To run or to follow
A storm is raging. Hurricane-force gusts of wind are blowing about the colourful scarves and cloaks of the seven riders. They gallop at break-neck speed across a plain, outride the storm, laugh and jeer louder than the approaching peals of thunder. Cirilla's long ashen hair is trailing behind her in the wind almost as bright against the black sky as the flashes of lightning. She is riding side by side with a girl with close-cropped straw-coloured hair. The two are holding their closely entwined hands up against the raging skies in a gesture defying even the elemental force of nature, a gesture of contempt for everything and anything. Then the huge, dark-grey clouds open their flood-gates and the downpour starts. It washes away the bright colours of the bandits' clothes, of the baubles and ribbons attached to their horses' manes and tails. Drowns out their boisterous laughter. Even the booming rolls of thunder are muffled by the intense platter of heavy raindrops. Raindrops pouring down hard onto the tarpaulin, Cahir slowly realises as he is waking up from his uneasy slumber. The tarpaulin covering the wagon he is lying on in a goddamn coffin.
The wagon has stopped moving, Cahir knows not when and why. Because of the sudden change in weather that has brought about the thunderstorm? Or have they arrived at the designated destination? In the beginning he tried to keep track of the time, however, all he has been able to think of, phantasise and hallucinate about those last hours - or days? - is water. Water in all its different manifestations. Cold forest springs, quickly-running mountain streams, wide, meandering rivers, dark blue lakes and forking river deltas. Not to forget white snow glistening in the sunshine and glaciers sporting all the shades of blue. Rain, of course, too, lots of rain. Maybe even the rain pelting down onto the wagon is not real but just a figment of his imagination? He is so thirsty by now, parched, he would kill for a single drop of water. This must be exactly what Princess Cirilla felt like in the desert. Only he does not have any magical abilities to save himself. Nor will a unicorn come to his rescue. If he were able to, he would laugh out loud at the mere thought. No, no unicorn for him, Cahir, son of Ceallach. Not for a failed commander, war criminal, alleged traitor. They are for princesses and fairytales, and fairytale princesses. Maybe sorceresses, too. He can easily imagine Yennefer riding a unicorn, her raven black hair and flowing black and purple dress a breathtakingly beautiful contrast to the silvery-white of the mythical, magical creature ...
All of a sudden, Cahir is startled out of another delirium-like sleep by the sound of close-by - fighting? There are shouts, screams, the neighing of horses, clanging of swords, groaning, cursing. And every now and then the boom of a thunder-clap. Then, after hardly more than a few minutes, everything is eerily quiet. Except for the pitter-patter of rain on the wood of the coffin. Only now does Cahir realise that the tarpaulin is gone. Water has started dripping into his face from the soaked wooden lid. In the dim light coming in through the holes together with the rain, he can see the droplets forming before they fall. However, the rain is slowly easing off, and the thunder. The storm is moving somewhere else. Cahir blinks and tries to concentrate on any other sounds from around. Sounds that would give him an idea of what has just occurred. Who attacked who? Who won? And, more importantly, is there still anybody out there alive? But it is terribly and increasingly hard for Cahir to keep his eyes and ears open. His headache is killing him, as is the thirst, and he is feeling dizzy and inexplicably tired and is hardly able to think a coherent thought. Now there are voices, at least he believes there are. He can hear a woman and a man, no, two men, talking, but they are too far away to understand what they are saying. Or the ringing in his ears is too loud. Or he is just imagining the voices and it is nothing but leaves whispering in the wind.
Cahir is close to drifting off again when, suddenly, there is a thud and jolt and somebody is cursing quietly. Somebody who must have jumped onto the wagon and is now standing directly next to the coffin.
"Help me get it open." A man's deep voice close to his ears. Muffled slightly by the wooden walls of the coffin. It sounds strangely familiar. Neither Kolda's nor the hawker's, though. Cahir is certain he has heard the voice before but cannot place it. Still, it gives him goosebumps all over.
