To follow, flee or fight
Inspired by the Whumptober 2022 prompts, I did write one more chapter for this story after all, hope you'll like it. It closely follows the events in Baptism of Fire but mostly form Cahir's point of view. And, of course, altered in such a way that it ties in with Season 1 and 2 of The Witcher Netflix and with my story "Prison Blues". Enjoy!
After a while, and far too soon for Cahir's liking, the effect of the adrenaline is waning. Which leaves him exhausted and in pain and barely able to stay upright in the saddle. Lucky for him, the tracks of the Witcher and his company are easy to spot on the rain-softened forest ground. However, what if he is not the only one taking advantage of this circumstance? What if there is a Nilfgaardian cavalry unit hard on their heels? He cannot hear the sound of horses in hot pursuit yet, but it is more than possible that they would come after them once they have found the pile of corpses and figured out what has transpired in the clearing. He knows only too well that no Nilfgaardian officer would just leave the matter be, turn around and let whoever killed the soldiers escape without due punishment. Which, of course, meant certain death. For him as well as for the Witcher and his two companions.
The Witcher must have arrived at a similar conclusion as, just a little later, the tracks lead down a slippery slope and into a river. Shit. On the one hand that would most likely throw the Nilfgaardians off their scent, which is a good thing and exactly what Cahir would have done, too. On the other hand, it would throw all Nilfgaardians off their scent, including him. Which is a really bad thing. At least for Cahir. How the fuck is he supposed to follow them now? Right, he is not supposed to follow them at all ... For a moment Cahir reins in his horse to think. If he were in the Witcher's shoes, what would he have done? The obvious choice would be to follow the river downstream for a while, then leave the riverbed and continue to ride south toward the Yaruga. However, what he would do in a situation like this is to ride upstream and then double back. Or go east for some time before heading south again. So, Cahir spurs the chestnut colt on upriver, hoping that his own reasoning is not so much different from the Witcher's.
As it turns out, it is not. After over an hour of riding up the riverbed, when Cahir is almost ready to give up and turn around again, he finally notices the hoof print of a horse in the mud between the bushes by the riverbank. And another one close by. It is difficult to tell how old the tracks are. Half an hour? An hour? The Witcher must be quite a bit ahead of him by now as Cahir had to ride very slowly so he would not overlook any important clue in the vegetation or soft soil of the river side. However, better somewhat behind than too close. It would certainly not end well for him if the Witcher spotted him now, no, no way he can risk that. Cahir dismounts and, looking for more tracks, carefully and slowly follows the three riders' trail. They seem to be heading east along the outskirts of Brokilon in order to avoid the advancing Nilfgaardian troops. Or are they returning to the dryads, abandoning their mission? Given the Witcher's ferocious determination to find and rescue Princess Cirilla, this seems rather unlikely. They will surely turn toward the south again sooner or later.
Even here, though, the telltale signs of war are not far. Whenever there is a gap in the yellow-orange canopy of autumn leaves, he can see dark grey smoke rising into the sky in the south, west and north. The acrid smell of fire and ash lies heavily in the air, reminding Cahir of Sodden and the inferno of flames that devoured his army. Now, it is Nilfgaard that is torching its way through the countryside. Obviously very successfully. Were he still the man he was two years ago, he would probably be excited, elated at their troops' progress into enemy territory and the notion of taking revenge for Sodden. But he is not that man anymore. Too much has happened. Now he does not even know what he feels. Beside tired and sore. Numb - yes, that might describe it best.
The Witcher and his companions' tracks do indeed lead south again after a few hours of riding through the underbrush and along overgrown forest trails. Thanks to yesterday's rain it is not too difficult to follow the three riders, although it is slow work. He is falling further and further behind and it is slowly becoming more difficult to see the imprints of hooves in the muddy soil in the dwindling afternoon light. Or is it because of the smoke that is now almost filling the entire sky? The trail is beginning to lead uphill and becomes stonier, the hoof prints more sparse and further away from each other, which does not make tracking easier, either. Nor does his increasing exhaustion. He has already caught himself drifting off for a few seconds several times. He needs a break soon, or he might fall asleep in the saddle and fall off his horse. Which would not be fun at all with the many bruises from the fight with Faoiltiarna's elves. However, if he stops now, the Witcher's lead might increase so much that he will not be able to follow them anymore. So Cahir grits his teeth and forces his eyes to stay open by sheer will as he rides higher up the hill.
