Book 3: The Wolf Dies
Chapter 4
The Nilfgaardian Province of Metinna
Malek looked over his shoulder to check on Lydial. She was riding alone at the back of the group as they made their way over a vast, grassy plain. The five of them had been riding north for several weeks now, and Malek was still surprised that she'd not tried to escape once. She'd had plenty of opportunities, especially at night when they all slept around their make-shift camp site. Yet, every morning, when they woke, she was still there. He knew in his heart that Barcain had threatened her somehow, even if she refused to admit it.
He gently pulled back on his reins to slow his horse until he was finally riding side-by-side with the she-elf, and the two of them rode in silence for a while. Lydial wondered what he wanted but not enough to care to ask. Eventually, the big man spoke.
"Can I ask you for a favor?"
Lydial looked at him suspiciously. "What is it?"
"Would you tell me about your daughter?"
The Aen Seidhe now looked confused. "Hannamiel? Why? Why do you want to know about her?"
"Well, I got to know her a bit over the years. I never had kids of my own so…I tried to visit Evangeline and the boys as much as I could. Be the best uncle that I could be. During my visits, she and I talked some, and…I liked her. She was one of the nicest people I've ever met, but…she also always seemed a little sad. So, I just wondered what she was like growing up. Was she always like that?"
Lydial didn't say anything. She looked into Malek's eyes and, after a bit, gave a small shake of her head.
"You know what - I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business, and I know I'm not your favorite person."
Lydial didn't respond. She stared up into the blue, afternoon sky as if she was lost in thought.
Just as Malek was about to ride ahead and leave her to her own thoughts, she spoke up.
"No. She wasn't always sad. In fact, she was the happiest baby I've ever been around. And, oh, did she love her daddy," Lydial said with a smile. "When she was a baby, Dilis would bounce her on his knee for hours. And, then, when she got a year or two older, she was always riding him around the house like a horse. Later on, Dilis got her a pony. She must have ridden that little mare all over Dol Blathanna."
"Angel Eyes," Malek whispered.
Lydial turned her head towards him, sporting a look of surprise and confusion.
"That's right. How do you know her name?"
Malek shook his head. "I…I guess she told me once."
Lydial didn't say anything, just waiting to see if he would continue.
"Whenever I visited, she'd sometimes ask me if she could ride my horse," he said. "And he was a monster. A giant warhorse that dwarfed even this stallion I'm on now. The first time she asked, I was terrified for her – afraid she couldn't handle him. But she took off like...a shooting star. She could ride better than me."
Lydial saw him smiling at the memory.
"That may have been the first time I ever truly heard her laugh."
He then looked over at Lydial, who was nodding her head, with a sad smile on her face.
"As she got older, she…well, she didn't have the best childhood…though, it was through no fault of her own," remarked Lydial. "There were circumstances that caused others in our community to treat her cruelly, and that changed her…regardless of how much Dilis and I assured her that we loved her, assured her that Essea loved her. She became depressed. She questioned her worth. At one point, Dilis and I even contemplated leaving Dol Blathanna. But where were we to go? Elf persecution was rampant at the time – as it always has been. The only time she seemed truly happy was when she was riding Angel Eyes. She'd ride up into the mountains and be gone for hours. I think that was her way to escape."
"Was that why she married Holsted, so she could escape from Dol Blathanna?" asked Malek. "I mean, it couldn't have been for love, right? I saw the two of them together."
Lydial glanced at Malek but then quickly looked away. But he'd seen the uncomfortable look on her face.
"He was your cousin. I don't want to…"
"Hey, there's nothing you could say that would offend me. I lived with him for a few years when we were teenagers. I know what he was like. He wasn't just socially awkward. There was something truly…not-quite right with him. It was like he couldn't connect with people…or didn't want to."
Lydial nodded. "I thought the same thing. He was always respectful, but I always got the feeling he looked at me like I was a thing instead of an elf."
"Yeah, well…I hope you didn't take it personally. He was like that with everyone."
"I wanted Hannamiel to marry for love. And she said that she was in love with him, but I didn't believe it. As you said, I believe she was just looking for a way out of our community, and Holsted was it." Lydial then sighed deeply. "There were so many times I wished that she could have found someone who would've loved her like her father loved me."
"Yeah," said Malek softly. "That's probably what she wanted to."
He then turned his head to look at Lydial. "It's a shame we rarely get what we want in life."
Lydial didn't say anything. She just looked at Malek and then slowly nodded.
oOo
The Nilfgaardian Province of Geso
After riding down out of the Tir Torchair Mountains, it had taken Geralt and Prickly Pete almost two weeks to travel through Gemmera and Maecht on their way north. The little donkey was slow but never seemed to tire. After crossing the bridge at the Velda River – the natural southern boundary between Geso and Maecht – the witcher veered off the main north-south highway. Just as he had done on the entirety of the trip so far, his plan was to avoid every village and town. He had absolutely no idea how people would react to the sight of an amputee witcher riding a burro and pulling a corpse, and he didn't want to know. Just to be safe, he'd even taken the swords off his back and secured them to the saddle. If he'd still had his cloak with him, he would've worn his cowl up, as well.
For the past several days, Geralt and his companion had slowly made their way through the Geso countryside. That decision had proved to be doubly-beneficial. The lush, prairie land provided Prickly Pete with plenty to eat, and it also allowed the witcher to replenish some of his alchemical supplies. Whenever Geralt stopped to allow his donkey to rest and graze, he'd grab his crutches and go off in search of various plants and herbs – honeysuckle, celandine, and the like.
As the two of them crested a small hill, Geralt suddenly pulled up on his reins. Buzzards were flying high in the early morning sky about a quarter mile away. They looked to be circling right above where he knew the east-west trail ran between the towns of Amarillo and Druigh. That didn't bode well. He had wanted to pass between the two towns in that exact spot, but the buzzards' presence could only mean that something – or someone – was dead on the trail. And, typically, wherever there was prey, there were also monsters – of one type or another. The witcher stared up at the birds in the sky for a moment longer before finally turning in the saddle and looking down at Evie's corpse tied to the litter.
Eventually, he faced forward again and gave a slow shake of his head. "We don't have time for this."
He turned his donkey eastward and snapped his reins. "We'll go around whatever it is."
