Author's Note: This story takes place within the realm of the Witcher 3 and references certain side events that take place, but without any of the main storyline in existence. Also, I imagined Ciri to be pretty young in this story—naïve and rash and just a bit lost in her purpose, as if she's just old enough to be out on her own. I like to think of it as though these experiences would have helped shape her into the women she is in the Witcher 3. And I flubbed a little with the geography of Velen (pretty sure there aren't mountains right there), and with the layout of the Chameleon a bit, but I don't think anything is so much as to be world-breaking. I will be posting a chapter a week, probably on Fridays. Please let me know what you guys think in the comments! I hope you enjoy!
UPDATE 8/17/18: The full story is now up!
Prologue
"Don't do this, Ciri," Zoltan cautioned as he followed Ciri down the stairs of the Chameleon. "I don't like this. Not at all."
Once on the landing, Ciri purposefully strode around the room, gathering supplies and stuffing them into a large pack. "You know a storm is coming," Ciri answered without turning from what she was doing. "I don't have a choice. The village won't stand a chance otherwise."
"Join one of the deployments to the other villages if you must. To think you can protect one on your own is folly."
"There are too many villages for the soldiers alone to protect, you know that as well as I do. And you know I'm a better fighter than any of them. I can hold a small settlement on my own. Besides, the villagers will take up arms if attacked. They just need someone to rally behind." Ciri bundled up in her fur-lined overcoat, pulling on her thick gloves, and stuffing a wool hat over her head just before slinging her bulging pack on her back. Striding to the door, she snatched up her sword and added it as a final accoutrement.
Zoltan reached out and spun Ciri around by the elbow just as she reached for the door handle. "Cirilla, stop!"
Ciri set her feet impatiently, a look of exasperation clouding her eyes.
Zoltan seemed to fight with himself for a moment, struggling to find the right words.
Ciri filled the silence, hardness settling into her eyes, her tone. "There's nothing you can say that will stop me. I can't leave them defenseless. I won't."
The silence stretched on a moment longer until, heaving a solemn sigh, Zoltan met Ciri's eye. "Please be careful."
Face softening a bit, Ciri relaxed her stance and nodded. "I will."
Giving Zoltan one last reassuring glance, Ciri pulled open the door and stepped out into the frigid air.
Ciri headed east on Kelpie, a fine if somewhat cantankerous grey mare she had acquired a few years back. A settlement a day's ride from Novigrad was her destination. It was deep in the heart of winter on the Continent. A foot of snow was ever present on the ground, a biting chill lingering in the air. The conditions weren't great for riding. The icy roads could be treacherous to a less experienced rider with a horse likely to slip and break a leg, but Ciri knew to stay to the edges of the paths, where the snow was less packed and gave more traction. She would need as much help as she could get. She would have to ride hard to reach the settlement by nightfall. If she didn't, it might be too late for its inhabitants.
A dangerous group of bandits was stirring to the East, growing ever larger, ever bolder, emerging from the mountains' forests to raid villages on the very outskirts of Novigrad before slinking away without a trace. The Guard's men had been deployed to help, but the raiders struck multiple locations seemingly randomly and there were so many settlements that there weren't nearly enough men to protect them all even with measly three or four men squads spread out randomly amongst the villages. At best they could cover half the settlements and that was stretching it. Ciri had been working closely with them, offering her services whenever she could. The men had come to respect her, even the Captain acknowledging her prowess and thankful for any help they could get.
The biggest problem was, no one knew where the raiders camped, though it must have been somewhere up in the mountains to the East since they always attacked from that direction. The only thing they knew for certain was that they attacked after nightfall during snowstorms, presumably to cover their tracks. The raiders' main goal seemed to be taking food and supplies from the village stores. That alone was bad enough. The villages needed those stores to get through the winter. Already many such places had had to cut their winter rations in half. But that wasn't the worst of it.
Villagers were being taken as well, though not from every village and only one or two per raid. The exact numbers didn't matter to Ciri. One was too many. And none of them had been seen since.
No one could work out the exact selection criteria either. They seemed to go after the people who fought back, although that theory didn't fit entirely as only a few soldiers had been taken. Far less than villagers anyway. To Ciri, it seemed obvious that the soldiers were simply too much trouble to bother with unless the raiders just got lucky and caught one by surprise.
