For a moment, Cahir thought he was back in the Siege of Cintra.
The sound of the explosion sounded just like the Nilfgaardian trebuchets' projectiles landing on the stone walls of the city. No. This was louder. The young man turned around, expecting to see a dozen of flaming projectiles shooting across the sky.
There were none.
Instead the explosion did not come from a trebuchet's projectile.
Cahir intently searched for the damaged section of the castle. Indeed, there was a gaping hole in tallest tower of the castle. But he could see no hint of flame or impact.
Instead it looked as if the opening had been forced from the inside.
However before he could investigate any further he was distracted by the shill sound of a whistle. The mercenaries were regrouping for another attack. The young man turned around an readied his sword again.
He could not afford to worry about other things.
The strange sorceress, however, could.
She glanced up at the spot in between quick sips of her wine flask and deadly swings of her staff. It seemed like the brickwork had been blown completely apart by her thu'um. At that rate the tower will only need a couple more before it collapses completely in on itself.
She spat uncouthly and rolled her eyes.
Show-off.
Vilgefortz could not breathe.
For a long time he was unsure if he was still alive. There was no sensation throughout his body. The only thing his mind could recognize was the deafening ring of the screeching darkness that swallowed his vision.
When he finally came to he realized that he was huddled pathetically on the floor. The master wizard attempted to get up but he only succeeded in slipping on his own blood.
It was everywhere.
He was bleeding out of his eyes, his ears, and his nose: he was bleeding out of every orifice of his body. It was as if someone had gripped his body like a ragdoll and squeezed the air out in one brutal grasp.
The girl.
Impossible.
Her voice…
He was one of the most powerful sorcerers, both in the North and the South. He recognized no such magic. There was no such spell. In all his years as a mercenary and studying magic he has never seen such a thing.
The Elder Blood…
She was a brat. The girl was nothing but a child who been taught some fancy sword tricks. He still remembered how she had fled like a rat into the Tower of Swallows, when he almost had her in his grasp.
It didn't matter.
Vilgefortz will destroy her.
And so he rose proudly to his feet. His hand found his sword once more and he turned to face his prey: the means to the end that he has been searching for all this time. He turned and faced her.
The…spell had left a large gaping hole in the stone walls of the tower. It was difficult to see anything through the dust and haze. But even through the smog he could see its sleek form glowing dimly.
The gnomish gwyhyr's silver blade was idle by the girl's side. She was in no hurry: her wrist slowly pulled the sword upwards in an elegant arc. The dim glow waved through the air like a ghostly apparition.
Vilgefortz's sword struck true and without hesitation.
With a flick of his fingers the sorcerer's sword was immediately engulfed in a fiery inferno. It shot forwards like a meteor towards the girl, not waiting for her to bring the gwyhyr to bear. No mortal could possibly hope to parry such a blow. The flame was hot enough to cut through thick plate armor.
She parried it.
A flash, then the sound of shatter steel and the next thing Vilgefortz could feel was his making contact with an immovable object. The light blinded his vision but he did not need it.
His arms moved again and again, striking her from different angles, directing his sword towards the girl in a brilliant display of swordsmanship. Elder Blood or not, steel is steel. Blood is blood.
Steel does not discriminate.
And indeed, it did not. Thus the verdict was given, coldly and without ceremony:
Her silver cuts through all falsehoods.
The Zireael caught every attack squarely and without hesitation. Every blow was deflected coldly. Every strike met either empty air or the flat of her blade. And all his flames and magic tricks were for naught; her silver held true.
Pointless.
Bind, bind, bind! Pivot! Cut, parry, feint, another thrust, cut, cut, and cut! But it was all the same.
She parried everything.
Eventually she grew bored of the charade. When the swords met again for another bind and wind, she pushed the blade forwards and caught his sword in the cross guard of her Zireael. Then she twisted her wrists hard. The cross guard of her Zireal came crushing down his blade.
Vilgefortz's sword shattered into a thousand pieces.