He'd only traveled ten or fifteen yards when he pulled back on the reins again, halting his mount. He let out an exasperated sigh and then sat there simply shaking his head. He couldn't stop thinking about Gracie's words. He remembered his promise to her – to simply help whomever needed it. He knew he owed it to her to see what was down below.
"Damn it," he said under his breath. Then, he gave Prickly Pete a slight nudge to continue down the hill.
A few minutes later, the witcher stopped his donkey again when he picked up the sounds of some type of beast. He couldn't see what was ahead due to trees and shrubs obscuring his line of sight, but to the monster-slayer's ears, it sounded as if ghouls or alghouls were nearby. Geralt dismounted Prickly Pete, donned his swords across his back, and began to slowly crawl on his hands and knees towards the growling and other guttural sounds. After coming to the edge of some brush, he finally got a look at the scene ahead. A merchant's wagon was on the side of the road. The ox that had been pulling the wagon was dead, lying in its own pool of blood, and two ghouls were busily gnawing on the large carcass. Geralt let his senses take over, carefully assessing the situation. In addition to the ghouls, the witcher picked up another presence. This one coming from inside the wagon. It sounded like someone was speaking in the Nilfgaardian tongue.
The witcher looked upward, toward the heavens. "Really, God? Nilfgaardians? Of all the people I have to save…" he thought to himself.
As he looked back at the ghouls, the witcher sighed and shook his head. He had one leg and no bombs. He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to do.
"Okay, Gracie, after this, we're even."
Geralt crawled out from the bushes' concealment, stood on his left leg, and then quickly began hopping toward the wagon. Right before he made it to the front of the wagon, the ghouls noticed him, and they turned, let out gruesome howls, and prepared to attack. Instantly, the monster-slayer cast an Igni at both creatures, and while their bodies burned and their howls intensified, he pulled himself up onto the carriage seat of the wagon. Several feet above the ground, he could now fight from a position of safety.
The two monsters – their bodies no longer aflame but still smoking - attacked the wagon. They repeatedly swiped their sharp claws upward at the witcher, but he was too far out of reach. They were not out of his though, and he began casting both Igni and Blyx at the two foul creatures. Using both hands, he alternately burned and shocked the two ghouls, their cries of agony filling the morning air. Though his witcher Signs kept the monsters from actually getting close enough to him to draw blood, the ghouls still frantically lunged their bodies towards him, slamming against the wagon. At one point, the wagon was jostled so much that the witcher lost his balance, falling back onto the seat. Instead of bothering to stand back up, the monster-slayer made the split-decision to simply stay seated and continued to blast the two ghouls with lightning and streams of fire.
Very quickly, the battle was over, and as Geralt looked at the two smoking, loathsome-smelling carcasses on the ground, he realized that he couldn't remember, in his eight-plus decades on the Path, of ever fighting off monsters without his sword or from the seated position. He shook his head as he wondered just what Vesemir would have said at seeing the ridiculous display.
"Yeah, I know," the witcher said to himself. "That's not how you taught me to fight."
That realization brought home to Geralt, once again, that he was probably no longer qualified to be an actual witcher anymore. He sighed, shook his head again, and then he hopped off the wagon and expertly removed both ghouls' heads just to be safe. Maybe he wasn't a witcher any longer, but that practice was still deeply ingrained in him. He then moved to the back of the wagon, where he saw that its back door was barely hanging on its hinges.
"Open up," he called out. "It's safe now."
The damaged door slowly opened to reveal a young man, and the witcher guessed him to be around thirteen or fourteen years of age. Geralt quickly glanced past the boy to look inside the wagon, and he noticed two things. The wagon looked like it had been ransacked, and there was an elderly gentleman – either unconscious or dead – sporting a bloody wound on his bald pate.
"You killed the monsters?" the boy asked.
Geralt squinted his eyes, peering closely at the lad. He easily detected the boy's thick, Nilfgaardian accent just from the short question.
"I did," he answered. "What the hell are you doing in Geso, kid? This is a long way from Nilfgaard."
Geso, like all the territories of the south, was a province of the Nilfgaardian Empire, and the Black Ones' invasion of the land had been particularly brutal. In that war, many atrocities had been committed by both sides. And even though Geso had been under Nilfgaardian control for a couple of decades, the citizens of the province hadn't forgotten. They still carried much animosity in their hearts for their conquerors to the south.
"Oma and I were traveling for Sarda. The tailor there recently passed, and the commander of the city commissioned Oma to take his place. He is the best tailor in all the south so the citizens sent us a large retainer for our traveling expenses with a promise of more once we arrived."
The witcher nodded in understanding. Sarda was the home of a Nilfgaardian outpost housing a medium-sized garrison, and it was probably the only place in Geso where Nilfgaardians weren't treated with open hostility. Over the years, the fort had gradually grown into a rather large town as merchants arrived to sell the many soldiers their wares. It seemed that despite their hatred for the Black Ones, Gesoan businessmen were still willing to trade with them. Geralt didn't hold it against them, though. In fact, it would have been hypocritical of him to do so for, while he didn't care for Nilfgaardians either, he'd still accept a contract from them on occasion, too. As the witcher had said on occasion – if he only took contracts from people that he liked and respected, then he'd never work.
"What exactly happened here, kid?"
"Bandits, sir. They stole all of our money and our two horses and killed our ox. When Oma fought back, they hit him on the head. And then, later, those monsters showed up."
Geralt nodded. "Yeah, the smell of blood attracts them. Alright, kid, move aside. I'll see what I can do for your gramps," he said, climbing into the back of the wagon. The witcher knew that "Oma" was what some Nilfgaardians called their grandfathers.
"Do you mean that you will actually help?" The lad sounded surprised.
"I'll try," Geralt said as he knelt by the old man's body.
"Oh, praise the Great Sun. You're the only one."
Geralt turned to look at the boy. "What do you mean 'the only one?'"
"Three others stopped yesterday – before the monsters showed up - but as soon as they discovered that we are from Nilfgaard, they spit on the ground, cursed us, and left."
The witcher gave a slight nod. "Not real neighborly…but not surprising either. Sure you want to live in Geso?"
"Right now, I just want my Oma to live."
"I'll see what I can do."
