Anon reviewer: Thanks for the encouragement! And yes, of course I walked Dandelion in the succubus' den. I can't imagine he would...not. XD I was a little jarred by how sternly Saskia treats Geralt at the end, too, but I just chalked it up to "She was wounded, just seconds ago got out of what was essentially an abusive relationship with Philippa, and here this witcher is trying to hook her up with a serial killer." :P
Chapter Four
"Ploughin' drowners!" growled Zoltan on the upper bank of the Pontar. "Ye'd think one death would be enough fer these rotten pricks!" He swung a sword at the amphibious, animate corpses that swarmed the riverbank.
"Then shut it and oblige 'em another, why don't ye?!" Yarpen retorted, axe in hand to fend off the drowners.
"Back to the depths with you, beast!" Lark cursed, drawing on her longbow and piercing a drowner through the decrepit skull. She beamed as she hit her mark.
Heeding his word to Saskia, Iorveth stood on the sidelines of the fray, ready to intervene should the monsters overpower the combatants. It seemed this would not be necessary. A few simple drowners were little threat to a party of this size—least of all to a band of elven and dwarven warriors whose bones itched for a good fight. Their battle cries rang with pent-up enthusiasm, and their weapons fell quickly on the necrophage aggressors. He let them have their fun for now…knowing full well the hardships in store for them further up the trail.
The drowner with the arrow through its head lunged at Lark. She holstered her bow and met it with her dual swords instead. In the meantime, Zoltan and Yarpen felled the creatures that attacked them in flurries of steel on waterlogged flesh.
It was a few hours into their journey, and so far the drowners had been the only complication. There had been no sign of Nilfgaardian troops when the convoy set out from Vergen…nor of Kaedweni, or Aedirnian ones. Not even the Knights of the Flaming Rose had come forth to oppose them. They had gotten as far as the edge of the Pontar River, where the only vessel able to accommodate their numbers and cargo—Loredo's prison barge—bobbed in wait. They had crossed the river on it, and it was while disembarking that they'd met this first foe.
While the more battle-ready among them busied themselves cutting down the river-dwellers, others remained on the barge. Iorveth looked up to the deck. Faye, the sorceress, watched the battle intently while playing with a lock of her hair. Lionel, the peasant, attempted to keep the horses subdued…under strict scrutiny by a skeptical Count Tarn Marco. Saskia held firmly to the side of the boat as it rocked amidst the chaos. Occasionally she called out instructions for the passengers to move and redistribute the weight, lest they capsize and lose the key to Vergen's prosperity to the bottom of the river. All the while she surveyed the battle, waiting for the all clear to usher everyone ashore.
"Right, there's the last of 'em," Yarpen declared when the final drowner moved no more.
"Let's waste no more time, then." Saskia mounted the stallion Tarn had been so eager to show off to her—a fine palomino specimen—and coaxed the creature down the gangplank.
Iorveth's gaze remained rapt on her. Had anyone else asked him to protect a crew of humans from their own incompetence in the harsh wilderness, he would have no shortage of choice words for them…but not when it was Saskia who willed it. As she rode her mount to the front of the convoy—her cloak draped regally behind and her strong, aesthetic jawline jutted in confidence—her very presence commanded his admiration. He was, after all, indebted to her for the secured future of the Aen Seidhe. He conjured nothing she might ask of him that he would not grant her.
She gave him a passing glance from horseback, her golden hair whipping about her face in the breeze, and he found himself suddenly more interested in the sun's reflection on the river.
"Cor, I think I stepped in summin'," Lionel griped as he headed down the gangplank and wiped his boots on the grass.
"Fast learner, this one." Tarn strode onto the shore, followed by two anonymous human peasants carefully set about bringing their cargo ashore. "First, he discovers why not to embark on cargo mules. Next he learns an invaluable lesson of where not to step in the presence of animals. I'll be putting my herd's care in his capable hands yet."
"I told you," Lark chimed in from the shore. "Let me watch over your herd. I am accomplished with animals."
