17. Infiltration

Wispy clouds formed a sheer veil over the moon, permitting warbled white light to outline the cobblestone floor in the southeastern quadrant of Loc Muinne. The nilfgaardian ambassador glanced upward impatiently, tapping his foot and muttering under his breath.

"Shall we light a fire, my lord?" A soldier asked. "Perhaps you could wait inside with a cup of tea?"

"She'll be here any minute," he said dismissively. The irritation was evident in his voice. "Keep watch, and ensure that we aren't disturbed."

"Yes, m'lord."

Moments later, the sky rippled, forming a distorted sphere of air a few dozen yards from the impatient politician. He turned toward it slowly, folding his arms, and watched as it flashed, shimmered and produced a dark-haired woman. She was dressed in an elegant black and grey ball gown, with long satin gloves that reached past her elbows and a lace top that, while technically covering her bosom up to her neck (as was expected in Nilfgaard), offered a sumptuous view of her feminine figure.

"You're late, madam var Anahid," Shilard said dryly, mouth locked in a frown.

The sorceress narrowed her deeply-shadowed eyes, her high heels clicking loudly against the pavement as she walked briskly toward him. The fitted bodice around her youthfully-contoured torso was accentuated by a deliberate sway of her hips. The soldiers took notice. "Teleporting hundreds of miles to a novel location is not as simple as mounting a horse, master Fitz-Oesterlen. It is an art which must be done with the utmost precision, and considering I wasn't planning to be here for another two days-"

"Spare me your magical jargon," the ambassador interrupted. "Your emperor does not employ you because you're able to do simple things. Your only purpose is accomplishing that which is difficult."

She came to a stop facing him, slowly crossing her arms to match his. "I assume you've summoned me here for such a purpose?"

"Indeed." At the snap of Shilard's fingers, a nearby soldier walked over and placed a small figurine in the gloved hand of the sorceress. "Do you know what this is?" He asked.

"Artifact compression," she said plainly. "A difficult spell to cast… and a very painful one, I might add."

"Do you know who this is?" He asked, still frowning sternly.

She sighed, dropping her shoulders casually. "Enlighten me."

"The sorceress, Triss Merigold." Shilard studied the face of his guest closely, watching for any betrayal of emotion in her face. She gave none.

"The temerian counselor? I wonder who she crossed to receive such treatment?"

"Can you, uh… reverse the spell?"

"I can…" she said slowly. "Decompression is far easier, though I cannot say what state she'll be in once I'm finished. It's extremely hard on the body. She will be disoriented for some time… and severely dehydrated. I'll need quite a bit of water."

"There's a fountain nearby. Will that suffice?"

"It should."

"Let's not delay any further, then."

Shilard led the sorceress, along with a handful of soldiers, through a long, open-aired stone hallway, around a corner, and into a small courtyard with a fountain. The derelict fixture no longer bubbled, but its deep, twelve-foot-wide basin was mostly filled with murky water. The well-dressed mage tossed the figurine into the fountain, then stepped back cautiously.

"I'd move back, if I were you," she said to the men in the room. They all did so as she began a series of detailed movements of her arms, contorting her fingers into difficult shapes and chanting loudly. Moments later, the water in the basin began to bubble and steam, and a low, agonizing moan echoed through the courtyard. The soldiers stared slack-jawed as a woman materialized in the fountain, nude and curled in the fetal position as she shuddered violently. The nilfgaardian sorceress stepped to the side, extending her arm toward the fountain in an elaborate flourish.

"Something 'difficult,'" she said smugly.

Shilard's expression remained unchanged. "Can she talk?"
"Eventually," the sorceress replied. "She seems to be intact."

"Good," the ambassador said, turning to face the sorceress. "Do you know why this was done to her?" He asked rhetorically, as the moans continued in the background. "Because she was a traitor to her homeland."

Soldiers suddenly seized the sorceress's hands, pinning them behind her back and forcing them into fists. Her black-lined eyes went wide with terror, arms struggling futilely to break free as the ambassador pulled a small, ebony-handled dagger from its sheath.

"You are a traitor to your homeland, Assire. Your emperor sends his regards."

He firmly grasped the hair on the nape of her neck and slit her throat. Blood began to soak the black lace of her dress as she gasped helplessly, eyes darting back and forth in a panic.

