Be warned, this story starts at the ending of the books and continues from that point. After that the story will follow the general plot of the games, and a lot of game characters will be present. If you've not read the books there can be spoilers.
I've always hated how Ciri was so vulnerable and powerless in the books and even a little bit in the games. Well now she isn't.
Vilgefortz heard the commotion and, with great annoyance, looked up from his crystal.
Even from the top of the tower, the highest place in the Stygga Castle, he could hear the voices of his mercenaries in the courtyard below.
They're all scoundrels, he thought tiredly to himself, worthless cutthroats with no backbone.
Of course, he knew these types all too well himself, after all Vilgefortz was he himself once a mercenary captain. He waited patiently for the loud clanking of armored boots running up the staircase. Then door crashed open and a rogue stumbled into the room, landing on his knees. Blood was flowing down his face.
"They's attacking us! My lord, a whole hassa of thems! Our boys are dying like flies!"
The sorcerer looked at him disinterestedly. And then a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Go get Bonhart, he'll take care of it. I paid good coin for you louts, it's time to earn your –"
The hireling opened his mouth to say something but his eyes began blackening. His body started to convulse in sharp unnatural jolts and then...
He disintegrated.
The man – his entire body – turned into ash right before the sorcerer's eyes. In the end there was only his armor and clothing left intact.
Vilgefortz stared at the pile of gray soot on the floor. A moment of pause followed. His mouth betrayed a twitch on his face as he finally got up and slowly made his ways downstairs.
Leo Bonhart scoffed at all the dramatic commotion.
For a moment he had thought that the Nilfgaardian army had found them. That would have been a real pickle. But no, according to the men it was just a couple riders, with possibly a sorcerer, attacking them.
The fools, he mentally scorned, to be driven to such a frenzy by a couple bandits.
It matters not who they are, where they come from or what magic they wield, Bonhart's blade will cut through all of them. A magician with his fancy spells and tricks can do nothing against his dimeritium blade.
Witcher, mage, knight, whomever.
Let them come.
And so Bonhart came across the first of them, a young man with heavy brows, slashing through a mercenary with his longsword. His victim dropped onto the ground as he turned presently to face Bonhart.
"Where is she?" he demanded loudly.
"A bit rude, young pup, to be asking questions without introducing yourself. Old Bonhart here likes to know someone's name before he runs his sword through them. Go on! Before I gut you like a fish!"
"I am Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach! I am here to rescue Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra!"
"Ah, some knight, are you? Well, now I know what name to spit on your corpse when we're done."
Bonhart readied his blade and casually waltzed forward. The bounty hunter's cavalier attitude enraged the young man, as he brandished his sword menacingly.
"All bark and no bite, you scoundrel! Stand and fight!"
The blades met with a savage clang, both sides twisting their wrists for the bind. Bonhart's feet shifted and pulled back before testing Cahir with another attack. He deflected in – but only in the nick of time. Their blades met again several times before they both withdrew.
"Not bad, not bad, good for someone your age." Bonhart smiled and playfully cut the air with his sword.
Cahir swallowed his throat grimly.
He could tell that the older man was stronger, faster, and more experienced. The mercenary was too calm: he was toying with him. Cahir readied his blade again and this time, cautiously circled around his opponent. Bonhart did the same as the two formed a circle, each waiting for the other to make a misstep.
"You bore me," Bonhart eventually hissed.
His blade melted into a flash of light and shot towards Cahir's face.
Parry, Parry, Parry!
But it was a feint, and the young man's sword twisted uselessly to meet a phantom cut. Cahir did not know how, but his feet reacted fast enough to save his torso from the upper cut that followed. But the sudden movement forced his balance to shift, too quickly, that he found his right exposed.
Bonhart on the other hand, made no such mistake. He shifted his footing but an inch and pivoted in a different direction, using the torque of his body to power a new blow. Cahir's sword came up for an instinctive parry.
But his form was weak. His footing was loose. His were wrists contorted into an unnatural position, unsuited for absorbing impact.
Too weak, Bonhart thought, and too slow.
Yet his edge – coated in the pure dimeritium, melted from pure Koviri ore – silently glided across the flat of her blade and became ensnared on the guard. A deft twist of her hands and a sudden push sent his sword flying out of his hands across the room. Before he could react Bonhart felt the palm of her hand gently touching his chest and then...
Impact.
A brute, forceful impact shoved Bonhart's entire body violently backwards.