The witcher quickly went about tending to the man's wounds, carefully applying a poultice of yarrow leaves, aniseed and birchbark. Then, after taking some time to brew up a safe-for-humans healing potion, he coaxed it down his patient's throat. His care allowed the grandfather, whose name was Rojen, to regain consciousness. However, he was still incredibly weak so, after Geralt gently placed him on the back of Prickly Pete, he then tied him tightly to the saddle and to the stirrups so that he wouldn't fall off if he lost consciousness. Geralt had briefly considered harnessing his donkey to the wagon but quickly dismissed the idea. There was no way the little burro could pull something that size. After telling the boy to grab only the essentials from their wagon, Geralt – on crutches - led the motley crew down the road towards the town of Amarillo. It was the closest town and also happened to be on the way to Sarda.
"So, tell me about these bandits," said the witcher as they slowly headed east along the trail.
He had addressed Drazen, the boy, who was walking alongside the donkey. One of his hands was gripped tightly to the back of his grandfather's shirt to stabilize him.
Well," replied the lad, "we shared a table with three men at the tavern in Druigh. While we broke our fast, we all conversed, and Oma told them of our journey. That we were moving to Sarda for a fresh start after my grandmother's death. They informed us of the dangers of traveling the roads of Geso, and they offered to ride with us on our way as safety. Obviously, it was a ruse, for a few hours later, they pillaged our goods and stole all our coin and horses."
"Did you see which way they rode off?"
"No, by the time they left, I was inside of the wagon, trying to care for Oma," replied Drazen. Then, his jaws clenched. "But we rode with them all morning. I'll never forget their faces."
Geralt nodded. "I imagine not."
Throughout the rest of the day, the three of them kept up a steady conversation. Normally, that may have annoyed the witcher, who, traditionally, wasn't keen on meaningless chit-chat with strangers. However, since he knew they had many hours until they reached Amarillo, he was actually okay with the small-talk as it helped pass the time. At one point, Rojen brought up the Great Sun. It didn't surprise Geralt to hear that both Rojen and Drazen were followers of that deity as it was the official state religion of the Nilfgaardian Empire. Once again, as he had with Gracie, he felt something inside of him, compelling him to tell them of Essea, but, while both were respectfully quiet and attentive during his discourse, neither of them seemed particularly interested in the subject. Despite that, afterwards, his heart and mind felt at ease, which struck the witcher as strange. Geralt assumed that it was Essea who had compelled him to speak of his existence in the first place, but why would Essea put that urge on Geralt's heart if neither Rojen nor Drazen were going to be receptive to it? As God – a supposedly omniscient being - Essea had to have known that the conversation would end up bearing no fruit. So, then, what was the point – thought Geralt. It was just one more confusing aspect about Essea that Geralt didn't understand.
Over the course of the morning and afternoon, the three continued to converse about a variety of topics. They also came across a handful of travelers along the road. Seeing a white-haired man on crutches with a donkey hauling a corpse seemed to get everyone's attention. However, just as Drazen and Rojen had experienced the previous day, once the travelers discovered that the two hailed from Nilfgaard, all friendliness and offers of aid quickly evaporated, and the three were left to, once again, fend for themselves. Therefore, when Geralt and his companions finally made it to the outskirts of Amarillo, the sun was just starting to set.
The witcher couldn't remember the last time his muscles ached so much. He figured that he must have crutched himself over twenty miles since that morning. He really wanted a hot meal followed by a hotter bath. Amarillo wasn't much more than a village so it didn't take long for them to find the one inn.
As Geralt helped Drazen lift a still-weak Rojen from the back of the donkey, the teenager said, "Geralt, we don't have a single floren on us."
"Yeah, I know. Don't worry - I've got you covered," he assured the boy. "Look, why don't you two stay out here. Watch after Prickly Pete, okay?"
"Sure, Geralt," said the lad.
While it was true that he wanted the boy to look after his donkey and Evie's corpse, the deeper truth was that he also didn't want the innkeeper to hear Drazen or Rojen's accents. Geralt had no doubt that the inn would suddenly have no rooms available if the inn's owner discovered that they hailed from Nilfgaard.
The witcher entered the inn and approached the inn-keep behind a counter.
"I'd like a room for the night," he stated. "And a hot bath."
The man eyed Geralt carefully. "Twenty florens."
"That much?"
"Don't like it, then move on down the road."
Geralt nodded, and after looking inside of his money pouch, a grimace came to his face. All he had left were two Novigradian crowns and four florens. The single room would almost wipe him out. He had known that helping these two was somehow going to bite him in the ass. But, then, his eye caught the four florens that were also resting in the pouch – the four florens that Gracie had given him. The last four florens that she'd possessed. He thought again of all she'd done for him even though he hadn't deserved it. And thinking of her mercy and undeserved favor immediately brought the story of King Altachadh and his son to mind, which then reminded him of Essea. So, he sighed, nodded his head, and looked at the inn-keep.
"Two Novigradian crowns should cover it, right?" the witcher asked.
"Depends. If they haven't been shaved down."
Geralt placed the two coins on the counter, and luckily, they passed inspection.
Twenty minutes later, Prickly Pete was eating hay in a stall of the inn's corral, Rojen was passed out on the solitary bed in their small room, and Evie's corpse lay on the floor next to him. Geralt and Drazen were heading towards the inn's dining area to grab a bite before taking something back to the room for Rojen.
As they walked through the door, Geralt heard Drazen from behind him.
"Geralt," the boy hissed.
When the witcher pivoted around, he saw that Drazen had also turned around, his back now to the diners in the tavern.
Once Geralt moved up next to him, Drazen turned his head and whispered, "It's them. The men who robbed us."
"Where?"
"See the four men playing cards? I don't know the one in the yellow doublet, but the other three – that's them."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
With that, Drazen turned and took a step in the men's direction. Geralt reached out and grasped his arm.
"Whoa, kid. Where do you think you're going?" he whispered.
"To demand our money and possessions back," Drazen replied, looking up at the witcher, staring him in the eye.
"Come with me," demanded the witcher, still holding the teenager's arm in a vice grip.
Eventually, the lad nodded and they both moved into the hall just outside the dining area.
"Do you actually think they're just gonna hand your money over because you demand it? You were lucky they didn't kill you the first time."
"So, I'm just supposed to do nothing? Just forget about what they did?"
"No. I'm not saying forget about it. But confronting them by yourself is suicide. There's a fine line between bravery and stupidity, kid. Look, once you get to Sarda, tell the commander of the Nilfgaardian garrison. Let them hunt these three down."