Ciri didn't know what they were doing with those men, but whatever it was, it wasn't good. That's why, when the forecasters had seen a storm on the horizon, she had turned down the Captain of the Guard's offer for her to join one of the other deployments. There was a remote village on the edge of the forest that had gone overlooked by the Guard. It was too small to warrant a Guard detail, the Captain had stated; his limited resources were better spent elsewhere.
Ciri understood his decision, she really did. It was an impossible decision and he had to protect as many people as possible. But that didn't mean she would just stand by and watch that tiny village be plundered if she could do something about it. There was something in her gut telling her it was a perfect target, that the raiders would hit it sooner or later.
Not if she could help it.
In fact, it was the perfect scenario. The village was small enough for her to guard on her own, skilled as she was, and she was better off there than backing up soldiers that could hold a town perfectly well without her. She just hoped she had enough time to reach it.
As it turned out, the going was much slower than Ciri had wished. The village was so remote that the roads leading to it were not nearly as well-maintained as the main thoroughfares, the snow deepening the further Ciri rode from Novigrad. The upside was that they were not in as much danger of slipping, but Kelpie was having to work twice as hard to plow through the knee-high powder and her movement was hindered. She could only manage a labored trot by the time the sun met the horizon behind them.
Ciri pushed her on regardless. The storm hadn't hit yet so they still had time. It was close though. Everything had gone deathly still, the sky holding its breath.
And then came the release.
A few hours after sundown, a wall of biting wind crashed into Ciri and her mount, icy droplets stinging her face. Half an hour later, Ciri spied embers dancing with the snowflakes on the wind and panic welled up inside her. They were too late. The raiders had struck.
But they were close. Close enough to perhaps still make a difference.
"We have to hurry!" Ciri urged Kelpie, digging her heels into the mare's sides, willing her to give one final effort.
Kelpie ground the bit, but surged forward, throwing out a wake of snow to either side as they passed. As they neared the town, an ominous orange glow brightened through the gloom and shouts of rage and panic waxed with it. Then they crested a low rise and laid out before them was fire and ice battling across the village.
A large barn was burning, the flames lapping up the snow on the roof and sending most of it flooding to the sides. Underneath the raging inferno was chaos. Families were screaming as they desperately barred their doors to attacking raiders, soot-blackened animals scattered in every direction, and a few brave souls fought back with whatever they could to defend their homes.
Ciri wasted no time charging in. She sent Kelpie pell-mell down the hill, aiming for a raider opposing a man with a pitchfork, sliding her sword from its sheath as she did. Before the raider could do anything, Ciri hurtled past, lopping off the man's sword-arm. The villager moved in to finish him off, but Ciri had already moved on.
Kelpie was starting to get skittish now, what with the noise and the fire and the storm. It was all Ciri could do to rein her in and guide her across an open square toward another raider who had a man with a hammer cornered. The man tried his best to defend himself, but his hammer was no match against the much longer sword wielded by the raider. Still, the man managed to deflect what would have been a killing blow toward his leg and cried out as the blade cut through his thigh. Ciri steered Kelpie as close as she would go and then launched herself from the saddle onto the raider, driving her own sword through his chest and landing atop his lifeless body. Kelpie galloped away, ears flat against her neck and kicking at anything that moved.
The man with the hammer fervently thanked Ciri for saving him and waved away her offered assistance, saying his injury was only a flesh wound and that she was needed elsewhere. After a quick glance around her, Ciri agreed. There were raiders everywhere. Including the two she had dispatched, there were at least ten, which was unusual. Ciri had defended larger villages than this against only five raiders. Now they were sending double, maybe even triple that number. Were they growing larger? Or simply more desperate? What were they after?
Two more men charged Ciri during her momentary contemplation. They put up a decent fight, but Ciri quickly put them down, ready for more. Nothing came. Ciri searched across the fire-lit scene and saw the raiders pulling back. A man on horseback on the fringes of the village seemed to be ordering them away. He motioned toward his men and they filed past him carrying what they could, leaving the villagers to sort out their dead and wounded and to deal with the roaring blaze that would destroy their whole town if it weren't stopped.
The captain must have felt Ciri's gaze because his eyes drifted toward hers and locked onto her for a moment. It was then that Ciri realized she had seen that man before at a previous attack. He had short, black hair and dark eyes and was utterly average in build and features. Nevertheless, she knew it was the same man because of his ears. The edges seemed to have been cut off at some point in his life, leaving them extremely disfigured; a detail that was only just visible in the eerie glow of the fire.
