To live or to die
"Damn it!" Peering over the hedge, the tall elf with the disfiguring diagonal scar across his face scowls and adds a few more curses, this time in his native elven language.
"What d'you reckon happened?" asks a black-haired female elf who is standing next to him, almond eyes wide with horror.
"Beats me. Not the work of a sorcerer, though. Those cowards all seem to have teleported away." Isengrim Faoiltiarna's scowl deepens even more while he takes in the gruesome sight of the mutilated corpses of the Scoia'tael squad lying strewn about the little courtyard. The entire squad dead, slaughtered brutally. Butchered with a sword, not with magic. The fountain's bubbling water is still tinged with red. Then the gaze of the notorious Squirrel commander comes to rest on the one non-elf among the dead bodies. "The Nilfgaardian," he murmurs, scowl turning into a frown. Quickly making up his mind, he points at the only two of the twelve remaining members of his commando that look mostly uninjured. "Breon, Ingolf, follow me." He motions toward the prone form of the knight in the black armour. "He cannot fall into the wrong hands. Nobody must know about the Empire's active involvement in this. If the Royal troops find a Nilfgaardian soldier here, dead or alive, they'll have the proof."
Swiftly the three elves squeeze through the hedge, not knowing that the sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg did precisely the same thing in exactly the same spot not even half an hour before. While their commander checks on the massacred elves - no one alive here -, his two followers cross the yard to where the Nilfgaardian is lying motionless in a puddle of blood. The gash on the side of his head is still bleeding sluggishly into his blood-soaked brown curls. With rough hands they turn him over onto his back to better be able to carry the body. There is blood still seeping from a deep stab wound in his shoulder and a gaping cut in his left palm. A low moan escapes the unconscious and seriously injured, however, not quite dead man. His eyelids flutter but do not open.
"He's alive," Breon, a tall, dark-skinned elf with startlingly blond hair and blue eyes, exclaims in surprise. He turns toward their legendary leader, "but if we don't stop the bleeding now, he might not make it."
"What do we care if the Dh'oine lives or dies? Can't you hear the hordes of soldiers pouring in from Aretuza and Loxia? We need to hurry!" urges Faoiltiarna, also known as the Iron Wolf. From the stone slabs he picks up the badly damaged Nilfgaardian helmet. Then he surveys the courtyard one last time, taking in every detail of the carnage. "His Emperor won't be happy with him anyway. I cannot see a sign of his target. Which means the Dh'oine did not accomplish his mission."
He turns around and, not looking back even once, the infamous elven warrior leaves the scene of the massacre the way he came. They have to get back to the catacombs and then the caverns under Garstang and the waiting ship as quickly as possible. Save their own lives. No time to moan or bury the dead. Nor to tend to a mere human's wounds. A totally insignificant and expendable human to boot, at least if you asked him, Isengrim Faoiltiarna.
Swearing under their breaths, Breon and the ginger-haired Ingolf hurry after their commander half carrying, half dragging the unconscious Nilfgaardian between them by his arms and legs - not an easy task thanks to the heavy black and blood-spattered armour. However, they manage not to fall too much behind their injured comrades.
The water in the fountain soughs, spilling over the edge of the basin, its water almost clear by now.
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"Hell and damnation, how is one supposed to sleep with the incessant moaning and groaning from that blasted Nilfgaardian?" The grim-looking, unusually thick-set elf yawns demonstratively while complaining to his leader who is standing on deck gazing at the stars. "Can't we just toss him overboard and be done with it?"
"No need for drastic measures, Grimbart. We're almost there." Faoiltiarna explains, not taking his eyes off the nightly firmament. "We'll hide in the forest west of Hirundum. Rebuild the commando. Then take up our fight against the Dh'oine."
"And the Nilfgaardian?" the elf by the fitting name of Grimbart insists.
"Cahir?" Isengrim looks at his subordinate irritatedly. Is Grimbart questioning his decision? "He can live or die, leave or stay as he pleases. Or as destiny demands. It's a big forest." He resumes his stargazing, making it more than clear that this is all he will say on the matter. Simply for the sake of a quiet night, the Iron Wolf is not ready to kill a man. Not because it would go against his ethics or morals - the Nilfgaardian is just another Dh'hoine, belongs to the cursed race of man that stole the continent from those that came there first, the elder and much superior race of elves, only that, at the moment, they are allied with his Emperor for political reasons - no, that is not it. It is because he believes in destiny. If not absolutely necessary, he would not want to challenge it. So, if it is Cahir's fate to die, he will, but not on the Iron Wolf's orders nor by his hand.