He rolled once on the ground and recovered his sword. How was he disarmed? His grip on the sword was tight, controlling. Magic? Impossible, the dimeritium coating nullifies all magic.
The grizzled bounty hunter looked upwards and stared suspiciously at the newcomer.
The most important question yet:
How did she appear there?
Right between Cahir and him. Bonhart would have noticed immediately if someone else had joined the fight.
It was as if she had just...materialized.
His eyes carefully traced the outline of her body. Yes, it was a woman, no doubt, judging from her chest. She wore short hanging robe like a mage, yet it was unlike anything Bonhart had ever seen before.
On her back were two scabbards, one empty and the other housing a blade whose style and grip Bonhart found foreign.
Two swords...
A witcher, most certainly.
Indeed, he spied the medallion of the twin snakes hanging on her belt: a witcher from the School of the Viper. The strangest thing was her mask, a silver metallic mask attached to a hood that covered her entire head.
But the blade in her hands he recognized...it was a gnomish gwyhyr. Although the grip seemed worn and grayed by decades of use, the handgard and grip glowed with a blueish hue.
It was the Zireael.
As if sensing his recognition, the woman took off her hood and revealed her face.
No, no, Bonhart thought, it's not the girl.
The woman standing in front him looked older – if only by several years, not much – and her hair was also different. The girl had ashen hair, with emerald eyes, while this one has black hair and a gray, piercing gaze.
But that scar...that scar on her cheek…
She smiled knowingly and ran her kevlar glove through her hair. As her fingers moved across the strands her hair lightened from black into a fair gray. And her eyes, with a blink, turned into a deep shade of emerald. Cahir gasped.
Bonhart scoffed.
"So it is you, after all," the mercenary hissed, a venomous smile spreading across his ugly face. He readjusted the grip on his sword.
"I'll show you, little fox, what your cheap illusions are worth. You remember how our last fight ended? I'll show you, alright, and this time I'll make sure you won't ever be able to grip a sword again. Oh, I'll show you…"
Cahir placed his hand on her shoulder.
"Cirilla…" he began just as he realized his mistake. When she turned and her eyes gazed into him, the hairs on his neck began rising and the earth shifted beneath his feet.
"Go," she said simply, "tell Geralt."
Cahir thought to say something but that thought vanished when she took his trembling hands off her shoulder. He nodded with a pale face and went off.
"You've become cocky, lassie, you think you can take me on alone?" Bonhart swirled his blade.
She shrugged.
His lips turned into a snarl and he flashed forwards in a swift blur of motion, with his blade slashing precisely. He knew her sword tricks: she moved and fought like a witcher, but that did not bother him. He had fought and defeated her before. There was nothing to be surprised about.
He cut, slashed and stabbed...but met nothing.
All of his attacks met nothing but empty air, there was no flesh to taste or even steel to parry. As fast as he was, the girl evaded everything with deft and silent sidesteps.
Bonhart furiously turned in a deadly half pirouette and this time brought his strike low, to her legs, but she turned even quicker. Their bodies met, back to back. He twisted his blow mid-motion to a backwards stab under his armpit.
Yet before he could execute it she slid her feet from behind – to him, in front – his own and tripped him.
Bonhart fell face forwards to the hard stone floor. The fall morphed into another roll and he put distance from her, afraid of an attack from the back. But nothing came. When he regained his footing he found the girl staring at him, her sword idle, with a bored expression.
Unbridled rage curled up from his stomach when she gestured nonchalantly at him, beckoning him to attack her again.
He cursed and leapt forward.
Milva let loose the bowstring and shot another arrow forwards.
She saw Regis slashing through the hapless mercenaries in his vampire form, immune to all attacks. But then suddenly, he fell back, clutching his shoulders. Protruding from it was the shaft of an arrow. Milva's eyes searched the battlements for the archer and found him nocking another arrow. She saw how the arrow head glistened in the sun.
Silver arrows.
The archer's head was pierced through his eyes by Milva's arrow, but not before he sent another silver streak to Regis's legs. Vampire fell on one leg, crippled. Some of the mercenaries unsheathed their own silver blades and jumped onto the creature, overwhelming him with numbers.
To her left Cahir and Angoulême were fending off a dozen of swordsmen, their blades twirling and dancing a deadly ballad of steel. But then the tip of a spear shot forwards and jabbed the fair-haired lass in the gut.
She clutched the pole arm and pulled the attacker within reach. Once she made sure she had thrust her sword squarely into his stomach, Angoulême collapsed.
