Chapter Three
Geralt awoke groggily, a splitting headache blurring his vision. Blinking to clear it, he soon realized his hands were bound and he was leaned against and tied to the back of a large sledge pulled by a four-horse team. The camp around him was bustling to and fro, loading a matching pair of sledges several yards away. The one Geralt was tied to was already fully loaded, many of the contents charred and reeking of smoke.
The sledges were on the eastern edge of the camp, the opposite end from which Geralt had entered. In the middle of the camp, there was a swath of melted snow mixed with ash, a multitude of ruined paraphernalia strewn about and abandoned. Most of the camp had been packed up. Any minute now, they would finish loading the other sledges and once they did, they were going to come back for Geralt.
As it was right now, they paid little attention to him. Whether that was because they didn't think he was going to wake up, they didn't think he would be able to escape, or they simply couldn't spare the manpower for a guard, Geralt didn't know. Whatever the case was, he was going to use the time he had to the fullest.
His plan was simple, if he could even call it a plan. The knot binding Geralt's hands was well executed, but the one tying him to the sledge wasn't nearly so. He could undo it with his teeth and sneak away while everyone was distracted.
The first part of Geralt's plan went exceedingly well. He undid the knot in a matter of seconds, constantly casting furtive glances around him to make sure no one was looking. Once he was free, he crawled on hands and knees around the side of the sledge directed away from the others and rose into a half crouch to remain concealed behind it as he moved toward the front, the undone length of rope still trailing between his legs. Even though he didn't want to go east, the forest was much closer in that direction and he liked his chances a lot better going through the forest than trying to sneak across the open campground.
He was already at a trot by the time he came level with the horses, muscles itching to make a break for it. Then disaster struck. There were two bandits on the other side of the horses, one checking the straps harnessing the lead horse to the sledge, the other doing the same for the wheel horse. Geralt hadn't been able to see them over the mountainous load aboard the sledge and by the time he realized they were there, they had already seen him.
"Hey!" the bandit called out, looking up at the sudden movement. Then his eyes settled and he turned back to the others. "Here! Over here! He's escaping!"
Geralt darted into a wild dash for the tree line, startling the horses, who shied away in fright. The man who had called out stepped in front of Geralt just as he pulled up level with the nose of the lead horse. Geralt rammed his shoulder into the man, ploughing him over without breaking stride. With that man down, it was a clear shot to the trees.
But a few steps further, the rope dangling from Geralt's hands snapped tight, pulling him toward the ground and tripping him when his leg met the taut line. He crashed into the snow, the line held firm by the bandit Geralt had knocked over. Now on his back, Geralt tried to yank the rope free, but a second bandit had come up and also had hold of the line while many others were running over. Another grabbed the line to keep Geralt in place and the other ten that had responded quickly formed up around him and started kicking and punching and stomping. Geralt could do nothing but curl up and try to protect his head. By the time the man in charge came over, the man with the gnarled ears, Geralt was bruised and bloodied, though not seriously injured.
Unfurling himself, wincing at the movement, Geralt gazed up at the man. The man glared down with stern but pitying eyes. "I don't want to hurt you, witcher." Geralt grimaced and hissed as he was pulled to his feet by several men. "Don't make me have to."
From that point on, Geralt was never left alone. Two guards were always by his side, always vigilant. Both had swords sheathed at their hips, but held clubs ready in their hands. Geralt supposed the weapons were to nonlethally apprehend him should he attempt to escape again. He wasn't sure why, but they definitely wanted him alive.
He wasn't sure if that boded well or not.
They had also added more rope and looped it around his arms and core so that his arms were always down by his sides, his hands forced to jut out from his middle. A gag was then shoved in Geralt's mouth and tied securely around the back of his head, the pressure of which set Geralt's head pounding again. Thus bound, Geralt stood by and watched as the final sledge was loaded and, within the hour, they were off, the navy sky just beginning to redden.
The camp steadily emptied and fell into line behind the trio of sledges; only a few of the men mounted on horses, their captain among them. The forest was thick, the path just wide enough to permit the sledges, the men walking in a haphazard formation, two or three abreast. Geralt was toward the front of the line, his guards ever present on either side of him. He soon realized that Ciri and the two she had gone after were not the only prisoners these bandits had taken. Two more fell into step behind Geralt and his escort. Both had the look of countryfolk, farmers, maybe, or tanners. They walked on with heads bowed and shoulders hunched; they were already resigned to their fate.