"What do you want with a stiff..." The voice of the female peters out. "Bloody hell," she then exclaims, "was the hawker lugging a live person around in here?" She sounds genuinely surprised, aghast. A reaction that sparks a small flicker of hope in Cahir's weary mind. If she is so surprised, she cannot possibly belong to the party the hawker intended to meet. The people who are supposed to take him to Nilfgaard and a gruesome death.
"It's some kind of prisoner," the male explains while busying himself with the lid of the coffin. "The trader was waiting for these Nilfgaardians, to hand him over to them. They exchanged passwords and countersigns ..."
The lid tears off and falls to the side with the sound of splitting wood as the man presses down with might on the sword he is using as a lever. Light floods into the coffin and Cahir has to screw up his eyes against it and the drizzling rain.
The man swears. "Well I never," he drawls darkly. "What a surprise. Who would have thought it?"
Cahir blinks rapidly and sees a blurry face hovering above his own. Slowly it comes into focus. It is a face with a hideous scar surrounded by long, silvery-white hair. Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher who slaughtered his entire commando on Thanedd. And, for some unfathomable reason, did not kill the black knight. What a surprise, indeed. So much so for the faint silver lining on the horizon. The White Wolf will hardly let him get away alive a second time...
"Do you know him, Witcher?" asks the woman. In contrast to the Witcher's gruff one, her voice is melodious, nice.
"By sight." The Witcher smiles hideously while looking down at Cahir. "Put the knife away, Milva. Don't cut his bonds. It seems this is an internal Nilfgaardian matter. We shouldn't get involved. Let's leave him as he is." He draws himself up to his full hight, glaring at Cahir maliciously.
"Am I hearing right? You aren't planning to leave him tied up in the forest?" a third voice joins in the conversation. To Cahir's astonishment, this voice also sounds familiar, however, contrary to the Witcher's, in a pleasant way. How so, eludes him, though. "I'm guessing you've recognised someone you have a bone to pick with, but he's a prisoner, by the Gods! He was the prisoner of the men who jumped us and almost killed us. And the enemy of our enemy ..." Jaskier breaks off, seeing the Witcher removing a knife from his boot-top. "Wait, you don't mean to stab the guy or cut his throat? Geralt, you can't do that, no matter ..." The second man has come closer to the wagon and is now leaning over its side gazing at the prisoner in the coffin curiously. He takes a good look. And again, this time more intently. His eyes grow wide. "Damn it, Geralt, I think I know him, too."
"What?" the Witcher grunts, disbelief written all over his face. Not a very different expression from the one on Cahir's face when he recognizes the man with the longish brown hair and big eyes who is taking yet another look at the prisoner to be absolutely certain.
"Yes, it's him, I'm sure of it!" the bard exclaims enthusiastically. "He looks different without that godawful beard and unkempt hair, and, Melitele be thanked, no sewer stench today, but it's definitely him. What was his name again? Ca-something ..."
"Stop speaking in riddles, Jaskier! Where and when did you meet the bloody Nilfgaardian?"
"In Oxenfurt. He was with Yennefer. When she had lost her magic. They were on the run together. Seemed to be quite chummy, too. Even had a bath together ..."
"What are you gibbering about, bard? Are you hallucinating? Look here ..." The Witcher bends down over the coffin again, knife in hand. Cahir's eyes grow wide at the sight of the blade and his heart skips a beat. The Witcher does not use it to cut his throat, though, but cuts through the leather straps fastening his left arm and hand to the side of the coffin. He seizes Cahir's wrist in an iron grip and raises the prisoner's now free arm.
"See that, Jaskier? The scar on his hand? Ciri did that, on the Isle of Thanedd, a month ago. He's the Nilfgaardian that haunted Ciri's dreams for years, the black knight of her worst nightmares! He came to Thanedd specifically to abduct Ciri and she wounded him, defending herself from being captured. And this was not the first time he tried to kidnap her!"