When he has almost reached the top, he is startled out of another potentionally dangerous almost-nap by a sound cutting through the silence of the forest. Instantaneously ready for both fight and flight, Cahir reins in his chestnut colt. Only now is be becoming aware of the fact that the forest is not silent at all anymore but filled with the far away sounds of a raging battle. The thunderous hoofbeats of the advancing cavalry, the roaring of battle cries, whinnying of horses. And screaming. Lots of screaming. Louder than the distant din of the fighting and much closer, the voice of a woman. An angry woman venting her fury at the top of her lungs. Milva? That was her name, wasn't it? Has he caught up with the Witcher's company after all? Or are there refugees hiding between the bushes? Or Scoia'tael? Cahir dismounts, ties his horse to a tree and, very cautiously, sneaks toward the place where the shouting comes from, hoping that the noise from the battle as well as the high-volume ranting would drown out the occasional crackle of branches and twigs and the rustle of leaves caused by his movements. Soon he can not only hear the dryad-like woman, but also spot the group's three horses between the trees. The black colt pricks up its ears. Shit, the animal must have sensed him. Better not get closer then. He knows what he needs to know anyway. It is the Witcher and his friends alright. Hidden among juniper bushes, they seem to be having a break on the very edge of the cliff overlooking the valley and the ongoing battle. Presumably to discuss which way to go from here. Or where to go. Judging from Milva's shouting and the few scraps of conversation he has been able to pick up, not a topic they all agree on. The young woman seems to calm down rather quickly, though, in contrast to the ever intensifying sounds of the battle and the smell of fire, the smoke of whatever is burning down in the valley rising up to the top of the cliff. Together with the bestial, dreadful screams of people being slaughtered.
Suddenly, he can see Milva getting to her feet. She picks up her quiver and bow and takes a step toward the horses. Toward him. Shit. As quickly and quietly as he can, Cahir starts to retreat. Fortunately, the young woman turns around again before she has reached her horse.
"Devil take it!" Cahir hears her shout in the direction of her companions. "I've been saving elves from death for too long. I can't just let someone go to his death! I'll lead you to the Yaruga, you crazy fools. But by the eastern route, not by the southern one." The Witcher answers something that is not loud enough for Cahir to understand the words as he scrambles backward toward his horse. He believes Milva answers something in the line of "I'll lead you through the fire", "To horse!" and "Get a bloody move on!" before he reaches the chestnut colt, unties it and swiftly leads it further away from the trail and into the bushes, ever so often glancing back over his shoulder cautiously.
Luckily, the three companions seem to be too caught up in their own thoughts and troubles to notice the lonely rider who is following them like a shadow down the hill on another overgrown trail and through a brush-covered ravine. Where they are surprised by dusk. They find a fairly dry place to stop for the night, hobble their horses, sit down and wrap themselves in their mantles and blankets. It is not raining and the sky is unnaturally bright from the glow of fires. Fires that are burning down fields, forests, farms and villages, destroying livelihoods and devouring the lives of animals and humans alike. The usual collateral damage of a war hardly any history book will ever care to mention.
In due distance from the Witcher's company and well hidden behind a hawthorn brush and rocks in a narrow side branch of the ravine, Cahir dismounts. He secures his horse to a birch tree, spreads the bedroll he found attached to the saddle on the gravelly ground and stretches out on it, wrapping himself in the black cloak he obtained from one of the dead Nilfgaardian soldiers and groaning softly. It is far from comfortable, but by now he is so dead on his feet, he cannot even bring himself to search the saddle bags of his horse for food. Almost instantly, he falls fast asleep. So fast asleep he does not notice Milva going off to check out the surrounding area. Twice. However, despite her keen eye and ear, she does not notice neither the chestnut colt nor the sleeping knight.
