"Forwards!"
The thunderous hooves of the Nilfgaardian steads echoed throughout the forest. The winding path barely big enough for a cart in width. And yet the knights of the Impera Brigade was able to navigate it with ease and in an orderly fashion. The regiment of riders formed up in an close column as they rode towards their target.
In the distance, above the treetops, they could see the lone outline of Stygga castle. It was nestled against the edges of a cliff.
Soon, the riders shall leave the this winding path. There, they shall be greeted by a wide opening leading to the castle. If the castle's defenses are manned, it may prove problematic to charge across the opening under missile fire.
All it took was a trained company of crossbowmen manning the battlements.
But he knew the knights would not hesitate if he gave the order. They would gladly charge into their certain death. Such was their duty.
For the Great Sun!
They knew that if they fell, more would follow in their steps. Already the heavy infantry regiments of the Impera Brigade was on its way. Perhaps the cavalry can be stopped by a wall of pikemen – although he doubted there were any such formation in the continent who could do that.
But not the infantry.
The black-draped Nilfgaardian Impera Guardsmen, clad in plate armor and covered by a thick tower shields. There stood no force or army in the world who could withstand or break their advance.
Not even with magic.
In any case, he had his own contingent of battlemages with him. The finest of the Imperial Magic Academy's cohorts, soldier-sorcerers who had be been blooded in the Northern Wars. They will make short work of any fortifications.
"Sir! We are here! The vanguard is awaiting your orders!"
No titles in the field. Nor does he expect them to. If any soldier did address him by such, whatever intention it be from, he would have personally ordered him to be hanged.
Such is discipline.
It was the captain. He turned about once more and saw the line of knights forming up at the edge of the forest. Only the open field stood between them and the castle.
"Glass," he commanded.
A lieutenant reached out his gauntlets and presented him with an ornately engraved spy glasses. He took it without word and extended it. The battlements of the castle came into view, bigger than ever, right in his eyes.
Dead bodies.
There were corpses littered throughout the battlements. Clearly a battle had just taken place.
He allowed a huff of anger to escape his lips. It seems like he was too late.
Someone had gotten to her first.
And yet he continued searching the outlines of the castle, as looking for a clue. It seems like the bodies belonged to mercenary soldiers. It seems like the defenders of the castle were overcome by some outside force.
Was she freed?
Perhaps…
He did not even know what to look for. Of course, he had seen her portrait. But that was years ago. By his estimates she would be young girl now. What would she look like? Surely she would still retain the light blonde color of her hair.
It was then that he realized it was not blonde.
And indeed, he saw her. But it was no girl that appeared within the glass. Or a princess. Or a brigand, as he had been told.
Instead, he saw a witcher.
Necromancy.
It had to be.
The strange sorceress was standing in the midst of a sea of scrolls lying on the courtyard. She had produced them from the same gap in her robes. Dozens of scrolls from the same pocket…
Then she stretched each of them out – long endless streams of parchment – with reckless abandon, not paying heed or care to their positions. And yet each of them fell gently into place and formed a circle around her.
The wine came next.
She let loose the lid on her wine flask and began spilling it all over the scrolls. With each splatter the wine turned into crimson smirks of blood on the parchment. All the while she muttered some sort of an incantation.
Now it was time for her black ebony staff.
She raised it to the sky…then she brought it down onto the ground.
When it touched the ground everyone in the courtyard felt a silent, roar echoing through the ground.
And with that, the dead rose again.
At the moment Geralt and his company heard a terrible noise sliding through the mouths of the deceased mercenaries. It was a noise somewhere between a scream and a moan. Then, slowly and manipulated by invisible strings, the corpses rose to their feet.
"I thought necromancy was banned…" Geralt whispered to Yennefer.
"It is…" the raven black hair sorceress replied, "but I've never seen anything like this before…"
Should've just summoned Atronachs…
Once she was finished with the spell, Arch-Mage looked around to judge her work. Well…it's alright. Her reanimation spell did catch all of the bodies, but she didn't have the time to conjure any skeletons. Anchoring the spell on the staff did reduce hassle, but it also weakened the potency of it.
A couple of dremoras could probably help. Golden Saints? Oh, oh! Didn't she have a scroll of Summon Dwarven Centurion somewhere? Ugh, where did she put that…Bah! Blast it. She'll never find it in time.
Frankly, she can't be bothered with it.
Now, where is she?
The Arch-Mage looked up and saw her standing on the gate of the castle. She could see that her silver sword was sheathed. But her dragonbone sheath of empty. And her ashen hair was thrown back as she raised her face towards the sky.
Above, storm clouds began to gather.
The Arch-Mage readjusted her grip on her ebony staff and rolled her eyes again.
Show-off.
Foolish girl.
She was not dressed as befitting the future Empress of Nilfgaard. Quite distasteful. The disorderly combination of different armor pieces, of strange clothing, and of course her swords – the two swords on her back – made her into a common bandit.
In his absence she had also acquired some terrible features. A hideous scar on her face, for instance. And her body, it was not a physique that a woman of noble birth should possesses. It's all well and good to be a aquintend with the blade, but her lanky, tall figure was more akin to a soldier.