Jaskier stares at the ugly scar for a moment, going pale. He swallows, then he looks intently at Cahir again, furrowing his brow. "Be that as it may, Geralt," the poet finally says, "he is definitely the man Yennefer was on the run with." He points his finger at Cahir's face. "See that scar next to his right eye? It's faded a bit, but it's of the same shape and in the same place where Yennefer's friend had one. The colour and form of the eyes match, the high cheekbones, too, and everything else. I'd not only bet my life, but also my singing voice and my lute that it's the exact same man. He seemed to be a quite decent fellow then. Except, of course, for the tiny fact that he did not help Yennefer rescue me from the firefucker but stayed on the ship to Cintra. Promised to see to that the elven refugees would get everything they needed once they arrived in Xin'trea though. No idea how he planned to do that, but it's the thought that counts, right? Yennefer must have told you all about him."
"She has not," spits the Witcher, shooting Cahir a glare even more deadly than the one before. "Just that she fled from the Brotherhood with some condemned Nilfgaardian prisoner of war she was to behead. That was it, nothing else. And certainly not that it was him!"
"Maybe she did not know?"
"Darn, this all does not add up and is too complicated for my brain," the woman by the name of Milva interrupts. "Why don't you just ask the prisoner? Take that gag off him, Witcher. Perhaps he'll tell us whether or not he knows that Yennefer of yours - whoever she is. And how he ended up in that coffin."
"I have no desire to listen to him," Geralt says flatly. "My hand is itching to stab that Nilfgaardian through the heart, with him lying there looking at me. It's all I can do to restrain myself. And if he opens his mouth, I know I won't be able to hold back."
"Don't hold back then." Milva shrugs her shoulders. "Stick him, if he's such a villain. But get on with it. I'm going to get my horse."
"Geralt, listen to me for once. Be reasonable," Jaskier says while Milva is disappearing between the trees heading in the direction of the nearby alder grove. Where she left her horse before coming to Geralt's and Jaskier's rescue when they were attacked by a group of mounted Nilfgaardians. "Milva is right. I mean, not about sticking him, but he might tell us something. Think about it! He might know about Yennefer. What happened to her on Thanedd. They are friends after all, or were friends back then. He must know something."
Geralt grunts, staring at his friend with amber mutant eyes, apparently not convinced.
"You will forever regret it if you pass by that chance, Geralt. You know it." Jaskier looks Geralt straight in the eye. "And if you don't like what you hear or if he refuses to talk, you can always gag him again and leave him here for the crows or ghouls or any other creatures that might inhabit this wilderness. Or stick him or do whatever else you feel like doing."
"Damn you, Jaskier," grumbles the Witcher and the bard, knowing he has won, flashes his friend a dazzling smile. "But don't complain or throw up again or write a fucking elegy if I murder the bloody bastard after all." He finally lets go of the Nilfgaardian's wrist - his hand has gone numb from the Witcher's vice-like grip - and slowly lowers the knife toward the prisoner's face. The prisoner goes even paler than he was before, his bleary blue eyes wide with horror.
"Count yourself lucky, Nilfgaardian, I'm not going to cut your throat just yet. Hold still!" the Witcher orders. Quite unnecessarily, as Cahir is pretty much paralysed with fear. With one swift movement of the extremely sharp blade Geralt cuts through the strap of the leather gag and, with a rough hand, removes it. The prisoner gasps for air, then starts to cough and heave convulsively.
"Fuck!" Geralt swears.
"Quick, cut him loose!" urges Jaskier, but Geralt is already on it. The leather straps securing the prisoner to the coffin are cut in record time and Geralt turns the coughing and heaving Nifgaardian over onto his side so he would not suffocate on his vomit. However, as the man's stomach is virtually empty, he only dry-retches. Which is unpleasant enough.
"Witcher, what the hell are you doing?" Milva, who is approaching the wagon leading her horse by the reins, looks alarmed. "You haven't stabbed him, have you?"
"No, surprisingly, I haven't," grumbles Geralt.
"You better get him out of there," Jaskier says, as always completely ignoring his friends sarcasm and dark moods. "He doesn't look too good. We don't know how long he has been locked up in that - that thing. He might be half-starved or dehydrated." Geralt grunts in response, but puts his knife back into his boot-top.