"Hold her hands fast, gentlemen," Shilard said without affect. "We wouldn't want a repeat of the Glevisig incident. "You should know, madam sorceress, I take no joy in this sort of business. In truth, it saddens me. However, treason can be neither tolerated nor forgiven." He plunged the full length of the blade under her ribs several times to ensure she bled out, then stepped back, pulled out a white handkerchief, wiped off the blade and returned it to its sheath.

"Wrap the body in cloth before you carry it out for burning," he instructed. "She's well known by the community of mages, and we don't want to attract attention to her unfortunate demise." He strolled casually over to the edge of the fountain, where Triss still shuddered, curled tightly into a ball. "Welcome to Loc Muinne, mistress Merigold," he said in heavily accented common speech, his smile both cordial and somehow sinister. You and I are going to become very well acquainted with each other during your stay here."

—

"There you have it," Iorveth said, panting audibly. "Loc Muinne, the valley of sorrow." He stood with hands on his hips, legs spread wide atop the mountain pass. Geralt was right behind him, barely winded. His leg was finally healed enough to handle normal activities without debilitating pain. Of course, making the uphill journey from the banks of the Pontar to the valley surrounding Loc Muinne was anything but normal. He surveyed the distant city for a moment - its maze-like structure with high-walled, open-air passageways, spacious courtyards and grand, albeit decrepit, amphitheater. "Ancient" was an appropriate term for the legendary, abandoned city, which stood as a monument to the dangers of hubris.

"Two civilizations met their end here," Iorveth continued. "First the Vran, then my people - the Aen Siedhe."

"If we're not careful, it'll be the end of a third," Geralt mused sourly. "I take it you've been here before?"

"Oh yes. Quite a long time ago by your standards."

"You forget - I'm almost as old as you are."

"By human standards, then. I was a legitimately young man at the time, full of foolish dreams fueled by hatred. How the times have changed…"

"Have they?"

"I'll not lie - hatred still fuels me, Gwynbleidd, but I've long since given up on a young man's dreaming. Life has bludgeoned it out of me through suffering. No, only pragmatism remains. But enough with the philosophical bullshit. We have work to do. C'mon."

They descended the narrow, snowy pass, crunching ice and shale underfoot as harpies circled menacingly in the heights above them.

"I only saw one gate… and a hell of a moat," Geralt said. "I assume you know another way in…"

"There are many ways to enter Loc Muinne, my friend. It was built to be a cultural center, not a fortress."

"Is that how the Aen Siedhe evicted the Vran?"

Iorveth scoffed. "Do you know nothing of history outside your own?"

"How many ways do you know to kill a kikimora?"

"Hmph. Well said. No, our people didn't conquer the Vran at all. Disease did. And the loss of their habitat. The headwaters of the Pontar were once lush green lands, blooming with fruit trees and grains. Now, there's only snow and harpies. If you put any faith in Ithlinne's prophecy, that's the fate of the entire world eventually - a cold, desolate death."

"You're just full of positivity today."

"As I told you, Geralt, I'm a pragmatist, not a dreamer."

After discussing several options, Geralt and Iorveth elected to circle around to the eastern side of the city and scale the wall, which, having been built into the surrounding terrain, was surprisingly attainable. The city had been roughly divided into quadrants - to the south, the nilfgaardian embassy with by far the largest square footage; to the west, the kingdoms of Redania, Temeria, Aedirn and Kaedwen, each with their own space; to the north, the amphitheater and common areas for commerce and dining. The eastern quadrant, which was in disrepair, stood mostly empty, save for the occasional stray dog. The two fugitives waited for nightfall, then climbed their way into the crumbling stone chambers of the city.

"Well, I've gotten you in," Iorveth said once they had a seat. "Any ideas on how to locate Saskia or Triss?"

"This place is bigger and busier than I expected," the witcher answered. "We need a way to narrow the search. I may know someone who can help, but you're not going to like it."

"I rarely like what you have to say in these situations. Who?"

"Vernon Roche. I know he was planning to be here, and I know about where I might find him."

"Do you honestly expect him to help you? You did shed blood alongside the Scoia'tael, you know."

"He'll help. I'm open to a better idea if you have one."

"Not presently. So, am I to hide here like a criminal?"

"Iorveth, you are a criminal. If Roche finds out you're here, you can forget any help from him. I'll get whatever information I can, return here, and we can make our plans."