"What they did was wrong," the lad said with steel in his voice. "They should be brought to justice." At that, he lifted his shirt to show Geralt the knife he had hidden underneath.
The witcher sighed. "I agree, Drazen, but I highly doubt that you're going to be the one to give it to them. You really think you can defeat those three with nothing but a knife?"
The vigor suddenly seemed to go out of the lad. He looked up at the witcher.
"No…but you could."
Geralt slowly shook his head. "Acting out of vengeance never turns out well. It will only lead you into darkness. Trust me on this."
"So, the man who killed your wife – if you ever find him, you're just going to – what – give him a tongue-lashing? Why do you even carry those swords with you then?"
The witcher stared into the young man's angry eyes for the longest time. When he finally spoke, his voice was low – almost a whisper.
"I don't rightly know what I'm going to do if I ever find him, but I know this – my wife is dead because I chose vengeance. I was so consumed by anger that I walked away from the love of my life as she lay dying at my feet. So…I will never kill out of anger or for revenge ever again. Do you understand me?"
Drazen's eyes never faltered, and he nodded his head.
"Fine, but you wouldn't have to act out of vengeance. I've got enough anger for both of us. All I'm asking you to do is act out of justice. Because it's the right thing to do."
Suddenly, Evie's words from the vision came to Geralt's mind. She had encouraged him to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with Essea until he was finally taken home. The witcher didn't know exactly where confronting these three bandits fell into all of that, but he knew he couldn't let Drazen face them alone.
Geralt nodded at the teenager.
"Okay, I'll go with you when you confront them, but let's compromise."
"What do you mean?" Drazen asked suspiciously.
"We find the local alderman or constable first and have him there with us, too. Maybe justice can be served without anyone actually having to die."
"Fine," agreed Drazen, but he didn't look happy.
The two quickly approached the innkeeper and inquired as to the whereabouts of Amarillo's alderman.
"Well, you're in luck. He's right here in the tavern. I think he's drinking and playing cards with his cousins."
The witcher sighed. "Of course, he is. This just keeps getting better and better,"
he said to himself, shaking his head. "What's his name?"
"Mylam. Alderman Bern Mylam."
Geralt turned to Drazen. "Okay, let's go talk to the alderman."
"But he's their kin. He's not going to do anything to them."
"Let's just give him a chance, alright?"
After the teenager nodded in assent, they headed back into the dining area, Geralt leading the way towards the table with Drazen a step behind. A voice in the witcher's head kept repeating, "Stay calm," over and over.
The witcher's crutches made a noticeable "thumping" sound on the wooden floor of the tavern, and that, along with his presence, caused the laughter and conversation to cease as he approached the four men. Their table was near a window that was facing the west, the last rays of the day's sunlight still shining through.
"Drazen," said Geralt, facing the four men, after coming to a stop in between the table and the window. He and the teenager were slightly backlit by the twilight. "Are you sure it's them?"
"Without a doubt. The one in the middle is wearing my grandmother's gold pendant around his neck."
"Well, well, the Nilfgaard scum," said Clem, the man with the pendant. He then turned his head to address the alderman in the yellow doublet. "This is the piece of shit's spawn, Bern."
"You Alderman Mylam?" asked Geralt to the man in yellow.
"Aye. Watcha need?" he said, his eyes quickly scanning Geralt's crutches and stump of a leg.
"This lad claims that these three men that you're sitting with robbed him and his grandfather yesterday – on the road twixt here and Druigh. Killed their ox, stole their horses, and beat up the grandfather, too. We're asking that you – as Amarillo's law officer - help us see that justice is done. That restitution is made."
The witcher's words – though spoken in a normal tone – were heard by every patron in the tavern, for by that time, all other conversation in the inn had ceased. Everyone's attention was focused on the confrontation at the alderman's table.
The four men at the table still hadn't even bothered to stand. They clearly felt no threat from a pubescent boy and an elderly, white-haired man on crutches.
"Old man," said the one with the pendant, "do you even know who you're speaking for? Has this boy even told you who his daddy was?"
The witcher squinted his eyes. "We had a long walk here today. A long time to converse. So, yeah, he told me. A soldier in the Nilfgaardian army. Died in the war."
The three bandits either sneered or guffawed at Geralt's answer.
"A Nilfgaardian soldier? That's all he said? Why don't you ask him his daddy's name?"
Geralt slowly turned his head in Drazen's direction but kept his eyes on the men in front of him.
"Drazen?"
"My last name is Kaarsten."
Geralt's brows furrowed deeply, and he sighed. "Damn it," he thought to himself.
"Your father was Jeremias Kaarsten?" he asked.
"Yes."
The witcher said nothing, but he again cursed to himself, for he had heard of Jeremias Kaarsten. Nearly everyone – at least, nearly everyone in the southern realms of the Continent - had heard of Jeremias Kaarsten. Though, he was actually better known as Kaarsten the Cruel. He had, indeed, been an officer in the Nilfgaardian military, and he was infamous for leading the most brutal unit imaginable. He and his men, called "Kaarsten's Carnage," terrorized the citizens of whichever realm the Black Ones happened to be attempting to conquer. The elderly, woman, babies – it didn't matter - he slaughtered everyone. He and many of his sergeants had been hanged about a decade ago. It was actually the Emperor himself who had finally decided to put an end to Kaarsten's reign of terror that had gotten so out of hand. Of course, anyone who knew Emhyr – as Geralt did – knew that he didn't care one whit about justice. His execution of Kaarsten was less about justice and more about practicality and politics – as a way to placate the thousands of voices in the Nilfgaardian duchies who cried out for vengeance over Kaarsten's war crimes.
"After what his piece-of-shit daddy did to our families, the boy's lucky we left him and his granddaddy alive," said one of the other men. "He slaughtered them all. That butcher even cut off my little sister's teats. What kind of sick bastard does that?"
The witcher shook his head. He wasn't sure how any of this could turn worse. Finally, he turned to look at Drazen.
"Kid, after this over, we need to discuss you picking a new last name – especially if you're gonna live in Geso."
"Never. I'm not ashamed of it. Kaarsten is my Oma's last name. And he's the nicest, gentlest person I know."
"The two of you need to move on," interrupted Clem, now standing up. "It was only the kindest of my heart that kept me from truly avenging my family yesterday. You're grandpappy got off lucky with just a bump on his head, but stick around, and I'll give you what you deserve."
