Febuwhump: Alt. 10 - Inferno
Not long now. They are winning. They have finally breached the gate. After a long night and day of slow progress, failure, more progress and more failure. First the northern mages deflecting Fringilla's fiery missiles, then the disaster with the poisonous mushrooms and the explosives raining down on his troops killing them by the hundreds. At least this black-haired soldier-mage type was almost disappointingly easy to defeat, may he rot at the bottom of the hill in some ditch or other. Well, it was to be expected that it would not be a walk in the park to take the keep after the Brotherhood of Sorcerers had arrived. Now, at last, Fringilla is getting the upper hand, as she has promised. High time, too, night is falling yet again and the armies of the northern kingdoms are getting close. They better finish this quickly.
His men are steadily advancing. Soon they will take the keep, push forward across the Yaruga. Fringilla's and his new chance to find and capture the elusive princess. She cannot be far, and this time he will make sure that she will not get away. Dead sure. They cannot fail the White Flame again. They have to succeed. The world depends on it.
Torches in hand, hundreds of black-clad soldiers are rushing up the hill, shouting and brandishing their Nilfgaardian swords at the enemy. The northern mages' resistance has dwindled to the occasional explosion, nothing that could stop the advancing black tide. The keep will be theirs before midnight, it is burning already. The Emperor will be pleased.
Then, standing out before the backdrop of darkness and flames, Cahir can see a lone figure moving in the distance. A woman in a long dress, her silhouette illuminated by the orange glow of fire from the burning keep behind her. She is ascending a rock outcrop overlooking the valley lying between them. All of a sudden, a feeling of dread is creeping into his every bone, making him gasp. What the hell? Is he becoming paranoid? What could one single sorceress accomplish against the might of his army? Nothing! A few more of his men might get killed, a shame and a pity, but it is a war, soldiers die. What counts is the outcome, the victory, and it is theirs, it cannot be otherwise, it must not. Failure is not an option, the White Flame has made it crystal clear.
The woman is standing there, her long, raven hair flowing in the wind. Concentrating. Magic is pulsing, vibrating around her. He can sense the electricity in the air. Like before the strike of lightning. It sends chills up and down his spine, takes his breath away in anticipation of the storm that is to come. A thunderstorm that will hit them within mere seconds, he knows it, and there is nothing he can do, nothing but watch with rising horror.
Suddenly, the fire in the background is gone, extinguished by an invisible force. The hill is shrouded in darkness. The sorceress pushes her hands out toward the advancing soldiers with a forward thrust of her arms. A powerful stream of bright yellow and purple flames explodes from her palms. The flames surge and roll down the hill, a creeping barrage, a deadly avalanche. It devours trees, men, every living creature in its path. An inferno of fire, of screams, pain and death.
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Cahir swallows hard. What incredible power. Awe-inspiring and terrifying. Maybe he is just imagining it, but he feels the sorceress screaming at the top of her lungs as she hurls her tremendous magic at the Nilfgaardian invaders, incinerating them, turning them into living torches desperately trying to run, to escape, to save themselves. However, there is no escape, no way out. They are all going to die. Ten thousand men. Roasted alive. Turned into nothing but smouldering ashes. By one woman. One single incredible sorceress. The infernal goddess of fire and flame. He knows who she is. Yennefer of Vengerberg. Fringilla told him about her. It can only be her, Cahir is sure of it. The raven-haired witch Fringilla envied so much. No wonder - she is so much more powerful than his friend.
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Another explosion of magic. Not in the distance this time but directly where he is sitting astride his horse gazing at the gruesome spectacle unfolding before his eyes. The black stallion rears and stumbles, whinnying loudly as the powerful surge of magical energy strikes horse and rider diagonally from behind. Blasted full force against a nearby tree, the rider crumples to the ground. The stallion regains his footing, prances champing with rage and fear, then races off, a black shadow in the dark of the night. In contrast to his mount, the knight in the black armour with the Nilfgaardian sun does not move.
A dark-haired sorcerer approaches his unmoving target from the cover of the trees, mace in hand. It is dripping with fresh blood. Cahir moans when the mage forces him to turn onto his back with the help of several vicious kicks to the ribs. The young knight is barely conscious. There is an ugly, jagged gash next to his eye where his head connected painfully with the bark of the tree trunk. Warm, sticky blood is running freely from the wound into his hair. He blinks, moans again, then opens his eyes with an effort.