Geralt, on the other hand, was not. He wasn't going to give up without a fight, though he would have to be careful in choosing his battles. Right now, everyone was on alert, ready for him to make a move. He would have to wait a while, let them grow complacent. Once they were convinced he was no threat, he would strike. He just hoped this trip would be a long one.
As it turned out, Geralt was not disappointed. They trudged long into the morning, the sky darkening overhead despite the rising sun. A storm was coming, the wind confirming it with every gust. Close to noon, the snow started falling, thick and heavy. Everyone hunched against it, wrapping themselves as best they could against the cold.
This was the moment Geralt was waiting for. A group such as this was likely to stop for a midday meal and they would be doing so shortly. Now was the perfect time to act, while everyone was cold and miserable, their thoughts turned from their duties toward hunger and warmth and rest.
Without warning, Geralt stamped hard on the foot of the man to his left, breaking a few toes, then shouldered him to the ground. Geralt turned just in time to dodge a swing from the club of the remaining guard, bending backwards underneath the blow. Once clear, Geralt sent the man tumbling with a shot of Aard.
The next moment, Geralt was gone, off into the trees, legs pumping as fast as they could go. It was awkward running with his arms bound around him, but Geralt kept his balance and pushed on, ducking behind a giant boulder to break their line of sight and praying that the snow was falling fast enough to disguise his tracks.
Geralt didn't know how far he had run, but he finally had to slow to a jog to somewhat catch his breath, the gag hindering his ability to get any meaningful lungful of air. He could only faintly hear the shouting from the convoy now. Then, in the relative silence, came hoofbeats, growing steadily louder. With a stitch in his side and lungs burning, Geralt took off again, not caring which direction he was going so long as it was away from that sound.
It wasn't long before Geralt's body was slowing, begging him for air. Geralt ignored the alarms going off within him—he would catch his breath when he was free. With blood pounding in his ears and boots crunching through the snow, Geralt couldn't hear the sound edging closer with every step.
Thundering hooves were his only warning before a horse smashed into Geralt's back and sent him careening into a nearby tree. Geralt was able to turn his shoulder, but felt a terrible crunch through his ribs, the wind thoroughly driven out of him as he slumped down the trunk. He struggled to gasp in a breath while the rider returned and drew a sword, the tip angled across Geralt's throat.
The captain seemed to fight with himself, muscles tensing to send the sword twitching dangerously close to Geralt's jugular. "If you were any other man, you would be dead three times over by now. I need you alive. But with every defiance, that need grows less dire. Do not let it expire."
Due to the gag, Geralt couldn't offer any response, which probably was for the best. He couldn't have spoken anyway, he was only just recovering his breath and his ribs pierced his side with every lungful he inhaled. The captain dismounted and undid a length of rope from behind his saddle. He tied one end to the ropes looping Geralt and secured the other end to the saddle horn, swinging a leg up over his horse once both were in place.
Defeated and too winded to resist, Geralt let himself be led back to the awaiting procession, hunching to favor his broken ribs.
The bandits were just finishing up their brief meal as they came into view, the other two prisoners chewing on some crusty bread as well. Geralt regretted now choosing this particular time to mount an escape. He was ravenous and would have liked some respite, however morbid the encompassing circumstances were.
The captain, Lund, Geralt heard someone call out in greeting, resumed Geralt's place in line. Whatever hope still resided within the other two prisoners drained from their faces as they watched Geralt return.
Lund pointed to four men and beckoned them over, gave them specific instructions, then ordered the convoy forward. The four men surrounded Geralt, two walking behind him, and one to either side. They stood close enough that they could react swiftly to any action Geralt leveled, but stayed far enough away that they were out of immediate reach. Geralt had to hand it to Lund, he was smart. Lund still kept Geralt tied to his own saddle, now taking personal responsibility for Geralt's delivery to wherever they were going.
With his battered body and inflated guard detail, Geralt saw little chance of escape now. There was not much he could do but slog along behind Lund's mount and hope that some sort of opportunity presented itself.
But as the hours wore on, that seemed less and less likely.
The snow continued all day, slowing the group's progress deep into the mountains. The rarefied air and the burning in his thighs alerted Geralt to just how high they had climbed. They stopped only briefly around sundown to rest before continuing their trek. It was well into the night when Geralt made out a familiar glow through the trees. As the light waxed, a low murmur followed. Soon enough, Geralt stepped out into open air and the sheer scale of what Geralt saw stopped him in his tracks for a moment before the rope yanked him into motion again.