Another two riders broke in front of Ciri's scrutiny of the captain, riding past him into the forest with two large bundles tied behind either of their saddles. It took a second for Ciri to realize that they weren't bundles, they were people, bound and gagged. Anger flared up inside Ciri as her eyes drew back to the captain. He lingered only for a moment before turning and chasing after his comrades.
Hatred and rage stole away any rational thought in Ciri's mind and she tore after them. Even knowing there was little chance of her catching up, she pushed on into the relative silence and darkness of the forest.
The trees were still thin there and the moon reflected off the snow to provide enough light for her to see by. The trail left by the raiders was easily tracked, but as the miles wore on, Ciri understood why they attacked during storms. Even now the prints were being filled in by the traitorous snowfall until all that was left was a single line of hoofprints—presumably the captain's, hanging back to guard the rear.
The forest grew thicker and darker the further Ciri went, the storm strengthening into a tempest that swirled around her, recirculating the snow at her feet; a vortex of snow and wind enveloping Ciri from both above and below. The trail grew fainter with each step.
But Ciri wasn't going to give up. Rage-laden tears fell unbidden from her eyes as her failure drew ever closer.
And then the trail was gone.
Ciri kept on for a while longer before finally admitting defeat. She had no idea which way they were going. They could easily have carved a winding path through the forest that she could no longer follow. She had lost them. She had failed the villagers.
Just as the bitterness of guilt coated Ciri's tongue, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather crept up her spine. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and Ciri froze, eyes searching in the darkness.
She was being watched.
Maybe the captain hadn't been guarding the rear at all. Maybe he had held back on purpose to draw Ciri further into the woods, into their trap. And, foolishly, she had walked right into it.
Visibility was decreasing every minute. Ciri could barely see the trees to either side of her though they were no more than ten feet away. She didn't know where the attack would come from, but she knew one was imminent so she readied her sword, eyes still scanning the periphery.
Suddenly, a man appeared from behind a tree to her left, rushing toward her with a feral cry, his sword swinging over his head. She threw up her own sword to meet his blow, stopping it mid-strike. Crunching footsteps alerted her to another two men racing in silently behind her, seeking to catch her off-guard. Ciri twirled underneath her own sword, twisting around and sending the first attacker's blade skating off the end of hers straight into one of the men flanking her. They awkwardly swerved to miss each other and stumbled. Meanwhile Ciri blocked the final attacker's blade with her own, quickly disarming him with a flick of her wrist and thrusting her blade directly into his heart. He crumpled to his knees before crashing face-first into the snow.
The other two recovered and were slowly approaching, maneuvering to surround Ciri. She could do nothing about it as they flanked her to either side and charged in simultaneously. Nerves of steel had her waiting until the last possible moment to make her move. A split second before the attackers' swords met at her head, Ciri ducked toward one of the men and a little to the side. She skied just underneath his arm and kicked out into his back. The extra momentum he now carried flung him into the man approaching from the other side, the first man's sword impaling the second with a sickening squelch. Before the last man left standing could process what had happened, Ciri swung around again and severed his head in a vicious slice.
With adrenaline coursing through her veins, Ciri pivoted in the reddening snow, sword at the ready, daring any others to try their luck. But none came.
Instead, dark silhouettes materialized just outside of Ciri's range of visibility, pairs of glowing red eyes piercing through the blinding snow. They were wolves, Ciri realized as they closed in around her. There were dozens of them, all encircling her, but staying far enough back that she could only see them as vague outlines. And then a massive howl, deep and almost forlorn in its tone, called her attention forward.
A great wolf stalked forth from the obscurity of the storm, its fur matching the snow and ice out of which it crept. To either side of it were four smaller wolves, their coats the color of cold steel. They snarled and bared their teeth, hackles raised to the fullest. With heads down and ears pinned, they snapped their teeth at Ciri, but stopped short when the larger wolf paused.
A flicker of panic rose up to Ciri's throat. She wasn't sure how she could defeat them and escape would be impossible. She may have made a monumental mistake in coming into these woods. Possibly her last. But before she could brood too long over her decision, the four darker wolves detached from their leader and shot toward Ciri. Writhing in amongst each other, their padded feet ate up the intervening space with frightening ease.
