To comply or to resist

"We need to talk, Nilfgaardian."

The Iron Wolf's voice sounds annoyed, aggressive for some yet unknown reason. Unknown to the Nilfgaardian at least. Cahir is in the middle of another training session with half a dozen elves, four of them new arrivals having just joined Faoiltiarna's commando which has grown considerably during the last few weeks. There must be more than two score elves hiding in the forest camp by now. His sword fighting lessons have become more and more popular among the Squirrels these last days, too, and he has been busy demonstrating different fighting styles and techniques, doing one-on-one combat training and supervising mock duels almost all day long. He has not been out fishing for days, there simply was no time. Nor has he had much opportunity to think about viable plans for his future as the sparring lessons leave Cahir so dead tired in the evening that he usually falls asleep like a stone almost right after dinner.

Thanks to the magical amulet Cahir has not had any more nightmares, just a few very brief and very blurry glimpses of Princess Cirilla. In these dreams she is still with the trappers, but now riding through green valleys. In one of the visions the ashen-haired girl was all alone on a grey horse trying to flee, but she was being chased and caught again by horsemen. They beat her and Cahir, filled with a sudden burning anger, wanted to shove his sword deep into the brutes' guts. However, as it was just a dream, he could do nothing to help the princess. Nothing at all. Not having a clue where on the Continent she is, he cannot help her in real life either. Which makes him ever the more furious. At his own impotence. Cahir cannot even be certain that what he dreams is indeed what is happening to the girl. It feels like it, true, but what if it is not? What if Cirilla is in Nilfgaard? Being prepared to be married off to her own father. The thought alone is so disgusting, it makes Cahir want to throw up. And especially so when he looks back at his own role in the drama - or, more precisely, tragedy. Had he suspected the Emperor was planning this all along, he would rather have died than become accomplice in this abominable scheme. How can a father even consider doing such a despicable, completely depraved thing? And how could he have been so blind? When the Emperor first tasked him with the mission to find and capture Princess Cirilla of Cintra, Cahir suspected that he might want to wed the heir to Queen Calanthe for political reasons. And then, of course, there was the prophecy. However, after Emhyr had revealed that he was Cirilla's father, Cahir ruled that possibility out. The wording of Ithlinne's prophecy is rather vague and it would make equal sense to retrieve the girl and marry her off to some princeling who would then sire that prophesied seed that will not sprout but burst into flame. Or maybe the girl herself is that seed? If his dream about her in the desert with the flames shooting from her hands was real, this might very likely be the case. She has incredible powers, Cahir has been certain of it ever since she toppled the Monolith and made the earth open up before his very eyes. He truly wishes now that he could undo many of the things he has done and somehow make it up to the girl. As both her being in Nilfgaard with her pervert father and riding around who knows where captured by those brutish trappers are not at all desirable realities. And much of it is, at least partly, his fault. However, like he has no idea where she is, he is completely clueless as to how to do that. Amend the many wrongs, atone for his misdeeds. Which is why he is still here with Faoiltiarna's commando, trying to make himself useful. It might save a few elves their lives. Hopefully. Seeing the grim expression on the elven commander's face, though, it appears he might have outstayed his welcome.

Sensing trouble, Cahir lowers his sword. And notices that Faoiltiarna has not come alone. Several others, of whom he knows only the stocky Grimbart by name, are ambling about the training area, seemingly without a purpose. However, all the alarm bells in Cahir's brain are going off. His instincts as a capable military leader tell him that they have come as Faoiltiarna's backup and are about to surround him. What the fuck?

In contrast to the last time they spoke, the Iron Wolf does not motion Cahir to follow him to his hut or any other, more private location but appears to want the conversation to take place in front of all the assembled elves. Gods know why. The elven commander approaches his - not really invited but more like happened by chance or fate - Nilfgaardian guest, in his hand something that looks like a letter.

"Here, read." He holds the piece of parchment into Cahir's face. It is more a note than a letter. Cahir recognises the handwriting. Vattier de Rideaux. A shiver of foreboding runs down his spine. This cannot be good. Which, indeed, it is not.

"Will you comply without resistance?" the Iron Wolf demands sharply. Cahir still stares at the words of the message, dumbfounded. "Or will we have to use force?"

"You know that I have nothing to do with this," Cahir finally says, having recovered his ability to speak.

"I might," Faoiltiarna admits. "However, that's not up to me to decide. I don't interfere with internal Nilfgaardian affairs. And it's a clear order."

