaganda purposes.’
Dandelion did not respond to that. Geralt only heard him panting with worry.
‘You still have a chance of dodging the drop,’ he added, trying to reassure the poet. ‘Vissegerd simply wants to exact his own private revenge on me; he hasn’t got anything against you. Your friend the count will get you out of trouble, you’ll see.’
‘That’s crap,’ the bard replied, to the Witcher’s astonishment calmly and quite reasonably. ‘Crap, crap, crap. Don’t treat me like a child. For one thing, two hanged men are better for propaganda purposes than one. For another, you don’t let a witness to private revenge live. No, brother, they’ll stretch us both.’
‘That’s enough, Dandelion. Lie there quietly and think up a plan.’
‘What bloody plan?’
‘Any bloody plan.’
The poet’s idle chatter prevented the Witcher from gathering his thoughts, and he had no time to waste. He expected that men from Temerian military intelligence – some of whom must have been present in Vissegerd’s corps – would burst into the woodshed at any moment. Intelligence officers would surely be interested in asking him about various aspects of the events in Garstang on the Isle of Thanedd. Geralt hardly knew any of the details, but he was confident that he would be feeling very, very poorly indeed before the agents accepted this. All his hopes depended on Vissegerd, blinded by the lust for revenge, not having made the Witcher’s capture public. Intelligence officers might want to free the captives from the clutches of the furious marshal in order to take them to headquarters. Or, to be more precise, take whatever was left of them after the first round of interrogation.
The poet, meanwhile, had come up with a plan.
‘Geralt! Let’s pretend we know something important. That we really are spies or something like that. Then—’
‘Dandelion, please.’
‘No? So we could try to bribe the sentries. I have some money hidden away. Doubloons, sewn into the lining of my boot. For a rainy day . . . We’ll summon the sentries . . .’
‘Who’ll take all you have and then beat you up for good measure.’
The poet grumbled, but stopped talking. From the field they heard shouts, the patter of hooves and – what was worse – the smell of army pea soup. At that moment, Geralt would have given all the sterlets and truffles in the world for a bowl of it. The sentries standing outside the shed were talking lazily, chuckling and, from time to time, hawking up and spitting. The sentries were professional soldiers, which could be discerned by their remarkable ability to communicate using sentences constructed entirely of pronouns and coarse expletives.
‘Geralt?’
‘What?’
‘I wonder what’s happened to Milva . . . And Zoltan, and Percival and Regis . . . Did you see them?’
‘No. We can’t rule out their being hacked to death or trampled by horses during the skirmish. The camp was knee-deep in corpses.’
‘I can’t believe,’ Dandelion declared resolutely and with a note of hope in his voice, ‘I can’t believe that crafty buggers like Zoltan and Percival . . . Or Milva . . .’
‘Stop deluding yourself. Even if they did survive, they won’t help us.’
‘Why not?’
‘For three reasons. Firstly, they have their own problems. Secondly, we’re lying tied up in a shed in the middle of a camp of several thousand soldiers.’
‘And the third reason? You mentioned three.’
‘Thirdly,’ the Witcher replied in a tired voice, ‘the monthly quota on miracles was used up when the woman from Kernow found her missing husband.’
‘Over there,’ the barber-surgeon said, indicating the small dots of campfires, ‘is Fort Armeria, at present the camp of the Temerian Army concentrated at Mayena.’
‘Are the Witcher and Dandelion being held prisoner there?’ Milva asked, standing up in her stirrups. ‘Ha, then things are bad . . . There must be hordes of armed men and guards everywhere. Won’t be easy sneaking in there.’
‘You won’t have to,’ Regis responded, dismounting from Pegasus. The gelding gave a long snort and pulled his head away, clearly disgusted by the barber-surgeon’s herbal odour, which made his nostrils tingle.
‘You won’t have to sneak in,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll take care of it. You’ll be waiting with the horses where the river’s sparkling, do you see? Beneath the brightest star in the Seven Goats. The Chotla flows into the Ina there. Once I’ve got the Witcher out of trouble I’ll point him in that direction. And that’s where you’ll meet.’
‘How arrogant is that?’ Cahir muttered to Milva when they came close to each other, dismounting. ‘He’ll get them out of trouble by himself, without anyone’s help. Did you hear that? Who is he?’
‘In truth, I don’t know,’ Milva muttered back. ‘But when it comes to impossible tasks, I believe him. Yesterday, in front of my very eyes, he got a red-hot horseshoe out of a fire with his bare hands . . .’
‘Is he a sorcerer?’
‘No,’ Regis answered from behind Pegasus, demonstrating his exceptionally sensitive hearing. ‘But does it really matter who I am? After all, I haven’t asked for your personal details.’
‘I am Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach.’
‘I thank you and am full of admiration.’ The barber-surgeon’s voice had a slight note of scorn. ‘I heard almost no Nilfgaardian accent when you pronounced your Nilfgaardian surname.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Enough!’ Milva cut him off. ‘This isn’t the time for arguing or hesitating. Regis, the Witcher’s waiting to be rescued.’