"Fine, but make it quick. Let's hope your trust is not misplaced."

Geralt pushed the hood of his outer cloak as far over his face as it would go, hiding his features in shadow as he matriculated through the winding passageways between the eastern ruins and the northern commons. Mobile vendors offered a cornucopia of goods and services - from food to tomes to exotic zerrikanian sabers. He was solicited by a tailor, a megascope builder, a representative for the school of magic at Aretuza, and two prostitutes before he reached the temerian quarter of the western embassies. After poking his head around more corners than he was comfortable risking, he finally arrived at the right location. Vernon Roche sat at a modest wooden desk, smoking a pipe and poring over a stack of papers by candlelight. He was so engrossed in the items that he didn't notice the witcher enter the room.

"Interesting reading?" He asked, lowering his hood. The commander's head snapped up, first with both eyebrows down, then with one lifted in disbelief.

"Geralt? What the devil are you doing here? And how in the ploughing hell did you get in here?"

"Good to see you, too."

"When I catch those good for nothing guardsmen, I'll kick my boot so far up their asses-"

"Relax. I'm here as a friend," Geralt interrupted.

"I'm beginning to have my doubts. I take it things went poorly at the ambassador's camp…"

"They tried to kill me. Kidnapped Triss and brought her here."

"I did warn you, you know."

"I know. Listen, I need your help… and I'm willing to exchange information for it."

"What kind of help? And what information?" He asked, eyes narrowed.

"I need to know where the nilfgaardians might be holding Triss… and I need to get in to see Saskia of Vergen."

"The dragonslayer? Weren't you just fighting by her side?"
"She's being used, Roche. Philippa Eilhart is pulling her strings, angling to run the country behind the scenes. She also has a dragon under her control."

"A what? You can't be serious."

"I am. The same one from La Valette castle."

"What does she intend to do with it?"

"Who knows? But if the summit doesn't go the way she wants, things are going to get very ugly."

"I'll say. I've no idea where Saskia might be. Despite Henselt's defeat, 'Upper Aedirn' is not yet a recognized political entity, and as such, they have no formal place in this dump. As to Triss's whereabouts… haven't you learned your lesson? She's gone, Geralt. Let it go. There's nothing but death for you at the end of that road."

"It's not just about Triss," Geralt said, lying more to himself than to Roche. "Síle de Tansarville's mixed up in this, too. Saskia had Henselt's mage executed as part of his surrender, and ordered him to install Síle as his new royal advisor."

"Well, well… now that is interesting information. Is she with Henselt now?"

"I don't know. He wasn't very pleased with the arrangement. Why do you ask?"

"I have reason to believe Síle is the one who ordered Demavend's assassination - and possibly Foltest's as well."

"Hmm… so, Demavend wouldn't agree to an advisor and they killed him for it?"

"Aedirn hasn't accepted any mages since Yennefer left Demavend's service many years ago. She didn't exactly leave the best taste in his mouth. I expect was resistant to the idea."

"Are you aware that Stennis was also killed?"

"Yes. Please tell me you had nothing to do with it."

"I tried to stop it, but I was busy not getting stabbed by Henselt's soldiers at the time. The official story is that his own peasants lynched him during the battle."

"Do you believe that?"

"I don't know."

"It could have been Letho."

"Or Philippa."

"True, true… well, thankfully, Philippa won't be a problem anymore. She was apprehended the moment she arrived here. She's presently in a makeshift dungeon in the basement of the Redanian embassy, chained like a dog in dimeritium shackles."

"What? Why?"

"Apparently she didn't leave Radovid's service on good terms," Roche said, putting out his pipe and reaching under his desk for a small flask. "Hell of a time to be a sorceress. It's probably safer to be a pawn in the army right now."

"I need a way to get to Philippa. Surely you can pull some strings. We need to find a way to break the spell she has over this dragon, or Letho will be the least of your worries."

Roche stroked his stubbly chin for a moment. "I could probably get you in… getting out might prove more difficult."

"I brought an apprentice," Geralt replied. "Take him instead. I need to find Triss before Shilard tortures her."

"Who exactly is this ap-"

Roche's question was interrupted by a sergeant, who popped his head in the door unannounced to relay some orders for the commander. Unfortunately for Geralt, this particular sergeant was the diligent type, and recognized the face of Foltest's suspected assassin immediately.