Geralt had thought the camp he and Zoltan had found was the main camp; that they were relocating because they had been found. Now he realized that it was merely a forward camp, a place from which to spring their attacks before retreating to their true base of operations. Zoltan had warned Geralt about the bandits' superior numbers, but even Zoltan would have been shocked to discover the accurate count.
A massive camp stretched up a steep hill to an impassible mountainside that extended on into the trees in either direction. The mountain's arms reached from its base around the top portion of the camp to create a horseshoe shape. Directly in the center of the horseshoe and backing up to the cliffside was a large rock outcropping some fifteen feet above the rest of the camp. Out of the front edge of the rock grew a young elm tree, stripped bare by winter's cruel touch, its knotted roots breaching the front of the rock face and cascading down to the ground below. Behind the outcropping formed a raised platform where several large tents were pitched, the ground steeply sloping down around the sides of the formation to where the rest of the camp lay.
From there, hundreds of tents fell away down the mountainside, encircled by crude pikes driven into the ground to ward off intruders. There were rows of pikes within the camp as well, forming multiple tiers of defense. The forest had been cleared to allow such a large gathering; the trees presumably having been used to build its defensive wall of pikes. Every now and then, a boulder would rear up out of the ground, a few of which had scaffolding leading up to the tops to form a lookout. An opening at the bottom of the camp, just wide enough to permit the sleds, was the only entrance, and twenty feet within that was a line of pikes that forced anyone entering to cut sharply to the left or right.
It was a veritable fortress, or as much of one as could be built high in the mountains. For such an enormous camp, there weren't many people out and about, but Geralt guessed that most of them were sleeping. Judging by the numbers of tents, there had to be over two hundred. Plus the forty or so men that Geralt was traveling with. Even with the full strength of the Guard, they would be hard-pressed to overcome the numbers here.
With no other choice but to keep moving forward, Geralt stepped into the camp, awe and despair turning his empty stomach.
Geralt and the two other prisoners were led up onto the outcropping at the back of the camp and lined up next to the elm tree which sat just off center on the rock and a few feet back from the fifteen foot drop down to the camp below. Geralt stood closest to the tree, underneath its outstretching limbs. The other two were to Geralt's left, all three with their backs to the drop-off behind them. Lund, seemingly unwilling to let Geralt out of his sight, sent another man toward one of the few tents erected up near the mountainside. The man disappeared inside it and emerged a few minutes later, standing to the side to allow a sinewy man behind him to pass by.
The man was horribly disfigured. The tip of his nose was missing along with most of his ears. The disfigurements lent a skeletal look to the man whose thin and wiry frame only added to the assessment. Beyond that, he seemed young, maybe in his thirties, with spotty hazelnut hair and matching eyes that were weathered well past his years. He was clad in simple clothes with a hunting knife sheathed at his hip. There was a quiet authority in his bearing, one which commanded respect, but not out of fear as so many disreputable leaders chose. He seemed weary, but was also limned with a certain liveliness that leapt up into his eyes as he approached their little group. Geralt's medallion quivered as he neared.
"Nelan," he addressed Lund cordially.
Geralt was surprised that he called Lund by his first name. Most superiors didn't address their subordinates as such. A fact which gave further credence to Geralt's feeling that this man was either loved or idolized by his men. And that the respect was mutual.
"Endir," Lund answered back, dipping his head.
"I'm glad to see you've returned safely, though with far fewer numbers than I expected."
Lund jerked his head at Geralt. "We ran into some unexpected trouble."
Endir ran his eyes over Geralt, slight shock playing with his eyebrows. "You took a witcher from one of the settlements? I'm impressed."
"Actually, he found us," Lund started. He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "At the camp."
Awe and disbelief flashed onto Endir's face. "How can that be?"
"I don't know. Our tracks were covered, as usual. No one should have been able to find us."
"Hmm. And yet he did," Endir stated contemplatively. He set his eyes to Geralt before ambling up to him.
Lund stepped down from his horse as Endir neared Geralt, motioning to the guards around Geralt to close in. One of the guards commanded Geralt to kneel and then kicked the back of his knee when Geralt didn't obey. The four men formed up around Geralt, holding him on his knees. Lund drew his sword and held it at the ready.
Endir simply seemed amused by the proceedings, casting a questioning glance at Lund who countered with a look that said the show of force was more than necessary. Shrugging, Endir returned his gaze to Geralt. "I wonder, what was a witcher doing tracking my men through the forest?"
"He was trying to free the prisoners," Lund answered for Geralt. "Two escaped and we were forced to kill one. But he will more than make up for them, I promise you that." He then went on to describe the events of the preceding night, focusing on Geralt battling his men and how he had tried to escape himself after being captured.