‘Not before midnight,’ the barber-surgeon said coldly, looking up at the moon. ‘So we have some time to talk. Who is this person, Milva?’
‘That person,’ the archer replied, a little angry and standing up for Cahir, ‘rescued me from a tight spot. That person will tell the Witcher, when he meets him, that he’s going in the wrong direction. Ciri’s n
ot in Nilfgaard.’
‘A revelation indeed,’ the barber-surgeon said, his voice softening. ‘And its source, Sir Cahir, son of Ceallach?’
‘It’s a long story.’
Dandelion had been silent for a long time when one of the sentries suddenly stopped talking in the middle of a curse and the other rasped, or possibly groaned. Geralt knew there had been three on guard, so he listened intently, but the third didn’t utter even the slightest sound.
The Witcher waited, holding his breath, but what came to his ears a moment later was not the creaking of the door to the woodshed being opened by their rescuers. Not in the least. He heard even, soft, choral snoring. The sentries were quite simply asleep on duty.
He breathed out, swore silently, and was just about to lose himself in thoughts about Yennefer when medallion around the Witcher’s neck suddenly vibrated and the air was filled with the scent of wormwood, basil, coriander, sage, aniseed, and the devil only knew what else.
‘Regis?’ he whispered in disbelief, ineffectually trying to lift his head from the wood shavings.
‘Regis,’ Dandelion whispered back, moving around and rustling. ‘No one else reeks like that . . . Where are you? I can’t see you—’
‘Be quiet!’
The medallion stopped vibrating, Geralt heard the poet’s relieved sigh and immediately after the soft hiss of a blade cutting his ropes. A moment later Dandelion gave a moan of pain as his circulation returned, but dutifully tried to suppress it by sticking his fist into his mouth.
‘Geralt,’ the barber-surgeon said, his vague, wavering shadow materialising at the Witcher’s side, and immediately began to cut his bonds. ‘You’ll have to get past the camp guard yourselves. Head towards the east and the brightest star in the Seven Goats. Straight to the Ina. Milva’s waiting for you there with the horses.’
‘Help me get up . . .’
He stood first on one leg and then on the other, biting his fist. Dandelion’s circulation was already back to normal. A moment later the Witcher was also ready for action.
‘How are we going to get out?’ the poet suddenly asked. ‘The sentries at the door are snoring, but they may . . .’
‘No, they won’t,’ Regis interrupted in a whisper. ‘But be careful when you leave. It’s a full moon and the field’s lit by campfires. In spite of it being night the entire camp is bustling, but perhaps that’s a good thing. The corporals of the guard are bored of challenging the sentries. Out you go. Good luck.’
‘What about you?’
‘Don’t worry about me. Don’t wait for me and don’t look back.’
‘But—’
‘Dandelion,’ the Witcher hissed. ‘You’ve been told not to worry about him, got it?’
‘Out you go,’ Regis repeated. ‘Good luck. Until the next time, Geralt.’
The Witcher turned around.
‘Thank you for rescuing us,’ he said. ‘But it would be best if we never met again. Am I making myself clear?’
‘Absolutely. Don’t waste time.’
The sentries were sleeping as they had fallen, snoring and smacking their lips. Not one of them even twitched when Geralt and Dandelion squeezed out through the slightly open door. Neither did any of them react when the Witcher unceremoniously pulled the thick homespun capes from two of them.
‘That’s no ordinary sleep,’ Dandelion whispered.
‘Of course it isn’t,’ Geralt said. Hidden in the dark of the woodshed’s shadow, he looked around.
‘I see.’ The poet sighed. ‘Is Regis a sorcerer?’
‘No. No, not a sorcerer.’
‘He took that horseshoe from the fire. Put the sentries to sleep . . .’
‘Stop wittering and concentrate. We aren’t free yet. Wrap that cape around you and let’s cross the field. If anyone stops us we’re pretending to be soldiers.’
‘Right. If anything happens I’ll say—’
‘We’re pretending to be stupid soldiers. Let’s go.’
They crossed the field, keeping their distance from the soldiers crowded around glowing braziers and campfires. Soldiers were roaming about here and there; two more weren’t conspicuous. They didn’t arouse anyone’s suspicions; no one questioned them or stopped them. They passed beyond the stockade quickly and without any difficulty.
Everything went smoothly; in fact, too smoothly. Geralt became anxious, since he instinctively sensed danger and his anxiety was growing – rather than diminishing – the further they moved from the centre of the camp. He repeated to himself that there was nothing strange in that: they hadn’t drawn attention to themselves in the middle of a military camp that was busy even at night, and the only danger had been that of the alarm being raised, should someone notice the sleeping sentries at the door to the woodshed. Now, however, they were approaching the perimeter, where the sentries had – by necessity – to be vigilant. The fact that they were heading away from the centre of the camp could not be helping them. The Witcher recalled the plague of desertion in Vissegerd’s corps and was certain the guards had orders to watch carefully for anyone trying to abandon the camp.
