Book 2: The Wolf Hunts
Chapter 9
Kaer Morhen
"That's a lot of bombs," Evie commented.
She was standing in the doorway of the downstairs lab, and her red-rimmed eyes were proof that she'd been recently crying. It had been a hard day for everyone, including her. Of the nine orphans who had arrived at Kaer Morhen, five had died during the battle and another, eleven-year-old Mabel, had been infected by Nikolai's blood and was currently in her werelion form in a locked room upstairs with a battered and bruised Rien. And except for Evie and Lydial, everyone else had suffered some type of injury. Barcain had been injured perhaps the worst and was recuperating from a broken leg as a result of chunks of stone falling down on top of him. Even with Geralt potions and Benny's healing magic, it'd probably be at least two or three days before he could ride again.
"Uh huh," the witcher said with a nod. "I'm not going to be caught unprepared again."
"Are you blaming yourself for what happened?"
"Logically…no. I know that their blood is on Eilhart's hands, but…I still feel guilty. Like I…should have known it was going to happen, or…could have done something differently."
Evie nodded. "Yeah, me, too. All I can think is that this is all my fault. If I had never taken the tome from Emhyr, they never would have died."
Geralt got up from where he was crafting his explosives and walked over to where Evie was standing. He held her hand and slowly nodded his head.
"You taking the tome is only one tiny piece of the jigsaw puzzle that was today's events. But you had no way of knowing what would happen here when you took it. All you knew was that if Emhyr got his hands on this weapon, then thousands – maybe tens of thousands - of lives would be lost. So… in my opinion, you made the best decision at the time with the knowledge that you had at the time. Wouldn't you agree?"
Evie nodded her head.
"And, anyway, it can't be all your fault because I can make the same argument. If I had never offered Kaer Morhen as a place for Rien and the kids to stay, then they'd still be alive, too. Or if I had chosen to kill Thacker and his men that first night right there in Lydial's room, or if I'd never taken us down into Ban Ard in the first place. Everyone one of us can torture ourselves with the 'if game' until we're filled with nothing but regret."
Evie nodded. "I know what you're saying is true…but, then why do we both feel so guilty?"
"Probably because we're the adults, and they were just kids. We were supposed to be responsible for them."
"Yeah…I was…" and then tears came to her eyes. "I was starting to already think of Isaac as ours."
The witcher pulled his wife into a hug.
She sniffed a couple of times before saying, "But it's not just the two of us. I know that all the rest feel guilty, too."
Geralt nodded. "Well, we all may feel guilty, but that doesn't mean we are. Eilhart's day will come. It's got to…eventually."
oOo
Several hours later, the witcher finished crafting his bombs and ascended the stairs to the first floor. He stopped when he unexpectedly heard the sound of a voice. No one should have been down in the main hall. Due to the damage from the battle, the survivors were all sleeping in the second-floor bedroom located in the tower, which fortunately still seemed to be structurally sound.
As he walked quietly around some stacked boxes and towards the voice, he heard it say, "I praise you, Essea. You heal the brokenhearted and bind up our wounds. You are…"
Geralt took a final step forward and saw Lydial in the flickering shadows of the burning fireplace. She was on her knees, with head bowed, and resting her forearms on a bench in front of her. He stared at her a moment longer, finally shook his head, and turned away, not wanting to eavesdrop any longer on her prayer. But she'd heard him behind her.
"Geralt?" she asked.
"Yeah…it's me," he answered, stepping out of the shadows. "Sorry I disturbed you."
"Oh, you didn't. I couldn't sleep so I've been down here for a while. How are you holding up?"
He nodded his head. "I'm okay." And then he sighed. "I just…I hurt for Evie. She's taking everyone's death – especially Isaac's - pretty hard. I don't really know what to do for her except just hold her and listen."
Lydial smiled. "That's probably the best thing you could do for her. Well, that, and pray for her." After a pause, she asked, "Would you like to pray together?"
He shook his head. "No…not particularly. No offense, it's not you. It's just…" He shook his head again, not finishing his thought.
"What is it, Geralt?"
He sighed and then walked over and sat on the bench near her.
"Today – at the funerals – and just now, I heard you praising Essea. I'll be honest, Lydial - I don't understand how you can praise him in a time like this. I mean – he's supposed to be this all-good, all-powerful God, right?"
"Yes. He is."
"Then, how could he let what happened today take place? Five kids – who did no one any wrong - are dead. A little girl has been turned into a werelion. How can a good, loving God allow that to happen? I'm starting to think he's either not all-loving or not all-powerful. One of the two."
Lydial nodded her head, sadness on her face. "I understand."
"Do you?" the witcher said with furrowed brows. "Because I sure as hell don't."
She smiled sadly, and then, she asked, "Has Evangeline told you of her biological grandfather?"