Her right hand came sliding behind his back and around his neck. By the time he realized it her hand had already locked his head in and upper torso in place. With Vilgefortz locked in place, she reached her left arm out.
He tried to mutter the incantations for a spell but he was not fast enough. Nor were his hands reach down for his stiletto. It only took her half a second.
Vilgefortz saw a blur of strange gestures flashing across her left hands within a blink of an eye. But within a moment it had stopped. Now her palms were reached out in preparation of something.
He heard it first.
It was like the sound of deafening bolt of lightning in a storm. But instead of a solitary streak it was continuous and never-ending. Soon it was nothing but a blinding mass of piercing screams and light cackling in her hands.
It was the sound of a thousand birds screeching.
He turned to the witcher. Now her eyes were no longer emerald. Instead they were replaced by a ashen gray, like her hair. The blinding thunder in her hand bathed everything in white.
Vilgefortz saw a shadow of a smile creeping into her face.
"Chidori," the witcher whispered.
Her hand went forwards.
And then there was nothing but the silver light.
Another whack, just for good measure.
When she was satisfied she finally let go of Stefan Skellen's limp corpse. It fell quietly onto the mud without ceremony. The strange sorceress looked around the courtyard littered with bodies to check if there was anyone that still needed to be dealt with.
There was none. She had killed them all.
Well, that calls for some celebration!
The sorceress took another long, generous swig of her wine flask. She greedily suckled the wine down her lips until it started to dribble down the side of her neck. Once she's had enough, she let out a loud hiccup. The flask was put away by unsteady hands.
Milva turned to look at her companions with a strange expression.
"Interesting indeed," Regis agreed.
"I like 'er!" Angoulême declared. "Not like that stuck up bitch Fringilla."
"You nordlings never cease to amaze me," Cahir sighed.
Milva could not tell if the sorceress was from the North, but she didn't particularly care. She had helped them. Angoulême would be dead if not for her healing magic. But as she watched the sorceress waltz towards them with a drunkard's gait, she had to admit she was at least curious.
When she finally arrived before them, Regis was the first to speak.
"Thank you, kind stranger, for assisting us with fighting these bandits. But forgive me, for I must ask, who are you and why did you help us?"
Angoulême just grabbed Cahir's shoulder and motioned at the tower.
"Come on! We can do the fucking talking later, we got to go help Geralt! We need to find Cirilla!"
Regis casted a look at Milva and they both agreed with fair-haired rogue's comment. But the sorceress stopped them with her staff. The group looked uncertainly at each other.
She took another sip from her flask. Then she simply pointed at the smoldering wreck that was once the tower of Stygga castle.
Geralt and Yennefer saw everything.
But seeing and believing were two different things.
In any case, it did not matter what they believed. All that mattered was that Vilgefortz was dead. The smoulder black mass that stained the stone walls was all that's left of him. And judging by the creaking nosises ringing through the walls, soon there won't be much left of the tower either.
She had taken out at least half of the floor's stone walls.
Having realized as well, the witcher knew that it was no longer safe to be in the tower. She walked over to Geralt and Yennefer, who was still lying on the floor.
The witcher knelt down again and held each of their hands calmly. She glanced over each of them with calm eyes to make sure they were alright.
Another flash of light.
But this time it was no blinding. Instead it was a soft, quick jolt of blur of motion that ended with the trio materializing in another part of the castle. Geralt recognized it to be the entrance to the inner battlements, where the tallest tower of the castle is.
Teleportation.
The witcher stood up again and looked around to make sure the surroundings were clear. Then she slide her silver sword back into the scabbard on her back. The resounding click of the cross guard meeting the scabbard seemed to shake Yennefer and Gearlt from their stupor.
"Ciri," Yennefer said first, "….Ciri."
"Ciri," Geralt repeated numbly. Then he rubbed his eyes.
The witcher quietly looked over them. She managed a small smile.
"Geralt. Madam Yennefer."
The sorceress slowly rose to her feet, helping Geralt up along the way. The witcher gave them both a hand. Soon the three of them were standing silently in the hall.
