Whumptober 2022 Prompts
No. 3: "Say goodbye"
No. 4: Dead on your feet
No. 20: It's been a long day
No. 21: Take me instead / You're safe now

A bloodbath

The sky is turning all shades of orange as a blood-red sun is sinking beyond the horizon. It is the last image Cahir is conscious of before everything fades to black and he feels himself stumble and fall, hitting the ground heavily. This time, though, there is no sudden jerk of the rope as it tautens and drags the captive across the muddy plains after the horse. No searing pain exploding in his shoulder. He just lies where he has collapsed in a heap, his eyes closed, wheezing worse than a dying mammoth and so dead on his feet he doubts he will ever get up again. At least not anytime soon, meaning in the next week or two, perhaps three. Like from far, far away, Cahir can hear his brother shout orders, however, he does not care. Dheran can shout as much as he will at whoever he wants. It's been a long day and now he is going to sleep for a year, or two, he is already asleep ...

He does not sleep for long.

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

When finally darkness has fallen shrouding the late-winter landscape in an inky black, four figures are making their way across the plains. Four swift and soft-footed figures, their faces camouflaged with mud and their thoughts and hearts as dark and heavy as the night. Their plan is straightforward and foolhardy to a fault with all the odds against them. However, the comrades are used to being thoroughly outnumbered. They have a Witcher, a higher vampire, the best archer on the continent, and Angoulême. The Nilfgaardians will not stand a chance against the storm of their combined fury. Even though they are one warrior short this time. The warrior those bloody Nilfgaardians have tormented for hours. The warrior they have come to rescue.

When Geralt's Hanza attacks, the Nilfgaardians have no idea what has hit them indeed, and neither do they stand a chance.

After Regis has put the half a dozen guards to sleep without making a sound, the four friends fall onto the unsuspecting soldiers like demons from hell. The poor men, who were peacefully sitting around several small campfires eating their rations and telling tall tales of their adventures, probably believe they are dealing with demons, too, for how else could the enemy have sneaked past their sentinels so easily? How else could somebody move and swing his sword so fast? How else would every single arrow find its deadly target in the dark? The braver ones grab their weapons to defend themselves while the less brave try to run to their horses and flee. But flee they cannot. A mysterious shadow is already waiting there for them befuddling their senses with some unknown power of the mind. Touched by the shadow they sink to the ground in terror while the monster digs its murdering claws into their flesh and a smaller figure darts in and out and cuts their throats from behind.

Soon cries of dread and agony echo across the wide plains of the Mag Deira as blood is seeping into the ground. Lots of blood. Nilfgaardian blood.

But where is their Nilfgaardian, no, Vicovarian?

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

Cahir is woken up by the all too familiar sounds of fighting. The nearby clamour of sword clashing against sword, arrows swishing and men cursing and groaning. He sits up with a start, ignoring the pain signals from every and each part of his body. They are here. They have come. His Hanza. Fighting four against thirty. For him. He gazes into the night with his one good eye, but it is too dark to see much of what is going on. Just some moving shadows against the reddish glow of the campfires. Still, what he hears is telling enough. The sounds of death. The Nilfgaardians will all die, like the elves in the courtyard on Thanedd, he is sure of it. A bloodbath, only that this time he is not one of the enemies. And he is glad of it.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Cahir struggles to his feet. He almost blacks out again from exhaustion and the flare of agony caused by the movement and has to concentrate hard to stay upright and not collapse to the ground. Panting from the effort, he looks around. He does not see any guards in his direct vicinity. Have they all run off to help their comrades with the fighting? Or were there no guards in the first place? Because Dheran believed nobody would be coming for him? A stupid and deadly mistake. With a sudden jolt of panic, Cahir realises that his brother will die tonight. Inevitably. He might be dead already, killed by one of Milva's silent arrows or cut to pieces with a sharp Witcher blade. No matter what Dheran has done to him, though, he does not want his brother to die. Nor does Cahir wish for his parents to mourn the last of their three sons, for he knows that he, the traitor, is forever lost to them. That he will never be able to see them again, or his sisters, or his childhood home Darn Dyffra. However, the fighting is still going on. Not everybody is dead yet, and Dheran is a good swordsman. His brother might still be alive. Perhaps he can yet save him from the cold wrath of the Witcher somehow.

On shaky legs Cahir starts to more stumble than walk toward the campfires where most of the fighting seems to go on. It is not far but he is so winded after just a few steps that he has to stop by the pine tree for a moment and lean heavily against its thick trunk for support, wheezing and gasping for breath.

Suddenly, Cahir feels the cold steel of a blade against his throat.

"Don't make a sound or you're dead!" Dheran hisses into his ear. Shit, that is not how he intended to save his brother ...

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

"Geralt!"

The Witcher has just finished his very last opponent by cutting off his head with one vicious swing of his sword. He swivels around faster than humanly possible, blood dripping from the blade. Is Milva in trouble? His heightened visual sense that allows him to see in the dark much better than any human possibly could, immediately tells him that Milva is alright, though. She is standing tall and firm, legs slightly parted in the perfect sideways stance of an experienced archer, arrow notched, the string of her bow drawn to her anchor point and ready to loose. However, she seems to hesitate. Following the hypothetical trajectory of the feathered missile, Geralt can easily see why. Fuck. That is not how he intended to find their Vicovarian friend. With the keen blade of a dagger pressed to his throat. And no way Milva could shoot the man with the raptor-wing helmet who has taken cover behind Cahir without endangering their comrade.