The witcher shook his head. "No."
"Then, may I?"
He nodded. "Of course."
"Dilis and I married when we were just teenagers…and, oh, how we loved each other." Lydial paused and smiled at the thought. "And, throughout our marriage, we longed for the day when I could finally conceive. We knew that we'd have to wait twenty-five or thirty years, but we figured that would just make having children all the more wonderful.
"When we were in our forties, we were living down in the Dol Blathanna valley. And, we – the Aen Seidhe – were facing a lot of persecution at the time. Which I guess is redundant to say, huh? When have we not, right?"
Geralt nodded his head but didn't say anything.
"Humans came into the valley, and at first, things were mostly peaceful. But, when we refused to move or sell our land to them, they just starting using force. Raiding our towns, burning our homes. The typical. The leaders of our community eventually had enough and decided to be more proactive, to take the fight to them. Dilis was always great with a bow so he went out with the others. They were only supposed to be gone for a few weeks. While he and the others were away, men came into our small town…those of us that they didn't kill, they beat and raped. Dilis didn't come back for several months, by which time I knew I was pregnant. I couldn't believe it. I hadn't even known I was capable of conceiving."
Lydial paused for a moment. Geralt could see from her eyes that she was lost in thought.
"You know, I can't even really remember what that man looks like now. It's been so long. I just remember, at the time, thinking that he looked so young," she said, shaking her head.
"Anyway, afterwards, I was distraught…and angry. I can remember screaming at Essea. Demanding to know why he'd let this happen to me - one of his most faithful followers. If he's all-powerful, then he could have easily stopped that from ever happening. So, why didn't he? Did he not care for me? As you asked, why would a loving God let this happen?
"And my fellow Aen Seidhe certainly didn't help matters. They considered my baby to be a mongrel mutt. Almost all of them urged me to I abort it. A few even offered me special potions that would do the job. And, then, on top of all that, I was terrified of how Dilis would respond when he returned…if he returned. At that point, as far as I knew, he was dead, which made me question how I was going to raise this 'half-breed' on my own. Every day…every night, I screamed, cried, begged to Essea…to fix this somehow. I even considered, briefly, aborting the baby. But I knew I couldn't. I knew how much Essea values life. And how could I end the life of this baby growing inside of me? It wasn't her fault that this happened. She was just as much a victim as I was. How was killing her fair to her? Despite my initial anger with God, I never stopped talking to him, and, eventually, I began asking him to simply to cover us with his blessings.
"So, I decided to keep her, and I found out quickly who my real friends were. Only my fellow Esseans were supportive. The rest of the community looked down on me for wanting to bring a mutt into the world. And, then one day, Dilis showed back up at our door, and I just broke down at the sight of him. I can remember just bawling in his arms – both out of relief and fear. How was he going to take this news? Would he hate me? Would he leave me? Would he despise the baby?
"And here is the most amazing thing, Geralt. He told me that, several weeks before, he'd started having dreams…dreams of me holding a baby…and a voice in his dreams telling him to take her as his own. He said that, at first, he had no idea what the dreams were about. But, after seeing me, he understood. I remember crying uncontrollably…so overwhelmed that he wasn't going to leave me…so overwhelmed that Essea would speak to him that way. Because I am convinced, to this day, that those dreams were the work of Essea. There is simply no other way to explain them.
"About a year later, I gave birth to a beautiful girl, Hannamiel, Evangeline's mother. And I'll admit that she had a rough childhood. She was ostracized a lot because of her mixed blood, but we loved her so much. Dilis treated her as if she truly was his. And we considered her a blessing, despite the horrific, unspeakable act that had caused it all. And she became even more of a blessing as the years passed since, no matter how much we tried, I couldn't get pregnant again. And through her, I have three precious grandchildren that I love, and now I have you…my wonderful grandson-in-law."
With that, she smiled and a tear rolled down her cheek.
"And I praise Essea for all of that," she said as she patted the witcher on his knee.
Geralt didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say.
"Geralt, can I tell you what Essea taught me through that experience?"
He nodded his head "Please…do."
"I've come to see life as an enormous painting. A painting so large that it covers an entire wall of this castle, and I'm standing so close to it that my nose is touching it…so I can only make out one tiny part of the painting. The part right in front of me, and even that is blurry. But Essea…he sees the entire thing. And he doesn't just see it, he's the one that painted it. So, I can't see how all the different sections of the painting fit together. I can't see what's coming up tomorrow or ten years from now, but he does. And when I don't understand…that's when trust most comes into play.
"He has showed me that he is not only all-good and all-powerful but that he is also all-wise. That his plans are too great for me to truly understand. In fact, it gives me peace to know that I worship a God whose ways are too intricate for me to fully comprehend. I wouldn't want a god that was no smarter than me. That's not a comforting thought.