In a momentary lapse of concentration Cahir allowed a sword to slash his sword arm. He cried out in pain and his weapon fell to his side.
All this happened in one quick moment, and when Milva had nocked another arrow she too, found her end down the shaft of a crossbow bolt flying towards her.
Why did I turn him down?
She saw it come towards her, ever so slowly…
And then a hand gripped it and the bolt was snapped into half.
The next moment Milva remembered seeing was a flash of incredible lighting, shooting from everywhere and towards everything. She recoiled and shielded her eyes from the incredible flash. When she recovered she turned to see a sorceress darting along the battlements towards Cahir and Angoulême.
The newcomer reached the two companions just before the mercanries, stunned, could set upon them. In a blur of quick, surgical motion she struck each of them with her staff. The men came crashing down onto the stone floor with sickening thuds.
The sorceress turned about = visibly annoyed – when another bolt flew past her head. This it was not lighting but fire: blue flames licked her fingers as her eyes narrowed in search of targets.
She sent the blue fireball twirling within her palms towards the mass of mercenaries surrounding Regis. The screams of pain pierced the entire castle as the flaming figures writhed and scuffled in vain to end their pain. But somehow the vampire alone seemed unharmed.
The archer could only stare with dumb folded eyes.
The sorceress wore a robe with a hanging skirt with rough leather pants beneath. Milva had never seen a sorceress wearing such unflattering clothing. Unlike the Fringilla Vigo – whose every feature was magically beautified – this sorceress's face was coarse and rough. Her tawny hair was unkempt, but short.
This strange sorceress looked around the carnage disinterestedly, poking at the bodies with her staff. Then she let out a tasteless hiccup, which prompted her unhook a round wine flask from her belt. She gave it a long, deep, vulgar swig. The wine began dribbling down her neck from her clumsy gulps.
Milva's mouth dropped open.
Once she's had enough the sorceress decided it was time to do something about Angoulême on the floor. She knelt down unsteadily beside her. Pushing away the lass's bloodied hands she began muttering a healing spell and placed her glowing hands on the wound.
Angoulême let out a sigh of relief. A third bolt came flying towards the sorceress's back but she parried it with her staff, not even turning. Milva saw Cahir gesturing at her frantically, pointing at where the arbalester was shooting from.
Milva remember the bow in her hand, and feeling sheepish at her inaction, turned about and let loose another arrow.
It's too late.
He realized this as she cut him again, this time through his insides of his thighs.
Once again he felt a searing pain burning through his body. Oh, how Bonhart missed the dull sensation of being cut by regular blade. But this was not it. Every time her blade touched his flesh there was a screeching streak of agony that shot thorough his body, something that Bonhart had never ever experienced before in his life.
When she cut him, it was always shallow, light, and not enough to mortally wound him or cripple his movements. Bonhart could keep on swinging his sword, but with each wound the pain came forwards, tenfold stronger, and he hungrily yearned for it to end.
She's toying with me.
No matter how he attacked, how he dodged, parried or moved, she could match and then some. He used every move, every trick, everything he knew but he could even hope to touch her. Again and again she danced effortlessly around him, with her cold and unflinching eyes, and struck him.
He felt so small, so helpless.
So pathetic.
Finally she grew bored and sent her blade slashing – low – across the back of his calves. Bonhart collapsed onto his knees and his sword dropped to side. He glared defiantly at her towering over his cowering figure.
"Go...plough yourself," he managed to croak.
She smiled ever so slightly and sheathed her blade.
At that very moment Bonhart, with every ounce of will left in him, leapt forwards with a stiletto in hand. But she simply snapped her fingers and a searing, blinding pain flooded him. The man collapsed onto the ground, howling like a wounded animal, writhing in pain.
"Please…" he begged, "make it stop…"
She slowly and deliberately removed the kevlar glove on her right hand. Then she brought the Zireael's blade's heel to her bare palm.
The blade began to vibrate viciously at the taste of her skin.
Her lips murmured an alien incantation. Then she gave her sword in a small, violent jerk. Black blood came flowing hungrily onto the glowing blade. The blood seemed to stain the steel deeply, awkening horrendous darkness from deep within. The three witcher medallions on the mercenary's chest began to shake fanatically.
That's when Bonhart heard them.
No, Bonhart felt them.
He felt the screams of a thousand men: their pain, their lament, their unending suffering, within the darkness that dwelled within the blade. It was an eternity of agony, where death and darkness was nothing but a sweet release.