Finally, Cahir is done retching and coughing. He is lying still on his side, very pale, his eyes closed, breathing heavily and shivering. Jaskier is right, he does not look good. He looks even more miserable and defenceless than he did on Thanedd - and Geralt has seen him there wounded and kneeling in a pool of blood. He looks considerably younger, too, without the armour, just in a plain black shirt and equally black pair of trousers. Still, Geralt's sympathy for the black knight is extremely limited. Limited to what is absolutely necessary so he would be able to answer his questions. And then good riddance.
"Get up, Nilfgaardian! I need to talk to you. Now!" the Witcher bellows. The urge to kick the man in the ribs for emphasis is strong no matter how starved and dehydrated and miserable he is - and no matter how much Jaskier rolls his eyes at him. No, he does not intend to treat the black knight of Nilfgaard, the bastard who terrorised Ciri in both her dreams and real life for so long, with kid gloves. Not a snowball's chance in hell for that to happen. Lucky for the Nilfgaardian, the walls of the coffin are in the way.
Groaning, Cahir turns onto his back but does not make any move to stand up, or sit up, or open his eyes. Impatiently, Geralt grabs him by one arm and pulls him upward with a powerful jerk. Which, for a split second, has the hoped-for effect as the Nilfgaardian indeed stumbles to his feet, however, his knees give way almost instantly and, blacking out from the sudden change in body position, he crumples. Lucky for him, he faints right into the Witcher's arms and does not fall headlong off the wagon. Which would have been quite painful - although maybe less awkward for the Witcher.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Geralt curses, holding the unconscious Nilfgaardian upright. "Jaskier, Milva, get your arses over here and help me!"
He would not have needed to shout as the both of them are already by the wagon. Together they lower the prisoner down onto the carpet of brown leaves covering the ground around it. Very wet leaves.
"Get some blankets, poet, the man is freezing," orders Milva, taking control of the situation while Geralt is getting off the wagon rather inelegantly. The leg that was severely fractured in several places in his duel with Vilgefortz on Thanedd has not yet completely healed and is giving him trouble again. Maybe Milva is right and he should have stayed with the dryads in Brokilon so his injuries could heal properly, but getting to Ciri as quickly as possible is imperative. More important than anything. Anything at all. Limping badly, he fetches his bedroll and some blankets for himself and, cursing under his breath, lies down on his makeshift bed several metres away from the others. It is a bit early to go to sleep yet but he needs to rest this shitty leg of his. And to cool down. And to not speak with anybody. Jaskier and Milva wanted him to talk to the damn prisoner, now they can take care of the bloody bastard, too. He wants fucking nothing to do with him.
Unfortunately it is too dangerous to light a fire to cook a nice dinner, dry their rain-soaked clothes and warm themselves up a bit. Rumour has it that Nilfgaardian forces are marching on Brugge and they cannot risk to be discovered. The pile of corpses in Nilfgaardian armour on the edge of the clearing would be difficult to explain away, even for Jaskier. The forest floor is soggy, too, impossible to find a dry place to sleep on after the heavy rainfall. Pretty much all the blankets in their packs are damp, but better some damp blankets than none at all, Milva reckons. She makes up a bed next to where the Nilfgaardian is lying shivering on the wet beech leaves and, with Jaskier's help, she carefully rolls him onto the blankets. The man moans softly and his eyelids flutter, but he does not wake up. Judging from the multi-coloured bruises around his temple and jaw, he must have put up a fight before whoever arrested him shoved him into that coffin. Maybe there are more injuries? Used to helping wounded Scoia'tael flee to Brokilon, Milva has quite a bit of experience treating all kinds of injuries. She is not a healer like many of the dryads, mind, but she has picked up a thing or two from them over the months and years she has spent in the ancient forest with them. After they had caught her poaching and took her in instead of killing the young, orphaned girl. Milva pushes the Nilfgaardian's shirt up to have a look. It is worse than she expected. There is extensive bruising on both sides of his torso, judging from the vivid display of colours about four days old. If he has not had anything to drink since then, he must be severely dehydrated. No wonder he fainted. Carefully, she feels his ribs. Looks like nothing is broken. Good. The bruises will hurt for a while, but can heal by themselves. There are several older scars, too, that speak of the violent life of a soldier, and a rather recent one from a deep stab wound in his shoulder, but it has healed nicely. He must have bled like a stuck pig, though. Then there are lots of very faint marks running from the shoulders and collarbone all down to the waistline, just barely visible in the dimming light of falling dusk. Are they scars, too? Strange...