The witcher's eyes drifted back to the alderman.
"So, you're gonna do nothing about this?" he asked. "These men are criminals."
Alderman Mylam looked at the boy and then at his cousins next to him. He then let out a sigh.
"Well, as I see it, this boy is simply confused…cause these three have been in my company, here in Amarillo, since yesterday morning. They couldn't have robbed this boy, as he said they did."
"He just admitted to doing it!" yelled Drazen, pointing at Clem. "Plus, he's wearing my grandmother's pendant around his neck. How do explain that?"
The alderman turned to his cousin. "You won that last night in a card game, right? From those three strangers that came through town."
The cousin smiled. "That's right. I did. Three mean-looking fellows. They must have been the bandits that robbed you, boy."
"That's a lie," hissed Drazen.
Suddenly, the smiles on the men's faces disappeared and their hands grasped their weapons on their belts. It seemed as if everyone in the tavern was holding their breath – waiting to see if they'd actually pull their weapons and attack.
The witcher immediately loosened his grip on his crutches, preparing his hands for action. He stared at the three men, and while he may have looked stoic on the outside, a war was raging within. He felt as if the darkness – telling him to burn them all – was about to overpower him.
"Whoa, whoa, boys!" said the alderman, nervously. "Let's cut the kid some slack. He's obviously been through a lot recently."
He then turned to face the witcher.
"You two are now officially disturbing the peace. I'm giving you a quarter-hour to leave our peaceful town."
The White Wolf never bothered to look at the alderman. His eyes were glaring at the three men who were gripping the hilts of their swords. As the witcher slowly breathed in and out, the voices in his head were screaming at him. Just for an instant, he thought of asking the three in front of him, "Do you know how long a witcher spends each day sharpening his swords?" and then proceeding from there. But, then – miraculously - the moment passed, and he felt a calmness wash over him. Finally, he broke his stare from the three and shifted his gaze to the alderman.
"You're obviously a man of law and order, Alderman Mylam," he growled out – doing his best to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "As such, now that you know that the pendant was stolen, then it's only right that it's returned to its rightful owner. Wouldn't you agree?"
The alderman nodded. "I am a just man…so, yeah, the boy can have the pendant back."
The one wearing the pendant quickly shifted his eyes to Mylam before glaring back at the witcher.
"And their horses," said Geralt with menace.
"Come again?" asked the alderman.
"I have no doubt that your friends here won this boy's horses from those three bandits in the same card game. I'm sure that we could check the stalls out back to verify."
"Fine," said the alderman. "Take the horses -"
"What? You can't be serious, Bern," interrupted the man with the pendant.
"Shut it, Clem," said the alderman. "Give the boy his pendant and his horses so that they can be on their way."
Clem turned to glare at the Drazen and Geralt before ripping the necklace from his neck and throwing it at the boy.
"I'd suggest that you two leave town as quickly as possible," said Mylam. "The sun's almost gone. Night can be a dangerous time in this land."
"Yeah," growled the witcher, "there's no telling just what kind of monsters we might run into."
oOo
"It's not fair," hissed Drazen. "They still have all of our money, they almost killed Oma, and…they're just gonna get away with it?"
"Life ain't fair, kid," answered the witcher. "Learn it now. We're lucky we got the pendant and the horses back."
Geralt, Drazen, and Rojen were all mounted on the backs of their horses – or in Geralt's case, on the back of his donkey – and were just leaving Amarillo.
"Geralt is right, Drazen," said his grandfather.
The teenager jerked his horse to a stop and glared at Geralt.
"We're lucky? I saw what you did to those ghouls. So, I know you could've killed those four men without breaking a sweat. We could've gotten everything back and made sure they never did that to anyone ever again if you weren't such a…a coward."
"Drazen!" admonished Rojen.
Geralt stopped his donkey and looked at the boy.
"Drazen, you're right – I could've killed them all…but taking a man's life is a serious matter. And, there are no do-overs when you kill a man. That's not something you can ever take back. So, yeah, they deserve justice. But what they did to you and Rojen…it doesn't warrant their deaths. That punishment doesn't fit their crime."
"You know what – screw you, Geralt!"
The lad kicked his horse and galloped down the road. Both Rojen and Geralt watched him ride off into the darkness.
"I'm sorry, Geralt. He shouldn't have said that," said Rojen after a moment. "We owe you our lives."
"It's alright," answered the witcher. "I'm used to it. Learned a long time ago no good deed goes unpunished. I'm just glad he's still alive so that he can be pissed at me. Better that than dead."
The witcher then looked up into the night sky and then towards the north.
"Look, Rojen, I gotta head north and Sarda is completely out of the way. Do you think you two will be alright?"
"Yeah, I think so. Sarda's just a day away," said the older man. And then, offering his hand, he continued, "Thank you again for everything you did. After Drazen calms down, he'll feel grateful, too. He's a good boy."
The witcher reached out and shook his hand. "Farewell, Rojen. And a piece of advice - the next time someone asks you two if you're related to Jeremias Kaarsten, the answer is 'no.' It's always 'no.' Got it?"
After watching Rojen ride off in Drazen's direction, Geralt turned slowly in the saddle and looked back at Evie on the litter. He stared at her for several long moments, before finally facing forward again. He then gave a slight pull on the reins to aim his donkey towards the north.
"Well, Prickly Pete, it's just the three of us again," he said, patting the little burro gently on the neck. As the donkey slowly but steadily clopped into the dark wilderness, Geralt thought about all the events that had happened since that morning.
"Essea, I have no idea what the point of all of that was," he said in a whisper. "But…thank you for keeping me calm tonight. I know that was you. That was all you."
oOo
Toussaint
Yeshua had left Aranbhaile a fortnight prior with a walking stick and his little donkey carrying some supplies – food, water, carpentry tools, and a few, specially-selected pieces of wood. During that time, the white crow had been his 'beacon,' leading the lean, bearded, dark-haired carpenter during the day. The crow had kept off the main roads and pathways so, fortunately, Yeshua had not come across any bandits that were known to prowl the region. Another boon was that, in the last two weeks, he had suffered not a single seizure. In fact, Yeshua honestly believed he hadn't felt so healthy in over a decade, since he'd been a teenager. Perhaps the exercise and the fresh, mountain air were doing him some good.