"I'm not a traitor."

"You knew that it is a bogus princess, didn't you?" The elven leader glares at Cahir accusingly. "Why else did you not get ready to return to Nilfgaard when I told you about the impending wedding?"

"I did not know. I suspected it, true, but not because I'm implicated in the treachery in any way!"

"Even if I believed you, it would hardly make a difference. Order is order." The elf passes the parchment to one of his followers and rests his hand on the hilt of his sword. "So, I ask again, Cahir. Will you comply or resist?"

"I'm not going back to Nilfgaard." Cahir grips his sword more tightly. Better to die here than return to the dungeons, torture and, most likely, a public and very grisly execution. At least as grisly as the one of Windhalm of Attre. He does not want to hurt or kill any of the elves, though. It is not their fault the Emperor believes he, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, planted the false princess at his court, which, of course, he did not. Neither is it their fault that the White Flame is accusing him of high treason. Rience or Vilgefortz, most likely the both of them, must be the ones behind the fraud. However, the chance that anybody in Nilfgaard will believe him is slimmer than slim. Anyway, even on the off-chance that the Emperor does believe him, he still failed his mission. Which, ironically, amounts to the very same punishment. Maybe a death slightly less horrible and public, but nevertheless. So much so for the White Flame's justice ...

"You are aware, Nilfgaardian, that you are surrounded?"

Cahir is. Has been from the very start. He knows that he is hopelessly outnumbered and surrounded and has not a snowball's chance in hell to get out of this alive. Not even if he were at his best physically and not tired out after hours of training the elven freedom fighters. Not even if he were willing to butcher as many of them as he can. Which he is not. Still he raises his sword defiantly. The Iron Wolf raises his hand to give the preconcerted signal to the other elves. Then he himself comes at Cahir with his keen elven blade. The Squirrel commander is swift, sure-footed, experienced. Their swords clash and clang against each other again and again, but the Scoia'tael does not seem eager to injure or kill his opponent either. Although Cahir knows their fight is dead serious, to his surprise it feels more like a sparring match than a real duel. A sparring match between two equally skilled warriors who both fight to win but without wanting to harm their training partner. However, this is not what the fight is supposed to be like. What the fuck is the Squirrel commander playing at? He must be aware by now that Cahir is holding back, has no intentions of murdering any of the elves. Why doesn't Faoiltiarna exploit that fact and just go for the kill? Get it over with? Does he enjoy toying with Cahir, like the cat does with a mouse? Or is this supposed to be some kind of entertainment for the onlooking elves? A sword fighting demonstration? Or perhaps the elf wants to draw this out until Cahir is too tired to resist?

Suddenly something hits him in the shoulder from behind. Hard. A club or the blunt end of an axe? Groaning, Cahir drops to one knee from the impact and lets go of his sword. Which appears to be what the other elves have been waiting for. Several jump him from behind and from the side and punch Cahir in the ribs and back and head while Faoiltiarna picks the long Nilfgaardian blade up from the ground leisurely. Lashing out wildly, flailing and shouting like a maniac, Cahir fights back as good as he can, however, there are far too many elves. A sudden, vicious punch to his temple makes him see stars. Cahir gasps and goes down on both his knees. Another blow to his head.

Then everything fades to black.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

A wagon covered with a tarpaulin is standing bogged down in a shallow river bed. Not far from it is a stone bridge but it is ruined, no use to a large transport of goods or spoils of war. To the transport the wagon must belong to judging from the many deep wheel tracks in the soft mud of the river bank. The horses have been unharnessed from another and several men are trying hard to haul the heavily loaded wagon out of the hidden sandbar. Suddenly about half a dozen riders burst out of the trees and underbrush by the riverbank, shouting and brandishing their swords, jumping the unsuspecting men by the wagon. One of the attackers, a young female with flying dark hair and an astonishingly colourful outfit is already firing arrows at them in fast succession. Before the six men in the river can grab their weapons, two of them are already down, the bloodied fletchings of the she-elf-like girl's projectiles sticking out of their backs.