"And because I trust him – trust that he is the all-wise, holy, just, loving, sovereign God - then I can praise him…even in heart-breaking circumstances…like today. I can praise him even when I don't understand his plans. Trust me, Geralt – Essea works in and through the darkest storms of life. I've seen him do it, and his tomes tell of him doing it."
"That's why you have so much peace." It was a statement not a question.
She nodded. "Because of his promises found in his scriptures, I believe that when I die, he will take me home to be with him…forever. And that means that this world is as close to hell as I'll ever come. So…no matter how painful this life is or how cruel this world is, I know it won't last forever. And once you settle the issue of death, what else is there really to worry about? What's the worst that man can do to us – kill us? Okay. That just means I get to go live in the presence of Essea."
Geralt was simply staring at Lydial, taking in everything she was saying, when he suddenly heard something coming from the direction of the tower and looked up. A few seconds later, his wife came into view.
"Geralt?" Evie asked.
He got up and went to her.
"Yeah. I'm here. Is something wrong?"
"No. I just woke up and you were still gone. I thought I'd come sit with you in the lab."
"Well, I'm all done down there. I was just visiting with Lydial."
"Oh…okay. Do you want me to leave you two alone?"
"No, baby, I want to be with you. Let's go to bed." He then turned back. "Goodnight, Lydial…and thanks."
She smiled. "Anytime, Geralt."
A few minutes later, they walked into their bedroom on the third floor of the tower and moved over to the bed. The witcher hadn't been in there since the battle had begun almost twenty-four hours earlier. He looked at the bedside table and noticed that his copy of the Essean tome was missing. He then looked to her side of the bed but didn't see it there either.
"Evie, did you already pack up my Essean journal?"
She looked at the witcher and shook her head. "No. I haven't seen it since yesterday. I thought that you had it." Then, her eyes went wide. "Do you not have it?"
He stared into Evie's eyes and simply shook his head, his jaws clenched in anger.
oOo
"It's still dark, Geralt. I thought we were leaving at sun-up," said a yawning Benny.
"Change of plans. We think Philippa took my copy of the tome when she was here…so we need to move with a bit more haste," replied the witcher.
"Damn…that means she knows where the Sword…rod…whatever is?" asked the mage as he got to his feet and starting looking for his trousers.
"Evie says no. Tome doesn't specifically indicate where it's located. If it did, we'd have gone straight there. Evie says that it just gives clues. She, honestly, isn't that concerned that Philippa has the book. Says the only way Philippa will find the Sword before we do is if she is a better historian than Evie. Evie's less worried and more pissed off…since it was her wedding present to me," Geralt finished with a smile. "But I'd feel better if we left now. I know Philippa. She's a resourceful witch, and I'd never underestimate her."
Benny nodded. "Yeah, after the display she put on yesterday, me neither," he replied, putting on his boots.
There was a moment of silence as the sorcerer continued to dress.
"Hey…Benny?"
"Yeah?" Benny asked, looking up from lacing his boots.
"I never thanked you yesterday…for sacrificing yourself for my wife. She told me that you jumped in front of Philippa's spell."
"Ah," said Benny waving his hand. "It was just a stunning spell."
"Yeah, but you didn't know that at the time, did you?"
The mage looked at the witcher for a moment before shaking his head.
"Exactly. So…thank you, Benny. I owe you," said Geralt, reaching his hand forward.
"Hey…that's what friends do," replied the sorcerer, shaking his hand.
oOo
Daevon, Kaedwen
Fringilla Vigo had been renting a room at the Twisted Root Inn for five days, by which time she had started to hate not only the run-down tavern but also the dirty, depressing town and every uncouth bumpkin in it. She honestly didn't know why the insignificant, little town even existed. Why had it ever been formed in the first place? The thought of calling down hail and fire on the entire gods-forsaken area brought a smile to her face. It didn't help her mood than she was not wearing her typical attire. Every time she caught sight of herself in a reflective surface, she involuntarily made a face. She thought she looked like a farmer's wife. Of course, that's what she was intending, given that she was in Radovid-controlled territory. She knew her usual ensemble screamed, "Witch!" Regardless, the Nilfgaardian sorceress had a very sour disposition. Oh, the hardships she was willing to go through for her country, she thought seriously to herself.
As the sorceress spent hour after hour on the inn's front porch looking down the road towards the south, she alternated between being frustrated, angry, and concerned – but mostly angry. Malek and his men were at least three or four days behind schedule. Why hadn't he used the megascope to contact her – to let her know of his location or, at least, of his new arrival time? After day two of her wait, she "borrowed" a horse and started riding southwest out of Daevon, hoping to perhaps come upon them somewhere on the road. A half a day's ride later, she came to the pass in the Kestral Mountains. She, obviously, noticed the rock slide, but she also noticed a few arrows and crossbow bolts embedded here and there in the soil. She dismounted her horse, teleported higher into the mountains, and investigated the scene. She found no bodies, but she did notice dried blood splattered about on the rocks and soil.