The high peak of Mount Gorgon was on his left when he heard the crow caw high above him. Yeshua looked up and saw the bird suddenly start flying at a high speed toward the north. He stared at the crow as it flew off and disappeared over a small hill ahead. Yeshua turned back and spoke to his donkey.
"What's that about?" he asked, confusion clear on his face. That was the first time in two weeks the crow had been out of his sight.
Yeshua grabbed the donkey's halter a little more tightly and then began to hurry up the short hill. Once he got to the top, he stopped as he saw the city of Beauclair before him off in the distance. The red roof and white walls of the royal palace gleamed in the fall sunshine. He recognized the tall steeple of the cemetery's chapel on the south side of town, and when he glanced to his right, he saw the city sprawling down towards the Port District along the Sansretour River. But what he no longer saw was the white crow.
Several hours later, Yeshua walked into the city of Beauclair, surprised by its condition. It appeared that much of the city's building and bridges were under repair. He noticed scaffolding connected to several three-story tall structures, and masons and painters were busy touching up the façades. The deeper he ventured into the city, the more repairs he noticed. He could tell that most of the homes and businesses had undergone some type of restoration process in the last year. The fresh coats of paint made that obvious. He wondered what had happened – perhaps a devastating fire.
Unsure of what else to do, he began stopping passers-by and asking if they'd seen a white crow. Most simply shook their head, though the occasional curious citizen would stop and actually engage him in conversation. But, even those, while being friendly, weren't able to help. Yeshua kept meandering through the city, pulling his little donkey behind him, when he finally came to a plaza in the middle of town. In its center, stood a tall, bronze statue of the former duchess, Anna Henrietta. The carpenter stood and admired the work. As a craftsman himself, he could appreciate and respect the quality of the artisanship.
Yeshua saw a young woman bending over and resting a bouquet of flowers at the base of the statue.
"Pardon, Miss," Yeshua said as he walked up next to her.
"Yes, sir," she replied as she straightened up.
"I know this may sound strange, but I'm looking for a white crow. You wouldn't have happened to see it, have you?"
She gave him a quizzical look. "Do you mean Corvo Bianco, perchance?"
"I…I don't know. What is that?"
"It is an estate – a vineyard – north of the city. Just past the tourney grounds."
"And 'Corvo Bianco' means white crow?" The excitement in the carpenter's voice was unmistakable.
"Indeed."
"Do you know who owns the estate?"
"Well, I heard that our late Duchess awarded the witcher the estate for slaying The Beast."
"The Beast?" he asked with a confused look.
"Sir, have you not heard of what happened here in the duchy?"
Yeshua shook his head. "I'm sorry, no. Could you explain, please?"
The young woman then gave Yeshua a summary of the events of the last year in Toussaint.
"And so, the White Wolf became the owner of the estate, but no one has seen him in months," she said in conclusion.
Yeshua's breath caught in his throat, and then he reached out and touched the woman on the arm.
"The White Wolf?" he asked, anticipation now even more evident in his voice.
She took a step away from the strange man and gave him a look. "Yes, that is his moniker."
"Please, Miss! Can you tell me where I can find this vineyard?"
oOo
The Pontar River
It was late afternoon when Barcain, Malek and the rest pulled their horses to a halt on the south side of the bridge that led towards the Redanian city of Oxenfurt. They didn't stop because they wanted to but rather because they had to. The bridge only spanned about a third of the wide river. As they peered across the Pontar, they could see that the city itself was in a very similar condition as the bridge. Over half of the city's buildings looked to be nothing more than rubble.
"Eilhart's monsters?" asked Timataal.
Malek shook his head. "Eilhart and Emhyr's monsters. She created them, but he let them loose."
He then turned to look at the rest of his party.
"I don't need to remind you," he said softly, "but I am anyway. We've been in danger ever since we crossed the Yaruga, but it's about to get worse. On the other side of that river is extremely hostile territory…so, let's do our best to stay unnoticed, shall we?"
After everyone nodded in agreement, they eventually made their way down to the water's edge where a couple of enterprising young men had constructed a ferry. They paid the fare, and after being pulled across the river, they headed into the city itself. The sounds of construction – hammering and sawing and men yelling – could be heard all around.
"I wonder if the inn is still standing?" asked Barcain.
"I could use a bed and warm meal," stated Lydial.
They'd been on horseback every day for the last month, and during their travels, many more nights than not, they'd slept under the stars after eating a dinner of hard-tack.
"Well, there's only one way to find out if it's still there," said Barcain with a smile. He then looked at the company around him. "Last one there buys the first round."
He then spurred his horse into a gallop through the crowded Oxenfurt streets, leaving angry and shouting citizens in his wake.
Malek looked at his best friend, and they both shook their heads.
"Well, that was inconspicuous," said Timataal.
oOo
There was one inn left standing in Oxenfurt, but, unfortunately, every room was occupied. Given how many houses were still under re-construction and, therefore, given how many Oxenfurt residents were still homeless, no one in the group was surprised. There was, however, room in the dining hall of the tavern. After getting their first hot meal in over a week, the five headed north out of the city to find a place to make camp for the evening.
Autumn nights in Redania were quite cold, and though they had anticipated such weather and bought thick winter coats down in Temeria, none looked forward to sleeping out under the stars. About a half-mile outside of the city, they came across a mostly-destroyed, abandoned house. It appeared as though the previous residents either were dead or had simply decided that rebuilding wasn't worth the effort. Fortunately, for the five, two of the house's walls were still standing, and its roof was still partially intact. If nothing else, the edifice would mostly protect them from the biting wind and from any overnight precipitation. It wasn't long before they were all huddled around a small but blazing camp fire, and shortly after that, they began to doze off.
Malek suddenly opened his eyes as he sensed movement near him. He looked up to see Barcain standing up.
"Gotta go see a man about a horse," Barcain whispered.
Malek nodded in understanding and closed his eyes. A while later, just as he was about to drift into sleep, he once again was jerked awake by muffled sounds – these coming from just outside the house's walls.
"Psst!" Malek hissed, quietly jumping to his feet. "Tim – Aarian – wake up."
At that moment, Barcain came sauntering back into the house.
"I've got good news and bad news, Uncle," he said with a smile. "The bad news is that we're surrounded."
Instantly, two dozen Redanian soldiers stepped out of the darkness. All of them had crossbows aimed at the four standing around the campfire.
"The good news is – I'm with them."
