15. Through the Gauntlet

Geralt wore the crystalline amulet around his neck, next to his witcher's medallion. Before he'd even made it past the city gate, the rhythmic clanking of the two against one another exhausted his patience, and he placed the magical stone in his shirt pocket. He was leery of walking into the fog - which was visibly denser now - with only a bauble to protect him, but he had no choice. Triss's life was on the line. Besides, he'd been saved by an enchanted amulet before, one given by a similarly-talented sorceress with similarly duplicitous motives - he just didn't remember it.

The magical fog, now a deep grey, was less than an hour's walk from the edge of the Scoia'tael camp, and though it was still mid afternoon by the time Geralt reached it, it felt like dusk once inside. The initial wisps of malodorous air quickly crescendoed into a dense cloud, which tickled the lungs and burned in the eyes like saltwater. One would think the thickness of the air would make it easier to sneak through undetected. The wraiths of the battlefield didn't hunt by sight, however; it didn't take them long to realize they had a visitor.

A mostly-intact soldier reached Geralt first, easily dispatched by the swipe of a silver sword. Next came a skeleton bearing the remains of an aedirnian uniform, flanked by two half-rotten pikemen and an unarmed medic. He weaved, dodged, thrust, slashed, and dropped the trio in short order. Wave after wave began to assault him, slowing his progress as he moved generally northward following Philippa's directions. He parried blow after lethargic blow, oddly invigorated by the opportunity to put his synapses and muscles to use. Unfortunately, the mild euphoria brought on by violence was short-lived. It evaporated in an instant once he spotted a draug approaching, replaced instead by a witcher's typical cold, emotionless battle logic. This particular amalgamation was even taller than the one he'd faced when rescuing Stennis and Saskia, comprised not only of armor pieces, but also elements of siege devices metal horse barding.

"Taedh éigean marw, vatt'ghern," the draug said in a hissing, breathy voice that took the witcher off guard. "Taedh éigean uniade ninnau."

"So now you can talk, huh? That's just great." He quickly surveyed the horizon - no other wraiths were approaching. Either they had been extinguished, or even they were afraid to approach the monstrosity.

"Taedh éigean uniade ninnau," it repeated as it stomped forward with noisy clanking and grating. Geralt didn't fully understand the dialect of elder speech, but it roughly translated to "you must join us in death." As he was disinclined to acquiesce to the draug's request, he charged forward, beginning with a feint and adjusting quickly to cast Aard, which opened the creature's stance to a counterattack. He struck at the elbow joint with the tip of his sword, but the draug anticipated his strategy and easily deflected the blow, striking with such force that Geralt stumbled backward, despite parrying with perfect form. He rolled away to escape a downward slash from a huge makeshift blade, itself over six feet long and comprised of a handful of rusted weapons fuzed together. Regaining his footing, he tried a different tactic - casting Igni first, then rushing in. The flames parted off of the plate metal and dissipated, failing to even draw the draug's attention. Geralt's strike rang true, cleaving a dirty, snail-encrusted helmet with a loud screeching sound, but it did nothing to slow the beast, and only a well-timed pirouette saved the witcher from having his own cranium bisected.

The composition of this latest draug left no obvious seams to be attacked, so Geralt switched to his steel sword and focused his efforts on tearing through the armored knee joints to gain access to the enchanted - and vulnerable - material inside. It was a repetitive process - lunge, slash, dodge, thrust, roll to evade, regain footing, repeat. The draug adapted to his strategy, swinging his heavy sword at a different angle and drawing blood from Geralt's bicep. Unconcerned, the witcher continued to hack away until at last, he had his opportunity - a gap in the armor shell about the size of a child's palm, just above the knee joint on the humanoid mass of reclaimed metal.

Geralt's next lunge was different - he contorted his body at an unexpected angle, drew his silver sword with his left hand, and jabbed its tip into the gap. The monster recoiled, hissing wildly, but didn't fall. After a quick recovery, the draug landed a fist on the side of Geralt's head, sending him reeling with blurred vision and a powerful ringing in his ears. He leaned, dodged and retreated for a moment until the world stopped spinning, then mounted one last attack. Hopping to the side at just the last moment to avoid a downward strike, he cast Igni again, aiming right at the opening he'd attacked earlier. This time, the effect was wildly different. The fluid-like gas inside ignited, turning every seam in the crudely-constructed mass a bright orange. Three seconds later, the witcher was knocked off his feet as the draug exploded, sending metal shrapnel flying in every direction.