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Before daybreak, the elves cast anchor in a remote, hidden from view bay where dense forest almost touches the beach. The task of carrying the feverish Nilfgaardian falls again to Breon and Ingolf. Their burden is a lot less heavy and bulky this time, though, as they removed the black armour on board the ship to be able to staunch the flow of blood and dress the man's wounds. While they venture deeper into the forest, the two take turns at lugging the groaning and shivering knight on their backs. Judging from the huge amount of blood the soldier had lost and the faint, erratic heartbeat and shallow breathing, they did not really expect him to make it through the first night, but, against all odds, he had. As, after two days of sailing, he is still alive and somehow, although Faoiltiarna has never said so outright, seems to have become their responsibility, the two find an acceptable spot for him under a tall larch not too close to their camp so nobody would complain about any noise the wounded knight might make in his fevered sleep. They set up a sickbed from several blankets on the soft, dark green moss that covers the forest floor at the foot of the tree. The Nilfgaardian has not yet woken up, nor does he do so when they lower him onto the blankets. In spite of the summerly temperatures, he is shaking violently from fever chills and they cover him with another blanket or two. If he does not wake up soon so they can make him drink some water, he will surely die. Not a great tragedy if you asked any of the elves, on the contrary. However, having put some effort into keeping the man alive, to Breon and Ingolf it would feel like another defeat. So they take turns checking on him once in a while between performing other, more important tasks for their commando, like setting rabbit traps or collecting firewood.
The sun has almost risen to its zenith when Ingolf returns from one of those short visits to the main campsite where the elves have dug a fire pit with two rabbits already roasting over it. Not much for thirteen hungry mouths, but better than nothing. Hopefully they'll be able to hunt something larger for dinner, otherwise it will just be the hard tack they have brought with them from the ship.
"Give me one of those water skins, will you?" Ingolf grabs the drinking vessel with the fresh spring water that one of his comrades is passing him, then turns to their leader. "I think the Nilfgaardian is waking up."
"He might be able to tell us what happened. Who slaughtered his squad," Isengrim Faoiltiarna says pensively, rising from the tree stub he was sitting on while repairing the fletchings of his last remaining arrows.
Unfortunately, Cahir is in no shape to tell anybody anything, at least not yet. He blinks and wakes up for a brief moment when Breon shakes him by the shoulder and, supported by Ingolf, manages to drink a few sips of water, but he is so feverish that he does not recognise any of the elves nor does he seem to understand, let alone answer the questions the Iron Wolf is asking. The Scoia'tael leader swears and leaves again. Breon and Ingolf stay for a while, though, and use the opportunity to change the sick knight's dressings. The deep stab wound in his shoulder does not look too bad, there is neither fresh blood nor pus. In contrast, his left hand, the one with the ugly cut, is badly swollen and inflamed. No wonder the man is delirious with fever. Maybe it would be best to amputate? However, there is no experienced healer, let alone a surgeon among the remaining Squirrels and the Nilfgaardian has already lost so much blood, he would surely not survive the grisly operation, especially not if performed by an amateur. Of course, the infection might kill him, too, only more slowly. At the moment, though, the two elves can do no more than cleanse the wound with spring water and redress it with fresh bandages. Hopefully it will be enough. The Nilfgaardian moans and whimpers while they are at it, but does not wake up again.
During the night the fever gets worse. Cahir raves about an insane girl with green eyes, about the Lion Cub of Cintra, about some Yennefer he appears to be worried about. And about a witcher who massacred his men. Even though the elven commander has not shown much interest in the Nilfgaardian's fate so far, this last tidbit catches his attention. A witcher responsible for the slaughter? Although it is hard to believe that a single person killed the entire squad, if any one person could have pulled that off, it is a witcher. But what would a witcher do on Thanedd during the Conclave of Sorcerers? And why would he butcher the elves? Witchers, especially those of the Wolf School, are usually neutral, pride themselves in not taking sides and treat elves, dwarfs and other races with as much respect as they treat humans. Very strange indeed. Well, as the Nilfgaardian is still delirious, he will have to wait for the fever to break to find out more about his comrades' deaths. If the fever breaks. Which it seems not very willing to do. At least not any time soon.