She returned to the Twisted Root, not knowing exactly what else to do. She had no way of finding Malek or knowing what had happened to him. And that's when, much to her surprise, her anger seemed to turn to concern. Why would she be feeling a sense of anxiety, she thought to herself. Was she truly concerned with Malek's safety and well-being? She was confused by that possibility, for she had sworn years ago never to let her feelings for a man interfere with the greater plan. Her time with Geralt of Rivia in Toussaint had taught her that lesson. If anything, she should welcome Malek's death, knowing that it would greatly hinder Emhyr's plan to find – well, to find whatever he was searching for. But for some reason, the thought of Malek lying dead put a frown on her face.
Choosing not to contemplate the matter any longer, the Nilfgaardian sorceress decided that she'd give Malek one more day. After that, she'd teleport back to Vizima and see if she could discover anything new there. And it was at that point that she saw a group of men riding hard from the south with a cloud of dust trailing behind them. Moments later, she recognized the riders heading in her direction so she walked out into the middle of the road. Within a minute, Malek and his men halted their horses, the dust cloud blowing forward past them and into Fringilla. Seeing the sorceress standing before him, he nodded his head.
"Didn't think you'd still be here."
"I promised to help you. So, here I am," she replied with a smile.
"Then, grab a horse. We're going to Kaer Morhen."
Fringilla was conflicted. A part of her was pleased to see Malek was alive, but another was disturbed that he seemed to have a lead on his task. Not knowing exactly how she felt, she simply kept the smile on her face.
"You all – and your horses – look completely exhausted. At least, stop here for a bit to eat and give your horses a rest. It doesn't look like much, but the inn offers some delicious stew," she lied.
Malek looked around at his men and their mounts and sighed. He finally nodded his head and said, "One hour…and then we ride again."
oOo
Tretogor, Redania
"Roche, you won't believe it," said Ves, entering the Temerian's command center located in a cave in the hills.
Roche sighed. There was no telling what was going to come out of his lieutenant's mouth.
"What now?"
"Another platoon of Redanians left the palace in a very big hurry."
"Toward Kaedwen again?"
"No, heading due north."
When Roche didn't immediately say anything, she asked, "Think it's got anything to do with Geralt and that Nilfgaardian historian again?"
"I don't know, but this time, I'm going, as well," he answered, while grabbing his gear. "Let's gather some men."
oOo
The Pontar River
Private Kilmer, an infantry man of the Redanian army, was yawning in his covered foxhole. He had been standing watch in what he considered to be the worst part of day – the three to six am shift. He was a member of the Third Infantry Division, known affectionately as the Bulldogs, and they had been tasked with defending the Pontar River from just east of Oxenfurt all the way to just west of Rinde. In the last year, Kilmer and his fellow soldiers – over three thousand strong – had fought countless skirmishes with the Nilfgaardians for this territory. It was vital that Redania hold this particular area of its border, for just a day's ride north was Tretogor, the capital and current residence of King Radovid. Truth be told, though, Kilmer considered himself more of a spectator than an actual combatant. He and his fellow brothers of the infantry had done virtually no fighting since Redania's superior long-range weapons of destruction had kept the Black Ones from ever reaching, much less crossing, the river itself. Therefore, Kilmer just did a lot of watching – and he was just fine with that.
As the sun came up and shed light on the country side below, Kilmer, at first, didn't even notice anything out of the ordinary. After six or seven months, he'd gotten used to simply seeing the same thing every day – specifically, the Black Ones encamped far away on a hilltop, just out of range of the Redanians' ballistae, catapults, and trebuchets. But, suddenly, he did a double-take. This morning, the hilltops and meadows on the southern side of the river were free of the enemy for as far as his eyes could see. He shook his head in bewilderment as he realized that sometime during the night, the entire Nilfgaardian division had quietly retreated.
He turned and kicked his foxhole buddy in the foot.
"Wake up, Smitty!"
"Wassa…uh," his comrade mumbled.
"Get up! We've got to tell Captain Theissman about this."
oOo
Gors Velen
Emperor Emhyr var Emreis stood on the docks and watched with a critical eye as the fifteen, heavy crates were loaded carefully on the decks of the largest ships in his fleet. Countless, enormous black sails emblazed with a golden sun filled his vision as he looked into the harbor and beyond – into the Great Sea. As he watched several thousand of his troops board his sea-going vessels, he nodded his head slowly to himself, pleased that, so far, his final plan was proceeding as expected. He reached both hands into the pockets of his trousers, each hand caressing a metallic disc – smooth on one side and grooved on the other. Just the touch of the objects on his fingers fortified his resolve. He nodded his head again, telling himself that he had no other option – not if he wanted to retain his throne, and certainly not if he wanted to cement his legacy. For he knew, better than any, that his eventual legacy and reputation would be far more influenced by how he ended his reign than by how he had started it. No one cared how or where you started - only in how you finished, and he refused to go out whimpering, ineffectual, and impotent.
oOo
Kestral Mountains
"But I thought the word for 'follow' was 'aecaemm?'" asked Geralt, looking down at the Essean tome and then at Evie.