Geralt took a moment to catch his breath and dress his wound, then continued his journey across the large battleground, unmolested by wraiths the rest of the way. Whether due to attrition or in response to the draug slaying, the ghostly soldiers tended to keep their distance when he approached, and the few who attacked were quickly dispatched. He wandered through the fog for hours, but finally reached the thinning-out point on the other side of the field, stepping out of the dark cloud into the similarly dark night sky near the river.

The smell of fresh blood was heavy in the air - Geralt followed it over a steep incline and into a neighboring ravine, where a handful of bodies were scattered on the arid soil. The slain men were all dressed in the Empire's black uniforms, and were littered with crossbow bolt wounds, along with the occasional gash from a sword. Judging by the relative lack of stiffness in their limbs, the soldiers hadn't been dead more than an hour or two at most.

Although the Empire and the northern kingdoms were technically on peaceful terms, the sight of a group of "black ones" slain on a northern hillside wasn't altogether noteworthy or troubling. What was deeply noteworthy and troubling to the witcher was the unmistakable scent of Triss Merigold which still hung in the air. Faint as it was, Geralt was certain Triss had been in the area recently. He searched each body for clues, and upon inspecting the third cadaver, his medallion began vibrating consistently. He patted the body down and discovered the source of the magical disturbance. Tucked into an inner pocket of the soldier's bloodied gambeson was a small figurine carved out of a green stone resembling jade. The humanoid statuette was about four inches tall, with primitive, androgynous features and a density which made it heavy for its diminutive size.

The sound of approaching footsteps reached Geralt's ears as he tucked the figurine into a small satchel on his belt. He quickly took cover behind a rock formation, unsure whether the dozen or so humanoids approaching were friends or foes. A male voice whispered indiscernible orders, and the group split up, though the rocky walls of the ravine made pinpointing the direction of the sounds difficult. Geralt slowly drew his steel sword as the footsteps neared, took in a deep breath in preparation to strike… but then released it and stepped into the moonlight slowly.

"Vernon Roche. Should've known it would be you out here," he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. The two groups of Blue Stripes converged, with their leader out front.

"That's one hell of a nose on you, Geralt," Roche said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Or have you also learned to read minds, too?"

"Something you should know about me - I'm old-fashioned. Is this your handiwork?" He gestured toward the dead bodies nearby.

"It is," the commander acknowledged with pride. "Caught the bastards trying to sneak through here, though I don't know what they were doing in that damned fog. When we questioned them, they attacked us. As you can see, it didn't turn out well for them." His expression changed suddenly, as if it had just dawned on him that Geralt was also near the fog's border. "By the way, what are you doing in the fog? Running errands for your new Scoia'tael friends?"

"What's wrong, Roache? Are you jealous?"

"More like suspicious."

"I'm looking for Triss - the same reason I sailed here with them instead of with you. One of the sorceresses in Vergen tracked her to this location, but by the time I got here, she was gone. You didn't happen to see her with the Nilfgaardians, did you?"

"Triss? No. Though, several of them got away. It's possible they could've taken her."

"Any idea where they were headed?"
"Back to their camp, no doubt," Roche said, gesturing behind him. "The Black Ones have a small outpost on the far side of Henselt's camp, atop the bluffs. Their ambassador, has had his forked tongue whispering into Henselt's ear since they arrived. I don't like it, Geralt. I don't trust either one of them."

"Neither do I."

"Say, if you've tracked Triss down… any luck finding Letho, or have you already given up your search? That was, after all, the only reason I spared you…"
"I'm a man of my word, Vernon. I haven't stopped looking. I know he landed on the other side of the mist, and that he entered it a few days ago. No trail to follow beyond that. How about you?"

Roche reached into his pocket and drew out two bronze medallions in the shape of serpents. "We've cornered him, of that much I'm certain."

Geralt's eyebrows lifted. "Serrit and Auckes?"

"Don't know their names, but they were witchers, both of them. And tough sons of bitches, I'll give 'em that."

Despite the circumstances, he couldn't escape a sense of grief at the evidence of two more witchers meeting their end, especially when there were so few left in the world. "How did they die?"

"They tried to assassinate Henselt as he slept in his tent. Snuck past his guards with ease, but they didn't anticipate the sorceress being in the king's chambers. She burned one to a pile of ashes. The other escaped, but he was wounded. I hunted the bastard down, followed him through a series of caves under the ravines. Lost two of my men in the process, but even a witcher can't overcome superior numbers."

"I guess they got what was coming to them. Any sign of Letho? Was the cave a hideout?"

"The three of them had holed up there at some point, that much was clear. As for Letho, he was nowhere to be found."

"Of course. Tell me this, then - the sorceress who killed the first assassin - was it Síle de Tansarville?"