The moon was shining brightly enough for Dandelion not to have to grope his way. This amount of light meant the Witcher could see as well as during the day, which enabled them to avoid two sentry posts and wait in the bushes for a mounted patrol to pass. There was an alder grove directly in front of them, apparently outside the ring of sentry posts. Everything was still going smoothly. Too smoothly.
Their ignorance of military customs proved to be their undoing.
They were tempted by the low, dark clump of alders, because of the cover it offered. But since time immemorial there have always been soldiers who lie in the bushes when it is their turn to be on guard duty, while the ones who aren’t asleep keep an eye both on the enemy and on their own bloody-minded officers, should any of the latter descend on them with an unexpected inspection.
Geralt and Dandelion had barely reached the alder grove before several dark shapes – and spear blades – loomed up in front of them.
‘Password?’
‘Cintra!’ Dandelion blurted out without hesitation.
The soldiers chuckled as one.
‘Really, boys,’ one of them said, ‘is that the best you can do? If only someone would come up with something original. But no, nothing but “Cintra”. Missing home, are we? Well, the fee’s the same as yesterday.’
Dandelion audibly ground his teeth. Geralt weighed up the situation and their chances. His assessment: decidedly crap.
‘Come on,’ the soldier said, hurrying them. ‘If you want to get through, pay up and we’ll turn a blind eye. And quickly, because the corporal of the guard will be here any second.’
‘’Owd on,’ the poet said, changing his accent and mode of speech. ‘I’ll just sit down and get me boot off, because there’s. . .’
He didn’t manage to say anything else. Four soldiers threw him to the ground. Then two of them, each one seizing one of his legs between theirs, pulled off his boots. The one who’d asked for the password tore the lining from the inside of a bootleg. Something scattered around with a jingle.
‘Gold!’ the leader yelled. ‘Pull the boots off the other one! And summon the corporal!’
However, there was no one to do any boot-pulling or summoning, because half the guard dropped on their knees to search for the doubloons scattered among the leaves while the other half immediately began fighting furiously over Dandelion’s second boot. It’s now or never, Geralt thought, punching the leader in the jaw and then kicking him in the side of his head as he fell. The soldiers who were searching for gold didn’t even notice. Dandelion needed no encouragement to spring up and dash through the bushes, his footwraps flapping. Geralt ran after him.
‘Help! Help!’ the leader of the watch bellowed from the ground, his voice soon after joined by his comrades. ‘Cooorporaaal!’
‘You swine!’ Dandelion yelled back as he fled. ‘Knaves! You stole my money!’
‘Stop them! Stop theeem!’
They ran. Geralt swore furiously, hearing shouts, whistles, neighing and the thudding of hooves. Behind them. And in front of them. His astonishment didn’t last long; one careful look was enough. What he had taken for a forest and a safe haven was an approaching wall of cavalry, surging towards them like a wave.
‘Stop, Dandelion!’ he shouted, then turned back to the patrol galloping in their direction and whistled piercingly through his fingers.
‘Nilfgaard!’ he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Nilfgaard are coming! Back to the camp! Get back to the camp, you fools! Sound the alarm! Nilfgaard!’
The leading rider of the patrol pursuing them reined his horse to a rapid stop, looked towards where Geralt had pointed, screamed in terror and was about to turn back. But Geralt decided he had already done enough for the Cintran lions and Temerian lilies. He leapt at the soldier and dragged him from the saddle with a dextrous tug.
‘Jump on, Dandelion! And hold tight!’
The poet didn’t need to be told twice. The horse sagged a little under the weight of an extra rider, but spurred on by two pairs of heels was soon galloping hard. The approaching swarm of Nilfgaardians now represented a much greater threat than Vissegerd and his corps, so they galloped along the ring of sentry posts, trying to escape from the area where the two armies would clash at any moment. The Nilfgaardians were close, however, and had seen them. Dandelion yelled, then Geralt looked around and saw the dark wall of Nilfgaardian troops beginning to extend black tentacles of pursuit. Without hesitating he steered the horse towards the camp, overtaking the fleeing guards. Dandelion yelled once again, but this time there was no need. The Witcher could also see the cavalry charging at them from the camp. Having been alerted, Vissegerd’s corps had mounted at admirable speed. And Geralt and Dandelion were caught in a trap.
There was no way out. The Witcher changed the direction of their flight once more and urged from the horse all the speed it could muster, trying to slip out of the dangerously narrowing gap between hammer and anvil. When hope dawned that they might just make it, the night air suddenly sang with a whistle of fletchings. Dandelion yelled, this time very loudly indeed, and dug his fingers into Geralt’s sides. The Witcher felt something warm dripping onto his neck.
The Saga of the Witcher Page 91