"It is, Geralt. But, again, the Elder Speech that you know and that the Aen Seidhe currently use is slightly different."
Geralt and Evie were riding on the front bench of the covered wagon – Evie with the reins in her hands and the book in Geralt's. Lydial was in the back with the supplies while Benny and Barcain were bringing up the rear on their respective horses. Roach, with her reins tied to the back of the wagon, was following along and would, to Lydial's amusement, occasionally poke her head through the split-canvas flap that covered the back opening to eyeball Lydial. She knew that, more than likely, the horse was just looking for food.
They'd departed Kaer Morhen three days ago, and earlier that morning, they'd traveled around the city of Leyda and headed west through the Kestral Mountains, towards Redania. They had already reached the summit of the western ridge of the mountain chain, but before they could crest the other, they'd first have to descend into a narrow valley – a valley in which almost the entire width was covered by the deep, rushing waters of the Nimnar River.
The witcher exhaled with frustration.
"Damn it. I'm never going to get this," he said, shaking his head. "Why was learning languages so much easier when I was a kid?"
"I don't know. Maybe you had a better teacher?" she teased.
The witcher made a face. "Hardly. Old Kalen - he was a nasty piece of work."
"I thought Vesemir was your instructor?" asked Evie.
Geralt shook his head. "Just with weapons, mostly. That was his specialty. But I had other teachers for the other disciplines – alchemy, Signs, explosives, physical training, book learning, so forth. Though, there was a lot of cross-training that went on."
"Were you ever an instructor?"
"No…I mean, with other than Ciri, no."
"Why not? I thought you were the best – the famous White Wolf. I'd think you'd be a great teacher," she said with a smile.
Geralt smirked at his wife. "Well, even if that were true – that I was the best – that doesn't necessarily mean I'd be a good teacher. There are a lot of people who are good at what they do, who can't teach worth a damn."
"That's true," she said nodding her head. "So, you didn't teach because you were lousy at it?" she asked, still smiling.
"No, Professor…because there wasn't anyone to teach."
"What? Why?"
"Typically, witchers come in from the Path during the winter months, when monsters hibernate. But, one year, I was late returning to Kaer Morhen. I got caught down in the southern part of the Continent with a long run of good luck. Seemed like every town I came to had an open contract. Winter was approaching and I tried heading north, but like I said, I was getting stopped in every town. So, I actually stayed in the south that winter…during which a pogrom occurred at Kaer Morhen. Killed almost every witcher there, even the kids. Also killed Festus, the sorcerer that was there that helped with the Trial of Grasses." Geralt paused for a moment, shaking his head. "The lynch mob must have been enormous to take down a bunch of trained witchers and a mage. I honestly don't know how they even knew how to find our keep in the first place. But, regardless, they burned a lot of tomes…did their best to wreck the place. When I finally returned a year later, there was only a handful of us left. Vesemir had repaired the place best he could. Found copies of old bestiaries and texts to partially restore our library. But the specifics on how to create witchers were lost forever. Vesemir was the only instructor left alive…and he only knew the rudimentary steps, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway since our sorcerer was dead. So…" Great shrugged. "I simply never had anyone to teach…until Ciri came along…and then Isaac."
Evie was quiet for a while. "Damn it, Geralt," she said sadly.
"What is it?"
"Do you have any happy stories or memories?"
It hurt Evie to know that her husband's psyche and soul were as scarred as his body.
He was silent for a moment and then slowly shook his head.
"I've got to have a few, right?" he asked rhetorically. "But even the happy ones – of Ciri, Vesemir…others – are all tinged with sadness."
At that point, he looked off into the mountains, lost in his thoughts.
"I've had too many goodbyes in my life," he eventually said. "I'll be honest – I'm getting tired of them."
He then smiled wistfully and looked at Evie.
"You know, to me, that's what heaven would be…the place where you never have to say goodbye."
She nodded her head and then leaned into Geralt, hugging his arm.
"Well, husband, I'm never telling you goodbye. Okay?" And then she hugged him tighter.
"Sounds like heaven to me," he said, looking down at woman next to him. "I don't think I've told you today…that I love you."
"I love you, too, Geralt."
oOo
Kaer Morhen, Kaedwen
"Good morning," greeted Malek in a friendly tone and wearing his most charming smile.
