Whumptober 2022 Prompts
No. 4: Dead on your feet
No. 16: No way out / No one's coming
No. 19: Enough is enough
No. 23: At the end of their rope
No. 26: No one left behind / Rope burns
No. 27: Pushed to the limit / Stumbling
No. 28: Anger born of worry
No. 30: Manhandled

At the end of their rope

When he wakes up from another faint, the first thing Cahir notices is the taste of iron in his mouth. The next thing that registers just a split second later is pain. Pain when he tries to move his torso just the fraction of a centimetre, pain when drawing in a single shuddering breath, pain when he grimaces because of the pain. With an effort Cahir tries to force his eyes open, but it only works with his right, the left eye seems to be thoroughly swollen shut. Actually, his entire face feels badly swollen and his head hurts like it is going to explode any second. He is still tied to the desk in the study, still chillingly wet. He cannot have been unconscious for very long, then. Well, at least his teeth feel like they all are where they should and he is able to breathe through his nose, so it could have been worse. He could be dead, too, not just feeling like he wants to die.

The visual information from his one good eye tells Cahir that it must be around three in the afternoon judging from the position of the pale February sun which he can see through the window. It has stopped raining. And he is alone in the little study. Not for long.

"Get the prisoner!" His brother's voice from the adjacent room. The door to the study flies open. Three soldiers enter, their swords drawn, and a fourth one with a dagger in his hand. The rather short but heavily muscled man with the dagger squats down next to Cahir.

"Commander told us not to kill you," he grunts, obviously not entirely happy with this part of the order. "But I warn you, traitor, if you try anything, I'll stick this blade right in your eye." The soldier points the tip of the dagger at Cahir's right eye for emphasis. Uncomfortably close, almost touching the eyeball. Cahir holds his breath, frozen with fear and praying to all the gods that the man has a steady hand which would not pierce his eye just by accident. Finally, after what felt like a whole eternity but probably was not even half a minute, the man lowers the blade to cut the prisoner lose from the desk. Cahir blinks, drawing in a shuddering breath. The threat was not really necessary. He is not stupid. Even if he was not hurting almost everywhere, any attempt to flee would be doomed from the start. He would stand no chance with three sharp swords trained on him and plenty more soldiers in the house and yard. He knows Dheran and his brother knows him. Perhaps other commanders would underestimate him. But Dheran would make extra sure that there is no way out for Cahir, not even death.

With the other soldiers standing around them in a semi-circle, swords at the ready, the short, brawny one grabs both the prisoner's now free forearms and pulls them toward him with a jerk. A searing flame of agony shoots along Cahir's arm from his injured shoulder and all the way down to the tips of his fingers. Just so managing to stifle a cry of pain, he heaves a loud groan instead while the man is tying his hands up tightly in front of him with something that looks like a foaling rope. Which makes sense as they are on a pony farm. A large one. They must have plenty of this stuff lying about. When the soldier is satisfied with the knots - which are indeed expertly done - he and one of his comrades grab Cahir by his arms, drag him to his feet and manhandle the moaning and close to swooning prisoner toward the door, through the living room and out into the yard.

"Here, bring him over to my horse!" Dheran's voice cuts through the haze of agony clouding Cahir's perception. He sees his brother standing next to a beautiful black stallion. He knows the horse, too. The brother of his own one. For a fleeting moment he wonders what has become of his beloved stallion, one of the fastest in all of Nilfgaard, and if he would ever see him again. Probably not.

Then the soldiers start dragging Cahir across the yard. They drop the injured captive at his brother's feet.

"Get up!" he commands, the tip of his sword pointing at the panting prisoner's chest. With difficulty, Cahir struggles to his feet. Dheran, who is almost of the same hight but more broadly built than his younger brother and, with a darker complexion and almost black hair and beard, looks a lot more like somebody coming from the south of the continent, sizes the badly battered prisoner up with a saturnine expression.