"Rats!" shouts the only one who is not clad like a soldier but looks more like a bailiff or reeve just before the black-haired leader of the gang plunges his sword through his throat. Blood spurts onto the man's leather doublet and he falls to his knees, his eyes wide with shock. Then he keels over, his blood colouring the river crimson. And not only his blood. The bandits have made short work of the soldiers by the wagon, too. Only the one who was relieving himself in the bushes when the colourful gang attacked is still on his feet. He jumps on the horse closest to him and makes a run for it. At least he tries. However, one of the bandits, a young girl who was at the back of the gang, not much more than a kid, is already after him. Like the others, the girl is dressed up in colourful baubles, velvet and brocade. On her head she is wearing a beret with pheasant's feathers. In contrast to the archer, her long hair is fair. Very fair. Almost white in the glare of the summer sun. Ashen. When she catches up with the soldier, her green eyes stare at the man with utter contempt. Apparently emboldened by her young age and presumed inexperience, the man stops his flight, turns his horse, and with a grimace of hatred, charges at the teenage bandit. He strikes at her with his sword, but, almost miraculously misses. The girl, agile as an acrobat, has easily evaded the deadly blow. Only to strike back at her opponent with incredible swiftness and precision. With the very tip of her blade. Aimed at the right ear and cheek, a place unprotected by either helmet or gorget. She cuts right into the soldier's face and he falls from his horse with a scream, blood spurting from the ugly gash and seeping into the soil by the river bank. The girl turns around her horse and rides toward the wagon and her comrades in crime who have been busy looting the wagon and loading whatever they find useful and worth keeping onto the carthorses. They jeer at the sight of the ashen-blond girl's blade that is dripping with the unlucky soldier's blood. Then they set the wagon on fire. A huge bonfire. Not caring in their youthful conceit that it must be visible from afar, that it might draw unwanted attention to them. The seven colourful bandits whoop and dance around it like it is a bonfire lit in their honour. Maybe it is. The sky is filling with dark clouds of smoke. The smoke blots out the colours of the bandits silken scarves, velvet vests and brocade sashes. It dims their jeering laughter. It erases the sun from the blue summer sky until nothing is left but swirling black clouds of smoke, oppressive heat and burning lack of oxygen.

Cahir's eyes fly open and he tries to gasp for air. However, it does not work. Something is filling his mouth to the point that he has difficulties swallowing, almost suffocates and he cannot open it, not the fraction of an inch. He draws in a sharp breath through his nose instead, but it does not feel like enough. It is still dark, too, no matter how wide open his eyes are, blacker than black, blacker even than the smoke from his dream. It was a dream, wasn't it? Another, rather unsettling, vision of Princess Cirilla. Not real. Or at least not for him, here, now. He is awake now, isn't he? But why is it so abysmally dark here? Oppressively hot like in the dream? Why can't he breathe? Where the hell is he? And what the fuck has happened? Cahir's mind starts to race, as does his heartbeat. Something is wrong, and badly so. Frantically, he tries to remember but his head hurts like he was hit with a war hammer and his brain feels like stuffed with cotton instead of thoughts or memories. Actually, Cahir's entire body aches. Mostly his ribs, with every shallow breath he takes. He wants to sit up, to remove whatever it is that prevents him from breathing freely, to find out where he is, to find his sword, most of all his sword. To his horror, though, he finds that he cannot move either legs nor arms. What the fuck? Has he been paralysed somehow, like when Fringilla poisoned all the generals, including him? And - blinded? A deep dread creeps up on him and into each fibre of his being. No, don't panic, try to be reasonable. Why would anybody paralyse and blind him? Torture him - yes. Kill him - definitely. But not this. There must be another explanation. If this is real and he is not dreaming still. But it does not feel like a dream. Why would a dream smell like fresh pine wood? With a tinge of - roast venison? And smoke. And - leather? Cahir tries to concentrate on other clues from his immediate surroundings as well as his body. Besides the pain. He can move his toes and fingers. Well, except for the two he has not been able to bend ever since Princess Cirilla sliced open his left hand right to the bone. But all the others. That is something. He can lift his torso and head a little, too, although this sends another jolt of pain through his ribs and skull and he sees stars, a whole constellation of stars. Can one see stars if blinded? An interesting question. At least he now knows he is not paralysed. Fettered maybe? And gagged? Thoroughly blindfolded? In a pine forest by a campfire? But it does not feel like he is lying on the forest floor or a bedroll or blanket. What little he can discern with the tips of his fingers appear to be raw planks of wood. Some kind of shed maybe?

Suddenly, Cahir can hear something. The faint crackle of a dry twig. And there again, not quite as faint. The sound is coming closer. Is something or someone approaching the place where he is lying on his back incapable of movement, of running or defending himself? A wild animal? His captor? As the crackles draw closer, he is almost sure they are caused by a pair of boots, not paws of an animal or monster. Strangely enough, it sounds as if the noise comes from somewhat below, approximately a metre or so. Which is only possible if he is lying on and bound to something considerably above ground. Some kind of wooden cart or wagon? Is he being transported somewhere? As a prisoner?