Yennefer did her best to straighten her back up. She assumed the natural air of authority without any difficulty. She turned to face her former ward.
"What do you look like, girl," Yennefer said severely, "tidy up your hair! Don't stoop. Come here, please."
The witcher glanced curiously at Yennefer before approaching her calmly.
That's when she realized that the witcher was taller than her. The witcher looked on with a gaze that she did not recognize. She reached out to touch her hair, just like she used to do when a long time ago.
But Yennefer stopped herself. She did not know why.
The witcher smiled wryly and bowed her head slightly. In respect.
Geralt realized that he did not know who this girl was. She was no longer the feisty little girl with ashen hair that he remembered.
Instead there was a witcher standing before him. The two swords hanging from her back spoke of a truth he did not understand. It was a strange truth that he once knew, but had forgotten.
He saw the amulets and trinkets that hung from her belt. There was a collection of witcher medallions. Geralt reached over and touched them, feeling them vibrate silghlty in his hands.
"Where did you…" Geralt began.
"Three of them are from the bounty hunter," the witcher replied, glancing at Yennefer. "I took it from him."
The witcher then took those three from her belt and gave Geralt the wolf medallion. She placed the other two in a pouch for safe keeping. Now there was only one medallion left on her belt.
The medallion of the twin vipers.
"I hope you know it's just a symbol," he said.
Her emerald gaze pierced him. The Viper smiled.
"Of course, symbols are all we have."
Silence descended upon them, and for some reason neither Geralt nor Yennefer knew how to break it. Luckily they were interrupted by the sound of a crow flying nosily into the hall. It landed on the door's perch and began cawing. Yennefer and Geralt exchanged glances.
But the witcher listened intently. Then she nodded slightly and waved if off. The crow flew off silently without a whisper.
"Let's go," the witcher said, "we have company."
"Yes," said Yennefer, "I want to see the sky."
"Yes. Let's get out of here. Ciri, hold her up."
"I don't need holding up!"
"You can hold each other up."
Geralt looked around for a weapon but the witcher just tapped him lightly on the shoulder. There was no need.
They came out into the courtyard of the castle and everyone was finally reunited. Geralt quickly glanced over at all of the bodies strewn across the courtyard. He looked at Regis for an answer but the vampire could only answer by a subtle tilt of his head.
Regis's eyes glanced over at the strange sorceress.
She was sitting some distance away from the group, leaning on her staff planted firmly in the ground. The woman was taking generous chugs from her wine flask like a drunkard.
There was a black crow resting on the top of her staff.
Geralt and Yennefer looked over the stranger with guarded eyes, but before they could say anything Cahir walked up to the witcher.
The young man raised his fists solemnly and began to speak.
"Greetings! I am Cahir Mawr Dyffryn, son of Ceallach, and we're already met. I came here with Geralt. To rescue you –"
"Oh shut the fuck up!" Angoulême snapped, "you can do the boring talk later! Hey, come here! Are you really Cirillia? The princess? Really?"
The fair-haired lass spread out her arms for an embrace.
The witcher sidestepped her and went immediately to the Arch-Mage.
She glumly watched the witcher walk over to her as she took more sips of her flask, as if trying to fit in as much wine while she still could. Once she arrived, the witcher exchanged some words with the drunkard. The Arch-Mage eventually pointed vaguely at some of the castle walls.
The witcher looked over and vanished in a flash of light.
Before the group – especially Regis, Angoulême, Cahir and Milva – could register what happened the witcher had reappeared in another flash. She said something quickly to the drunkard.
She made some rude gestures at the witcher in return. But in the end she acquiesced.
The Arch-Mage sighed dejectedly and took one, last chug from her flask. Then she gingerly put it away and got up uncertainly, making a show of dusting off her robes. With each pat of her hand a shower of grey ashes fell out of her robes.
Then the scrolls came out.
Yennefer and Geralt did not have time to react, let alone say anything. The witcher walked up to the group and simply said:
"The Nilfgaardians are coming."