Ciri barely had time to react. She swung at one of their faces and clipped its shoulder instead, a sharp yelp telling her she had connected. The other three pounced onto her, two ripping into her legs, and the third snatching her left arm in its jaws. She cried out as they flung their heads, and tried desperately to fend them off. Her feeble attacks only stymied them for a moment before they lunged back onto her arms and legs. Then one crunched her right wrist and she lost her grip on her sword. She attempted to grab it again, but a biting mouth had her snatching her hand back to her chest. Soon after, her bloodied legs collapsed beneath her and she could do nothing but scramble backwards, throwing up her arms to shield herself, thrashing fur and blood and snow the only thing left to her sight.
Abruptly, the assault ceased and she cautiously lowered her mangled arms to see what had stopped them.
The great, white wolf was approaching, lip now curled, malice-filled eyes lambent in the low light. The other wolves drew back as it advanced and the sight inspired pure terror in Ciri's heart. In a flash of white, it bounded the few remaining feet.
And Ciri could do nothing but stare down its throat as its dark maw closed in.
Chapter One
Geralt started awake, heart pounding out of his chest, sweat soaking his clothes despite the cold. It took him a moment to remember where he was. As he fought to slow his breathing, he looked around the quaint room he had rented for the night at an inn. The small fire in the stove in the corner had long since burned out, only blinking embers peeking out from the ashes. It would soon be dawn. Geralt sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the straw mattress, taking a deep breath to clear his head.
As his consciousness finally returned to the present, Geralt's mind gripped one thing with absolutely certainty—Ciri was in trouble. And before the cock could crow, Geralt was racing toward Novigrad.
Contrary to the poor weather the night before, the lightening sky was clear as spring water freshly melted from the mountains. It permitted the sun to provide a modicum of warmth on Geralt's face as it arced up into the sky.
He rode hard to the East on Roach, a black stallion of exceptional quality, a sense of urgency pressing him to greater speed. As the day wore on, the hard-packed ice softened and allowed Geralt an extra bit of speed, for which he was thankful. Dread was rising up within him, drumming in his ears. Ciri was in danger. He could feel it with every ounce of his being.
Geralt hadn't seen Ciri in years, he'd been wandering the land as witchers do, taking odd jobs and contracts. The past few months, he'd even been in the area, roaming Velen, but had never managed to go and see Ciri, who he knew was staying with Dandelion and Zoltan at the Chameleon. He knew he should have, he kept telling himself he needed to. He certainly missed spending time with Ciri, as she had basically been his adoptive daughter since she was very young. There just never seemed to be enough time. There was always another contract, another monster, another distraction calling. Now, he wished he had gone after all.
At least he had been in the vicinity. He couldn't imagine what he would have done had he been weeks away, in a whole other country. After last night's dream, Geralt wasn't so sure that his presence in Velen was entirely coincidental, as if fate had led him to Ciri so he could be there when she needed him.
Whatever the reason, he was grateful for his proximity.
It took him almost a full day to reach Novigrad. It was well past midnight when he finally spotted the city walls. The guards at the gate shouted their protests as he thundered past, but were too unconcerned or lazy to go chasing after him into the city. Steering Roach directly into the Chameleon's stable yard, Geralt dismounted in a hurry and pounded through the back door, a blast of chill air preceding him through it. There he saw Dandelion and Zoltan arguing, huddled over a low table, worry etched into their faces.
"What are we supposed to—" Dandelion cut off midsentence as the door bashed into the wall and Geralt stepped in, quickly shutting it behind him. Zoltan and Dandelion snapped their heads around to inspect their intruder, their expressions swiftly shifting to bewilderment. "Geralt?" Dandelion probed incredulously. "What are you doing—"
Geralt didn't let Dandelion finish that sentence either, instead marching forward and demanding, "Where's Ciri?"
"She…how did you…" For once Dandelion was at a loss for words. That only worried Geralt further.
"I know something's happened to her. Tell me where she is," Geralt growled, more out of frustration at their seeming lack of urgency than anger. He knew his sudden presence was a shock to them, but he was disinclined to abide their confusion.
Sensing the conversation circling as Dandelion, for the first time in his life, fought for words, Zoltan stepped forward and voiced the unspoken question. "Geralt, how did you know Ciri was gone? How did you get here so quickly? We only just found out not an hour ago."
Striving to be patient, but with panic churning in his stomach now that Zoltan had verified that Ciri was in danger, Geralt answered, "I had a dream about her last night. I can't remember much of it, just flashes of emotions at this point, but I knew she needed me. I was in the area, so it didn't take me long to get here."