Rien, Gretel, and the remaining, non-infected orphans – Lukas, Tressa, and nine-year-old Erasmus – had been sitting and eating breakfast at a table near the large fireplace inside the partially-standing castle, but they had all risen to their feet upon hearing approaching footsteps.
Malek and his men had entered the keep's grounds earlier that morning and had spent several hours spying on the castle. Given the absence of walls and a ceiling it wasn't difficult for his men placed in various positions to get a clear view inside. To his disappointment, it appeared that his niece was no longer on the premises.
"Good…good morning," stammered Gretel, looking nervously at both the giant of a man and the men spread out on either side of him. "Would…you and your men like some breakfast?"
Malek genuinely smiled. "No, thank you, Miss, but I do appreciate your hospitality."
He paused and looked at the five youth in front of him, the four eldest looking at him with suspicious eyes. He made a quick decision on how he was going to play this situation, knowing that the best lies were the ones that were composed of ninety percent truth.
"I'm not going to insult your intelligence. We are not lost nor here by accident. I am looking for my niece. I believe she was here. Her name is Evangeline."
"You mean, Evie?" asked Erasmus.
Immediately, Tressa hissed in a low tone, "Erasmus." When he looked up at his sister, she was glaring at him.
Malek's eyes turned to the young boy.
"Yes, she sometimes goes by Evie. So…clearly she was here."
Malek then continued speaking, but he paused and peered closely at each one as he spoke.
"She has gotten herself into a bit of a predicament, and I'd like to help her out of it."
When no one responded, Malek continued.
"So, do any of you know where she was headed?"
Still, no one answered.
"What about you, little man? Do you know where Evie was going next?"
Tressa grabbed Erasmus by the shirt and pulled him closer. He looked up at his sister and then back at Malek. He shook his head vigorously.
The smile on Malek's face vanished. He breathed in very deeply, very slowly, and then exhaled the same.
"I was afraid that would be your answer."
He turned his head slightly to his left but never took his eyes off of the five in front of him, especially on Rien. Years of experience told Malek that he was the most dangerous of the bunch.
"The blonde," he stated simply. At which point, his men moved forward, two of them grabbing Tressa and the rest drawing weapons against Rien, Lukas, Gretel and Erasmus. Malek waited patiently until all the yelling and screaming finally ceased, and once there was quiet, he spoke again in a very calm voice.
"I was hoping that at least one of you would see reason. But, alas…"
He then looked into their eyes.
"Believe me, I take no pleasure in this. I would have preferred that you simply tell me where she went and then we could be on our way. But know this – Evie holds the key to something incredibly valuable. It is more valuable than your lives…even more valuable than mine. It is more valuable than any person's life who is walking this planet. Therefore, I am willing to kill you to get it…to make sure that it does not fall into the wrong hands. Understood?"
His eyes rested on those of Erasmus.
"So, I will ask one more time. Does anyone know where she went?"
When no one answered, he looked at the two men holding Tressa.
"Hold her against that column," he ordered.
Fringilla Vigo watched the two men drag the screaming Tressa over to one of the few still-standing columns within the castle and, with one man on each arm, pulled her back tightly against it. During this entire sequence, the sorceress had stood back, watching and listening, but not saying a word. She was incredibly conflicted but her face remained of mask of stoicism. She was confident that she could brew up a special elixir that would act as a truth serum. Give her an hour, and she'd have the five giving up all their secrets. However, she clearly wasn't going to help Malek succeed on the Emperor's mission. That said, she also didn't particularly want to see an innocent girl die, either.
The emotion that she was feeling the most, though, was surprise. She was surprised that Malek would do this. She thought him to be a man of certain principles. She shook her head slightly, realizing, once again, that while she was a highly-skilled sorceress, she was horrible at reading people, and she chastised herself for being so foolish. Malek had been Emhyr's right hand for decades. He wouldn't have attained, much less held, that position for so long if he wasn't as ruthless as the Emperor himself.
Malek then turned to the man next to him and grabbed his crossbow.
Gretel yelled, "We don't know! We don't know! They didn't tell us where they were going!"
Malek peered at her and sighed. "We shall see shortly if you're telling the truth."
And then he brought the crossbow up to his shoulder, aiming the weapon at Tressa. He looked at her four friends one last time, and then turned his eyes back to his target.
"Rien."
The name was spoken softly, but everyone heard it and looked at Tressa. She was no longer struggling against her captors and was staring directly at the long-haired young man.
"Avenge me," she said, barely above a whisper.
She then turned her calm eyes towards Malek's.
"I don't want to have to avenge you," Rien said looking at Tressa. He then, too, looked at Malek. "Please don't kill her. I'll tell you what I know. They didn't tell us where they were heading, but…I overhead them talking one day. I think I know where they were going."
Malek did not lower his weapon, but he did speak.