The next morning Cahir is woken up by the rain spitting down in his face in a fine, even drizzle. And the loud rumbling of his painfully empty stomach. He has not had anything to eat in days, not since Faoiltiarna and his elves locked him up in that coffin. He shudders just thinking of the suffocating lack of space to move and air to breathe in the total darkness of the wooden box. No, this is one experience he definitely does not want to repeat ever again. At least not before he is thoroughly dead and won't mind anymore anyways. If he does not intend to die of starvation, though, he better find some food soon. Maybe he is lucky for once and there is something in the saddlebag? Groaning softly at the stiffness in his muscles and bones after a night of mostly sleeping on rocks, he gets up and steps over to his horse. The chestnut colt is nibbling at the sparse vegetation that is growing between the rocks. Not much, but better than nothing. He strokes its rain-wet mane and then rummages through the saddle bags. He is lucky, indeed. The hard tack and dried meat he finds wrapped up in a kerchief look edible. Not much, but better than nothing. And no mould or maggots, which is something. While chewing on a piece of dried meat, Cahir makes his way through the hawthorn toward the main ravine. With the sun hidden behind a grey patina of clouds, it is difficult to say for sure, but it cannot be that early anymore. If the Witcher and his company have broken camp right at dawn, they will have a head start of more than an hour, Cahir reckons. Well, at least he has a vague idea now in which direction they are heading. Which will make tracking them easier.
As it turns out, the Witcher and his friends have already left. Cahir gets his horse, mounts and rides after them. East.
Soon Cahir is drenched to the bone. Through the constant drizzle he rides on hunched over his saddle following the trail of the Witcher. Further and further east on footpaths and along forest tracks, immediately disappearing into the undergrowth at the sound of the thudding hooves of cavalry tramping along the roads. And as he rides on amidst fire and smoke, amidst drizzle and fog, the tapestry of the raging war unfolds in front of his eyes. Everywhere he looks, he can see the evidence. Villages engulfed in flames, smoking and glowing rubble, settlements and hamlets razed to black squares of burnt earth. A riderless horse whinnying pitifully, dragging its entrails behind it. And flocks of crows feeding on corpses. Nothing new to an experienced soldier, but somehow it feels different now. Now that he is not in command of the army responsible for the carnage, blindly following his Emperor's orders. Now that he has lost his faith in the cause, in the benevolent White Flame that would cleanse them all. What a joke. But not a funny one. Far from it. And what a total fucking idiot he had been. Now, for the first time, Cahir truly sees what war is, how cruel and pointless and absurd and horrible it is. He shudders as a chill settles in his bones. And it is not just from the relentlessly falling rain.
The rain keeps falling, the land keeps burning and Cahir keeps following the Witcher and his company. Riding through the devastation and conflagration, passing columns of fleeing peasants bent beneath bundles containing all their worldly goods, fearful, horrified and uncomprehending. Seeing the worst imaginable atrocities. The ugly and terrible face of a war that is no longer his. Astounding how being wanted by both the northern kingdoms and Nilfgaard does change one's perspective. Lets you see this war for what it is - a monstrous crime against humanity. Fleetingly, Cahir wonders who has promised a higher reward for his capture, the Brotherhood of Mages or Emhyr var Emreis? Fortunately, the Witcher is giving a wide berth to any uproar of battle and avoids highways and well-travelled paths, and the fleeing peasants are far too dazed to notice him, let alone recognise him for what he is. A wanted war criminal and deserter. Riding alone through a war-tossed and ravaged country. Riding alone along forest tracks that are transformed into muddy slides by the continuing rain. Riding alone through fog and haze and smoke from burning buildings. Sleeping under dripping trees and in miry ditches, alone.
Suddenly, a few days later, he is not alone anymore. The Witcher on his horse is waiting for him in the forest clearing as he emerges from the brush, sword art the ready. Next to him Milva, bow in her hands, and Jaskier, the poet. Shit. They must finally have noticed him following them. And now he is cornered. Quickly he reins back his horse. For a moment they are standing there in utter silence, staring at each other, the silence broken only by the beating of the rain. Cahir could try to turn his chestnut around and flee. He does not believe the archer would shoot him from behind in cold blood, not after she pretty much saved his life from dehydration. However, where would he flee to? He does not intend to give up on his - admittedly very foolish and poorly conceived - plan to follow the Witcher across the continent anyway. Now, after having been spotted, he cannot expect to be able to secretly continue doing that, though. He is fed up with hiding, too, with being afraid every second of the day of discovery not only by northern as well as Nilfgaardian troops and Scoia'tael, but also by the very people he is trailing. And thoroughly tired of being alone day and night - especially so by night. Among the destruction, mutilated corpses and scary sounds of the dark forest, forced to sleep outside in the wild without both a campfire and a watch. No, he does not want to do this anymore. He will not flee. Neither will he fight. He has seen the Witcher in action, watched him slaughter his entire squad of Scoia'tael on Thanedd. Although he is probably one of the best sword fighters in the Nilfgaardian army - or at least he was before Princess Cirilla almost sliced his hand off - he would not stand a chance against Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken. Which leaves only one option. Cahir swallows. He knows that the chances of it working are slim at best. More like non-existent, if he is honest with himself. Well, desperate times, desperate measures. Even if it is, most likely, suicide.