"Yes. Is that important?"

"Very. She knows more than she lets on. Did you know she hired mercenaries to track Letho down on the other side of the mist? Sent them right to the location where he and Triss came through the portal… with orders to kill them both."

"Are you serious? Damnit!" He growled. "She knew this whole time? If she'd only told us…"

"Where is she now?"

"Gone. She left this morning." Roche stroked his face for a moment, deep in thought. "You know… she keeps showing up wherever Letho is, and she wants him dead - and apparently Triss as well - but she wants to keep it a secret. What the hell is she after?"

"I don't know, but if she's already moved on-"

"Our fugitive has as well," Roche interrupted, "or he's dead."

"Right now I'm most concerned with Triss. Can you point me to the nilfgaardian camp?"

"What do you plan to do - take on the regiment single-handedly?"

"If that's what it takes."

"You'll have no help from me, witcher. I'm already up to my eyeballs in shit. Killing a scouting patrol is one thing; attacking an embassy is another altogether."

"I didn't ask for help, only for directions. Don't worry - I'm sneakier than you."

Roche shrugged. "Very well. It's your funeral. When you get near the main camp, there will be a large creek. Head west. You'll find a series of caves in the area. Several terminate in a ravine near the bluffs. Should be an easy climb from there."

"That's… a surprisingly detailed description…"

"I'm an intelligence officer, remember? You didn't think I was only here to spy on Henselt's side of the negotiations, did you?"

"Careful spinning all those plates, Vernon. You may reach the point where you can't keep them all going at once. One last question before I go: any idea how the battle preparations are coming along on this side of the mist?"

"Henselt's mage has been fixated on lifting the curse for days. I've no idea what progress he's made, but I know this much - the moment it dissipates, the kaedweni's will march."

"That helps. Thanks."

"You don't… intend on fighting alongside the dragonslayer, do you?"

"Witchers don't take sides. I just want to make sure I'm not trapped inside the city when they lock the gates. Take care, Vernon."

"Same to you, witcher. Hopefully our paths will meet again - over Letho's corpse."

The creek and caves were just as Roche described. Though the subterranean passages forked and branched excessively, Geralt eventually found his way to an opening downhill from the nilfgaardian camp. The slope was steep enough to necessitate more climbing than walking, but at length, he came to the outskirts of the camp. Two guards were posted a full sixty yards or more apart, which was enough for him to slip through undetected. He hid himself behind a large rock formation and drew in a deep breath through his nostrils. The air was full of discernible scents - the oily hair of a man who had gone too long without bathing, the lingering smoke from a now-extinguished fire, the thick, fishy musk of the nearby river inlet where a black-sailed vessel was moored - but evidence of Triss was not among them. As the witcher pondered this surprising discovery, the sound of approaching footsteps from several directions at once stole his attention. Muttering profanities under his breath, he rose carefully to his feet, scanning the hillside for an effective escape path. The footsteps were closing in quickly, and seemed to be converging directly on him. Wishing to avoid a fight with an entire embassy, Geralt took off running toward the river, but was struck from behind by some type of spell, which caused all his muscles to convulse wildly. He fell to the ground with a painful thud, quivering helplessly while the black-uniformed guards disarmed him, bound his hands, and began dragging him up the hill toward the camp.

—

"Ah, witcher. I'm… disappointed to see you," ambassador Shilard said, eyes still sleepy from his midnight awakening. "And here, I thought that your kind was bound to neutrality." He nodded toward the guards who held the incapacitated witcher upright, and they began searching his body. One of the men pulled the jade figurine out and handed it to the middle-aged politician, whose close-cropped hair formed a white halo around a bald, splotchy scalp. He grinned as he rotated it in his hands for a moment, then gave it to another middle-aged man - presumably a mage, judging by the staff he carried. "My associate here told me you were nearby," Shilard continued. "What a stroke of luck! I was afraid my inept associates had lost miss Merigold after that unfortunate incident with the temerian renegades, but here - you've gone to the trouble of delivering her to us."

"Just wait until we decompress you," the mage said to the figurine with a look of smug satisfaction. "Oh, the stories you'll tell…"

"What are you talking about?" Geralt asked groggily. "Where is she?"

"Right here," the mage said, tapping his knuckles against the hard surface of the statuette. "All bundled into a nice, portable package. Ha! You had her within your grasp, and you didn't even know it. What intrigue…"

"What do you want with her?" The witcher grunted, struggling in vain against the restraints binding his hands behind his back.

"That's none of your concern," the mage replied casually.