"You can stand. Good," the commander says when he has finished his scrutiny. "Let's see if you can run, too." He motions to a soldier who ties one end of a longer rope to the fetters around Cahir's wrists. The other end he fastens to the commander's saddle. Cahir looks on, horrified. This is going to be bad, really bad. And the worst about it is why Dheran is doing this. It's a show. For Cahir's companions. So they would launch a rescue attempt to save their friend. And, out in the open plains, be slaughtered by the superior Nilfgaardian forces. Even Geralt with his extraordinary fighting abilities cannot possibly take on so many enemies. Not without cover and in the light of day. But he will want to try.

Dheran mounts his horse and gives a shout. The stallion begins to move, forcing Cahir to do the same. He jogs after the trotting horse, careful to leave the rope slack so it would not pull at his aching shoulder. His legs are mostly unhurt, except for a few bruises, and for a few minutes it works. However, when they have left the farm grounds, Dheran spurs his steed. The stallion breaks into a canter and Cahir has to run as fast as he can. In his best physical form he might be able to hold up the speed for two, three kilometres, maybe longer if he really had to. However, with every breath he draws hurting like crazy from his badly bruised, perhaps even broken ribs, and his head spinning, Cahir knows he will not be able to keep up with the animal for long. Dheran knows it, too.

Soon, black spots are flickering in the periphery of Cahir's vision from lack of oxygen and exhaustion. He stumbles. The sudden jerk from the tautening rope knocks him over and he falls, crying out with agony as he is dragged along behind the horse by his arms, the rope around his wrists burning painfully into his flesh. Eventually, after several minutes of unbearable pain, his brother slows down his steed to a walk, then makes it stop. He wants Cahir alive, after all. He dismounts and approaches the prisoner who is lying prone in the wet, brownish grass. In just a few weeks from now the vast plains of the Mag Deira will be covered in lush shades of green with dots of colourful spring flowers everywhere, but not yet. It is still too early for that.

Cahir does not stir, but he is breathing visibly and hard and moaning softly into the half-dead vegetation.

"You! Give me your canteen!" Dheran orders the soldier who has stopped his mount closest to the commander's horse. The soldier, of course, does as he is told and passes the well-filled canteen to his superior. Who opens it and lets some of its content drip onto the back of the captive's head. Cahir groans and slowly turns around blinking groggily up at his older brother.

"Want something to drink?" Not sure if he will actually allow him a few swallows of water or if Dheran simply wants to wind him up, Cahir struggles into a sitting position. Hurting fucking everywhere he was barely aware of how thirsty he is. He would kill for a few sips from that canteen. If he had his hands free and a sword. Which, unfortunately, he has not. Well, even if he had one, he would hardly be able to wield it for the pain in his shoulder and wrists. He can barely feel his hands anymore and blood is dripping from the badly chafed and burned skin of his tightly bound wrists unto his mud-caked leather pants.

"Here!" Dheran hunkers down next to his captive and holds the canteen to his lips. To Cahir's surprise, he lets him not only gulp down a few sips, but allows him to drink his fill until the canteen is almost empty.

"Thank you," Cahir says quietly.

"Don't thank me yet. You know why I am doing this, don't you? Making you run behind the horse?"

"Yes."

"So far, no one has come for you. This means, your companions, whoever they are, are either too clever to attack us yet, knowing we will make short work of them, or they have abandoned you. Left you behind for us to do with you whatever we want. If they are still here, though, hidden somewhere in those hills," he motions at the chain of elevated terrain covered in brush and birchwood that is rising from the plains not too far away, "and watching this, I'm sure they will not wait much longer before they come for you. As we will do this again and again and again - until they do. Or until I'm convinced that no one's coming after all."