"Amazing," Dandelion piped up brightly, having finally found his voice. "Simply amazing. Wonders never cease, I always say. You know, there was a story once of a young maiden who—"
"Dandelion!" Geralt couldn't contain himself any longer. He needed to get to Ciri as soon as possible and he was in no mood for Dandelion's rambling. "Where is she?" he ground out through his teeth.
Dandelion threw up his hands in a placating gesture. "Alright, alright." He moved back over to the table and pointed to a spot on the map spread over it. "This is where she went. She left yesterday and hasn't returned. She should have been back by now."
"Aye, and Kelpie showed up about an hour ago without her," Zoltan added morosely.
Now that Geralt thought about it, he did remember seeing Kelpie in the yard looking quite the worse for wear. And Ciri was not one to leave her horse in such a state.
Zoltan spoke again, drawing Geralt's attention back to the table with a sweeping gesture that roved over the town Dandelion had specified. "And there are reports coming in of raiders hitting these areas."
"Raiders?"
"Mmm," Zoltan confirmed grimly. "They've been a real problem of late. Ciri's been working with the Guard to try to stop them, but without much success. She went on her own to protect that village. I fear something's gone wrong."
He should have come sooner. Why hadn't he come sooner?
Geralt studied the map for a moment and then turned to leave.
Zoltan grabbed for Geralt's arm. "Wait! Where are you going?"
Exasperated, Geralt spun back around, annoyed that they were hindering him further. "To find Ciri."
Dandelion circled around the table. "No, Geralt, you don't know what you're dealing with here. These men are dangerous."
Geralt gave them a look that said he would see for himself just how dangerous these men really were.
Zoltan must have read the sentiment in Geralt's eyes because he chimed in as well. "He's right, Geralt. These are no ordinary bandits. They're organized, disciplined. And they have far greater numbers than you can handle."
Hardness in his eyes, Geralt stared them down. "I don't care." Pulling his arm from Zoltan's grasp, Geralt strode to the back door, ignoring the protests from his friends, calling over his shoulder just as he reached for the handle. "Dandelion, I need your horse."
It took ten minutes for Geralt to saddle up Pegasus, a proud and noble bay stallion that Geralt knew would do well on a difficult journey. Dandelion had sold his old gelding a while back, wanting something more fitting for "a bard of such high standing." Of course, Dandelion could barely control his new mount and so Pegasus hardly ever got out. That suited Geralt even more. The steed would be itching to stretch his legs. Geralt would have rather taken Roach, familiar as he was with him, but Roach would be too worn out from the ride to Novigrad and Geralt couldn't afford to tarry.
Leaping astride an already prancing Pegasus, Geralt held firm on the reins, guiding the eager stallion to the gate. As soon as he saw the path clear before him, Pegasus reared high on his hind legs, nostrils flaring in anticipation, then bolted down the road like an arrow from a bow.
Geralt pressed himself flat to Pegasus' neck and let him gallop out of the city, enjoying the freedom such a fine beast could bestow, and bemoaning him an owner that never let him prove it. Frankly, Geralt was just glad to have some sort of direction now, that sense of purpose quelling the panic rising within.
About a mile after crossing the eastern bridge, Geralt slowed Pegasus to a steady canter. The stud chomped at the bit, but obeyed. Geralt knew he couldn't keep up such a wild pace all day. They needed to pace themselves if they wanted to make good time, as much as Geralt—and Pegasus—wanted to fly across Velen. Besides, the roads were still hazardous in their current condition and it would be reckless to go galloping across such ice and snow. The roads had been relatively clear so close to the city, but they were already beginning to worsen.
A few miles further, Geralt heard hoofbeats approaching from the rear, coming up fast. He snuck a glance over his shoulder and pulled Pegasus to a stop at what he beheld.
Zoltan rode up to Geralt on his curly-haired pony, halting next to Pegasus. He meaningfully shifted the strap holding the axe across his back. "I'm coming with you."
Geralt raised an eyebrow in concern, eyes flicking from Zoltan to his small pony.
"Don't worry, she'll keep up," Zoltan said with a cheeky grin, patting his mount on her shaggy neck.
Taking his word for it and grateful for the gesture, Geralt gave a heartfelt nod of acceptance.
It turned out Geralt needn't have been worried. They made good time through another clear day. In fact, it was Pegasus who was beginning to flag as they reached the village around midafternoon. Zoltan's pony may have been short, but it was hardy and strong, a fitting match to the dwarf himself.