All in all, the man does not look particularly evil to her, no matter what the Witcher says. Just young - he cannot be much older than Milva herself - and sick and lost. And what is evil, anyway? Many would claim that Witchers are evil. However, she is pretty sure Geralt is not, although he must have killed hundreds of monsters and scores of people with his own hands, or swords. Many would say she is evil, too. After all, she killed her stepfather when she was only sixteen - not intentionally, but still, he died from the injuries she had inflicted. And then she led scores of humans to their deaths to help the dryads and Scoia'tael. Maybe she is evil? Evil seems to be quite relative, the answer depending a lot on who you ask and which side you are on ... The only one who probably is not evil at all, must be the poet.
Suddenly, the Nilfgaardian gives a loud groan and begins to stir, interrupting Milva's musings. Quickly she pulls his shirt down again and covers the shivering man with several blankets.
"Pass me that canteen, poet. The Nilfgaardian is coming to, I think. We need to get some fluid into him." Only a moment later, he blinks and opens his eyes. Milva holds the flask with water to Cahir's parched lips and, with her other arm, lifts his head just enough so he can drink. Which he does. Thirstily. He could drain an entire lake, so thirsty is he. But the young woman with the long, black plait soon shakes her head and withdraws the canteen.
"Not too much at once. You can have more a little later. I promise." Although he has no recollection as to who she is, Cahir believes her. He is far too tired to argue anyway. He closes his eyes and instantly falls asleep.
The woman keeps her promise. Darkness has fallen when she wakes him up to give him more water. He shivers violently in the damp chill of the night while he drinks greedily but is too weary to care. He drifts off once more and a while later she wakes him up again. And again. And again.
When next he wakes up, it is morning and he is looking not into her dark brown eyes but into the hostile face of the White Wolf.
"Now listen closely, Nilfgaardian," the Witcher says, his voice laced with suppressed fury. "I don't know what sins you committed for them to trap you in this chest. And I don't care. If it had just been you and me, you'd still be rotting in there. But my friends here," he motions to the woman and man squatting next to him on the forest floor, "they insist that I ought to interrogate you. You will answer all my questions truthfully, or I'll cut your tongue out and feed it to the crows." He holds the shiny blade of his knife directly in the Nilfgaardian's face. "And if you try to run, try anything at all, I'll hack you to pieces and throw them to the fish. Understood? Saw some nice big ones in the Ribbon..." The prisoner swallows and nods and Geralt, with his enhanced Witcher senses, can hear his heart beat faster. A lot faster. He is frightened of the Witcher. Good. He should be.
"You know the sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg?" he begins the interrogation. The Nilfgaardian nods again.
"See, Geralt!" the bard chimes in triumphantly. "Told you it's him!"
"Shut up, Jaskier," the Witcher growls, not taking his eyes off the man lying flat on the ground in front of him. He looks slightly better than the day before, but still pathetic enough. Geralt is usually not a vengeful person, at least no more vengeful than most, however, seeing the hated black knight like this is quite satisfying in a way, and he has to admit to himself that he does enjoy to put the fear of the gods into the man.
"Were you in Oxenfurt with her where you met this loudmouthed poetaster here?" he then inquires, pointing his finger at Jaskier. Who looks like he wants to protest, but thinks better of it and stays silent, rolling his eyes instead. Once again, the Nilfgaardian nods.
"You were right, bard, I give you that," Geralt says flatly. This established, he proceeds with the questioning. "Did you see Yennefer on Thanedd?" Another nod. "Damn it, spill! What happened? Where is she? What did you do to her? Be quick before I lose my temper!"
The Nilfgaardian tries to say something, but gets out no more than a hoarse, unintelligible croak followed by dry coughing.
"Speak up, freak, damn you!" Geralt thunders.
"Damn yourself, Witcher, and make space, or I'm going to lose my temper - with you!" Milva shoves Geralt to the side unceremoniously.
