"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He mutters under his breath. This is not looking good. What a stupid risk to take. He should have known from the start that it was a very bad idea to let his companion go to that blasted pony farm. He should never have agreed to it. However, what would have been the alternative? With their provisions almost run out in spite of hard rationing and not a single grain of fodder for their already half-starved horses, they had to do something. Cahir's idea sounded pretty straightforward and easy-peasy, too. The folks living on the lonely farmstead would not be afraid of a single rider who knocked at their door with a well-filled purse to buy some food and oats for his horse. Not if he was unarmed and spoke Nilfgaardian fluently and without an accent. A reasoning which made sense and, at the same time, ruled out everybody in his Hanza besides the Vicovarian. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, everything, obviously.

Not having met any people in the steadily pouring rain for days, the Witcher could not have foreseen that a contingent of Nilfgaardian soldiers would arrive at the farm the very moment Cahir finished the transaction and was just about to secure his purchase to his mount, could he? More than a dozen Nilfgaardian soldiers who seemed extremely mistrustful. They did not attack or arrest Cahir, only surrounded him so it was impossible for his comrade to get away. Then they forced him to go inside the house with the leader and several others. Not exactly at swordpoint, but judging from what they could see from their hiding place, he had tried to convince them to let him ride off, without success. If he had jumped onto his mount and made a run for it or reached for his sword that he had left with the horse, the soldiers would surely have made short work of the suspicious stranger. Luckily, Cahir did not try anything stupid, but went into the house with them without putting up a pointless fight. And, so far, has not come out yet although more than half an hour must have passed. A very long half an hour that has left the rest of the Hansa wondering and worrying with no means of finding out what is going on. At least not without endangering their friend's life. To make things even worse, more Nilfgaardians are arriving, the new group led by a knight in black armour and a helmet adorned with the wings of a bird of prey. Now Cahir is truly deep in the shit.

Geralt swears again.

"They have been waiting for their commanding officer," Regis half whispers close to the white-haired Witcher's ear. "Cahir might still be able to talk himself out of this pickle. He's a bright lad."

"What if he can't?" asks Milva.

"We wait until dark," Geralt decides. "Then we break him out."

"It's not even noon! Think of what those Nilfgaardian bastards might do to him in the meantime!" the archer protests, her hand twitching around her bow. How she longs to put an arrow through the throat of each single one of those blasted blackcloaks.

"There are too many of them," Geralt grunts. "Even if we manage to defeat the soldiers positioned in the yard, there are still plenty of them inside the house-"

"-who will, no doubt, kill our friend the moment they notice us," Regis, as so often, finishes Geralt's sentence. One of the equally annoying and endearing idiosyncrasies of the higher vampire. Knowing that Regis is right, as always, the three companions fall into a heavy, brooding silence, hoping that there is still a chance that Cahir can convince the officer to let him go. However, the minutes turn into half an hour, then an hour and the door does not open. Not once. Hidden in the bushes, they can, from their vantage point on the little hillock nearby, overlook the entire farm, but it is too far to hear much besides the occasional barking of a dog or the crowing of the rooster on the muckheap. No sounds from inside the house, nor any other hints at what might be happening in there. Finally, Milva cannot take it anymore. Angrily wiping away the tears that have started to her eyes, she scrambles to her feet and, wordlessly, retreats into the copse of rowan trees covering the little hill where Angoulême is waiting with the horses. She wants to scream from frustration and worry, but, too close to the enemy, refrains from it and viciously punches and kicks at a tree instead. Repeatedly. Until tears trickle down her cheeks from the pain in her fist and toes. Maybe from something else, too.

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

When Cahir sees the black-clad riders gallop toward the farm, it is already too late to run, even if he abandoned the food and fodder that he has just bought. Which he would not as the Hanza dearly need it. Anyway, as long as nobody recognises him, he is pretty certain that he will be able to talk his way out of this pickle. If the soldiers stop him. Which, unfortunately but not unexpectedly, they do. They stop and corner him with not a chance to get away. Although they seem to more or less buy his cock-and-bull story about him being an intelligence officer with an urgent message for no other than Count Vattier de Rideaux, the head of the Nilfgaardian Imperial secret service, the soldiers insist in no uncertain terms on him accompanying them inside the main house. To wait for their commanding officer. Who would arrive shortly with even more men and who seems to be the only person with the authority to decide what to do with the suspicious lone rider. Pulling rank on the soldier in charge - well, former rank, but the man has no way of knowing about this little detail - Cahir protests, swearing profoundly, and threatens that the Count will have their heads if he does not receive the message in time because his agent was delayed by those bloody idiots. However, being intimately familiar with the chain of command, he is not surprised that his efforts amount to nothing. Whether he likes it or not - and, of course, he does not - he has to wait for the officer and his verdict.