"Guards!" The man yelled, drawing his sword and blocking the doorway. "It's the assassin!"

Geralt and Roche each muttered curses under their breath. Any chance of staying under cover was long gone. Geralt drew his dagger, and was prepared to fight his way through the entire temerian guard detail, when a blunt object hammered his skull from behind. Stunned and vision blurred, he dropped to the ground, and was immediately pounced upon by Vernon Roche.

"The whoreson was about to roast me alive with his black magic!" He said to the sergeant, who was promptly joined by three other men in arms. Roche pinned Geralt to the ground, leaning down and speaking quietly.

"Well, I guess it'll be you after all." The four soldiers crept forward cautiously, swords aimed at the disoriented witcher.

"You there - Simmons," he said to one of the soldiers.

"It's Simpson, sir," he replied, eyes still fixed on Geralt.

"Whatever your name is, go and fetch some rope. Quickly! We must bind his hands with it."

"…rope, sir?" The soldier queried hesitantly.

"Have you gone deaf, you idiot?" Roche shouted. "Rope, damnit! It's the only thing that can prevent these northern witchers from using their spells. Isn't that right, kingslayer?"

—

The makeshift dungeon in the subterranean level of Loc Muinne was predictably dank and pungent, reeking of rotting mushrooms and rat feces. Thick stone walls divided the small cells, with ornate iron gates brought in to replace the formerly wooden doors. Geralt's knees skidded against the moist stone floor as the soldiers shoved him in, hands bound tightly behind his back with braided hemp. The soldiers took the only light source with them as they left, forcing the witcher to dilate his eyes fully to assess his situation and develop an escape plan. This process had just gotten underway when it was derailed by a voice from the other side of the wall.

"Have I got company at last?" The female voice asked. "And here, I thought they arranged this shit-hole just for me."

He recognized Philippa's voice immediately.

"Surprise, surprise. It's your favorite witcher," he replied with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

"Geralt? What on earth are you doing in here?"

"You left Vergen in such a hurry, I never got the chance to thank you for setting me up."

"You know, humor really isn't your strong suit, witcher. And what do you mean, I 'set you up?'"

"Don't play coy, witch. I know you sent me on a fool's errand looking for Triss, and searching for Saskia's poisoner."

"I did no such thing!" She retorted, audibly closer to the shared wall. "It was Cynthia who performed the hydromancy and gave me Triss's location. How was I to know she was a nilfgaardian spy?"
"What - do you not read the minds of your leashed lovers?"

"She's a goddamned spy, Geralt! She's been trained to disguise her thoughts. You really have a difficult time differentiating friend from foe, don't you?"

"Not in your case. I know you're controlling Saskia. Did you have Stennis killed to clear a path for her?"

"Stennis reaped the reward for his treatment of his subordinates, nothing more. I didn't need to lift a finger. And Saskia is still very much in control of herself… for the most part."

"Until you need her to behead a mage who knew too much about your plans. Why don't you just summon her and break yourself out?"

"Are you truly that dull, Geralt, or do you enjoy playing the fool? Dimeritium shackles inhibit all forms of magic, including telepathy. I'm not worried about it, though. My internment here is but a misunderstanding. Yours, on the other hand, will lead you swiftly to the gallows, most likely by way of the torturer."

"Don't be so sure you'll escape the same fate."

"I may not have my magic, witcher, but I still have a way with words, especially when it comes to Radovid. I shall talk my way out of this dungeon once he arrives. You, on the other hand, will be paraded in front of the masses like a spectacle. I do pity you."

Geralt sat with his back against the wall and dozed off for an hour or so, before the sounds of approaching footsteps awakened him. The glow of torchlight grew brighter as the steps approached, then very dim, as the visitors - at least four in number - opened the creaky iron gate and entered Philippa's cell.

The sorceress's eyes lit up when the king of Redania stepped into the room, accompanied by a few soldiers and a black-dressed nobleman. Radovid was a sturdy, well-dressed man who projected a far more commanding presence than his youth would suggest. His piercing green eyes stared intently at the prisoner as a smile of satisfaction grew on his bearded face.

"Your Majesty," she said cautiously, bowing slowly. She was unaccustomed to reading facial expressions without the benefit of mind-reading. It made her feel exposed and vulnerable.