He felt it, all of it, pulsating in waves from the cursed sword. He desperately tried to move his limbs, to escape, to resist, but they did not respond. They were dead and lifeless. A primal fear consumed his heart.
"No...please...please…"
She smiled and swirled her blade once, slicing through the air with dark auras that seemed to dampen any light in the hall. Then carefully, deliberately, she stood over him and positioned the sword with the tip facing towards right above his face. Bonhart's wide eyes stared at the tip hanging inches above him.
Zireael and pierced him.
Bonhart howled and screamed in inhuman agony as he felt his soul being sucked into the void. His skin melted under the black flames. His flesh swiveled into nothing. Then his body began to disintegrate.
Leo Bonhart crumbled into ash.
He screamed and screamed to the very last moment just before his face – the part of him present – dissolved into a puddle of black liquid.
The Zireael hummed and shook with great violence. But she silenced it with another incantation. As the darkness faded away the silver blade fell back into its scabbard with a swift motion. Silence reigned.
She yawned.
She lazily put her kevlar glove back on before rolling her neck and massaged her shoulders. A quick glance around and she spotted the three witcher medallions lying in the black puddle. She fished it out with her knife and wiped it, giving it a few blows with her mouth.
Then, swinging them in her fingers, she walked off, whistling a quiet tune.
Next.
"Look out Geralt!"
The witcher dodged, by a sliver of his hair, out of reach of Vilgefortz's sword and counterattacked. But his sihil met a hard magical barrier, ending in an explosion that sent him flying across the room.
Cursing wildly, Yennefer sent a thunderbolt towards the sorcerer. He deflected it with ease, the lighting bouncing off his magical shield and repaid it twice with a stronger bolt. Yennefer screamed in pain as the lighting coursed through her body.
Emerging from the mess of broken furniture, Geralt charged again, hopelessly, in hopes of catching the wizard off guard. The villain smiled, squinting his deformed eyes and accepted battle.
Their swords clashed with expert strokes. With each blow Geralt felt his strength waning. With each strike his form was faltering. Then Vilgefortz hit him with a disarming spelling and sent his sihil flying out the window.
Before the witcher could grapple him with his bare hands, the sorcerer's sword pierced his stomach. Geralt groaned and tried to lock his hands, but another magical spell hit him and he recoiled backwards, crashing onto the stone with a bloody crack.
"Nooo!" Yennefer screamed.
Before she could ready another spell, an invisible hand gripped her throat and lifted her into the air. Vilgefortz laughed manically at how she haplessly struggled against his magical choke hold.
"You are both fools," he said, "neither of you ever stood a chance against me."
Yennefer writhed and screamed silently as the blood began to leave her face. The wizard strode over the witcher, lying in a puddle of his own blood and grabbed his head by the famous white hair. He dragged Geralt over to Yennefer's suspended body.
He lifted the witcher's head in level with hers and laughed.
"I've heard much about your beautiful love. Ah, the beautiful ballads! Now show me! Show me your true love!"
Vilgfortz watched the horror in Geralt's eyes as Yennefer's eyes rolled back into her head. Her hands began to slowly lose strength. Then they stopped struggling…
Vilgefortz laughed and laughed…
Then he heard the whistle.
It was a whistle, just barely audible, that sliced into his ears. The world whirled around his eyes, all sense of balance destroyed and he stumbled backwards in a howl of pain. A piercing, searing noise reverberated in his head.
Yennefer dropped to the ground in clash, barely conscious. Geralt crawled over to her and placed a bloodied hand on her cheek.
Furious with pain, the wizard turned around to find his attacker.
And there she was!
Standing at the stone doorway was the girl: the girl with ashen hair and emerald eyes. An ugly evil smile spread across the wizard's face. Indeed, it was her. So after all this fruitless searching, all this effort, how lucky for him to have her to simply show up!
Cirilla, he thought, the child of Elder Blood.
All mine!
He greedily devoured her with his eyes, taking in every part of her body. The girl was wearing strange clothing, robes in a style he did not recognize: the belt oh her waist, the pouches on her thigh. But the amulets, the amulets most of all.
There were a few hanging from her belt, of which the only one Vilgefortz could discern was the twin snakes. A witcher's medallion of the School of the Viper. Swinging in her hands were several other witcher's medallions.
Useless trinkets, no doubt.
And the two swords on her back, one of which he recognized as a sword of gnomish origins, did not bother him the slightest. This little girl could not possibly threaten him.
Him!
The great Vilgefortz!
Ha!
He raised his hands the power coursed through his body and channeled towards his fingertips. The spell's magic pulsated through the air as it shot towards her.
