Instead of that the ferryman began shouting. And not joyfully in the least.
‘By the Gods! We’re done for!’
Geralt looked towards where he was pointing and cursed. Suits of armour flashed and hooves thudded among the alders on the high bank. A moment later the jetty on the left bank was teeming with horsemen.
‘Black Riders!’ the ferryman screamed, paling and releasing the wheel. ‘Nilfgaardians! Death! Gods, save us!’
‘Hold the horses, Dandelion!’ Milva yelled, trying to remove her bow from her saddle with one hand. ‘Hold the horses!’
‘They aren’t imperial forces,’ Cahir said. ‘I don’t think . . .’
His voice was drowned out by the shouts of the horsemen on the jetty and the ferryman’s yelling. Urged on by the yelling, the daft helper seized a hatchet, swung it and brought the blade down powerfully on the rope. The ferryman came forward to help him with another hatchet. The horsemen on the jetty noticed it and also began to yell. Several of them rode into the water, to seize the rope. Others began swimming towards the ferry.
‘Leave that rope alone!’ Dandelion shouted. ‘It’s not Nilfgaard! Don’t cut it—’
It was too late, however. The loose end of the rope sank heavily into the water, the ferry turned a little and began to float downstream. The horsemen on the bank started yelling.
‘Dandelion’s right,’ Cahir said grimly. ‘They aren’t imperial forces . . . They’re on the Nilfgaardian bank, but it isn’t Nilfgaard.’
‘Of course they aren’t!’ Dandelion called. ‘I recognise their livery! Eagles and lozenges! It’s Lyria’s coat of arms! They’re the Lyrian guerrillas! Hey, you men . . .’
‘Get down, you idiot!’
The poet, as usual, rather than listen to the warning, wanted to know what it was all about. And right then arrows whistled through the air. Some of them thudded into the side of the ferry, some of them flew over the deck and splashed into the water. Two flew straight for Dandelion, but the Witcher already had his sword in his hand, leapt forward and deflected both of them with swift blows.
‘By the Great Sun,’ Cahir grunted. ‘He deflected two arrows! Remarkable! I’ve never seen anything like it . . .’
‘And you never will again! That’s the first time I’ve ever managed two in a row! Now get down, will you!’
However, the soldiers by the jetty had stopped shooting, seeing the current pushing the drifting ferryboat straight towards their bank. Water foamed beside the horses which had been driven into the river. The ferry station was filling up with more horsemen. There were at least two hundred of them.
‘Help!’ the ferryman yelled. ‘Seize the poles, m’lords! We’re being carried to the bank!’
They understood at once, and fortunately there were plenty of poles. Regis and Dandelion held the horses, and Milva, Cahir and the Witcher aided the efforts of the ferryman and his duffer of an assistant. Pushed off by five poles, the ferryboat turned and began to move more quickly, clearly heading towards the midstream. The soldiers on the bank started yelling again, and took up their bows once again. Again, several arrows whistled past and one of their horses neighed wildly. The ferryboat, carried away by a more powerful current, was fortunately travelling quickly and began to move further from the bank, beyond the range of an effective arrow shot.
They were now floating in the middle of the river, on calm waters. The ferryboat was spinning like a turd in an ice hole and the horses stamped and whinnied, tugging at the reins, which were being held by Dandelion and the vampire. The horsemen on the bank yelled and shook their fists at them. Geralt suddenly noticed a rider on a white steed among them, who was waving a sword and issuing orders. A moment later the cavalcade withdrew into the forest and galloped along the edge of the high bank. Their armour flashed among the riverside undergrowth.
‘They aren’t letting us go,’ the ferryman groaned. ‘They know that the rapids round the corner will push us over towards the bank again . . . Keep those poles at the ready, m’lords! When it turns towards the right bank, we’ll have to help the old tub get the better of the current and land . . . Else we’re doomed . . .’
They floated, turning, drifting slightly towards the right bank; a steep, high bluff, bristling with crooked pine trees. The left bank, the one that was moving away from them, had become flat and jutted into the river in a semi-circular, sandy spit. Horsemen galloped onto the spit, their momentum taking them into the water. By the spit there was clearly a sandbank channel, a shallow, and before the water had reached the height of the horses’ bellies, the horsemen had ridden quite far into the river.