"Philippa Eilhart," he said, standing with arms crossed and legs shoulder's-width apart. "I've waited long for this meeting. You left Redania in such a hurry, I didn't have time to give you the send-off you so richly deserved."

"Your majesty, I fail to understand why I have been arrested," she replied, risking a more impassioned tone. "I've done nothing but serve Redania's interests - supporting the rebellion, undermining Henselt… risking my own reputation on your behalf."

He chuckled dryly as the grin on his face widened. "Oh, Philippa… I'm no longer the little boy who believed your every word. You'd do well to remember that."

"Why are you doing this, Radovid? I was there… in your most trying hours. I taught you, sheltered you, counseled you… without me, you would not be the man you are. I don't understand…"

His smile left abruptly. "You understand very well. The entire Redanian court once trembled in fear of Philippa Eilhart, but it was an ill-gained respect. You conspired against my father, and against me."

"Untrue, sire!" She said pleadingly. "You must let me explain! What charges do you bring against me, your majesty? Surely there's been a misunderstanding."

"Ambassador?" Radovid said, as the black-dressed nobleman stepped forward into the light.

"Triss Merigold was kind enough to give up the names of several conspirators known as the 'Lodge of Sorceresses.' Some nilfgaardian sorceresses were members as well, but they have already been… neutralized."

Visible fear appeared on Philippa's face. "Triss… Surely you don't believe this, sire! It is an unfounded an heinous accusation."

"Oh, I believe it, Philippa, because it's the truth. The 'Lodge' ordered the assassination of Demavend. They ordered the assassination of Foltest, Stennis, and most likely that of Vizimir, my father. And if I released you from the dimeretium, I suspect you'd kill me, too." He moved in closer. "You're finished, Eilhart. There will be a trial, due process… everything as it should be, but know this - you shall not wriggle out of this. You shall be convicted of conspiracy, treason and regicide. They'll rip your flesh from you in bits before they burn you at the stake."

The sorceress began to tremble, as fear and rage swelled up inside her in equal amounts. Radovid continued.

"Throughout my childhood, I could always feel your cold stare at the back of my neck. When I issued orders, my subjects would search for Philippa Eilhart's gesture of consent. The entire court at Tretegor looked on as you humiliated me. All Redania laughed behind my back. 'The henpecked king,' they called me. Oh yes, I heard their jeers. I learned of their mockery. And do you know what became of those tongues which were found to have spoken against me? I had them cut out. It was you who taught me to stiffen my spine, to look everyone in the eye and force them to lower their gaze. Do you remember? 'A king must never show weakness or uncertainty,' you said. I've mastered that skill, yet there is one I could never force to submit. You. You've one chance to shorten your suffering. Admit to everything, here and now, in the ambassador's presence. Lower your gaze and repent. Submit."

The rage inside the sorceress won out over fear. She stood, hands trembling visibly with emotion, and stared directly into the eyes of the king with all the disdain and defiance she could express.

"… as you wish," Radovid said menacingly, staring back with equal intensity. "Guards!" He shouted without breaking eye contact, "put out those vile eyes."

Philippa wailed in pain and despair as the guards seized her and gouged out her eyes, one by one. She fell to her hands and knees, moaning and retching, as bloody streaks colored her cheeks below empty sockets.

The king stepped closer, crushing the remains of one of her disembodied organs with the sole of his boot. "You will submit, witch… before the end. We will speak again."

Geralt heard the clanking of Philippa's cell door, and rushed to his.

"Your Majesty! A word?"

Radovid and his guard detail approached the witcher's cell, standing just outside arms' reach.

"Geralt of Rivia… when I heard you'd been detained, I hoped it was untrue. The witcher I knew would not allow himself to be taken alive."

"I'm innocent of Foltest's death," Geralt said plainly, "but you probably know that already."

"I don't doubt it," the king replied with a slight sigh, "but if you're asking me to release you-"

"Not me, your majesty," he interrupted. "I'm asking for \\you to have mercy on Triss Merigold. She was merely caught up in the gears of this plot. If it's true that she's been compliant…"

"Your friend is now in the custody of ambassador Fitz-Oesterlen."

"I know, but surely Shilard won't deny you a small favor, sire. All you have to do is ask."