This will be a fitting finale, he thought.
I will make the woman and witcher watch as I impregnante her.
I will make sure they observe every second of it with their eyes.
Perhaps I should make Yennefer deliver the baby with her own hands?
He made a mental reminder to heal the witcher before he died of blood loss. It would be a shame for him to miss out on the spectacle.
The spell reached its target and hit the girl in full strength. Vilgefortz could see the energy swirling around her hapless body.
She yawned again.
What?
The girl shrugged. Then she nonchalantly walked towards Geralt and Yennefer. Vilgefortz knotted his eyebrows in annoyance and glanced at his hands. He casted another spell. And another. And then another one.
Yet none of them had any effect on the girl, who was now kneeling by the wounded couple. Yennefer had awoken and the girl was healing Geralt with some unfamiliar type of magic.
Feeling the frustration rising in him, the wizard decided to stop with his attacks of disarming spells. Perhaps the Elder Blood has given her a degree of magical protection.
Very well then, he thought, let us see what you can handle!
All that matters is that you're still alive at the end of it.
"Look out!" Yennefer cried.
Yennefer tried to cast a protective sphere, but she was too weak. And too late.
The giant fireball descended on them with great vigor, it's blinding heat setting fire to everything the room. Vilgefortz laughed manically as he took in the wonderful spectacle. Such power! But soon, with the power of the Elder Blood, this will be nothing but a mere trifle.
The deadly fireball shot downwards…and dissolved.
Like a candle with no wax, the deadly attack petered out without as much of a whisper. The only hints left of its power were some smoldering furniture.
Yennefer and Geralt were untouched. The girl was still kneeling over the witcher, with her hands glowing on his stomach wound.
The girl paid Vilgerfortz no attention.
Sheer, unadulterated anger.
Vilgefortz felt anger and fury overtaking his mind as he threw both arms into the air and began chanting loudly. The great well of magical energy flowed from his body into the red sphere forming above his head. With every line of chanting the sphere grew bigger and bigger.
Yennefer stared in horror at the spell unfolding before her eyes. She recognized it. It was an ancient spell created by the elves some five hundred years ago. The scholars had thought the incantation for it to be lost to history.
Even if they were extant, nobody would have the magical energy or source to cast it anyways. To see Vilgefortz doing so at will was a frightening sight. She frantically shook Ciri's shoulder, in an attempt to warn her.
The girl paid her no heed.
"Don't worry," the wizard said, "I'll make sure all three of you survive. However you will remember today as the day you wish that you died!"
With that dropped his arms and the giant red sphere of magical energy descending upon them, in full force. The red energy enveloped every corner of the room, hissing with its deadly power.
Vilgefortz's own protection spell shielded himself from the curse. It was the counter-spell that could block this curse. No other form of protection magic, even high-level ones, could even hope to diminish the red spell's power.
He scoffed scornfully at the three figures enveloped in his attack.
So this is all that Elder Blood can do? Perhaps the legend were false, the Elder Blood may not be the powerful source of magic everyone claimed. Well, he will have to investigate for himself. The curse will doubtlessly leave the girl in a wrecked state. Vilgefortz expects that she will be reduced to a smoldering hunk of flesh, with no arms or legs.
No matter, all he needs is for her womb to be intact.
He does not need her to have working limbs or even a sane mind. Anyways, it will be easier to strap a mutilated torso to the chair and inseminate.
All the same, all the same.
He could see the red mist clearing up, its power dissipating. Through the glowing glint of his magical shield he saw the three figures coming into focus. From an academic stand point he wondered what effect the curse would have the witcher's mutated body.
Full loss of mental faculty perhaps, with burnt rashes covering his entire body? Vilgefortz had read in the tomes that it causes some subjects' internal organs to be thrust from their throat outwards, as if someone had pulled it out.
Fanciful exaggeration, no doubt...
She yawned again.
There they were, in the same position that he had last seen them. The witcher was on the floor, Yennefer beside him staring at Vilgefortz with wide eyes. The girl was still kneeling, with her back to him.
All unharmed.
And then, finally…she's had enough.
As if in a trance, the wizard saw the girl rise to her feet and look him in the eye.
His mouth was agape with shock and incomprehension. The air began to swell with a great power that he did not recognize. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat. At that sound the stone walls shook with great violence and all of the windows shattered into a thousand shards of glass.
Then calmly, precisely, effortlessly, the powerful words reverberated from her lips:
FUS RO DAH!