"Damn it, Kolda, I told you to make sure the tarpaulin is fastened securely all around!" an angry, male, somewhat muffled voice shouts not far from Cahir's ear. "Look at that! The quiver is completely empty! At least a dozen first-rate arrows lost on the way. That's nine orens thrown to the wind because you dolt are too daft or too lazy to do your job! Damn you!" The man, who seems to be some kind of trader, adds a few more choice curses while rustling with something, probably the afore mentioned tarpaulin. Then the crackling of twigs indicates that he is moving away from the cart or wagon again, assumably to join his companion around the campfire. For dinner.

Only now Cahir notices how hungry and, more importantly, thirsty he is. However, if the men intended to give him something to eat and drink, the trader would probably have done so when he inspected the tarpaulin. Which seems to cover the wagon he is lying on. Obviously together with all kinds of goods, some of them exuding the leathery tang. Maybe saddles or leather boots? The tarpaulin would also explain why it is so fucking dark and stuffy in here. And hot. So hot he is drenched in sweat. Thinking more about why he is where he is, makes Cahir sweat even more. And not just because of the effort it costs to remember what happened but also because the more he recalls, the worse is the prospect. He has been accused of high treason by the Emperor. For sending a bogus princess to his court. And Faoiltiarna had him arrested on Vattier de Rideaux's order. To send him to Nilfgaard. Alive. For punishment. The traders obviously being the ones to deliver him. Presumably the same traders, or hawkers, the Iron Wolf contacts once in a while to purchase weapons in exchange for pelts. A trade highly illegal and risky and therefore extremely profitable for the hawkers as long as they do not get caught. If they do, they can call themselves lucky if they are hanged straight away. Which will definitely not happen to him, no. The inevitable image of Dalgart with his knives and tongs pops up in his mind and he shudders violently, starting to tremble despite the heat. Cahir knows this is what awaits him in Nilfgaard, probably worse. Being broken on the wheel, quartered, after weeks or months of torture. And there is still the Emperor's threat to extinguish his family. Cahir squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can against the horrific images, although he knows it will not help much as they are solely in his own head. Still, somehow, he manages to suppress the rising panic. Perhaps because his head is hurting too much to really care about his or even his family's fate.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

"You alive in there?" The tarpaulin and some other stuff have been removed, at least partially, and, for the first time since he woke up in this miserable place, a little orange tinged daylight, or rather evening light, is filtering through several holes drilled into the ceiling. A ceiling smelling of pinewood not far from his face, just far enough so that, with the little upward movement possible in spite of the fetters, he could not bang his head against it even if he tried to do so. Which he would not as his head hurts more than enough already from the fight with the elves and the long hours of the cart rattling along very bumpy countryside roads. If they are roads at all. He must be lying in some kind of flat, wooden box with just barely enough oxygen coming in through the holes so he would not suffocate. Now something else is coming in through the holes. Water. Drops of water. Some of them dripping down into his sweaty face. Not fresh and cool but tepid after hours inside a water skin or canteen. Still, how Cahir wishes he could stick out his tongue and catch those droplets of much longed-for liquid. But he cannot.

"What the fuck are you doing, Kolda? I told you to water the horses, not our goods!" shouts the man who seems to be the boss of the duo in charge of the transport, and the influx of water stops.

"What if the guy dies of thirst? We won't get paid for a stiff," grumbles the man called Kolda.

"And how exactly is the prisoner supposed to drink? He's gagged, you moron! And no, we won't take the lid off. It's nailed shut, remember?" The specks of light from the ceiling, no, lid, are disappearing as the tarpaulin is put back in place again. "We'll be at the rendezvous place the day after tomorrow. He won't snuff it until then, don't worry. Soon we'll swim in florins. And what comes after that is none of our concern. The coffin wasn't our idea after all, but Faoiltiarna's. Now get you arse over here and help me with the campfire. Or do you want to eat that rabbit raw?"

A coffin. He is being transported to Nilfgaard inside a fucking coffin. Fettered and gagged, bruised and beaten and half crazy with thirst and fear of what is to come once they reach the City of the Golden Towers. Imprisoned in a coffin. Is that the punishment for all the evil he has done in the service of the White Flame?

It must be. Perhaps he even deserves it.