"No, witcher. Regrettably, I cannot. This is a complicated matter, more so than you can appreciate. Politics, Geralt, is like a grand, intricate puzzle. One never knows which pieces will end up proving valuable in the end, and which ones simply have no place and must be thrown out. It's true that I wield considerable influence with the leaders at this summit, but I must be strategic with my usage of that power. I have larger favors yet to ask of Nilfgaard, and it is the duty of those blessed with the divine right to rule and superior wisdom in these matters to remain focused on the bigger picture. A great breakthrough awaits us at the summit - one that will bring the Lodge to ruin and establish Redania's dominance in the north. I will not risk such a momentous event for any one life."

"Your majesty-"

"Good day, witcher. May the gods have mercy on you."

The light from the soldiers slowly faded into the distance, along with Geralt's hopes of Triss's release. He stood at the gate for several minutes, running through escape scenarios in his mind. As he did, he heard pitiful whimpering from the other side of the wall - the sound of crying without eyes. The sound toyed with his mind, filling his thoughts with images of Triss having similar - or worse - things done to her, while he stood, hands bound, staring at the wall. He was desperate to fill the time with something, anything else.

"Was Shilard telling the truth?" He asked, leaning against the wall he shared with Philippa, "about the Lodge and the assassinations?"

After a moment, Philippa sniffed, huffed a sigh and replied.

"He said exactly what Radovid wanted to hear. Half-truths… musings stripped of context, which differ very little from lies."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Nor do I feel like answering it," she said, her tone a mixture of misery and spite. "The question you really want to ask it, 'was Triss guilty?'"

"And?"

"I believe Lebioda said it best. 'There are none righteous - not even one.' To tell you the truth, we'd lost faith in her over the past several months - mostly because of you. Demavend's death was not her doing."

"And Foltest?"

"Regicide or not, Triss is far from the innocent child you take her to be. I assure you - she has not been fully honest with you on a good many things."

Geralt huffed in frustration. "Don't want to talk? Fine. I'll ask her myself."

"Don't fool yourself," she said, despondent and fatalistic. "She's already given up the names of the Lodge members, and the Black Ones killed their own sorceresses. You'll be lucky if you can even find her ashes. Now, leave me alone. I wish to suffer in peace."

Geralt went back to staring at the wall, but had only minutes of solitude before a light reappeared in the hallway. He recognized the cadence of footsteps almost immediately, backing away from the door and reminding himself to remain calm and detached. The chime of keys clinking against one another echoed down the stone corridor, followed by the creaking of an opening door, and the nilfgaardian ambassador stepped in.

"Radovid is wise," he began, as two imperial soldiers took their place beside him, "but naive. He has yet to learn that only the dead are truly silent."

"You got what you want from Triss," Geralt said. "Let her go."

"What I want from Triss Merigold is to see her body on a pyre, along with the rest of these scheming witches. For you, however, I fear a prolonged stay and public execution would only introduce… complications to my life. Consider yourself lucky, witcher. The removal of your head in these confines will spare you a great deal of suffering - something your neighbor, here, will reap in abundance."

"How did you learn about the Lodge to begin with?" Geralt asked, stalling for time. He formed the Igni Sign behind his back, taking care to stifle the fire so that it merely heated the rope which bound his hands.

Shilard scoffed. "What do you think this is, a stage drama? How about this - I'll tell you all about my secret plans once your body is cold." He snapped his fingers, and the soldier next to him drew his sword. The rope was starting to smoke, though standing next to a flaming torch, the Nilfgaardians failed to notice. "Do us all a favor and hold still this time," the ambassador said, as the soldier stepped forward and prepared to swing his sword.

What happened next took place so quickly that a casual observer could not have been expected to make sense of the sequence of events. Just before the soldier swung his sword forward, Geralt snapped the weakened rope behind his back, reached out, and snatched the sword out of the unsuspecting man's hands. In a blur of steel, he slashed cleanly through the soldier's throat, cleared the distance to the other armed man in two strides, and plunged the tip of the blade in and out of his neck, just above the collarbone. He then bashed the hilt of his sword into the face of the stunned ambassador, breaking his nose, and, seizing him by the collar, pressed his head against the stone wall. Shilard fumbled frantically for his dagger, but Geralt swatted it out of his hands, then placed both hands firmly around the neck of the middle-aged man and looked him eye to eye from six inches away.