A greedy light crept into Endir's eyes at the retelling. "And what would a witcher be doing freeing our captives?" he directed at Geralt. At a silent command from Lund, Geralt's gag was removed and he gratefully worked the stiffness out of his jaw.
They must not have suspected any connection between him and Ciri. And Geralt most certainly wasn't going to apprise them of it. He spat out the first lie that came to him. "A witcher needs to be paid. You've left plenty of angry and grieving villagers wanting closure."
Endir was unaffected by the underhanded jibe. "I see. And if I were to pay you, would you work so diligently for me?"
Geralt humphed. "Not a chance."
Like a candle in a blizzard, the amiable amusement in Endir's demeanor went out. It was replaced with an intensity that narrowed its focus on Geralt. His words were soft, but underlined with an ominous menace all the same. "Do not take your position here lightly. You have stripped us of three sacrifices—"
Sacrifices? What was he talking about?
"—and while I am forgiving, that forgiveness comes with a price. You will serve me. Whether you do so of your own free will is up to you."
Geralt's ire was up at the audacity of Endir's request. He honestly thought that Geralt, who had fought to free three people from his clutches, who had then been taken captive himself, would just side with Endir on a whim? And Endir didn't know it, but there was no way Geralt was ever going to forgive someone who tried to take Ciri. "Do what you want," Geralt sneered back, holding Endir's gaze. "I'm not going to be your mercenary."
Amused once more, Endir scoffed and stepped back. "I think you'll want to reconsider." He trod over to the next man in line.
The man was forced to kneel and was visibly shaking, though not from the cold. When they removed his gag, the man burst into speech. "Please, please! I'll do whatever you want, I'll serve you. Just don't kill me, please!"
Endir studied the man for a moment then flashed him a sad smile. "No, you won't serve me. But you will serve our purpose and there is a great honor in that. You will be saving many lives."
The prisoner looked confused, but hopeful, as though he might still make it out of this because of his complaisance. Geralt knew better than to think anything but death awaited the man.
Drawing closer, Endir raised up his arms toward the man, his sleeves falling back. As they did so, they revealed two gnarled stumps in the place of Endir's hands. Shock danced in Geralt's eyes, but he was quickly sidetracked by his medallion thumping on his chest. Endir closed his eyes, reaching out with his mangled arms, but not touching the man. The man's eyes rolled into his head and something akin to pain flickered across his face. Less than a minute later, Endir's eyes popped open and the man's followed shortly thereafter.
Contrary to how he had been acting, there was no emotion in the man's eyes now, no fear, no sadness, no desperation. He stared without seeing somewhere past Endir, then slowly rose to his feet. With Endir's eyes locked onto him, the man reached out and slid the knife at Endir's hip from its sheath.
The knife seemed old, but taken care of. The wooden handle was worn smooth and evidence of rust was just starting to coat the blade, though the edge was still keen. The man grasped the knife firmly and slid his eyes to Endir, questioning. Endir nodded solemnly.
Geralt was at a loss as to what was happening. His eyes flitted confusedly from the prisoner to Endir to the knife and back. What was Endir up to?
Without delay, the man reached up and slit his own throat from ear to ear. Geralt actually recoiled in surprise, watching as the man's body collapsed and his blood stained the pristine snow, the knife falling at Endir's feet. Lund moved over and picked up the knife, wiped it clean, and then stowed it once more in its sheath at Endir's side.
They both turned to the last prisoner who was violently struggling against his captor.
"No. No, no, no, please! I'll give you whatever you want. Anything! Don't hex me! I'll give you anything!" he blubbered.
"It's going to be alright. This will all be over soon," Endir soothed, raising his arms.
"No, please—!" The man's cry was cut off as his eyes rolled back. A minute later, he too lay bleeding out at Endir's feet. Both of the corpses, already being covered by the unending snowfall, were dragged away by a couple of Endir's men.
Endir strode back over to Geralt. "As you can see, I can be quite persuasive when necessary, but I would prefer you join me on your own." He came to a halt directly in from of Geralt. "Have you reconsidered my offer?"
Geralt ignored the question. "What do you want? Why kill those men? What are you trying to accomplish?"