"Can you sit up, Nilfgaardian?" she then addresses the prisoner matter-of-factly. He can. A bit shakily but he manages on his own and without fainting again. "Here, have some more water." The young woman, who very much looks like an elf or dryad but has the roundish ears of a human, passes him a full canteen and he downs its content in one long gulp.
"Thank you," Cahir says, his voice still hoarse but clearly comprehensible now. He feels better, too. Still tired and cold, slightly dizzy and abnormally thirsty, but not as badly as the previous day, and his mind has cleared, too. He even remembers the name Geralt's companion Jaskier used back in Oxenfurt. The Sandpiper. He might just owe the bard his life for a second time. If he gets away from this with his life and does not end up as food for the fish in the Ribbon. Thanks to that piece of information, Cahir has a good idea of where he is now. The Ribbon's source is somewhere in Brokilon. The maps are very vague about where exactly as people who trespass into the dryads' territory tend to end up dead with only very few exceptions. After leaving the vast and ancient forest, the river then continues its southward journey along the border between Verden and Brugge and joins the Yaruga near the stronghold at Bodrog. They must be somewhere in one of the smaller forests just south of Brokilon.
Cahir passes the canteen back to Milva and takes a quick look around the clearing. It is small, with a towering beech tree in the middle. The hawker's wagon is standing beneath its massive boughs, only about three metres away from where they are at the moment. Two mules are peacefully nibbling at some grass a bit farther away where the ground is not covered in brown beech leaves and beechnuts. Several horses are busy doing the same. Except for a bay mare, a black colt and a fatish gelding, probably the Witcher's and his companions' mounts, they are not tethered or hobbled but roam the clearing freely. Their saddle cloths are black with golden sun embroideries. Nilfgaardian horses. Probably belonging to the party that was to take him back to Nilfgaard as a prisoner. Looking more closely, Cahir can detect the traces of yesterday's short battle, trampled grass, broken twigs, uprooted saplings. And drag marks leading to the edge of the clearing. Following those drag marks with his gaze, Cahir can see a pile of bodies. They are difficult to count from the distance, but there must be more than half a dozen dead soldiers in Nilfgaardian armour, plus two civilians. The hawker and his wagoner Kolda, no doubt. Quite an impressive death-count considering there were only three opponents, or rather two as Cahir cannot imagine the bard having taken any active part in the killing. He is a nice guy and surprisingly courageous - smuggling elves and wanted traitors and war criminals out of Redania is a really dangerous and brave thing to do and travelling with a Witcher for years is hardly less so - but he is not a warrior. The young woman looks tough, though, as if she can hold her own against any number of attackers, maybe not with a sword, but certainly with a bow. Presumably the one attached to the black colt's saddle. She can even hold her own against the grim Witcher - with just her tongue. Cahir almost smiles a little at the thought. He definitely likes the dark-haired woman.
"Enough gawking. This is an interrogation, not a stay at a health spa," the Witcher, having risen to his full, impressive height, interrupts harshly. "Get out of the way, Milva, will you? And you," he looks at the bard meaningfully, "you keep your mouth shut." Then he fixates his gaze on Cahir. "What do you know about Yennefer, Nilfgaardian? Talk! Before I cut your throat from impatience."
"Yennefer, she suddenly appeared in the courtyard." Cahir looks up at the Witcher and into his irate face. "On Thanedd. When I was after Princess Cirilla. You know which one."
"So you admit that you wanted to abduct her!" Geralt hisses, glaring down at the black knight as if he wanted to eat him alive.
"It was my mission, yes."
"What happened?" Geralt grinds through gritted teeth, trying hard to keep his hand under control which is itching to stab the man.
"She was furious. Blasted me into a wall." Cahir swallows and lowers his gaze a fraction, now looking into the distance.
"Good for her," the Witcher sneers, "but she ought to have killed you then and there. Why didn't she?"
"We were friends." Cahir pauses, for a moment lost in memories. "Once," he adds, a hint of sadness in his voice. Then he looks up at Geralt again. "Why didn't you?"
"Don't tempt fate, Nilfgaardian. I still might," the Witcher growls, flexing the fingers holding the hilt of his knife. "Go on. What happened next?"