While they journeyed, Zoltan had filled Geralt in on what had been going on the last couple of months. Geralt remembered hearing vague tales in the taverns he would visit during his travels, but he had dismissed them as idle gossip. Now that he knew they were true, he began to understand the gravity of the situation. And he couldn't make any more sense of the raiders' motivations than anyone else. His first thought strayed to cannibals, but it seemed unlikely that people lost to such madness could act with the organization and tactics displayed by these men.
Their motivations mattered little to him in any case. He just wanted to find Ciri. What happened after that was none of his concern. Bandits roamed the land in droves. There was nothing he or anyone could do to stop it. If it wasn't this group attacking it would be another, so he assigned little importance to defeating them.
Although it was hard to turn his thoughts aside when he beheld the utter destruction before him. A small village lay charred and morose at the bottom of the hill they had just climbed. The people were devastated, some milling about glassy-eyed and aimless, others sobbing, but most trying to salvage what they could from the wreckage.
Zoltan and Geralt approached to wary glances and cautious hostility. Both stopped and dismounted, leading their mounts up to a group gathered in the center of the village. A few backed away timidly while a stout woman stepped forth and met them with a hardened gaze.
She regarded their weapons as she hailed them. "What do you want?" she barked.
Geralt held up his hands to show he was no threat. "Easy, we just want information. We're looking for someone. A girl with ashen hair and green eyes. She should have come through here two nights ago, presumably when you were attacked."
At his description, the flash of recognition and awe was unmistakable on many of the villagers' faces. It was a man from behind them that answered Geralt's query though, calling out from the building across the way.
Geralt gave the woman one last glance to show he meant no harm and then turned and walked over to the man, Zoltan trailing alongside.
"She saved my life, that girl you spoke of." The man, a blacksmith it seemed, addressed the duo as he rummaged through burned and looted tools, occasionally tossing one beyond repair over to the side. He looked up and indicated to a large bandage around his leg. "One of them was about to do me in, then she came riding out of nowhere, flung herself from her horse, and killed the man attacking me. Next thing I know, the bandits were all leaving, and she went chasing after them into the woods."
"Did you see which way?" Geralt questioned eagerly.
"Aye." The man nodded and pointed due east.
Without another word, Geralt mounted and rode off, leaving Zoltan to offer a quick thanks and hurry after him. Once he was a few yards inside the tree line, Geralt stopped and cast around for a trail. There was none noticeably visible.
"This is the problem we've been having," Zoltan offered. "They're clever like that. The storm always covers their retreat."
Geralt dismissed the comment, intent on finding some sort of clue. "They've never had a witcher tracking them."
He led them further into the trees, following what seemed a likely path, hoping the bandits would have felt no need to take further countermeasures against being followed. Geralt had yet to find any sort of trail, but searched every inch of ground they covered with the eyes of a hawk. Zoltan mirrored his actions even though Geralt knew he was no great tracker. Still, another set of eyes never hurt.
Almost an hour had gone by and they had trekked well out of range of the village. Geralt was too intent on his purpose to feel any sort of discouragement, but Zoltan, it seemed, was more easily dissuaded. He drove his pony in front of Pegasus to bring them both to a halt. Geralt looked up in surprise, the unexpectedness of the maneuver shocking him out of his concentration.
Zoltan let go a heavy sigh. "Geralt, I don't think we're going to find anything here. We can't just go searching the entire forest."
Geralt blenched at Zoltan's suggestion that they give up. "She's here somewhere. And I'm going to find her. I don't care how long it…takes." His words trailed off as his gaze wandered past Zoltan's ear. Steering Pegasus around Zoltan's pony, Geralt drew closer to a tree in the distance.
Zoltan followed curiously after. "What is it?"
Excitement bloomed inside Geralt. A few low-hanging branches were snapped at the very tips and dangling from one of them, lilting in the breeze, was a single grey horse hair. Riders had come through here recently. He had found the trail at last.
Geralt faced Zoltan, a grin breaking out across his face. "Like I said, you should have hired a witcher."
Though Geralt was sure they were on the right track, the trail was still extremely obscure. Once, the only marker was the barest hint of a boot print up under the base of a tree. The falling snow couldn't reach there and so hadn't concealed it. The companions labored on in such fashion for another hour, winding deeper into the forest.
As they were trudging along, a growing sense of familiarity came over Geralt and he lulled to a stop.