Tarn forced a smile at her while climbing into the driver's seat of the cargo cart. He assumed the reigns. "Your willingness to contribute is…thoughtful, elf. But they're horses, not wild does."
Her mouth twisted in a nuanced scowl. "We used horses in the Scoia'tael unit I served before coming to Upper Aedirn," she said coolly.
"You'll have to excuse me if I'm less than impressed with a bandit's flair for handling stolen livestock," Tarn responded, while the two peasants ferried the remaining horses off the barge and onto the shore. "However, Lady Saskia did request I provide mounts for everyone on this expedition, and I honor her wishes above all else." He glanced at Saskia with that final afterthought. "So by all means, Squirrel, help yourself to a horse, and consider it your responsibility to look after that one alone. That goes for the rest of your lot, too."
Saying nothing more, Lark selected one of the horses now waiting on the riverbank—a dapple grey suited to her lesser size—and climbed on its back. The rest of the convoy followed suit. At last, only one horse remained without a rider.
Iorveth looked at the edge of the water where the skirmish against the drowners had occurred. There was Faye of Ban Ard, skirts gathered in hand, barefoot and walking ankle-deep in the Pontar River. She stopped at every fallen drowner, knelt over it, and reverently drew her hand over its eyes to close them.
"We've no time to mourn for monstrosities, daerienn!" he called to her.
"Whatever hangs shall not drown," she murmured detachedly. "But these souls have done both."
"And now they trouble us no more. So come take your horse, and let's be off," he instructed her.
She walked with a cautious step—heeding the tiny pebbles beneath her bare feet—back to the party. As she climbed on the last horse, assuming a side-saddle position, Iorveth noticed something in her hand. Drowner brain tissue, which she promptly stashed away. "For crafting," she remarked. "What dies may yet live on. That is the nature of Alchemy."
Iorveth clenched his teeth. At least Philippa Eilhart never spoke so cryptically. "Alchemy is not our main concern. You do, at least, have the means to transport us back when our trade is finished?"
Faye pulled on a string around her neck, revealing a trinket hidden under her blouse. It was a metallic wire fixture, and set within it a single coarse, oblong stone the size of an arrowhead. "This piece of Vergen never leaves my sight," she assured him, tucking it away again.
That would have to do for now.
At the front of the group, Saskia unfurled the map she had used at the assembly. "Not far from here is a westward road which will take us to Murivel," she informed the convoy. "From there, we'll enter the foot of the Kestrel Mountains. After me, men! And stay vigilant—our enemies may abound." She kicked her steed's flanks and was off, the rest close behind.
The party was a varied bunch. Saskia took the lead. Behind her, the dwarves congregated on their steeds around a massive cart, pulled by two shire horses and driven by Tarn. Within was a bounty of metal ore, sufficient for Hengfors' blacksmiths to begin preparing a defense against Nilfgaard. Following that, a simple wagon was pulled by the mule and driven by a human peasant, with Lionel and the others nearby. The mule carried feed for the animals, tents for camp, and other provisions the group would need on its journey. Faye trailed them, head down and kept to herself. Iorveth and the Squirrels remained at the very back.
The scuffle with the drowners had seemed like a festivity compared to the next few hours, where virtually nothing happened at all. The convoy merged onto the westward road under Saskia's guidance and followed it, while their shadows became more and more elongated behind them as the afternoon dragged on.
At one point, Lionel attempted to strike up conversation with Lark.
"If'n ya don't mind me sayin', Miss…" the peasant began, "…you don't look like a lot of other Squirrels."
Her facial response mirrored the one when Tarn suggested she was only fit to handle deer. "…That's due in part to my not being a full Aen Seidhe," she replied sourly.
"That'd explain it. You're half human, then?" Lionel asked.
She glared at him. "If you ever compare me to a dh'oine again, I'll have your teeth for trinkets around my neck." She paused, and Iorveth felt her apprehensive glance on him for a brief second. "…My parents were both half-blooded as well," she went on, her tone less hostile. "I may have a human grandparent on either side, but that never diluted my loyalty to the Scoia'tael cause. I've never even met them, not that I mind."