"Know this – I have a general idea of where they are headed, just not the specifics. Therefore, if you choose to lie to me…if you choose to tell me that they are heading to the Skellige Islands or to Povis or any other nonsensical location, then I will know it's a lie and I will kill this girl."
"They were going to Novigrad," replied Rien in a defeated voice.
"For what purpose?" asked Malek.
"I don't know exactly. I just heard her say that she needed to ask some guy a few questions regarding a book."
Malek didn't say anything for several long seconds, his finger still on the crossbow's trigger.
Finally, he stated, "You have chosen wisely, for which I am grateful." And he lowered the crossbow.
Five minutes later, Malek, Fringilla and the rest walked out of what was left of the Kaer Morhen castle.
"Would you really have killed her, Malek?" Fringilla asked as they descended some steps.
Malek turned to face the sorceress but kept walking.
"I'm surprised you'd ask that. I thought you knew me well by now," he answered neutrally.
Before she could respond, he asked, "So…Novigrad…coming with us?"
"Ugh…I'd really like to just teleport there, but I'm afraid I'd never see you again. You clearly don't know how to arrive on schedule," she replied, thinking of her unbearable, five-day wait in Daevon.
"Yes, my apologies for that," he said. "It seems that, no matter how much I plan, life unfortunately still requires much improvisation and flexibility. But, cheer up…in this case, I am going to acquiesce to your desires. A portal would be best."
Though her face didn't betray it, Fringilla was surprised. She didn't say anything, but she did turn to look at Malek.
"They apparently have a three's day head start," Malek explained. "I'd like to be waiting for them when they get there."
Once the group had reached their mounts, Malek turned to the rest.
"Miss Vigo will open a portal to Novigrad, which Timataal, Delkith, and I will be using. The rest of you will ride there as quickly as possible. It should take you around five days. Our rendezvous will be the Seven Cats Inn east of the city. If we are not there when you arrive, just wait. One of us will check for your arrival at three o'clock each afternoon."
They all discussed the plan in detail for a few more minutes, and once Malek had answered all questions, he turned to Fringilla.
"Miss Vigo, a portal, if you'd please."
oOo
Kestral Mountains
Vatslav – the once proclaimed, "Arm-Wrestling King of the North" - wasn't as old as Geralt, but he certainly looked older. His face – the color of deep mahogany and creased more deeply than a wrinkled napkin - was a testament to the fact that he had spent the entirety of his seventy plus years outdoors, weathering the effects of the sun and wind. When he was in his early twenties, he had built a small shack on an elevated piece of land just east of the bridge that crossed the Nimnar River, and that shack had served as both his residence and a general store for the last five decades. He provided most of his sustenance through hunting and fishing, but he'd barter and trade specialty goods – especially tobacco and whiskey - with all the folks that used that particular pass in the mountains while travelling to and from Redania and Kaedwen.
Not long after he had established his home in the mountains, the dilapidated bridge that spanned the river finally fell due to heavy flooding from a particularly violent storm, with the majority of the bridge washing away downstream. But instead of viewing the incident as a disaster, the optimistic Vatslav looked to turn it into a profit. It had taken him months to do so, but he eventually used the timber from what was remaining of the bridge to build a large, flat-bottomed ferry, to which he affixed a rope – as thick as a man's arm – that he securely tied off to both sides of the river. Since then, he'd charged a small toll to ferry travelers from one bank to the other, and over the decades, that enterprise had not only beefed up his coffers but also his muscles, allowing him to defeat virtually all challengers in arm-wrestling contests for about a thirty-year span.
The day that he was finally vanquished – roughly fifteen years past – Vatslav had, with a knowing smile, heartily congratulated the victor, for he had always known the day of his defeat would eventually come. Just as he'd seen in the last fifty years the incessant wind and rain gradually erode and transform the rocky cliffs of the Kestral Mountains, he too had felt time taking its toll on his body. For time always won out. It had an undefeated record. That was a lesson that all mortal creatures eventually learned. The strong, straight backs of today's youth were the curved, brittle spines of tomorrow. The shiny eyes, bright smiles and flawless complexion of today's fair maidens were hidden in the wiry, silver hair, the spotted skin, and the stained teeth of tomorrow's aged. Some faced that lesson with humility and a calm acceptance while others angrily railed against it. But regardless, it was a lesson everyone learned – the one group left with a tranquil peace afterwards and the latter left bitter and depressed. If anyone had asked Vatslav where he stood, a smile would have come to his mouth – a mouth both full of tobacco and empty of half its teeth – and he would have stated that he definitely fell in with the former group.