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It is hot. Baking. Blazing. Hot like the burning Cintra, the inferno of flames - flames in the darkness ignited on his orders. But there are no flames, no darkness. All there is, is an endless expanse of greyish-red stones, strangely shaped rocks and sand as far as the eye can see, blurry in the pulsing, scorching heat of the white-hot disc glowing mercilessly down from a cloudless sky. In the far distance, beyond a shimmering heat haze, Cahir can see a serrated, jagged mountain range. Closer by, scrawny, thorny, dry bushes grow from clefts in the rock, reaching out with contorted, leafless branches. However this is all there is. Not the tiniest trace of other living creatures far and wide. No wonder, for how could any living being survive in this hostile-to-life environment, this frying pan out of hell? The searing sun is burning him, blinding him as he is kneeling on a hot basalt slab, making it hard to breathe, impossible to think. There is no water, no shade, nowhere to hide from the unforgiving ball of fire. He wants to call for help but his mouth is too parched to form words, only a hoarse groan escapes his dry lips. Cahir tosses and turns and moans in his feverish sleep, the cut in his hand pulsing and burning almost as fiercely as the desert sun. He stumbles through the hot sand, across hard stone slabs, half blind from the brightness of the blistering blaze and out of his mind from heat and thirst. Suddenly he sees something move in the distance. Move in his direction. A person? Some kind of desert monster? Just a mirage? As the moving shape comes closer he can see that it is indeed a person, a person walking, or rather dragging herself, hunched over through the deadly heat. A person with long, ashen-blonde hair sticking out from under a bandage around her forehead. He recognises her easily, even from afar. The girl that could have, no, should have killed him but did not. Princess Cirilla, the green-eyed Lion Cub of Cintra. Alone and lost and dying in the centre of a deadly desert. No, she cannot, must not die here. He has sworn to protect her with his life. With great effort Cahir shouts her name, again and again, his voice hoarse and dry, but she does not hear him. He wants to run to her, but his legs buckle and he falls, falls, falls into a cold, black abyss, a yawning chasm of darkness, the chasm that opened out when the Princess screamed and the monolith cracked and fell. Cirilla's earth-shattering scream pierces the dark, pierces his eardrums, pierces his mind. A blinding, tearing pain erupts behind his eyes and temples - pain like in Aretuza, excruciating, all-consuming, never-ending - until he, too, screams in agony. Cahir gropes about for his amulet with his uninjured hand, but it closes around nothing but air. There is no amulet, no magic keeping the horrid memories at bay and the nightmares. Shivering and shaking with cold and fear, Cahir's teeth start to chatter. Loudly. The sound echoes from the steep walls of the narrow gorge. However, there is another sound. A soft rustling like the many feet of some unknown, giant insect. Cahir tries to suppress the clattering of his teeth, but it does not work. The monster must hear it, too. As the blackness of the towering stone walls absorbs every quantum of light that dares stray into the chasm, he cannot see a thing, only listen with dread to the rustling coming closer and closer. He wants to run but is rooted to the spot, paralysed with terror. Now it is almost upon him. It is not a monster, though, it is Dalgart, the torture master. His dark eyes are glowing demonically in the light of the torch he is holding in his left hand. In his right there is a long knife, the metal of its keen blade flashing red-hot in the darkness. And, right behind him, the Emperor, Emhyr var Emreis, the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies. Cahir's heart misses a beat or two at the dreadful sight, then it starts thumping like mad. He is so terrified he feels as if his heart is going to stop any moment from sheer panic. Or burst into a thousand pieces.
Suddenly the ground is shaking, the walls of the abyss are shaking. Dalgart and Emhyr start to blur and vanish into thin air.
"Damn it, Cahir, wake up!" Breon is shaking the sick Nilfgaardian by his uninjured shoulder, but to no avail. Although his eyeballs are moving rapidly, agitatedly under his lids, he does not open his eyes. His breathing is worryingly shallow and fractured, his heartbeat irregular and far too fast and his brow feels terribly hot to the touch. Not good, far from it. Well, at least the Dh'oine is not screaming anymore, the loud, agonised howls having woken up the whole elven camp despite the distance. And, of course, it once again has fallen to Ingolf and him to do something about it. As if they were more qualified to take care of the sick than the others. Which they are not, not at all.
Rocks of all sizes are now raining down from above as the chasm walls are crumbling, collapsing. Reflexively, Cahir throws up his arms to protect himself, but gasps and groans at the pain exploding in his injured hand and shoulder. His head is spinning, his stomach churning. He tries to duck away from the falling stones, whimpering with agony and angst, but something is holding him in place and he cannot move. The invisible force is pinning him down, down against the stone floor. Soon he will be buried under the rockfall. But he cannot let that happen. He needs to find the girl, has to help her. Somehow. As he has sworn to do. Frantically Cahir struggles against the invisible fetters, moaning and groaning with the agony caused by his agitated movements.