He shook his head and sighed.
So many things to discipline.
But deep down, there was also a sigh of relief.
She was safe.
"Captain!"
The captain rode up to him.
"Form up the men. Tell them to be prepared to receive her highness."
"Yes sir."
Before he turned away to join the riders, he heard an omnius crack of thuinder echoing through the sky. Instinictkely, he through the spy glass once more.
She was doing something.
The girl had a her blade stabbed into ground infront of her. She held it with both hands, like a knight guarding the entrance of secret temple. Her head was thrown up and facing the darkening sky.
He narrowed his eyes.
Magic?
No matter. His battlemages accompanying him will deal with any impudent whims she may deign to try. Ah, such a stupid girl. He shall have to educate her properly when the time comes.
He grabbed the reigns of his saddle, turning his stead just as he heard it.
Or rather, he felt it.
An earth shattering call that roared through the air, sending vibrations into his very bones beneath his plate armor. It louder than any thunder or noise he had ever heard. He could not even hear his own breathe when it noise came ringing through his ears. For a moment he simply sat in his saddle, his hands gripping the reins until they turned white, as the shockwave washed over him.
He immediately turned back and saw what happened.
She raised her head and called out to the skies:
OD AH VIING!
Yennefer of Vengerberg did not betray anything.
Geralt of Rivia did the same, but not out of intention: his stoic face was a simply a result of his training and profession.
But the others were not so tight-lipped.
Cahir, who had grown up with contact with Nilfgaardian sorcerers, knew enough to understand the feat of the spell. Surely the sorceress must be from the Imperial Academy? Surely? Or can Nordlings manage such Art as well?
Regis smiled. But it was not a wane smile or a friendly one of a herbalist. Isntead it was the smile of an immortal vampire. Very few things could surprise him at his age, and this certainly did.
"Impressive," the vampire offered.
Milva was pale. But she said nothing.
Angoulême was very animated. The fair-haired rogue was at a loss for proper words, resorting to her colourful – but limited – vocbaualry to express herself.
"What the fuck? Are you lot seeing this? For in the name of all that's good and holy is that fucking woman doing? For the love of the gods that is fucking…fucking…well fuck me! Shit, shit, shit!"
The strange sorceress looked around and saw the company staring at her. She made his way over to them.
Nobody knew what to say.
She saw Yennefer and walked up to her.
"You are a Mage, yes?"
Yennefer nodded numbly.
"Hold this for me, alright?"
She handed Yennefer the ebony staff.
The moment the raven-haired sorceress' hand closed onto the staff, she tasted the terrible scent of death in her mouth. The taste of human ashes. And yet she also caught the faint scent of something sickening sweet.
The staff felt colder than ice.
The strange sorceress opened her mouth to say something but she was interrupted by the Witcher's call. The tremendous strength of her voice made the entire company jump instinctively.
They all looked up at the castle gates, where the witcher was standing with her back to them.
"What the hell was that…" Geralt muttered.
The strange sorceress shrugged.
"She's calling some of her friends."
They barely calmed down their horses when they saw it.
Even though it had been a bright spring day just moments ago, now the sky had blackened until it swallowed the sun completely. And from the darkening clouds came more roaring thunder.
Then the earth began to shake.
He spied a purple light creeping its way through the clouds, slowly etching a line across the black canvass. Then suddenly it stopped moving. The aura of light grew in intensity until it was became almost blinding.
He shielded his eyes with his gauntlets. But through the gaps he saw a cyan light spreading its wings. Soon it had cut a gaping hole through the sky. He stared through the abyss and saw a strange, foreign world swirling behind it.
Then they heard the roar.
A deep, ancient roar reverberating throughout the skies. The birds of the forest all shirked and terror and took the skies in flight.
The entire regiment of the Impera Brigade was silent as they stared on at the portal.
They caught glimpses of its form first, swirling past the entrance on the other side. But soon it made its entrance into the same world as them. And when it came, there was no doubt as to what it was. It used to be a relic of fairy tales, but now they were reality.
A dragon came through the portal.
And what an ancient, magnificent creature it was! A reptilian creature spanning the length of two furlongs, covered in crimson scales. Its wings spread out across the sky like two scaled hands, each of the wing's fangs as big as a full bred stallion.
And from its mouth came hints of a terrible, infernal fire.
The proud, glorious and mighty Impera Brigade was silent.
The men watched on with muted somber as the dragon made several circles around the castle, with each pass being announced with a mighty roar. The men watched in silence, but none shifted. Instead they were still in the positions that they had be ordered to.
"Your orders, sir," the captain said calmly.
"The infantry?"
"Two hours march away."
He was silent.
Once again, he looked through the glass. Now he realized his mistake. She was no girl. He noticed now that she had another sword on her back. Two swords then. A witcher?
Do witchers know how to summon dragons?
A shadow of a smile crept into his face. He was impressed. It was still unseemly, but he was impressed.
She was his daughter after all.
He was still looking through the spy glass when he saw her raise her head again. He stopped breathing as he watched her mouth open and…
My daughter indeed.
DUR NEH VIIR!