"We ain't alike in that, then," he mused.
"We're not alike in many ways," she replied, then stayed silent.
A few paces up the trail, Yarpen and Zoltan were enjoying the characteristically dwarven pastime of exchanging bawdy jokes with the other dwarves.
"And then the human says to the elf, 'But I couldn't help laughin' when I saw the gnome headin' back… carryin' ten ploughin' pineapples!'" Yarpen delivered. All the dwarves howled with laughter.
"Fuck it all, that gets better every time I hear it," Zoltan chuckled.
"It's all in the timin'," Yarpen responded. "And speakin' of which, Saskia, how much longer 'till we get to Murivel?"
She inspected the map. "If conditions favor us, we can be at its gates in a day and a half."
"At its gates?" Zoltan repeated. "Are we goin' into the city proper? It is inside Redanian borders, all that considered."
"We will send Tarn in first," Saskia responded. "Our Count has volunteered his services as our diplomat, so he will use his standing to get inside the city and report to us what reception we may expect."
"I'll win us safe passage at any cost to myself, Milady," Tarn interjected. "And if it pleases you, I'll negotiate commerce with Murivel itself. Perhaps we won't need to journey all the way to Hengfors after all."
"Let's keep our optimism in check," Saskia cautioned him. "We cannot prematurely count any town under Radovid's reign as an ally. Redania's king may not take kindly if he finds out how many refugee sorceresses Upper Aedirn now numbers."
The open road, until now sprawling across farmlands and fields, now began to lead them into a forest. Iorveth became wary. He knew firsthand that forests were ideal for traps. Faye, it seemed, somehow sensed the danger, too. Until now she had been keeping to herself, braiding and unbraiding a section of her horse's mane while humming an eerie tune to herself. Once under the canopy of the autumn-painted leaves, she fell abruptly silent.
"…Something's wrong," she whispered.
Never one to dismiss such a foreboding, no matter who issued it, Iorveth took his bow in hand and hurried his mount to catch up with Saskia's at the front of the group.
"Saskia, we risk an ambush in these woods," he warned her. "Would you have my men take the front to watch the treetops and ground for traps?"
"Do you suspect Redanian forces?" she asked.
"I only suspect trouble."
She nodded in assent. "Then you and your Scoia'tael take the lead and act as our lookouts. Our dwarves will surround the cargo. I'll cover the group from behind, should we be followed."
He turned back to the Squirrels trailing behind the convoy. "Scoia'tael! With me, to the front!" he commanded in Elder Speech. They shifted to the head of the group.
Saskia pulled back on her reigns, bringing her palomino to a halt and letting the company pass before resuming. "Yarpen, you and the rest surround the cart!" she instructed.
"Bollocks, it's like the Kaedwen Trail all over again," grumbled Yarpen as he and the other dwarves fortified the cart.
"What's goin' on, then?" Lionel asked the air around him. "Anything I should be doing?"
"Stay close," Saskia issued. "And if we're attacked, do as I say."
As they ventured cautiously into the forest, there was hardly a sound—no birds or wildlife. That meant there was almost certainly something lurking among the trees. Iorveth stayed vigilant. The fallen tawny leaves on the ground suddenly became too thick…as if they had not fallen naturally, but had been swept there.
"Lark, clear away those leaves."
The half-elf Squirrel dismounted. She held her reigns with one hand and picked up a stick with the other. While leading her horse, she brushed away the leaves with the stick. Sure enough, something grizzly and metallic lay underneath the first pile she cleared.
"Snares," Lark identified.
"Voe'rle!" Iorveth barked. The company abruptly halted while Lark continued sweeping away the leaves and disarming the traps she found—a delay that made them easy targets.
"Watch out!" Saskia exclaimed from behind, but too late. Several explosions followed, causing horses to rear in panic. Being at the back of the line and nearest to the blasts, she, Faye and Lionel were all thrown from their mounts. The others promptly jumped to the ground when panic overtook their horses.