"Seems like you won't get to the centre of it all today. Neither will you tomorrow nor any other day - ever. I can promise you that." The man's voice is mocking, dripping with sarcasm, his outline blurry in the dark. Cahir blinks once again, trying to focus despite the throbbing pain in his head. The silhouette of the man becomes a little less hazy. The black-haired sorcerer from earlier? Yes, must be him. His adversary is alive and standing directly next to him, sneering down at Cahir maliciously, the metal of the bloody mace shimmering ominously in his hand in the afterglow of the forest fire. Fuck. Then this is how he will die. Not by fire or the arrows of the approaching northern armies, no. By that mage's hand, the sorcerer he thought he had defeated so easily. How ironic.
"Unless, of course, death is that centre you were looking for," the sorcerer continues his taunting. "I can help you with that. Totally free of charge and with pleasure." The mage raises the mace with an evil smirk, ready to strike the fatal blow. Cahir shudders. He wants to puke but is too paralysed with fear. His heart is thumping like mad and he can feel his hands beginning to tremble with the rising panic. He swallows but his mouth is suddenly as dry as the Korath desert. He is not scared of death, no, but afraid of dying.
Vilgefortz looks down on the fallen knight at his feet with contempt. One blow to the centre of the skull will certainly do the trick, but a few more will not hurt, no, definitely not. Although for most people the idea of a mace hitting flesh, of splintering bones and squishing tissue is not a pleasing one, Vilgefortz finds it very intriguing, satisfying. A messy, well-deserved death. It was satisfying when he crushed the injured sorcerer's face just a short while ago, and it will be so much more gratifying to use the mace on this man here, the knight who kicked him down the hillside and left him for dead. Who thought in his arrogance he could defeat the greatest sorcerer alive, him, Vilgefortz of Roggeveen! Right, the knight could not possibly know that he was holding back on purpose, that the sorcerer was only using him to trick the other northern mages. Still, the audacity! That smirk! Time he learns that he is nothing but an expendable pawn that will have to take the fall for the greater plan to come to fruition. Even though, actually, and against all appearances, they are not enemies but on the same side, it is so much fun to see that smirk wiped from the man's face, to see him lying in the dirt before him, close to trembling with fear. How gratifying it will be to sink the mace into his skull with brutal force until his brains are splattered all over the place. Look who is smirking now!
"Say good-bye to the world, Commmander!" Vilgefortz all but shouts in triumph and sick anticipation, drawing the moment out for a few more seconds, seconds that must feel like an eternity to the man at his feet. Vengeance is sweet, isn't it?
"No! Wait, Vilgefortz!" A rather shrill female voice interrupts just as the black-haired sorcerer is about to execute the lethal blow. "If he's the Nilfgaardian commander, he might know where Yennefer is!"
Tissaia. She heard him, damn it. How did she get here? And why? Has she sensed him somehow, rushed to find him to ask for his help? He stays his hand. Unfortunately, the favour, even affection of Tissaia de Vries is an important key to the fulfilment of his ambitions. He cannot simply ignore her. But the Nilfgaardian commander has to die. Not only for Vilgefortz's personal entertainment, no, also because he must not fall into the hands of the Brotherhood or the northern kings. The man knows too much. He is sure to be in possession of highly classified information about the strength of the Nilfgaardian forces, about their strategy and objectives. And, most of all, he must know about the Lion Cub of Cintra and the prophecy. If he talks, this could prove detrimental to all their plans. Good thing that Tissaia is so focused on finding Yennefer. It might not have crossed her mind that the Nilfgaardian commander is bound to have far more important, potentially war-deciding intelligence. What a typically female approach to war. Thinking of the safety and well-being of their friends and family first and not the greater picture. How pathetically emotional. He will make good use of that blatant flaw. He lowers the mace and gives Tissaia one of his most charming smiles.
"Right, he might. And nothing would please me more than to be able to help you find Yennefer. She is a true hero and, rest assured, we will move heaven and hell to get her to safety."