It took Zoltan a moment to realize that Geralt was no longer beside him. Bringing his pony back around, Zoltan rode up to Geralt. "What's wrong?"
Geralt offered no response because he wasn't sure himself. His silence had Zoltan nervously checking the trees around them, mistaking Geralt's reticence for fear.
Asking himself why he felt like he had been there before, Geralt cast his gaze around them, searching for answers. As he did so, flashes of a battle invaded Geralt's vision. They weren't enough for Geralt to glean anything useful, but left him with a lingering sense of dread. Not really knowing why, Geralt suddenly dismounted and ran forward a few yards. He fell to his knees and ran his hands through the snow, shoving aside the top layer of powder.
Blood. A lot of it.
Geralt recoiled from it, springing up to his feet and scrutinizing the landscape, all the while piecing together what would have happened.
Ciri had obviously found the raiders, otherwise there wouldn't have been a battle. But then, where were the bodies? And whose were they? There was something inside Geralt telling him Ciri was alive. But was it truly knowledge, or simply hope? Zoltan, having ridden up and inspected the discovery himself, gave Geralt a look that seemed to say he shared Geralt's conclusions.
Just then, a fox trotted through the distant trees ahead of them. It paused a moment when it spotted the travelers, licking its lips, and then continued on its way.
Maybe it was a bit of a stretch, but if those bodies were nearby, then that fox may have found them and enjoyed an easy meal. The merest chance was enough for Geralt. They didn't have much else to go on at this point.
"This way," he beckoned to Zoltan as he clambered atop Pegasus once more.
They followed the fox's tracks northeast. As they went, Geralt could just hear the cawing of crows at the edge of his hearing, all but confirming his hunch. After half an hour, they found what they were looking for.
Three bodies, half buried in snow, but uncovered and gnawed on by scavengers, were laid out under a tree. The arms of the middle one were crossed over his chest, hands clasping a short sword between them. It seemed as though the others had been laid as such, but they were much more ravaged than the third and their arms and legs stuck out at odd angles.
A wave of relief washed over Geralt when he saw that Ciri was not among them. Zoltan, too, let out an anxiously held breath.
It was strange to Geralt that the bodies would have been moved from the battle and then placed with such care here. If they were going to leave them, why move them at all? The only explanation that seemed at all plausible was that the raiders had planned on bringing the bodies back with them, but soon discovered it was going to take too much effort to do so. And they couldn't burn them because the smoke could draw too much attention if they were being followed. The fact that they had tried to bring the bodies at all was something novel to bandits as far as Geralt was concerned. Most of them couldn't care less about a fallen comrade, which suggested a much higher level of respect amongst this particular group.
On the flipside, the fact that they had decided to leave the bodies meant they were still a good distance from wherever the bandits were heading.
They needed to get moving.
From the makeshift graveyard, the trail wavered between east and northeast. The good thing was, it was easier to follow now. The forest was growing thicker and that meant less of the snowfall had reached the ground. The bad news was that the sun was setting and tracking would be immeasurably trickier in the dark, effective as Geralt's night vision was.
Nonetheless, they persisted through the night, Zoltan staying as close to Geralt as he could in fear of losing him in the dark, able to perceive just enough to see where he was going.
Determined now that they had a clear lead, Geralt brushed off the weariness that endeavored to drag him down after not having slept for two days. He set his will against it and pushed on.
In the early hours of the morning, Geralt smelled wood smoke—campfires. And they couldn't have been more than a mile away. Indicating this detail to Zoltan, Geralt led them on at a faster pace now, but still cautiously in case there were any sentries patrolling the woods. When a warm glow began to diffuse through the trees, they dismounted and tethered their horses, proceeding the last quarter mile on foot over a low rise. Crawling forward on their bellies so as not to expose their profiles to any potential onlookers, Geralt and Zoltan peered over the summit.
Below them was laid out a large camp in a sizeable clearing. Multiple fires were warming dozens of men, some armed, but most not. Whether they didn't have weapons or simply weren't wearing them, Geralt couldn't tell. He was certain, though, that there were dozens more men currently sleeping inside the myriad tents spread haphazardly through the depression and extending a little way into the trees to the East.
Somewhere, surrounded by that battalion of men, was Ciri, Geralt was all but sure of it. And he didn't know how he was going to do it, but he was going to get her out.
If he had been there before last night, he could have protected Ciri. He could have prevented this.
He was going to make it right.
No matter what happened.