Iorveth spun around, and amidst the chaos he saw where the explosions had come from. Behind them, several figures stood at the edges of the trees on either side of the trail. They donned camouflaged blankets of foliage, which they discarded as they joined on the trail. They wore typical bandit attire, and some had their faces concealed by masks, but all appeared to be human. Some of them reared back and fired another round of Grapeshot bombs. The bombs hurtled towards the already disheveled party.
On her knees, Faye waved her hands and mumbled an incantation. The party was encased in a bright yellow dome, which the bombs exploded harmlessly against. Iorveth recognized this spell; Triss Merigold had used it against his archers months ago when she, Geralt and the dog Roche had arrived in Flotsam.
"Oh ho! Looks like we got a sorceress here, chaps!" chortled one of the bandits.
"Take her alive! You know what kinda bounty they're offerin' in Murivel for the likes of her!" another added.
"I still get first pick of whatever's in the cart!" declared a third.
The bandits drew their weapons—a jumble of spears, axes and swords likely stolen from other travelers—and advanced into Faye's yellow dome. A few clung to the outside, assaulting the magic barrier with a steady barrage of bombs. It was unclear whether they were trying to break through it, or simply keep the horses spooked.
Saskia was already back on her feet, shield and sword brandished. With a forceful battle cry, she engaged the first bandit to step into the circle. His mace clanged off her shield, then was met in the shriek of metal on metal by her sword.
"Lionel! Tarn! Subdue the horses!" she ordered, as the bandit kicked her in the stomach and made her reel, only to suffer her counterattack.
"Do as she says!" Tarn hollered, climbing off the cart. "Get these panicked beasts under control!" He, Lionel and the other two peasants set about trying to stop all the horses from bucking and kicking. Some had been wounded from the shrapnel of the Grapeshot blows and had galloped off into the trees, bellowing.
The dwarves were gladly repelling their attackers, making a din of hollers and insults to the bandits' mothers. Dwarven axes and swords expressed their boisterous fury. All the while, Faye remained on her knees, laboring to maintain the shield spell. A bandit with a spear charged at her, but he was promptly swatted away by a strike from Zoltan's sword. "Have that, ye right bastard!" he snarled.
The forest trail had quickly erupted into a tangled mayhem of frenzied horses, Grapeshot explosions and clashing of arms: the sort of mayhem the Scoia'tael had no business standing by and watching idly.
Iorveth exchanged his bow for swords. "Let none of these bloede dh'oine draw another breath!" he incited the Squirrels. "At them!"
The clamor of elven curved swords was added to the underscore of the battle. Iorveth's first opponent had little time to express his shock before he perished on those swords' edges.
Lark slashed fiercely at a bandit en route for the cart."Long live Sverren!" she shouted. The other Squirrels made their usual cries in the names of Iorveth and Aelirenn. One even called out "For Saskia!"
A bandit still outside the yellow dome inched off in fear. "Aren't…aren't those Squirrels?!" he stammered. "Cripes, these merchants got Squirrels with 'em!"
"Stop shittin' yourself, Horace! Squirrels bleed just like anyone!" another shot back, aiming a Grapeshot at the dome. "We got 'em cornered…traps on the far side, and you-know-what on this side! So grow a pair, get in there and fight 'em!"
Horace's "growing a pair" resulted in him taking the hilt of Saskia's sword to his temple (barely a foot inside the magic circle) and tumbling face-first on the ground.
The human bandits shortly began to fall, one after the other, like the short-lived rodents they were. Iorveth's swords dripped like the fangs of a starving hound presented a fresh carcass. In the months of inaction since Loc Muinne…since the last two "monastic curs" to die by his hand before the peace summit, he had not lost his aptitude—nor his pleasure—for bringing an end to the humans that crossed him.
But what did the other bandit mean by "you-know-what"?
Faye's magic barrier finally gave out, just as the last bandit met his demise by Yarpen's axe. There was one more, masked bandit standing but a few paces away. The stature of this individual was lean enough that it could have been a man or a woman…and there were no vocal expressions to indicate either.
The party waited for the lone bandit to act.
The "bandit" produced a staff and teleported away in a flash of light.