"Thank you, Vilgefortz. You are a true friend," She smiles back at him. In contrast to his, a genuine smile. Isn't it almost laughable how easy it is to trick this highly intelligent and competent woman? All that is needed is some flattering, a few admiring and suggestive glances, his trademark smile and she is like putty in his hands. As if he were interested in thin-lipped, over-correct to pedantic old hags. Just look at her now. Dishevelled, covered in soot and ash, her meticulously arranged hairdo come undone and matted with dirt. And how she is panting, obviously not at the height of her form and definitely not at the best of her usually flawless appearance. Pathetic. He would not look twice at her, no, if he did not have to. Lucky he is an excellent actor.
Tissaia kneels down at the Nilfgaardian's side. From further away she can hear the intensifying clangour of battle. Have the northern kings arrived with their armies? She sighs with relief. With the combined forces of Temeria and Kaedwen, they will defeat Nilfgaard, no doubt about it. Victory is theirs, thanks to Yennefer. But where is she? If Nilfgaard has taken her prisoner, their commander must know, right? The Nilfgaardian's eyes are closed but he is breathing. Tissaia shakes him by the shoulders. He does not stir. Bollocks, the man has passed out. She shakes him again, even slaps his cheeks to wake him up, but in vain. Darn. Judging from the bleeding cut by his temple and his pallor, he must have hit his head pretty hard. Hopefully just a bad concussion, not a broken skull or cerebral bleeding. Although she yearns to interrogate the man straight away and then to hell with him, it seems impossible. There is this one, easy spell, of course, that reveals the very last memories of a person, but only the ones directly before they died. And the Nilfgaardian commander is not dead. So either she lets Vilgefortz kill him after all to perform the spell, or they have him transferred to a prison cell in Aretuza for interrogation. Only, it might take some time for him to wake up enough to be questioned, time Yennefer might not have. Having him killed is tempting, it could provide immediate results, and Vilgefortz looks more than ready to do it, perhaps a bit too eager for her liking. There is a hidden darkness, a vicious streak in the handsome mage that sometimes makes her a bit uneasy. At the same time it is strangely intriguing. Perhaps she can find out about this dark secret of his if she plays her cards well? Tissaia wonders fleetingly. Well, no matter what, the Nilfgaardian might know more, not just about Yennefer. He might have invaluable information about the Nilfgaardian military operations, about the Emperor's invasion plans. He is too valuable to just kill without trying to squeeze all the intel out of him that they can possibly get. And Tissaia knows she is good extracting information, excellent even, they will get everything they want from the enemy commander, eventually. There is also one more thing they should not forget. If Nilfgaard took Yennefer, they might be able to negotiate an exchange of prisoners to free her. No, Vilgefortz cannot have the captive yet. How very fortunate she arrived here just in time.
"Vilgefortz, can you see to that he is fettered and taken to Aretuza for interrogation at once? I want him alive when I get there. But first there are wounded mages and humans that need my help."
"Of course, Tissaia, whatever you wish." Vilgefortz bows to the rectoress. His handsome smile morphs into a sly sneer when she has turned her back to return to the smouldering ruins of the keep. Right, he will see to it. Moreover, he will see to that the Nilfgaardian will not spill any secrets, no matter how bad the torture, not even if Tissaia exercises her thought extraction skills on him - which she will certainly do, as foolishly fixated on finding her precious Yennefer as she is. Before the man wakes up, he will erect a magical barrier in his mind, a barrier strong enough to withstand any of Tissaia's spells. He is Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, it will be easy as pie for him to do it, and not a soul will be the wiser. Hm, not having killed the captive might even prove advantageous in the long run. They could, for example, hold a nice little public execution and demonstration of their power at Aretuza with all the northern kings and queens as their guests of honour. Ah, yes, a splendid idea. A great opportunity for him to give a rousing speech as the true hero of Sodden. And who would give a fuck about Yennefer of Vengerberg when they can have Vilgefortz of Roggeveen instead? Even the old hag Tissaia will eventually forget about her favourite student. The sorceress who saved Sodden but will not be mentioned in any history books, he will make sure of it, not even in the tiniest of footnotes. She will soon be thoroughly forgotten. Like the Nilfgaardian Commander.
With ease Vilgefortz conjures up magical fetters that wind themselves around the unconscious captive's arms and legs. The man gives a soft moan but does not wake up. A forward thrust of the sorcerer's arm and a bright blue circle opens up in thin air. Roughly grabbing the prisoner by his shoulders and dragging him along, Vilgefortz disappears into the portal. Bound for Aretuza and its interrogation chamber. The one with the stone chair.
The captive will soon wish Vilgefortz had used his mace on him ...
The end