"Rience, Vilgefortz's factotum, portaled in and attacked her. He must have gotten help from his master. He caught Yennefer in a ring of fire and abducted her. They disappeared through a portal. I don't know where to."
"He abducted her?" Geralt raises his eyebrows questioningly. "Are you sure of it? Are you certain that she did not follow him willingly? That she was not in league with the traitors?"
"Yes."
"Hm." He frowns and seems to ponder this piece of interesting information. Judging from the slightly less thunderous expression on the Witcher's face, it is not unwelcome news. If it is true. If he can trust a Nilfgaardian. This once, Geralt really wishes he can, that the man is telling the truth. He seems sincere enough, but who knows with Nilfgaardians?
"What then?" the Witcher eventually continues the interrogation. Instead of answering, the Nilfgaardian holds up his left hand, the one with the ugly scar.
"Ciri," Geralt states with evident pride. He smiles maliciously, his face darkening again. "Served you right. Pity you didn't bleed to death." The Nilfgaardian says nothing.
"How did Ciri get to fucking Nilfgaard?" the Witcher then inquires. "Do you know anything about that?"
Cahir is just about to open his mouth to answer when he is interrupted by Milva who is galloping towards them waving her arms about and shouting. Not overly interested in the fate of this Yennefer of Something-berg, however, truly concerned for her own and the ones of her companions, she had left the group to go scouting the surroundings. To her horror, she soon spotted a large group of riders in black armour heading toward them from the Ribbon. They will reach the clearing shortly, she has no doubt about that. And there is no way they will get out of a fight against so many alive.
"Nilfgaard, they are coming! On the westward track," she cries, speeding toward them. "Geralt, we have to make a run for it. Now!"
"Fuck!" The Witcher tears his gaze away from the man on the ground before him and turns toward the bard. "Jaskier, get our horses, no time to be lost!" Then his left arm shoots out and he grabs the Nilfgaardian, who is struggling to his feet, by the fabric of his shirt. He pulls him up the rest of the way, holding him at arm's length, the tip of the knife in Geralt's right threateningly pointed at the man's face.
"I spared your life on the island," he snarls. "And I'm doing it again. But it's the last time. The next time we meet I'll kill you like a dog. Remember that. If you persuade your comrades to pursue us, take the coffin with you. It'll come in useful." With a vicious shove that almost lands the Nilfgaardian on his butt, he releases the man and darts toward the horses and the bard. "Let's go, Jaskier!"
"Into the trees, by thunder, into the trees," Milva shouts, leading the way. "Make haste, before they are upon us!"
Neither Geralt nor Jaskier need to be told twice. They jump onto their horses and gallop after her as fast as the trees, the uneven terrain and the bard's fatish gelding by the fancy name of Pegasus allow. It takes bare moments and the three riders have disappeared from sight, leaving the perplexed Nilfgaardian standing alone in the clearing staring after them.
Shit. What the hell is he supposed to do now? If he is caught by the Nilfgaardians, he is doomed. No matter what the White Wolf might think, the odds of him being able to convince them to let him live and pursue the Witcher and his company instead are slim at most. Even if they were not, funnily enough, he has no desire to do that. If he just runs, tries to go it alone, his chances of survival are not much better in these times of contempt. As he is still a wanted war criminal in the north and, ironically, running would make him, on top of being falsely accused of treason, an equally wanted deserter in the south. Following Geralt of Rivia and his friends, however, is probably - no, certainly - the stupidest of the options available to him, Cahir suspects. The Witcher has made that more than clear enough.
Still, it is what his heart tells him to do.
Having made up his mind, survival instincts kick in - and adrenaline. Which helps drive the weariness from Cahir's bones and speeds things up considerably. From the pile of dead soldiers, he quickly equips himself with a hauberk and some other pieces of armour and clothing, a knife and dagger and, of course, a sword. Swiftly but carefully he then approaches one of the Nilfgaardian horses, a chestnut colt, grabs its reins, jumps into the saddle, turns it around and, just in time before his fellow countrymen arrive, gallops after the Witcher and his company.
Toward a yet unknown future. Toward his destiny.