Vatslav, sitting in a rocking chair on the small, roofed porch of his hut, heard the sound of horses' hooves and wagon wheels coming from the dirt trail to his right. Seconds later, he saw a single, covered wagon come into view, accompanied by two individual riders on horseback. He peered at the man and woman driving the wagon. The two mounted riders and the woman were complete strangers, but his eyes lingered on the man on the wagon's seat, and he exhaled slowly. The man looked quite different from the last time Vatslav had seen him – shorter hair, scar somehow concealed, and swords missing from his back. But the man was clearly the Butcher of Blaviken. The witcher had used the pass countless times over the course of his life, and over the years, Vatslav and Geralt had formed a mutual respect – a respect grounded in the fact that they were both simple – yet not simplistic – men. More times than not, when the witcher would pass through, the two men would spend hours drinking, smoking, and playing cards together – many times in relative silence.
As the wagon approached, Vatslav stood up from his chair, both his back and knees popping. He spat over the railing of the porch, his slimy, caramel-colored glob of saliva splattering on the ground below, and then he slowly walked down the two steps and out towards his latest customers. As he got close enough to confirm that the man was indeed the witcher, he tried to smile, but he knew it looked more like a grimace. For once, he wasn't pleased to see the White Wolf.
"Hello, strangers!" he said, emphasizing the last word.
Geralt hopped down from the wagon and shook the old man's hand.
"Greetings, Vatslav," he said with a nod.
"Geralt, get on the ferry as fast as possible. You hear me?" he said in a whisper.
The witcher didn't bother to ask questions. He just nodded his head, jumped back onto the wagon, and snapped the reins. As they approached the river, Vatslav walked right next to the wagon and used its sound to disguise their conversation.
"What's going on, Vatslav?" the witcher asked in a hushed tone, his eyes scanning the land on both sides of the trail.
"Redanian soldiers came through here earlier this morning. They stopped and asked if I'd recently seen a party of five – two women, three men - in a single covered wagon. That didn't really get my attention. But, then…they specifically mentioned your name. What in the name of Lebioda's saggy ball-sack have you gotten yourself into this time?"
"Redanians?" asked Geralt in surprise. "Are you sure?"
Vatslav didn't even bother answering. He just looked at the witcher with a cocked eyebrow.
"Right."
"Geralt," hissed Evie in a whisper. "What do the Redanians want with us? How do they even know where we are?"
Geralt shook his head but didn't answer as he was now focused on getting the wagon onto the ferry. Once it was on, he quickly jumped off the seat and helped Vatslav make preparations for the trip across – untying a secondary line and raising the ramp.
"How long ago were they here?" he asked Vatslav while pulling up the stabilizing anchor.
"Three or four hours ago."
"And then they headed west?"
"No, east…towards Leyda."
Upon hearing this, the witcher was confused.
"That can't be. We would've run into them. Unless…"
And, then, as the ferry was just pulling away from the bank, the White Wolf looked up to see a large group of Redanian soldiers walking slowly down the trail towards the river's edge, each with a crossbow in hand. Vatslav continued to pull the large raft towards the western side, but Geralt didn't help him. He just stared at the soldiers who were all lined up along the river bank. His muscles were tense, and he was prepared to immediately cast a Quen dome around them all if the soldiers suddenly decided to unleash their arrows.
"Geralt, if they were waiting for us, then why didn't they confront us or attack us when they had the chance?" asked Benny.
Geralt just shook his slowly.
"I don't know."
And then a thought came to the witcher's mind, and he quickly turned and walked to the other end of the ferry, the rest following him. Roughly a hundred feet away, on the western bank, he saw another cluster of Redanian soldiers slowly coming out of hiding and walking towards the river. They were also armed with crossbows.
"Great. Thought so," said Benny sarcastically.
Upon seeing this, Geralt called out, "Vatslav, stop pulling."
The old man, with his head down, had been pulling on the rope with all his might. He looked up and saw that, now, both banks were full of Redanians.
As the river's strong current pushed against the ferry, Geralt spoke up.
"Benny, you asked why they didn't attack on the bank. If you were going to fight a witcher, then your best chance would be to take away his ability to use his sword and his superior physical skills, right?"
"Yeah."
"Well, look where they got me…us. In the middle of a river."
"So, what do they want?" asked Lydial.
Before anyone could answer, they all heard a voice from the bank.
"Witcher! Give us the historian! The rest of you can go on your way!"
"How the hell do they even know about me?" asked Evie with a panicked tone.
"I don't know," he said looking into his wife's eyes. "But they're not getting their hands on you."
"So, what are we going to do?" asked Barcain.
They all, instinctively, looked at the witcher, whose eyes were scanning his surroundings in every direction. As he looked downstream, he noticed that the river's narrow banks quickly disappeared, with the water simply bordered on each side by sheer rock faces that reached a hundred-foot high. He nodded his head slowly a few times, and then walked over to Roach and unsheathed his steel sword. He turned and looked at the rest.
"It could be nasty downriver…I hope you all know how to swim."