Chapter Fifteen: All Hostile on the Western Front
June 5th, 1275, that night
Tretogor, Redania, Empire of Nilfgaard
Royal Prison
As Voorhis descended down the stairs to the lowest level of the prison, he motioned his guards to leave him. The massive steel doors that sealed the lowest cells opened, and he walked inside, forcefully.
He moved through the dark and cold hallway, hearing the silence occasionally be broken by the screams of a tortured prisoner. But he did not care for any of those prisoners.
He cared only for the man in room 394.
The hallway winded on and on, leading him at last to the final room, guarded by several of Voorhis' finest personal guards. They nodded upon seeing him, standing at attention and saluted their commander. He ordered them to stand at ease as they opened the door to the cell.
The cell was dark, damp, illuminated only by the light of a torch on the wall. The room itself smelled atrocious, like blood and piss.
The prisoner was in rags, chained to the wall. His matted black hair was a mess, still soaking wet. His chest was bare, covered in scars, old and new. There were welts across his arms and chest; the lashes had left their toll.
It was time for Voorhis to begin. He picked up the wooden board that had the details the previous interrogator had left. He began reading off the grievances and their due punishments, waking his prisoner in the meanwhile.
"Feigning neutrality in order to subvert blockade. Twenty lashes. Assaulting scout expedition. Thirty lashes. Killing scout expedition. Fifty lashes, ten rounds of drowning. Assisting the enemy in combat. Fifty lashes, twenty-five rounds of drowning."
The prisoner's breath was the only constant in the room, besides the sound of the torch burning. "You happy now? You got what you wanted?" His voice was ragged, torn. He was in a great deal of pain but he was trying to hide it.
Voorhis chuckled at the sight. "You witchers are an interesting lot. You think you can hide from society, that you can do as you please and then disappear. You are no different from all of your brethren I've ever encountered."
With that, Voorhis paced up next to the prisoner, coming close to his face, watching with great delight as he moved back, repulsed by the general's sight. "But you came back. You ran away, you had the chance to leave, but you came back. Why?"
The prisoner's golden eyes were piercing as he replied. "Because I swore to help. And while I don't agree with her methods, I do happen to agree with her motives."
Voorhis chuckled again. It was going to be an interesting night.
Earlier that day…
Montecalvo Castle, Redania, Empire of Nilfgaard
She looked over the smoking remains of the balcony, over past the hills to the main road that connected the fortress to the rest of Redania; to Roggeveen, to Blaviken, to Novigrad.
To Tretogor.
If only the clouds would be kind enough to clear up, I might even see an eagle banner from a fortress outside the capital.
The clouds were not going to be kind to Triss Merigold. Fate, however, had shown her some decency.
She turned back around to glance at her one time friend. Phillipa was chained in dimeritium shackles, with her knees on the floor and her mouth gagged to prevent her from shouting. That didn't stop her from struggling underneath, squirming and attempting to yell through the gag.
It certainly didn't make Triss care for her plight any further.
Triss saw Albert and several other mages come back up to top of the tower.
"Nothing, Miss Merigold. He's is definitely not here." She nodded, her face still aggressive and emotive.
"Remove the prisoner's gag." One of the guards next to the Nilfgaardian sorceress moved forward and removed her gag. She heaved for air, gasping and gasping for a solid minute. It made a smirk emerge on Triss' face.
Phillipa looked up to the redheaded sorceress. "This is how you treat me, Triss? After everything we've been through, after all we've-"
"Whip her." Phillipa didn't have time to react as the other guard struck the witch across her back with his whip, shutting her up instantly. She looked down for a moment, and as she did so, Triss moved up to her, taking her chin in her hand, and creating a small fireball in her other hand.
"Phil, I'm going to ask you some questions. If you don't answer them truthfully, I'm going to assume that you did the worst to him and do the same to you. That seems fair, doesn't it?" Phillipa swallowed her spit. Normally, she wasn't the type of woman who could be easily intimidated. But something about Triss was throwing her off, making it difficult for her to be nonchalant and aloof. She knew this mattered to Triss, and that she would make her pay if she had fucked up. She nodded, very slowly, her eyes full of fear.
Triss smiled wickedly. "Very well. Question number one. Where did you send Damien of Oxenfurt?"