"You're going to take me to Triss, and we won't have any problems along the way, because if I become unhappy, I'm going to start removing body parts. We'll start with the testicles, then your fingers, one by one. After that… well, a pudgy dandy like you will probably bleed out by that point. So, unless you want to become a eunuch who wipes his ass with a stump, you'd best play along. Understand?"

The wide-eyed politician nodded his reddened, oxygen-deprived head rapidly, as the second soldier finally lost his balance and toppled to the ground.

"Wait, Geralt!" Philippa pleaded from the other side of the wall. "Have mercy! Take me with you."

"What - so you can double-cross me again? No. You can sit on your ass and rot down here."

'Think it through, witcher! I can help you, help you rescue Triss. Only I can release the spell on Saskia. Think about it - we can help each other!"

"I don't need any more 'help' from you," he said, placing the sword on his back and using Shilard's dagger to prod him toward the exit. "Lead the way, excellency."

The ambassador led Geralt slowly up two winding flights of steps, around a guard station, and out into the starlit walking paths of Loc Muinne's ground floor. A brisk wind gusted through the towering hallways, walled with huge, hewn stones stacked in intricate geometrical patterns, somewhat akin to a giant tiled fresco.

It was somewhere between three and four in the morning as they moved awkwardly through the ruined city, and the few people who were moving about seemed either too drunk or too uninterested to bother them. One Redanian soldier came over to ask what they were doing, but Geralt easily brushed him off with the Axii Sign and a suggestion that he needed to go check on the other side of the hallway. The nilfgaardian quarter was similarly unpopulated at that hour, but with the ambassador's easily-recognizable face, Geralt opted for an extra layer of caution.

"Act like you're drunk," he instructed Shilard, placing a hand on his back and hiding the dagger in the large silk ruff atop his black doublet. "And just in case you're feeling heroic - you saw how quickly I killed your men in the dungeon. One lapse in judgement, and I'll shove this blade so far up the base of your skull your eyes will bulge out. Got it?"

"You're plan won't work, witcher," the ambassador replied, surprisingly unemotional. "My men recognize me, and they're likely to recognize you. The best chance for you to continue living is to release me and escape while you still can."

"Keep moving," Geralt commanded, pushing the tip of the blade against Shilard's skin until he drew blood. "I'm losing my patience."

They skirted around a few bored-looking sentries, past the temporary embassy and garrison, and came to a dusty, rubble-strewn alley that was clearly meant to be off-limits to the public. Grotesque stone gargoyles loomed overhead, grinning devilishly through broken teeth and moss-covered features dulled with age. Ivy clung to large fissures in the walls, which wove to and fro in an oddly organic pattern. After splashing through puddles and stumbling across uneven paving stones, they stepped into a room full of flourished columns, which looked as though they once held a roof aloft. A single guard stood alone at the far end of the room, dressed in the traditional black-winged helmet and steel-plate chest-piece of the nilfgaardian elite units.

"What is your business here?" He asked warily in the Nilfgaardian tongue, stepping forward with torch in one hand and his other on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

"The ambassador's had a few too many, just escorting him back," Geralt said in Common Speech, guessing at the meaning of the guard's challenge. He calculated the most efficient method to silence the soldier, tightening his grip on the dagger as he nudged Shilard forward. The guard squinted his eyes at the tall, hooded figure in the flickering torchlight, then opened them wide in recognition. Geralt lowered the dagger from Shilard's neck and threw it, sinking the blade into the guard's eye socket. He staggered and slumped to the ground without a word.

Geralt took the sword from his back, and held it to the ambassador's neck. "All right, no more acting," he said, forcing the man forward. "Let's hope your men like you more than I do."

"They will die before betraying their emperor," Shilard grunted, finally showing signs of fear.

"Then I guess they'll die," he said dismissively, stopping at the doorway to pick up the guard's sword and slide it into the scabbard on his back.

Once inside the door, things began to happen quickly. Another young man in a winged helmet saw the witcher and his prisoner, and immediately called for help. In moments, a half dozen men entered the room - two archers, three swordsmen, and an older, shaven-head man in a ruffled doublet similar to Shilard's.

"Don't shoot, Renuald!" Shilard pleaded. The bald man cocked a crossbow casually, as the other soldiers fanned out around him.

"What's the meaning of this, witcher?" He asked gruffly, speaking with a surprisingly mild accent.