And wait he does, in silence, listening in on the soldiers' hushed conversations. It turns out they are hunting for criminals and deserters - or criminal deserters - and insurgents, the last survivors of the Metinna rebellion which started after the Battle of Sodden. It was successfully suppressed by Nilfgaardian forces the very same year with the last few survivors now hiding in the vast and rain-drenched plains of Mag Deira. How lucky they have no idea at all that, by pure chance, they have just made the biggest catch possible ...

As the soldiers are talking, the farmer brings bread, cheese and sausages for them, even a jug of pale ale. They don't seem willing to share any of it with their involuntary guest, though. Well, at least it is warm and dry inside the farm house. In contrast to outside. Where his comrades are waiting for him in the pelting rain. At any rate, Cahir hopes that they are waiting and not doing something stupid, like launching a well-meant but surely doomed and unnecessary rescue attempt. Which would do far more harm than good as he is pretty optimistic that he will be able to convince the officer of the truthfulness of his lies. After all, he has met de Rideaux several times and, as the former commander general, has vast inside knowledge about both the Nilfgaardian military and the secret service. The yellowed and half-torn, wind-swept drawing on the wanted poster he saw some weeks ago on a tree by a crossroad resembled him more than the totally useless one the Brotherhood of Sorcerers had dropped from the skies after his escape from Aretuza, he must admit that. And the officer would probably have seen it somewhere, too. However, with his much longer hair tied back in a ponytail and the short beard it would still be very hard, near to impossible to recognise him from the crude picture. Add that all the members of Geralt's Hanza allegedly died months ago, including a certain Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, the likelihood of the officer suspecting that he is not only a sought-after deserter but also guilty of high treason with a considerable prize on his head is reassuringly low.

About half an hour later, there is a commotion in the yard and soon after, the door to the living-room opens. The officer in his black Nilfgaardian armour and a helmet decorated with raptor wings is standing in the doorframe. Through the slits in the helmet, he stares at Cahir. Who stares back at him.

"You!" the officer bellows after a moment of eerie silence, his deep voice laced with contempt. Then he points at Cahir. "Arrest him!"

Despite their initial surprise, the soldiers do not need to be told twice. Mere seconds later, several swords are pointed at the stranger's chest. However, the stranger seems to have barely noticed as he is still staring at the officer in disbelief.

Rough hands grab Cahir from behind, twisting his arm painfully behind his back as he is standing there, thunderstruck. He knows this voice, even though it is slightly contorted by the metal helmet. Even though they have not seen or talked to each other for years. Even though the odds of them meeting here in the frigging middle of nowhere ought to be near to zero. And still, here they are. Now he is truly and utterly fucked.

"Dheran?" Cahir gasps, half choking as a soldier's strong arm winds around his throat. Slowly, the officer takes off his helmet. He looks older than Cahir remembers and there is a new scar running from the bridge of his nose across his cheekbone, but it is him all right. What an irony of fate. Of all the people on the continent he could possibly run into, it has to be no other than Dheran aep Ceallach, his older brother. And he does not seem to be in an especially brotherly mood, on the contrary. One thing is for sure, too, there is no chance in hell that Dheran will believe a single one of his lies ...

"On your knees, traitor!" Dheran barks. The soldier twists his arm up even further until Cahir has to bite his lip as not to cry out and his knees buckle from the burning agony in his shoulder. The one injured by the lake monster not so long ago. As he is forced to kneel, he wonders fleetingly through the haze of pain what his brother is going to do with him. How far he will go. Well, he will find out soon enough, Cahir suspects. Leaves another, equally disturbing - no, perhaps even more disturbing - question. How far would he, Cahir, go if the tables were turned, if Dheran was the traitor and he still the fervent follower of the White Flame? Would he torture and kill his own brother?

"Speak! What are you doing here? And who are you riding with? You better start talking! Or do you believe I would not make you, little brother?" From the way Dheran spits out the word 'brother', it is more than obvious that believing any such thing would be foolish at best. Amazed and excited, the soldiers standing around Cahir stare first at their officer, then at the prisoner. This is a turn of events they have certainly not anticipated. A family drama. Brother against brother. After weeks of riding through the rain with hardly anything happening - while their own brothers are fighting heroically in the north for country and glory - finally something more interesting than thieves stealing cattle or one of the famous white Metinnese ponies. This is going to be interesting.

Cahir does not answer. Knowing his younger brother, Dheran did not expect him to. He motions to the soldier who is holding the prisoner in a choke grip. He yanks Cahir's arm upward so viciously, there is a sickening sound as the shoulder joint dislocates. This time Cahir does cry out. And faints.