‘We’re in arrow range,’ Milva judged grimly. ‘Get down.’
Arrows began whistling again and some of them thumped into the planks. But the current, pushing them away from the channel, quickly carried the ferryboat towards a sharp bend on the right.
‘To the poles!’ the trembling ferryman ordered. ‘With a will. Let’s land before the rapids carry us away!’
It wasn’t so easy. The current was swift, the water deep and the ferryboat large, heavy and cumbersome. At first it did not react to their efforts at all, but finally the poles found more purchase on the riverbed. It looked as though they might succeed, when Milva suddenly dropped her pole and pointed wordlessly at the right bank.
‘This time . . .’ Cahir said, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘This time it’s definitely Nilfgaard.’
Geralt saw it too. The horsemen who had suddenly appeared on the right bank were wearing black and green cloaks, and the horses had typical Nilfgaardian blinders. There were at least a hundred of them.
‘Now we’re done for . . .’ the ferryman whimpered. ‘Mother of mine, it’s the Black Riders!’
‘To the poles!’ the Witcher roared. ‘To the poles and into the current! Away from the bank!’
Once again it turned out to be a difficult task. The current by the right bank was powerful and pushed the ferryboat straight under the high bluff, from which the shouts of the Nilfgaardians could be heard. A moment later, when Geralt, who was leaning on his pole, looked upwards, he saw pine branches above his head. An arrow shot from the top of the bluff penetrated the ferryboat’s deck almost vertically, two feet from him. He deflected another, which was heading for Cahir, with a blow of his sword.
Milva, Cahir, the ferryman and his assistant pushed away – not from the riverbed, but from the bank where the bluff was. Geralt dropped his sword, caught up a pole and helped them, and the ferryboat began to drift towards the calm waters again. But they were still dangerously close to the right bank and to their pursuers galloping along the edge of it. Before they could move away, the bluff ended and Nilfgaardians flooded onto the flat, reedy bank. Fletchings screamed through the air.
‘Get down!’
The ferryman’s helper suddenly coughed strangely, dropping his pole into the water. Geralt saw a bloodied arrowhead and four inches of shaft sticking out of his back. Cahir’s chestnut reared, neighed in pain, jerking its penetrated neck, knocked Dandelion down and leaped overboard. The remaining horses also neighed and thrashed, and the ferryboat shook from the impact of their hooves.
‘Hold the horses!’ the vampire yelled. ‘Three—’
He suddenly broke off, fell backwards against the planks, and sat down with his head lolling. A black-feathered arrow was sticking out of his chest.
Milva saw it too. She screamed with fury, picked up her bow, knelt and emptied the quiver of arrows right on the deck. Then she began to shoot. Quickly. Arrow after arrow. Not one missed its target.
There was confusion on the bank, the Nilfgaardians retreating into the forest, leaving their dead and wounded in the reeds. Hidden in the undergrowth they continued to shoot, but their arrows were barely reaching the ferryboat, which was being carried towards the midstream by the swift current. The distance was too great for the Nilfgaardian archers to shoot accurately. But not too great for Milva.
Among the Nilfgaardians suddenly appeared
an officer in a black cape and a helmet with raven’s wings flapping on it. He was yelling, brandishing a mace and pointing downstream. Milva stood, took a broader stance, pulled the bowstring to her ear and quickly took aim. The arrow hissed in the air, and the officer bent backwards in his saddle and sagged in the arms of the soldiers holding him up. Milva drew her bow again and released her fingers from the bowstring. One of the Nilfgaardians holding up the officer screamed piercingly and lurched back off his horse. The others disappeared into the forest.
‘Masterful shots,’ Regis said calmly from behind the Witcher’s back. ‘But it’d be better if you grabbed the poles. We’re still too close to the bank and we’re being carried into the shallows.’
The archer and Geralt turned around.
‘Aren’t you dead?’ they asked in in chorus.
‘Did you think,’ the vampire said, showing them the black-fletched shaft, ‘I could be harmed by any old bit of wood?’
