Chapter 3
It didn't take much convincing when they got back to Harviken. No one was really thrilled about the prospect of undertaking a Skellige tradition disguised as anyone else, let alon Black Ones. But if they were honest, they were less thrilled about the prospect of antagonizing Cerys and her brother Hjalmar. Bran had been a powerful king, but the former Jarl of An Skellige didn't carry the same traditional clout as the An Craite's do.
The new political reality on the continent saw the northern kingdoms as nothing more than a Nilfgaardian harvest. In exchange for autonomy the four primary kingdoms of the north paid a hefty tax in both gold and produce. So four times a year, this ransom was collected and driven south to Bremervoord, before taking a ship the rest of the way south.
Bremervoord was the westernmost city on the continent belonging to the small Nilfgaardian vassal state of Cidaris. Most of their economy was built on maritime trade and they were renowned as sailors. They also currently had a party of faux Nilfgaardians waiting in the darkness two miles off their coast.
One of those imposters, Eist, had been in the crow's nest for hours staring through a spyglass. Like all of the men on this mission, Eist was a black haired man. Even Geralt had to use ochre and pinion tree sap to dye his white mane. But unlike most of the men Eist was in his fifties. Finally, the man who had jokingly taken the Nilfgaardian name of Elan whistled.
"Black Ones…but they got an escort" he rasped, his voice low like that of a man who knew how sound traveled over water.
"They what?" Holger croaked at his man high above.
Eist simply shrugged. "They got a fucking escort, what do you want from me?"
That drew a smattering of laughs from the men…including his Jarl.
"Well? What do you say witcher?" Holger continued after the moment passed.
"I was led to believe the midnight launch was their security…guess they felt too many people were noticing their routine".
"Well they were fucking right about that".
"What do you want to do? Call it off?" Geralt asked.
His question drew sneers from the men around him and Holger looked like he was going to spit at his feet. "Don't ever fuckin insult me like that again. We go".
Geralt smiled inwardly. "Alright, remember…leave the speaking to me".
As expected the repaired Nilfgaardian dromond they sailed in threw off the convoy. They even furled sails as they approached.
"Quarter sail" Geralt called out, as quietly as he could.
"Quarter fecking sail? You'll give them time to react" Holger's breath stank like a stale mead and fish.
"You want to start shouting we're here to attack?" he said without looking and could feel the man tense next to him. "Good, then quarter fecking sail".
A kilometer out Geralt could see a man at the ship's stern holding up a welcoming hand. Geralt raised his in return. Looking at the number of men on both ships he was becoming seriously resentful of the Nilfgaardian policy towards women in battle. They were gonna need Jutta before the night was done. "I got a plan".
A half kilometer…then a quarter kilometer. Finally Geralt looked to the stern. "Caemm" he spoke the word for 'go' in Elder speech, and Erik and Bel unfurled the masts.
He saw the mouths of the men turn upside down as they flew by the stern of the cargo ship. Geralt raised the tri-hook and began swinging it over his head. He could see on the Nilfgaardians raise his hand again, still hoping this was some joke. Geralt released the hook and it sailed across the black distance, bedding itself in the cargo ship's stern rail just before the ship's ram plowed into the escort ship below the waterline
"Aenye" Geralt yelled and their four archers from the mountains above Harviken, began unleashing flaming arrows into the stern gunnel on either side of the hook, deterring anyone brave enough to try and dislodge the hook or cut the line. The biggest lads in Faroe began pulling the aptly named Morvud, or Enemy, towards their bounty with quarter mast speed, as the escort ship began to list behind them.
Geralt was the first to leap over the gunnel, just a minute after striking the escort ship. He so badly wanted to use aard on the Nilfgaardians fumbling for their swords beneath him. Instead he came down with a diagonal slice across the neck and chest of the man on his right, and followed through with a horizontal slash across the belly of the man to his left from a knee. He bounced up quickly, taking out two more onrushing soldiers in a quick series of parries and slashes.
A number of the more courageous Nilfgaardians gave up on their sinking vessel and swam for the besieged cargo ship. But the brave fools were quickly struck down before climbing over the gunnel. Without reinforcements the battle was over in minutes. They tied up the handful of Black Ones that surrendered and began loading the manifest of fish, venison, corn, and fruit, onto the Morvud.
One of those tied up southerners began to get wise to the tall, fair skinned countrymen loading creates and ignoring his foul mouthed insults. Finally he started to say "Hey big man! Where are you-" thwack! A kick from Geralt to the jaw ended his inquiries for the night.
There was a lot of singing, and a lot of drinking, as the Morvud rode a strong crosswind on the three day journey back to Faroe. There was also a lot of pats on the back and toasts to Geralt. And for more than a moment, with Jutta on his arm, he considered what his life could be like if he ever gave up the path and settled in the isles. Maybe one day…