"Fair enough, witcher. I will explain myself if it will sway you to join us." He paused a moment, his gaze intensifying. "The White Frost is coming." Eyes growing distant, Endir stared past Geralt into memory. "Many have felt its cold wrath. It came for me when I was young, but I survived it. And every day it grows stronger. Soon, there will be nothing we can do to stop it." Endir's eyes snicked back to Geralt. "These sacrifices appease it, keep it at bay. But I fear the day they will not be enough. There is only one way to stop it for good, an individual foretold to defeat the White Frost, one born of the Elder Blood."
Geralt's heart leapt into his throat and he was eternally grateful that he had omitted any connection to Ciri earlier. He fought to keep his emotions from reaching his face with difficulty.
This wasn't some ordinary group of bandits, Geralt realized uneasily, it was a cult, which made them infinitely more dangerous. On top of that, the cult centered on a fairy tale; a fairy tale that, unbeknownst to Endir, was linked indelibly to Ciri.
"Alas, I don't know where this person is or who they may be. And until I find them, I must continue my work, as much as it pains me to do so."
Calming his frantic heart, Geralt finally mastered himself enough to speak. "You're a madman. The White Frost is a myth."
An incredulous look washed over Endir's face. "You cannot deny the signs." Endir made a sweeping gesture around him. "The winters grow colder, the summers shorter. It is only a matter of time before the White Frost covers this land and all will be lost. What we must do to prevent that is regrettable. I wish there were another way, I truly do. But there isn't. And we need all the help we can get. Someone such as yourself would be invaluable to our mission. Join us and save this world. What more cause do you need?"
There wasn't much Geralt could do, he was surrounded by hundreds of Endir's forces. Escape was impossible at the moment. But now that Geralt had been stunned out of his anger, he saw another possibility. If he agreed to go along with Endir, then he may just get a chance to steal away later. If he read the situation correctly, they were planning on sending Geralt out on their raids. In the midst of battle, no one would be keeping tabs on Geralt and he could easily slip away. He would just have to act the part until the right moment.
"Fine," Geralt acquiesced in a mock show of concession. "I'll do what you want. I'll join your mission."
Endir laughed, but the mirth did not reach his eyes. "Do not mistake my generosity for folly. You cannot deceive me, witcher. If you won't devote yourself to our cause, then I will do it for you. The White Frost must be abated. And I will do whatever is necessary to do so."
In a flash, Endir cast out his arms and a presence assaulted Geralt's mind, shoving him deep within himself. The world winked out of existence as a blustering gale strove to drive Geralt back. He fell to his knees, hands and feet straining to find purchase on the incorporeal ground, his hair whipping frenetically about his face. Another gust slid Geralt back a few feet, but he managed to stop himself. Stumblingly, Geralt stood and, with arms up to shield himself, he heaved himself forward. It was like wading through tar, each step a monumental effort. A powerful blast sent Geralt backwards a few steps, but he kept his feet and, with a wild roar, raced forward and delivered a volcanic blaze of Igni.
The next thing Geralt knew, he was back in reality, on his knees before a disheveled Endir, Geralt's sides heaving as though he had just run several miles. Lund steadied Endir, who was also breathing heavily. With a look of reassurance from Endir, Lund released him, but continued to look on with concern.
"I'm alright, Nelan." Gathering himself, Endir stepped back up to Geralt. "I've never encountered a mind such as yours. No one has ever managed to repel me," Endir added with a hint of admiration. "But nothing worthwhile ever comes easily. My father taught me that." He was silent for a moment, considering his next move. He looked to his men and nodded toward the elm behind them. "Tie him up, leave him for the night. I need to rest. We will resume in the morning."
As Endir turned to leave, the four guards around Geralt dragged him back toward the tree, Lund instructing them to strip off Geralt's cloak and armor. They had to untie him to do so and Geralt fought against them, but to no avail. When they were done, they had left only his thin linen shirt and breeches, his gloves, and his boots. Geralt supposed they didn't want him to get frostbite if he was to be of any use to them. Although he found their actions a bit contradictory considering even he doubted he would survive the night.
An iron ring was nailed into the elm's trunk, high above Geralt's head, and they tied his newly bound hands up to it. Geralt winced as the action stretched his aching ribs, taking in a few choppy breaths as they adjusted to their new position. His feet were then lashed to the trunk at its base. Thus secured, Geralt was left alone, Lund heading back to one of the tents next to Endir's. Everyone else wrapped around to head down the hill to either side of Geralt, back to the rest of the camp. Lund was clearly confident that Geralt could not break free. Or at least, if he did, that there was nowhere he could go. Unfortunately, Geralt had to agree.