"Why not tell him?" Shilard said with a shrug. "He may be a fool, but at least he's an honorable one. Your sorceress friend, master witcher, is a traitor - both to Temeria and to her own order. She's going to help us root out the rest of her co-conspirators, once she's, uh… what is it you call it - de-compressed? So, you see, you may have failed to stop one assassination, but you've succeeded in preventing a good many more, I suspect. May that truth bring you comfort in your final moments."

"You're lying," Geralt said defiantly, feeling the stupor of the mage's spell waning.

Shilard's eyebrows pulled together in a look of mild pity. "I'd expect you to say as much. You're not the first man to fall prey to the bosom of a deceitful woman. I've seen my fair share of political intrigue, and I can assure you, more battles are won and policies shaped between bedsheets than on battlefields. But, alas, now that I've collected my final conspirator, it's time for me to be on my way. I bid you adieu, master witcher, and I do apologize for the necessity of ending your life. Give him a warrior's death," he instructed the soldiers restraining Geralt. "Remove his head cleanly, and toss the body over the cliffs. We have no time for burials."

Geralt's mind began racing as the soldiers dragged him back outside the tent into the now-cloudy moonlight. He'd often considered what type of death he'd have, prognosticating at length with Triss about everything from an arch-griffin's talons, to a slizard's spiked tail, to a swordsman more accomplished than he. The witcher didn't know where or when he'd meet his fate, but he knew it was not at the hands of two nilfgaardian soldiers who looked barely old enough to grow facial hair.

The young men were escorting Geralt warily, even though they still believed him to be discombobulated by the mage's spell. He could feel the cold tip of a blade under the back of his ribcage as they slowly walked toward the edge of the camp. After running through a dozen or so scenarios, there was only one which didn't end inexorably in death. He swallowed hard, and set it into motion.

"Do me one final honor, comrades," he mumbled, taking care to slur his speech so as not to alert them to his recovery from the spell. "Let me die facing my home - Kaer Morhen."

There was silence for a moment, as the soldiers exchanged a look and shrugged. "Are we supposed to know where that is?" One of them replied in a thick southern accent.

"To the north," Geralt said, gesturing with the crown of his head "across the river. Do it at the clifftop. That way, I can smile upon my fatherland as I die, and you won't have to carry my body up the hill."

"… very well," the young soldier replied, pivoting toward the top of the bluffs, which rose nearly forty feet above the wide, fast-moving waters of the Pontar river. Geralt waited for the right moment, then feigned stumbling, falling to the coarse, arid soil. As soon as the soldier with the sword trained on him knelt to pick him up, Geralt threw his head back, bashing the captor in the nose, and leapt to his feet. He took off in a dead sprint toward the edge of the cliff, hoping his recollection of the landscape was accurate. At the very last inch of rock, he vaulted himself forward, free-falling for a handful of heart stopping seconds before plunging feet-first into the warm, rushing current.

—

The moon had nearly disappeared below the horizon by the time the exhausted, waterlogged witcher flopped his way onto the south bank of the river. Having expended all his stamina, he lay there for a full five minutes, coughing up water and gasping as deeply as his still-sore ribs would permit. The current was stronger than he'd calculated, and with most of his strength focused on keeping his head above water, it had carried him a half a mile downstream.

Once he'd regained his breath, Geralt struggled to his feet, cursing and groaning as he stumbled along the river's edge, hoping to reach the nilfgaardian ship before it set sail. Upon reaching the base of the cliff where he'd jumped, the vessel was nowhere to be found. The only hope of reaching Triss in time to prevent whatever fate awaited her at the hands of the emperor's investigators was to reach Philippa and convince her somehow to teleport him there. The thought alone turned his stomach sour, but he had no other recourse.

Geralt turned south, keeping a wide margin around the kaedweni camp, and painstakingly hiked back to the edge of the enchanted mist, arriving around dawn. His hands were still bound tightly behind him, and he had no weapons. His only hope was to simply outrun whatever opponents beset him along the way back to Vergen. Not wanting to waste any precious time, he took off running into the mist, only realizing too late that he'd made a critical mistake. The magically-infused air, which had previously irritated his eyes and nose, now burned like fire, spreading quickly into his lungs. He stumbled to the ground, his chest quivering in desperate, spasmodic bursts of inhalation, while the world around him began to blur and rotate haphazardly. As he lay on his side, slowly losing consciousness, he noted the witcher's medallion, glistening on the muddy ground in front of his face. What he didn't see was Philippa's protective amulet, which he lost at some point during his river escape.

Damn, he thought to himself, as the world went dark and confusing. Better than an execution, I suppose, but still… not the way I envisioned it. Not the way a witcher should go.