Barcain then pointed a hand towards Timataal and Aarian.
"Those two," he said simply.
Immediately, several Redanians fired their weapons, and the two Nilfgaardians' bodies were riddled with crossbow bolts before falling to the floor.
Lydial gasped and Malek went for the weapon at his side, but before he'd even unsheathed it, a half-dozen soldiers rushed into the house, pointing their crossbows right at him. He slowly raised his hands and looked down at his best friend of over thirty years. Timataal had three bolts protruding from his chest, and another through his eye. Malek gritted his teeth as he looked back at Barcain.
"Don't do anything stupid, Uncle. I had to plead quite vigorously to have you spared. He wanted you dead."
"He? Who's he?" Malek growled out.
Moving out from behind Barcain and into the firelight was a young man in his early twenties in full Redanian gear. Malek's eyes went wide with shock. He'd never met this man in person before, but he knew his face.
"He would be me," said the man with a crown on his head. "Radovid, Sovereign King of Redania."
Barcain then looked at Lydial and smiled. "You were wise to help me, Nain. I told you I had powerful friends."
oOo
The Dragon Mountains; 101 Years Post-Conjunction
Maccarreg shielded his face with his hand and squinted his eyes, but he could see nothing but a blanket of white in front of him. In the last three years of traversing back and forth over the northern part of the Continent, the elf from the south had become accustomed to snow, but he'd never seen a storm like this. He knew that one of his comrades was only a few yards in front of him, but the swirling flakes were falling so fast and thick that it was impossible to see. He wasn't even sure what time of the day it was since the clouds and snowfall were so heavy that they had blotted out the sun. Visibility was so low, in fact, that Maccarreg had ordered that all his elves dismount their horses and walk along the high, narrow mountain pass for safety's sake.
The Aen Seidhe commander pulled his gloved hand away from his face and reached out to his side, brushing his fingertips along the rocky, mountain wall on his right – a cliff-face whose top was completely obscured by the storm. Just a few feet to his left, he knew that the trail dropped off sharply into a deep gorge. It wasn't a straight down drop, but the slope was steep enough that he knew he'd never be able to climb back up if he ever fell down there. He looked over his shoulder behind him and past his mount, whose reins were wrapped around his left hand, but he couldn't see the elves behind him either. Then, his eyes unconsciously shifted to the long, metal box secured to the side of his horse's saddle, and as he turned back around and began to carefully make his way forward on the narrow trail, his thoughts were drawn to the contents of that box, to the Sword of Destruction that was enclosed within.
Three years ago, Maccarreg had left the south with close to a hundred elves under his command, but he was now the only one of those still left alive. The dozen or so elves that were currently traveling with him over the mountain pass were a rag-tag group from various northern city-states that had joined his company in their consolidated fight to defeat and capture the Sword.
The southern elf knew that it was only a miracle that he now possessed the dreaded weapon. It had simply been a matter of being in the right place at the right time. Just two weeks ago, under the cover of darkness, he and two dozen elves had snuck their way into the palace of the Sword's most-recent owner. As they approached the mad-elf's sleeping quarters, they heard a scream of agony. They burst into the chambers to discover that the deranged elf had set himself on fire. Seeing the Sword of Destruction laying on the floor, many elves rushed to retrieve it, but Maccarreg got there first. Unfortunately, he'd been forced to cut down many of his "own" soldiers who had wanted to possess the Sword for themselves. There was a part of Maccarreg that couldn't blame them, though. He could freely admit that the blade was absolutely exquisite – as beautiful as it was deadly. There had been a brief moment where even he had been tempted to pick it up.
Careful not to ever actually touch the Sword himself, he placed it in a metal box that he'd earlier tasked one of his elves to carry, and then they'd escaped back out through the palace grounds. Maccarreg knew that Essea had been with them. It was the only explanation for them being able to get into the palace and back out so easily.
The plan had then been to head west, over the Dragon Mountains, and towards the Great Sea. Maccarreg would then sail a skiff by himself miles out into the sea and dump the Sword overboard, where it would hopefully rest undisturbed at the bottom of the ocean for the remainder of eternity. Of course, he had not shared the details of this plan with any of the remaining elves. For all they knew, they were heading to the coast to find a boat that would take them south to the Holy City. Maccarreg had not disclosed his intent because, if the last three years had taught him nothing else, he had at least become acutely aware of just how deep was the depravity of the elven heart. And given that the longest he'd known any of remaining Aen Seidhe was a handful of months, he, frankly, didn't trust any of them. In fact, he'd barely slept a wink in the last two weeks – keeping the Sword in its box and at his side at all times.
Maccarreg, again, raised his right arm in front of his face to shield his eyes from the swirling snow and continued to slowly fight upward and forward along the mountain trail. And it was then that he heard a deep rumbling coming from behind him. Truth was, though, that he felt it before he heard it. A tremor that shook his body. He quickly turned to look behind him, and though he could see nothing through the blizzard, he somehow knew that an avalanche of ice or rock was about to rain down on top of them.
He yelled at his horse, "Come on!" and took off running up the narrow trail as fast as he could.
Maccarreg heard and felt a thunder-like clap just behind him and, suddenly, the ground under his feet gave way. With the reins of his horse still wrapped around his left hand, he and his mount slid out of control down the steep mountain slope. Had it been the summer, the elf would have surely died from slamming into one of the many boulders and jagged rock outcroppings that covered the terrain. But, given that it was the middle of winter and that the mountain ground was covered with several feet of snow, the journey down was smooth and fast. The only thing the elf had to worry about was sliding into any tree trunks – not that he had any control over that.
He was hurtling down the mountain, picking up incredible speed when, without warning, his body jerked to a halt. He cried out in anguish as searing pain ran through his left shoulder. His horse had slammed into the thick trunk of a pine tree, snapping its spine and killing it instantly. He quickly got to his feet and struggled upward through the waist high snow towards the tree. Once there, he did his best to use the tree as shelter as chunks of ice and rock continued to crash down on either side of him.