So, Cahir stays, confronting the group despite the Witcher's warning that he would kill him like a dog if they ever met again. The silence lengthens uncomfortably. Until, finally, the Witcher breaks it.
"I forbade you from riding after us." Cahir looks down at his horse's wet mane but does not answer.
"I forbade it," repeats the white-haired Witcher, his voice as sharp as the blade of his sword. Cahir looks up again.
"You did," he eventually agrees. He stares at the other man defiantly. "But I must."
Wordlessly, Geralt dismounts, handing his reins to the poet.
"Get down," he then says calmly. The calm before the storm. "You've equipped yourself with some hardware, I see. Good," he continues, glancing meaningfully at the long sword hanging by Cahir's side in its black, Nilfgaardian scabbard. "There was no way I could kill you then, while you were unarmed. Now it's different. Dismount! And say goodbye to this life that ought to have ended weeks ago, on Thanedd."
"No." The Nilfgaardian shakes his head. "I'm not fighting you. I have no desire to do so."
"So I imagine," the Witcher scoffs. "No doubt, like all your fellow countrymen you prefer a different kind of fight. Like burning down homes with the people still inside or raping girls younger than ten, leaving them bleeding and naked in the streets. You must have seen plenty of it while following our trail." The Witcher's yellow mutant eyes gleam up at Cahir with barely contained loathing. The hand on the hilt of his sword twitches. "Or, perchance, you remember the refugee camp in Cintra? Ciri told me about it." Geralt pauses ominously. "Dismount!" he then bellows.
Cahir does not make a move. Nor does he answer to the accusations. As the Witcher is not wrong about the atrocities committed by his fellow countrymen. And by him. The dead eyes of the slaughtered children and women lying in the snow between the charred remains of the refugee camp still haunt him in his nightmares. As do the images of the blood-covered bodies of the people in the bakery. Maybe the Witcher is right about one more thing. He ought to have died on Thanedd. But he has not. What if there is a reason for why he is still alive?
"Princess Cirilla is not in Nilfgaard," he offers when the Witcher starts to twirl his sword impatiently.
"Spare your breath for our fight. I don't believe you," Geralt spits, venom in his voice. "Get down. I say it for the last time, Nilfgaardian!"
"I am Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach."
"I didn't ask you to introduce yourself. I ordered you to fucking dismount!"
"I will not. I don't want to fight you. And neither am I lying to you."
"Milva." The Witcher addresses the archer. He has had enough. "Be so kind as to shoot his horse from under him."
"No!" Alarmed, Cahir raises an arm before Milva has time to knock an arrow. The horse has nothing to do with all of this. "Please don't. I am dismounting."
"That's better. Now draw your sword, freak!"
Cahir folds his arms across his chest. The posture would have been quite impressive if it was not for the rain that makes the man look more like a half-drowned puppy than a murderous enemy knight.
"Kill me, if you want. If you prefer, order her," he nods at Milva, "to shoot me. Why do you hesitate, Witcher? Just get it over with. I'm not fighting you." Cahir pauses as if waiting for Geralt to strike or for the archer to loose the arrow that is already aimed at his chest. When neither happens, he draws himself up to his full height.
"I am Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. I want-" For a split second he hesitates, then continues with resolve. "I want to join you." It sounds preposterous, even to him. Like a bad joke or the ravings of a lunatic after everything that has transpired, everything he has done. However, it is the truth.
"I must have misheard. Say that again." Geralt looks at Cahir suspiciously, as if the knight has totally lost his marbles. Maybe he has.
"I want to join you," Cahir repeats with even more conviction in his voice. Perhaps, if the Witcher is willing to let him explain... "You are riding to search for Princess Cirilla. And for Yennefer of Vengerberg. I want to help you. I have to help you. Please."