"Fuck, help me hold him down, he is hurting himself!" Ingolf, who has just untied his silken neckerchief and wet it with some water, kneels down next to Breon. He puts the wet cloth on Cahir's burning brow with one hand and with the other grabs the writhing man by the arm and pins it down, careful not to touch his heavily bandaged hand. Together the two elves finally manage to immobilise the raving knight.
Stars are dotting the nightly sky. It is still dark - a velvety, impenetrable blackness despite the stars - and bitter cold. But, like Dalgart and the Emperor, the rocks and the crumbling walls have vanished. Evaporated into nothingness. He is lying on his back in the sand, not able to move and panting for air like a fish out of water, trembling all over in the freezing darkness of the desert night, utterly spent.
"I'll get another blanket or two. We need to keep him warm."
"But he's burning up with fever. Shouldn't we try to bring the fever down somehow?"
"Hell, I have no idea. I'll ask around." Breon stands up and walks over to the campfire. After having been woken up by the Nilfgaardian's screams, not everybody has gone back to sleep just yet. Ingolf, in the meantime, tucks the blankets carefully around the sick knight who is lying awfully still now, the shallow, laboured breathing and the soft chattering of his teeth the only indication that he is still alive.
It is broad daylight again and unbearably hot. Cahir squeezes his eyes shut against the blinding light and the sweat running down his forehead. Then he hears a voice. A girl's voice - the girl's voice.
"Please, come closer ..." the Princess croaks. "You may, because I am ..." The rest of her words are lost in the buzzing in his ears as Cahir struggles to sit up, ignoring the agony cursing through his body. She is not talking to him, is she? He looks around. And sees - No, this cannot be real. It is impossible. He blinks repeatedly, however, it is still there. He must have gone crazy from the heat and thirst and fear. There is no other explanation for what he sees. Or thinks he sees.
"That's not true!" Cirilla whines in sudden despair. "Jarre only kissed me once and that doesn't count! Come back!" She is so exhausted, she slumps down onto the rock she is lying on from the effort of speaking. The creature she has been speaking to comes closer again. A peculiarly coloured young horse with a small head, extremely slender neck, very thin pasterns and a long, thick tail. And protruding from the horse's domed forehead, at least two spans long, a horn ...
Eventually the Princess manages to raise her head and the unicorn looks at her inquisitively, lowers its muzzle and snorts softly.
"Don't be afraid of me ..." she whispers. "You don't have to ... You can see I'm dying ..." The unicorn neighs, shaking its head. The girl faints. As does the knight.
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"Men!" Yildis, the only female among the elves that has survived Thanedd, scoffs, rolling her eyes at Breon dramatically. "Leave you in charge of anything, and it goes down the drain." She rises. "I'll have a look at that Nilfgaardian of yours, but only because I don't want to be woken up again in the middle of the night believing we are attacked by a pack of howling wolves." She scowls at her exotic looking comrade as if it was his fault. "Get another torch, you dolt, I need to see."
When she touches Cahir's fever-hot forehead, Yildis whistles softly between her teeth. "He won't make it till morning if we cannot get the fever down a little. Find a willow and get me some bark for tea. And cloth for leg compresses. And more water. Now!"
The rest of the night the three are busy cooking extra strong willow bark tea and, droplet by droplet, administering it to the unconscious knight. They wipe his sweaty brow with a cool wet cloth and renew the cold leg compresses regularly. Utterly exhausted from the harrowing fever, their patient does not stir nor talk or murmur in his sleep, he only moans and whimpers quietly from time to time. But his temperature does go down a little, the fever chills cease, and when morning has broken, he is still breathing. He even wakes up for a minute or two and they manage to make him drink more of the tea. The stab wound in his shoulder has reopened and there is fresh blood on the bandages, but, fortunately, the bleeding has already stopped by itself. Yildis, although not an experienced healer, finds some herbs and mushrooms for a poultice that she applies to the badly inflamed cut in Cahir's palm which is oozing greenish pus and blood and a foul smelling fluid, but, luckily, is not gangrenous. Of course, it would be best to get the sick Nilfgaardian to an accomplished healer or, better even, a sorcerer or sorceress, but they cannot do that for obvious reasons. So, hopefully, the poultice together with the other treatments will do the trick.
Which they do, eventually.