"It's simple," Geralt answered, pressing the blade a little tighter against Shilard's throat as he squirmed frantically. "Tell your men to stand down, and bring Triss Merigold to me. Everybody leaves alive."

"You've had little dealings with the empire, I see," he replied, aiming his weapon at the witcher and his hostage. "We value the fatherland over camaraderie. Do what you must to the ambassador, but the wench will remain in our custody until we're finished questioning her."

"You doubt I'll do it?" Geralt asked, raising the blade further, until Shilard was on the tips of his toes.

"Not at all. You simply chose the wrong bargaining piece." He turned to his men, commanding something in Nilfgaardian, then back to the witcher. "As for you, ambassador, the White Flame no longer has need of your services." He fired a crossbow bolt at Shilard's chest, driving a hole through his sternum and spewing blood onto the floor.

"Damnit," Geralt sighed, dropping the ambassador and readying his sword overhead. "Now you all have to die."

Two more crossbow bolts flew at him a breath later, from opposite sides of the room. Unable to deflect both, he chose one, knocking it away mid-air. The other passed cleanly between his shoulder and collarbone, but in the adrenaline-fueled heat of battle, it did little to slow his advance. He charge forward in a flash, opening the carotid of one archer and knocking two of the swordsmen down with a pulse of Aard. The third swordsman was a step too late with his attack. Geralt instinctively parried and riposted, flaying the inside of his arm, then disemboweling him. Before the other two could get back on their feet, he reached the second archer, who had just had time to draw his sword. Geralt swung mightily with a two-handed strike, cutting the man's hand - and sword - from the rest of his arm, then backhanded his blade across the defender's throat.

Both the remaining soldiers rushed at the witcher in unison. He spun around, casting Igni and enveloped them both in flames. As they screamed and patted their arms against their torsos in a panic, he methodically opened their arteries and pushed them over, leaving only the bald commander. The older man turned and ran, scrambling through a doorway and into an adjacent room, before the witcher caught up to him, slashing down his back and narrowly missing his spine. The commander stumbled to the ground, and Geralt picked him up, placing the tip of his bloodied sword under the man's chin.

"Where's Triss?" He asked through clenched teeth.

"Go to hell," the man grunted.

"Wrong answer," Geralt said coldly, thrusting his sword upward and releasing the now-limp body to the ground. After wiping the blood and brain tissue off of his weapon, he began rifling through the commanders clothes and drew out a small key ring. He set about searching the dark ruins for signs of Triss, which didn't take long. In the relatively desolate confines of the stone-walled rooms, her distinctive scent was easy to follow. He descended a spiral staircase, broke through two wooden doors, and came to a large storage room that was once a wine cellar. Chained to the wall across from the door was Triss Merigold, hanging limply by her shackled hands. He inhaled sharply, rushing immediately to her side and checking for a pulse. Her heart was still beating weakly, though with alarming irregularity.

"Hang on, Triss," he said urgently, searching for the right key from the ring. She mumbled something incoherent, raising her head slightly and trying to look through swollen, blackened eyes. Geralt had to try three different keys, but finally found the match. As soon as her hands were free, she slumped into the witcher's waiting arms, chest expanding rhythmically as she whimpered and cried.

"You're safe now," he said, taking her up in his arms and starting toward the door. "I killed them all. You're safe."

Iorveth was nowhere to be found when he finally reached the unpopulated eastern quadrant of the city, so Geralt took what he needed from their hidden supply cache and escaped the way he'd entered. It was nearly dawn by the time he laid Triss down at a cave entrance in the surrounding mountainside, wrapping her in two blankets and his own cloak. Even a quarter mile from the city walls, a fire was too risky, but something had to be done - the sight of her incessant shivering was too much to bear. Dehydrated, starving and battered, she lacked even the strength to endure the cool mountain air, lapsing between groggy consciousness and fitful sleep. He slowly inspected her bruised body, cleaning deep gashes and bandaging open wounds before tending to his own injury, which had finally started to throb angrily. Once he was satisfied with his medical treatment, he laid next to Triss, wrapping his arms around her trembling, clammy skin until at last she calmed down and fell into a deep sleep. Geralt was exhausted, but he remained wide awake. There were many questions he needed to ask Triss once she awoke, most of them unpleasant.