"He's a madman." Geralt turns to Milva and Jaskier. "He's taken leave of his senses. Those days in the coffin must have shrivelled up his brains. We're dealing with a madman, there is no doubt about it."
"He'd suit the company, then," mutters Milva. "He'd suit it perfectly."
"Why, think his proposition over, Geralt," Jaskier adds for consideration. "After all, he's a Nilfgaardian knight. Perhaps, with his help it'll be easier for us to get to Shitgaard. And, as I told you, he is - or at least was - friends with Yennefer. I wouldn't rule it out that he genuinely wants to help her. Yennefer has that effect on men, you know that."
"Stop talking rubbish, bard. Or have you gone crazy, too? You aren't feverish, are you?" Geralt mocks. "Have you forgotten? This is the black knight of Cintra!" he then spits. "Ciri's worst nightmare! The bloody bastard is not coming with us. Over my dead body!" Almost frothing at the mouth, Geralt turns to Cahir again. "As I said, draw your sword, Nilfgaardian!"
"I'm not going to fight," the former black knight of Cintra repeats stubbornly. "And I'm not a Nilfgaardian. I come from Vicovaro, and my name is-"
"I don't give a rat's ass about your bloody name. DRAW YOUR WEAPON!"
"No." Cahir maintains his defiant position despite the tip of the irate Witcher's sword now pointing directly at his throat. The two men stare at each other, both equally drenched and equally obstinate.
"Witcher," Milva interrupts, leaning down from the saddle and spitting on the ground. Afraid the confrontation will soon escalate and lead to Geralt eventually killing the stubborn knight after all - not that she cares about the man much, but Geralt would probably never forgive himself for offing somebody who is not defending himself - she continues. "Time's flying and the rain's falling. The Nilfgaardian doesn't want to fight, and although you're pulling a stern face, I know you won't cut him to pieces in cold blood. Do we have to hang about here all fucking day? I'll stick an arrow in his chestnut's underbelly and let's be on our way. He won't catch up on foot."
Cahir, son of Ceallach, is by his chestnut colt in one quick bound. Probably the archer would not do it, however, he cannot take the chance. The colt has been his only companion for days, steadfastly carrying his rider up and down hills, through brambles and brush, rivers and ravines, through smoke and fog and flames. He cannot endanger its life. He jumps into the saddle and gallops back the way he came, yelling at his steed to go faster and not looking back. The Witcher, the archer and the bard watch him riding off for a moment, then mount their own steeds. In silence. And not looking back, either.
When he believes he has put enough distance between himself and the furious Witcher, Cahir halts his horse, once again at a loss.
Damn, what the heck is he supposed to do now? He is not dead, at least not yet, that is a plus. However, it is obvious that the Witcher is not willing at all to let him join his company, nor to let him explain his motives. With good reason, Cahir has to give him that. Still, he knows that he could be helpful in the quest to find and rescue the princess - Ciri - and Yennerfer. If only the Witcher would believe that Ciri is not in Nilfgaard. That he is riding in the wrong direction. In a direction that, most likely, means certain death for him and his company. Strangely enough and in spite of being not a little afraid of the man - and with good reason, too - he admires the white-haired, grumpy Witcher. And both the poet and the archer have helped him. Cahir would not wish any of the three to end up in a Nilfgaardian dungeon or on the scaffold. Which will inevitably happen if they really proceed with what must be the Witcher's plan - to go to the City of Golden Towers to free the princess. Well, who is the madman here? Perhaps, they all are? Maybe the entire continent has turned into one huge madhouse? Be that as it may, somehow he has to find a way to convince the Witcher that the girl at Emhyr's court is not the real Cirilla but a bogus princess planted there by Rience on Vilgefortz's orders. And that he is not their enemy, on the contrary. That he can be a valuable ally. That he truly wants to atone for his sins, needs to atone for the evil he has wrought, needs to right at least some of his wrongs. And pay back his life debt to Yennefer. His friend, who might be in grave danger.
Fuck it. He turns around the chestnut colt. The only way he can do all this, against all odds and reason, is by continuing to follow the Witcher and his rescue party. Maybe there will be a chance for him, during the certainly perilous journey, to help in one way or the other. Let deeds speak, not words. Perhaps this is more likely to convince the Witcher of his good intentions. If the Witcher does not kill him first.
Hunched over his faithful horse, Cahir rides through the incessant rain back the way he has come from. East.