Cahir shudders. Once was more than enough already, but again, and again? And with his Hanza watching ... Dheran was right, he should have died when people thought he did, then at least he would not endanger his friends now. For he is pretty certain that they would not leave him behind. Not after everything they have gone through together. At the beginning of their journey, sure, Geralt would have been ecstatic to get rid of the hated Black Knight of Nilfgaardian so easily and conveniently. However, now, after half a year of traveling together, of fighting side by side, of having each other's backs, of saving each other's lives, of sharing their last crumbs of bread, their blankets and horses and everything, they would not leave any one of them behind, not even him. After all, they are a true Hanza. And he would not betray them nor their mission for all the gold on the continent, not even for his family. Nor would he want any of them to die for him. Hopefully, Regis will be able to hold the others back until darkness falls and they might stand a chance when they come for him. When they come, not if.

"Ready for the second round?" Dheran asks after only a few minutes, just enough for the prisoner's pulse to slow down a little and his breathing to become somewhat less wheezy. "I'll go a bit easier on you, too, I promise." Cahir does not answer. It would not make a difference anyway.

He knows why Dheran has made this promise, too. So he would last longer.

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

"Enough is enough! I will not keep on watching those fuckers torment Cahir and do nothing!" the Witcher thunders. "I'm going in. And I'm going to butcher every single one of the bloody bastards!"

"No, Geralt, you will stay here with me and wait, as that is exactly what they want us to do. We won't fall into their trap. We will bide our time until it's dark enough for us to sneak up on them. It's our only chance to get Cahir out alive, and stay alive ourselves. You know it."

"What if Cahir is dead by then, Regis? What then?" Geralt asks darkly and not at all convinced even though he knows indeed that the vampire is right. "They have been dragging the boy around behind that horse for hours! He's probably half dead already!"

"I know, and I wish with all my heart it were otherwise, that we could do something now. However, we cannot. The Nilfgaardians would see us from afar. They are well-armed with swords and arbalests and simply too many. We would kill some of them, sure, but at too high a risk to our own lives. Cahir would not want any of us to die for him. And even if we decided to take that risk, the Nilfgaardian commander would hardly let Cahir live if we attacked them in broad daylight. We need the cover of the dark to get him out before they even know what has hit them."

"I don't fucking like it!" Geralt roars, furious at their own impotence. He kicks at a rock viciously. It clatters down the steep slope, breaking into several pieces when it hits the ground. Fortunately, they are too far away for the enemy to hear it, and neither can they hear the Witcher's loud and angry swearing.

"None of us likes it, dear friend. And we will exact our revenge for what they are doing to the lad, I promise you this." Regis looks Geralt in the eye and suddenly, for a split second, the Witcher sees not the friendly, patient, wise barber-surgeon but the murderous monster with fangs and claws ready to strike at their enemies. Then, as quickly as he was gone, the elderly man who resembles a tax collector is back. "However," he continues as if nothing has happened, "I am almost certain that it is not their intention to kill Cahir. If they wanted to do that, the commander could make his horse run a lot faster. It's barely trotting now. And it's not that long anymore until dusk. Another hour."

Geralt sighs. Another hour. A very long hour of watching and worrying from afar. An hour of ramping and raging and senselessly kicking rocks down the hill. And of their hearts breaking for their friend every time he, pushed to the very limit, stumbles and falls and is dragged behind the horse through the mud, only to be hauled back onto his feet for the torment to start over again. In between, his tormentors give him some water and as much of a break as absolutely necessary for the lad to recover enough to get back on his feet. Which takes longer every time. It is a miracle he can still stand upright at all and put one foot before the other. Any lesser man would long since have given up and bitten the dust. However, by the time the sun has almost reached the horizon - and Geralt the very end of his patience - Cahir is so dead on his feet, he manages only a few stumbling steps before collapsing to the ground again. This time, though, he is not hauled back onto his feet. The commander seems to be finally done with his demonstration. Leaving their captive lying in the mud, the soldiers start to set up camp around a lone pine tree, its silhouette standing out against the darkening sky.

A darkening sky suddenly ablaze with fiery flames of orange lit by a blood red sun which is sinking slowly beyond the horizon in the west.

A premonition of what is to come? The Witcher does hope so as his rage is boundless and burning as bloody red as the setting sun.

It is time.