Phillipa paused, knowing she had to be very careful answering this question. "To Voorhis. In Tretogor." She whispered it as quietly as she could, but it was as if the winds had silenced in that moment to ensure that only her voice could be heard.
Triss let go of her face, and moved away from her. She refused to look directly at her, and instead simply turned her head towards her as she followed up. "When did you do this?"
"Yesterday morning." Triss knew immediately that they were too late; if Damien had been transferred the day before, they were a day and a half behind. He had probably made it to Tretogor this morning, meaning that he would be guarded very closely.
"And why did you send him there?"
"He told he had set off a marking runestone when he arrived here, ensuring that you would be able I brought him here. I had to get him to somewhere you couldn't catch him, so I did. How does that feel, to have come all this way, raised this whole party only to fail-" Philippa's bitter rant was cut short when Triss blasted her with wind, slamming her into the floor.
Triss had learned of the runestone from the medic; supposedly, Damien had been able to recover early on in the battle, and demanded to go fight. The medic knew it was a bad idea, so she gave him a runestone to set off if anything bad should happen, so they could locate him.
He did set it off, only the signal was traced to Montecalvo. Triss had gathered a force and assaulted the keep, overwhelming Phillipa and her guards. What she didn't know, however, was that Damien had told her about the stone.
"Why did he tell you about the stone?" She said, her teeth gritted together.
"Because…" Phillipa trailed off before finishing her sentence, causing Triss to turn.
"Why. Did. He. Tell. You."
"He wanted me to release him. He thought it would scare me into releasing him. It didn't. So there. Your toy was too stuck up for his own good, thought he could outsmart me. Instead I sent him to Voorhis, who will probably treat him significantly worse than I was ever planning on."
Triss turned away again. It couldn't be that simple. Damien should have, must have known Phillipa would just send him somewhere better defended. Surely. If he didn't, it was a move uncharacteristic of the man she knew. If he did….
What in the name of the gods was he planning? Did he want to meet Voorhis? Does he know something I don't? In fact, why am I bothering? He evidently doesn't want to be with me anymore, otherwise he would have waited. To think I was ready to forgive him, to beg for him to come back, to tell him I've changed. Fucking bastard.
June 30th, 1275
Vengerberg, Aedirn, Empire of Nilfgaard
Main Palace
Fringilla read what, in her mind, would most likely be the last report she would see for a while, perhaps even a lifetime. Vengerberg had been under close siege for about a fortnight, and the scouts reported mobilization near the main gates. Even with the anticipation, the morale was abysmal. The loss of Gulet and the defeat at the Battle of the Pontar Fork had ensured that almost all of Aedirn to Dol Blathanna was in Koviri and Kaedweni hands.
Only Vengerberg and Aldersberg south of it remained. The Grand Duke had basically ceded the Flotsam Forests to the mercenary companies, having withdrawn his forces back into Temeria. Without the extra front, the armies made quick work of Nilfgaard.
The assault was obviously going to begin shortly, and the garrison was hopelessly undermanned and on the breaking point of surrender. Fringilla had read the reports regarding the Western Front. The news was abysmal.
After the Battle of the Buine, as it was referred to thereafter, Nilfgaard retreated back to Roggeveen, hoping to stop Kovir before the river crossing. In doing so, they ceded almost all of central Redania to Kovir, in the hopes it would overextend their lines and make it easier to drive them back.
It didn't. They remained organized, sieged the city, and in the end, got the support of the locals during their assault; the city locals opened some of the gates and actively fought the Nilfgaardian forces, obliterating their army. Next to no one wearing a black sun survived the assault.
Mellis-Stroke himself was killed in the assault, leaving Voorhis the only high ranking commander on the Western Front for Nilfgaard. For now, the Rogge River had become a de facto ceasefire line. Voorhis had arranged several thousand men on the south side of the river, and Ostagard had done the same on the north side. Negotiations had begun, but they remained tense.
And of course, Phillipa had been taken captive; Montecalvo was assaulted and burned to the ground.
Fringilla knew what she had done. Her part in all of this. She could only hope to see some mercy, but she wasn't going to hold out on it.
War is hell.
End of Chapter Fifteen