For a long moment, they stand still like frozen in time. Then Geralt carefully puts his sword on the ground and raises his arms over his head.

"Let my friend go. Take me instead." He slowly moves a step forward toward the Nilfgaardian commander and his captive.

"Halt! Stay back or he'll die!" the Nilfgaardian shouts, pressing the blade so firmly to Cahir's throat that it draws blood. "I don't want you, demon, I want my horse."

"You shall have it. If you release the captive."

"Do you take me for a fucking fool, demon? You'll cut me down the second I let go of Cahir. No, this is not how it works. First you lot put your weapons down. And I mean all of you, including the two freaks hiding in the shadows by the horses." He nods in the direction where the animals are hobbled and tethered." And I mean all your weapons. Now."

Geralt motions to Milva to put down her bow which she does, very reluctantly. Geralt removes a dagger and several knives from his belt and bootleg and lets them clatter to the ground. After having dropped her dagger and two smaller knives, Angoulême walks slowly over to where Milva is standing. Regis follows the girl on her heels, leaving not only their strategic position behind but also a pile of dead bodies.

"Good. Now you back off and sit by the campfire over there where I can see you while I get on my steed."

"What about Cahir?" Milva asks warily. "How do we know you won't kill him the second you have your horse instead of letting him go?"

"How do I know you won't stick an arrow into me the second I let him go?" the Nilfgaardian scoffs. Milva does not answer. "That's what I thought. No, your friend here's coming with me, like it or not."

They do not like it, not in the least. Yet, what can they do but comply with the Nilfgaardian's terms? At the moment not a thing, at least not without risking Cahir's life. However, even if the man gets away with their friend, the next town or garrison is far and the Nilfgaardian is alone. He will have to rest and sleep. And, with the weight of two grown men to carry, his horse will need to rest, too. And won't be able to run as fast as its rider might wish. Sooner or later an opportunity to free their comrade will surely present itself. It has to. And rather sooner than later as Cahir does not look too good. He is clearly injured and in a lot of pain.

Slowly and not letting the Nilfgaardian out of sight, Geralt, Milva, Regis and Angoulême walk backwards toward the indicated campfire, the one furthest away from their weapons and the enemy commander. Equally slowly, they sit down. As they were told. The Nilfgaardian whistles. Being the only horse that has neither been hobbled nor tethered, the black stallion is at the man's side in an instant.

"Time to say goodbye to your friends, Cahir. Any last words?" He lessens the pressure on the dagger a little so that the captive can speak.

"Geralt," Cahir wheezes, "don't - don't kill him, please. He's my brother!" Dheran twists Cahir's arm behind his back viciously, making him cry out with agony.

"This is enough. Get on the horse!" Thunderstruck, Geralt and the other members of his Hanza look on as the Nilfgaardian commander forces Cahir into the saddle in front of him and spurs his mount. His brother. The enemy commander is Cahir's fucking brother. As unbelievable as it sounds, though, it makes terrible sense. It explains how the commander knew Cahir's name, why he arrested him in the first place, and, come to think of it, why he is speaking the common speech almost without an accent, like their friend. Damn it, would he really kill his brother? Judging from what they have witnessed today, it seems more than likely.

Seeing the black stallion gallop away, quickly spurs the companions into action again. They dart toward where their weapons lie in the grass. Within the blink of an eye, Milva has her bow in her hands, an arrow knocked and ready. She is taking aim. It is a long shot as the stallion is incredibly fast even with the additional weight of an extra rider, and both the horse and the commander in his black armour are hardly more than a moving shadow in the blackness of the night. It is a high risk to take, too. However, there is not a moment to be lost. No time to discuss the matter with the other Hanza members, no time to weigh the pros and cons, no time to assess the dangers, mull over the question what might go wrong, no time to hesitate. She has to make the decision, she alone. Now. Milva lets go of the string. The arrow flies off with deadly speed and precision, much faster than the best horse could run. It swishes through the air into the nightly sky. Milva holds her breath. As do her comrades. For a split second, time seems to stand still, frozen with anticipation and trepidation. Then the arrow hits its target. Exactly where it should. And, in spite of the distance, with enough force to penetrate the black metal of the Nilfgaardian's armour. The man gives a cry of agony, then he lists to the side and starts to fall, taking the other rider down with him.

"Fuck!" Geralt spurts off with super-human speed, praying to all the gods that Cahir is okay, that he hasn't broken his neck in the fall or sustained any serious injuries. His three companions run after him at a considerably slower pace, but still as fast as they possibly can. Then Geralt sees something moving. However, it is not his companion. The Nilfgaardian commander is clambering to his feet with difficulty, the feathered shaft of Milva's arrow protruding from the back of his pauldron. In his gloved hand he is holding the dagger.

"No!" the Witcher roars, then he is upon the enemy. He hits him hard on the helmet with the pommel of his sword. So hard so that the man goes down like a felled tree. And stays down.

Geralt lets go of his sword and kneels next to his comrade who is lying face down in the grass. There is blood in his hair and he does not stir. "Cahir? Cahir!" Very carefully, Geralt turns his friend over. Cahir moans softly, then blinks his eye open.

"Geralt?" he whispers, hardly audible.

"Yes, it's me. You're safe now. We've got you. You'll be alright. You'll see. Regis will fix you up in a jiffy. You'll be okay, do you hear? Cahir?" However, the young knight has already passed-out.