Things were looking grim. The night was blisteringly cold and a wet snow was still drifting down from the sky. Already shivering, Geralt tried to keep himself from falling asleep, exhausted though he was. By Geralt's reckoning, it wasn't even midnight yet; he had a long way to go until morning. If he fell asleep, in that kind of weather, he doubted he would wake up.
Part of him wanted to give in, to let himself go and deny the cult their prize. But Geralt couldn't bring himself to do it. There was a primal instinct that shouted at Geralt to keep going, no matter the odds. Another part of Geralt thought of Ciri. As long as Endir was alive, Ciri was in danger, and that alone was enough reason to keep fighting.
It was ironic, how he had been so near to her for so long and had never gone to see her. Now, he wished nothing more than to see her smiling face, to hold her and know she was with him and therefore out of harm's way.
But it was not to be.
The only thing Geralt could do was set his chattering teeth against the cold, wondering where Ciri was now, hoping that she was safe.
Ciri could barely stand to look at herself. She was a coward. Geralt would have waded into that fray and slain every man alive to free her. And what had she done? Fled with her tail between her legs.
They had delivered the prisoner safely back to his village, to much applause and adulation from its other residents. From there, Zoltan and Ciri had gone straight to the Guard and told them of what had happened, that they had found the bandits. The Captain was exceedingly enthused with the development and dispatched a delegation of his men to immediately accompany them back to the forest. He himself went with them.
Even with all their haste, it had taken days to make it back to the campsite. When they arrived, Ciri's worst fear had come true. Everyone was gone, the campsite buried in such a thick layer of snow that they could barely make out that it had been there in the first place. There was no trail. At least, none that anyone there could follow. Ciri had held out hope that even if the bandits had moved on, the snows would have held off. There hadn't been any snow down near Novigrad, but clearly a storm had blown through the mountains.
She had had Geralt back for a fleeting moment. But he was lost now. And whether he was even alive or dead, Ciri didn't know.
Heartbroken and guilt-ridden, Ciri collapsed to her knees and wept into her hands, Zoltan offering a consoling hand on her shoulder.
The night was long and hard on Geralt. He had, at first, struggled against the ring holding him to the tree. He nearly dislocated his shoulders trying to unseat it, pain flaring through his core with every attempt. But it held against his efforts and Geralt was forced to endure.
The storm that had followed the cultists all day was still blowing, though it had softened into a gentle snowfall. It would have been beautiful if it weren't so perilous, soaking Geralt through with its melting flakes. Just past midnight, the storm subsided, leaving behind a bitterly still air that somehow seemed even worse.
The cold took its toll on Geralt. He shivered so badly that he rubbed the exposed skin above his wrists raw against the tree bark and his muscles were so tight that he could barely breathe, only the faintest wisps of breath spewing erratically from his chapped lips. Nor could Geralt feel any of his extremities. He wouldn't have been surprised if he did have frostbite, despite Lund's intentions. His body wanted nothing more than to fade away, but Geralt didn't let it, snapping himself back to the misery when he felt his focus failing.
When the first rays of the sun sparkled onto the landscape, Geralt was delirious with cold and exhaustion. His clothes were frozen stiff, icicles dangling from strands of his hair and a thin layer of hoarfrost coating his beard. He had barely survived the night. Scarcely lucid enough to perceive a small party of men approaching, he could do nothing when, without preamble, Endir strode up and assailed Geralt's mind.
The same presence slammed into Geralt with renewed vigor. Only this time, Geralt didn't have the strength or fortitude to fight back. He tried clinging to the ground beneath him with clawed hands, but his body was numb, his fingers fumbling to find purchase. Blast after blast of frigid air cut through Geralt, pushing him backward. His hands bloodied as they scraped desperately along the frozen ground. In a last ditch effort, Geralt pulled his feet beneath him, throwing all of his strength into one, final push. But just as he raised himself, the full force of the gale slammed into Geralt and sent him flying.
He spiraled into darkness.
Countless memories pummeled Geralt, flashing before him. The presence sifted through them with polite interest and Geralt did everything he could to not think of Ciri, to send its focus elsewhere.
A split second later, the oppressing force lifted and Geralt was back in his body. Barely conscious, Geralt merely collapsed when they cut him down from the tree, a shower of ice sprinkling from his body. His vision winked in and out as they dragged him into a warm tent, laid him out on a small cot, and swathed him in blankets. The last thing Geralt saw was the triumphant and eager look on Endir's face before the warmth and comfort were too much and Geralt let himself plummet into a dead sleep.
Endir's voice echoed through his dreams.
"Welcome, Geralt."