Less than a minute later, it was all over, and Maccarreg took stock of the situation. He saw that his horse was dead and partially buried with snow, and it was then that the intense pain in his shoulder finally broke through his adrenaline buzz. A grimace came to his face as he reached up with his right hand. It felt like his arm had been pulled from its socket. He quickly unwrapped the reins from around his left hand and put one of the pieces of leather in his mouth. Biting down hard, he then lifted his left arm above his head. Nothing happened except that a terrible agony shot through his shoulder and down his arm, and he screamed through his clenched teeth. Now breathing even heavier than before, he decided to try something else. With his arm down at his side, he bent his elbow and rotated his arm externally. Suddenly, he felt something pop in his shoulder, and as the pain subsided, he gave an involuntary sigh of relief and fell backward into the snow, the leather rein falling from his mouth.
But Maccarreg knew that he couldn't stay there for long. He had to keep moving or he'd freeze to death. What he really needed to do was find shelter. He quickly got to his feet and began – one handed – to dig the snow away from his horse's body. He was eventually able to free both the box carrying the Sword of Destruction and his saddle bags. With his bags draped over his right shoulder and the box under his right arm, he then looked up the mountain slope. The storm was still raging so he couldn't even see the narrow trail from where he'd just fallen, but he knew climbing up would be impossible anyway. Going down into the gorge was his only option. Hopefully, he could find some kind of shelter – perhaps a cave – down below.
"Lead my steps," he said out loud, and then with a determined look and holding his left arm close to his side, he began trudging his way downhill through the thigh-high snow.
oOo
Deep inside a fairly large cavern, Maccarreg sat very close to a small fire, his entire body shivering. It had taken him over an hour to reach the bottom of the gorge, and then another hour before he came across a small opening to what appeared to be a cave. He'd used his sword to chip away at the ice and snow that was covering the cave's entrance, and then, once inside, he had, as quickly as possible, started a camp fire.
He placed his ungloved hands as close to the flames as he could, and he clenched and unclenched his fingers over and over as he tried to keep the blood flowing through them. As he did this, he gazed over to his side, to the box containing the Sword of Destruction. He then looked back towards the fire and closed his eyes.
"Well, you've provided me shelter and a fire…so it could be worse," he said in a low voice. "But I have no idea what you want me to do now."
As he exhaled deeply, the Aen Seidhe suddenly felt completely exhausted – more tired than he'd ever felt in his life. The toll of not only the last several hours and not only the last two weeks but also the last three years of constant war had finally caught up to him. And despite the presence of the fire, he felt the bitter cold numbing him down to his bones. But, more than anything else, the old elf felt confused. After three years of fighting his fellow Aen Seidhe from the north and watching his own brothers-in-arms from the south die beside him, this was how it was all going to end? Just when he was so close to fulfilling his goal of ridding the world of the damned Sword, he was going to, instead, end up freezing alone in a cave thousands of miles from home? Though he loathed to admit it, he couldn't deny that there was a flicker of doubt within him.
"This can't have been your plan, Lord. Right?" he said in his mind.
It was then that Maccarreg heard a noise echoing down from the cave's entrance. He slowly got to his feet and unsheathed his sword from its scabbard on his left hip. He stood there, his left arm held tightly to his stomach and his sword at his right side – simply waiting for whatever was coming his way.
Less than a minute later, three Aen Seidhe – their teeth chattering – came into view. Upon seeing Maccarreg, they all stopped. The southern elf then noticed that the eyes of all three shifted down towards the Sword-filled box that was at his feet.
Then, one of them looked up at Maccarreg and smiled.
"We knew we smelled a fire," he said as he started walking forward.
"Stop right there," commanded Maccarreg, lifting his sword and pointing its tip at the northern elves.
The smile fell from the elf's face. "Maccarreg, what's wrong with you? Come on, we're freezing."
The southern elf simply shook his head slowly.
"I've noticed all three of you these last two weeks. Seen the way you look at this box. Seen the way you looked at it just now. There's not a chance in hell, I'm letting any of you near this Sword. So, since I'm on the verge of passing out…and since I have no desire to have my throat cut in my sleep…then we're just going to settle this right now. So…draw your swords."
The three northern elves just looked at one another, and then, without a word, they all unsheathed their blades and spread out as much as the cavern would allow.
Immediately, Maccarreg stepped forward and kicked at the campfire, sending a fiery log at the middle elf. As his enemy raised his sword to bat the projectile away, Maccarreg hopped forward and thrust his blade through the other's heart. He quickly spun to his right, using the dying elf as a shield against one of his opponents. However, his right side was exposed to the other, and though he parried the incoming blow, he wasn't quite fast enough to knock it completely aside, and the enemy's blade sliced through his heavy coat and into his thick back muscles. Ignoring the pain, the master-swordsman swung his blade true, decapitating his attacker, and then quickly spun his body. As he came out of his pirouette, he expertly parried that last enemy's blade before taking a short step forward and thrusting his own steel through the third elf's gut.
After quickly verifying that all three elves were dead, Maccarreg sat back down next to the fire, and, eventually, he fell over onto his right side. He'd already been tired before the battle, and the sword-fight had drained him of his last vestiges of energy. His left shoulder was throbbing, the wound on his back was on fire, and he was starting to shiver again – whether from the cold or from the adrenaline leaving his system he wasn't sure.
"I guess this cave is as good as any place to die," he said between taking deep breaths. He then glanced at the box containing the Sword. "I sure wish I could've dropped you to the bottom of the ocean, though."
He then laid his head down on the cave floor and closed his eyes. Sadness overtook him as he realized that he'd never see his loved ones again on this side of heaven.
"I'm ready to see your glory, Father," he whispered, as his breaths began to slow.
Suddenly, an incredibly bright, white light filled the cavern. Even with his eyes closed, it was almost blinding. Maccarreg jerked upright, and seeing a glowing vision in front of him, he quickly bowed down in worship, his face on the cavern floor.
"Lord?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"Rise, Maccarreg," came a voice. "Do not bow down before me for I am not your God. I am only His messenger."
The elf slowly opened his eyes and raised himself up to the kneeling position.
"The Lord Almighty is not yet done with his servant," stated the radiant vision. "But fear not, for he will be with you."
Maccarreg nodded. "His will be done. What does he require of me?"
"Take heed. This is the word of the Lord…"
A half hour later, Maccarreg – with a torch in his left hand - stood at the edge of a chasm that was deep within the cavern. Holding the long, metal box under his right arm, he looked down into the chasm but saw nothing but darkness. He exhaled deeply, and then with all his might, he tossed the box into the void. Several seconds passed, until he finally heard the sounds of metal crashing against rock echoing up towards him. As the echoes faded out and the silence returned, he turned and slowly walked away.