There was no time to be surprised. The ferryboat was once again turning around in the current and moving along the calm waters. But on the bend in the river another beach appeared, a sandbank and shallow channel, and the bank teemed with black-clad Nilfgaardians again. Some of them were riding into the river and preparing to shoot. Everyone, including Dandelion, rushed for the poles, which soon could not reach the bottom as – owing to the combined effort – the current finally carried the ferryboat towards swifter water.
‘Good,’ Milva panted, dropping her pole. ‘Now they won’t be able to reach us . . .’
‘One of them’s made it to the sandbank!’ Dandelion cried. ‘He’s going to shoot! Get out of sight!’
‘He’ll miss,’ Milva said coldly.
The arrow splashed into the water two yards from the ferryboat’s bow.
‘He’s doing it again!’ the troubadour yelled, peeping out from above the saxboard. ‘Look out!’
‘He’ll miss,’ Milva repeated, straightening the bracer on her left forearm. ‘He’s got a good bow, but he’s as much an archer as my old grannie. He’s overexcited. After he releases, he trembles and shakes like a woman with a slug wriggling up her arse. Hold onto the horses, so I don’t get knocked over.’
This time the Nilfgaardian shot too high and the arrow whistled over the ferryboat. Milva raised her bow, her stance firm, quickly pulled the bowstring to her cheek and released it gently, not changing her position by even a fraction of an inch. The Nilfgaardian tumbled into the water as though struck by lightning and began to float with the current. His black cape billowed out like a balloon.
‘That’s how it’s done,’ Milva said and lowered her bow. ‘But it’s too late for him to learn.’
‘The others are galloping after us,’ Cahir said, pointing towards the right bank. ‘And I vouch they won’t stop chasing us. Not now that Milva’s shot their officer. The river’s meandering and the current will carry us towards their bank again on the next bend. They know it and they’ll be waiting . . .’
‘Right now we have another worry,’ the ferryman moaned, getting up from his knees and throwing off his dead helper. ‘We’re being pushed straight for the left bank . . . By the Gods, we’re caught between two fires . . . And all because of you, m’lords! The blood will fall on your heads . . .’
‘Shut your trap and grab a pole!’
The flat, left bank, which was now nearer, was teeming with horsemen, identified by Dandelion as Lyrian partisans. They were yelling and waving their arms. Geralt noticed a rider on a white horse among them. He wasn’t certain, but he thought the rider was a woman. A fair-haired woman in armour, but without a helmet.
‘What are they yelling?’ Dandelion said, straining to listen. ‘Something about a queen, is it?’
The shouting on the left bank intensified. They could also hear the clanging of steel distinctly now.
‘It’s a battle,’ Cahir said bluntly. ‘Look. Those are imperial forces running out of the forest. The Nordlings were fleeing from them, and now they’ve been caught in a trap.’
‘The way out of the trap,’ Geralt said, spitting into the water, ‘was the ferry. I think they wanted to save at least their queen and their officers by ferrying them onto the other bank. And we hijacked the ferry. Oh, they won’t like us now, no, no . . .’
‘But they ought to!’ Dandelion said. ‘The ferry wouldn’t have saved anyone, just carried them straight into the clutches of the Nilfgaardians on the right bank. Let’s avoid the right bank too. We can parley with the Lyrians, but the Blacks will beat us to death without a second thought . . .’
‘It’s carrying us quicker and quicker,’ Milva said, spitting into the water too and watching her saliva drift away. ‘And right down the centre of the run. They can kiss our arses, both armies. The bends are gentle, the banks are level and overgrown with willows. We’re heading down the Yaruga and they won’t catch up with us. They’ll soon get bored.’
‘Bullshit,’ the ferryman groaned. ‘The Red Port is ahead of us . . . There’s a bridge there! And shallows! The ferry will get stuck . . . If they overtake us, they’ll be waiting for us . . .’
‘The Nordlings won’t overtake us,’ Regis said, pointing at the left bank from the stern. ‘They have their own worries.’
Indeed, a fierce battle was raging on the right bank. Most of the fighting took place in the forest and only betrayed itself by battle cries, but here and there the black and colourfully uniformed horsemen were delivering blows to each other in the water near the bank. Bodies were splashing into the Yaruga. The tumult and clang of steel quietened, and the ferryboat majestically, but quite quickly, headed downstream.
Finally no soldiers could be seen on the overgrown banks, and no sounds of their pursuers could be heard. Only when Geralt was starting to hope everything would end well did they see a wooden bridge spanning the two banks. The river flowed beneath the bridge, past sandbars and islands, the largest of which supported the bridge’s piers. On the right bank lay the timber port; they could see thousands of logs piled up there.
‘It’s shallow all around,’ the ferryman panted. ‘We can only get through the middle, to the right of the island. The current is carrying us there now, but grab the poles, they might help if we get stuck . . .’
‘There are soldiers on the bridge,’ Cahir said, shielding his eyes with his hand. ‘On the bridge and in the port . . .’
They could all see the soldiers. And they all saw the band of horsemen in black and green cloaks flooding out of the forest behind the port. They were even close enough to hear the noise of battle.
‘Nilfgaard,’ Cahir confirmed drily. ‘The men who were pursuing us. So the men in the port are Nordlings . . .’
‘To the poles!’ the ferryman yelled. ‘Maybe we’ll sneak through while they’re fighting!’
They did not manage to. They were very close to the bridge when it suddenly began to shake from the boots of running soldiers. The footmen were wearing white tunics, decorated with red lozenges over their hauberks. Most of them had crossbows, which they rested on the railing and aimed at the ferryboat approaching the bridge.
‘Don’t shoot, boys!’ Dandelion yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Don’t shoot! We’re with you!’
The soldiers did not hear, or did not want to hear.
The salvo of quarrels turned out to have tragic results. The only human to be hit was the ferryman, who was still trying to steer with his pole. A bolt pierced him right through. Cahir, Milva and Regis ducked down behind the side in time. Geralt seized his sword and deflected one quarrel, but there were too many of them. By an inexplicable miracle Dandelion, who was still yelling and waving his arms, was not hit. However, the hail of missiles caused real carnage among the horses. The grey slumped to its knees, struck by three quarrels. Milva’s black fell, kicking. Regis’s bay too. Roach, shot in the withers, reared and leaped overboard.
‘Don’t shoot!’ Dandelion bellowed. ‘We’re with you!’
This time it worked.
The fer
ryboat, carried by the current, ploughed into a sandbank with a grinding sound and came to rest. They all jumped onto the island or into the water, escaping the hooves of the agonised, thrashing horses. Milva was the last, for her movements had suddenly become horrifyingly slow. She’s been hit, the Witcher thought, seeing the girl clambering clumsily over the side and dropping inertly on the sand. He leapt towards her, but the vampire was quicker.
‘Something’s broken off in me,’ the girl said very slowly. And very unnaturally. And then she pressed her hands to her womb. Geralt saw the leg of her woollen trousers darkening with blood.
‘Pour that over my hands,’ Regis said, handing Geralt a small bottle he had removed from his bag. ‘Pour that over my hands, quickly.’
‘What is it?’
‘She’s miscarrying. Give me a knife. I have to cut open her clothes. And go away.’
‘No,’ Milva said. ‘I want him to stay . . .’
A tear trickled down her cheek.
The bridge above them thundered with soldiers’ boots.
‘Geralt!’ Dandelion yelled.
The Witcher, seeing what the vampire was doing to Milva, turned his head away in embarrassment. He noticed soldiers in white tunics rushing across the bridge at great speed. An uproar could still be heard from the right bank and the timber port.
‘They’re running away,’ Dandelion panted, running to him and tugging his sleeve. ‘The Nilfgaardians are already on the right bridgehead! The battle is still raging there, but most of the army are fleeing to the left bank! Do you hear? We have to flee too!’
‘We can’t,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Milva’s miscarried. She can’t walk.’
Dandelion swore.
‘We’ll have to carry her then,’ he declared. ‘It’s our only chance . . .’
‘Not our only one,’ Cahir said. ‘Geralt, onto the bridge.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ll hold back their flight. If those Nordlings can hold the right bridgehead long enough, perhaps we’ll be able to escape by the left one.’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 105