Chapter Six
Contrary to Saskia's beliefs, Iorveth had not slept so peacefully that night. Instead, he had occupied himself with thoughts of this "Lily." True, the sorceress may be of no concern to them. But after weathering Eilhart's treachery, Letho's betrayal and Roche's aggression, he resolved to stay cautious. That meant never assuming a potential threat (least of all a sorceress) was of no concern to him.
In between light dozes, he had spent a portion of the night scouring the pages of Eilhart's spellbook for mentions of the word lily, aided by moonlight. He knew the book contained potions and poisons, making little mention of noted magic practitioners. But the bandit Horace seemed to think "Lily" was only an alias…likely not a randomly chosen one. Iorveth wondered if the book would turn up any references to lilies being used in magic spells.
There were a sparse few. He discovered one variety of lilies was used by common witches in air-freshening brews, which were highly sought after by human nobles in times of plague. Another variety of lily had small berries, prized by assassins for their poison. Besides avoiding plague-ridden towns and refusing suspicious offers of food and drink, he learned nothing valuable.
After some time, the camp began to show signs of life. Faye knelt in a circle of stones, waving her hands and muttering some ritual or other. The Scoia'tael were up and about, yet remained aloof as usual. The dwarves woke and expressed their wish for hard cider, only to decide the water and rations on the mule's cart would have to do. Saskia conversed with them, eating and drinking with dark circles under her eyes. Her weariness didn't escape Iorveth.
The humans had not yet stirred. The dwarves ridiculed their lazy arses at first. Then as time went on, the sky brightened and there was still no motion from Tarn, Lionel or the others. Unease began to settle on the camp. Iorveth moved closed to observe what was going on. Zoltan finally ventured towards where the humans were camped to investigate. He hurried back not moments later, followed by Lark.
"Oi, Saskia, we've a problem," Zoltan began. "Count Marco and that Lionel fellow scarpered."
She turned to face them. "They're gone?" she asked, dismayed.
"Aye, took two horses and made off up the trail."
Iorveth began to approach Lark. Before he could ask why she had not seen the humans leave whilst on watch, she spoke up.
"They took the two least wounded while I was on watch," she said. "Tarn told me they were just taking them out to graze in pairs, then they mounted up and never came back."
"Them other humans, after some hemming and hawing, told us that Tarn said something about negotiating with Murivel and 'saving us this whole wild goose chase' to Hengfors," Zoltan recounted. "They said they wouldn't have nothing to do with it, that they honor ye above all else and wouldn't dream of going behind yer back. Only Lionel went along with it. I never did figure that one fer the sharpest blade in the armory. Didn't take much for ol' Tarn to persuade him."
"The sorceress," Iorveth cut in, gaining everyone's attention for the first time. "Tarn means to turn her in for the bounty."
Saskia paused. The shadows of her troubles looked darker, still. "Break camp immediately," she commanded. "We'll follow them, and then I will personally talk sense into our dear Count!"
(***)
There were clouds overhead as they set out. The trudge to Murivel was agonizingly slow. The horses hadn't fully recovered from their wounds, and even with a fresh administering of herbs by Faye, they ambled along at a reduced speed. No one dared ask to stop for food, rest or relief. They kept travelling all day, even into the dimly lit night. (The dwarves with mining backgrounds had thought to bring lamps on their expedition, thankfully.) Saskia checked the map, scouring for some landmark to tell them how close they were to the city's gates. The company watched the expanse of darkness ahead of them, hoping that soon Murivel's torches would appear in the distance.
Instead, pillars of smoke appeared.
"Fire!" gasped Faye. As they drew nearer, they saw she was right-Murivel was in ashes. The gate was open—unusual for this late hour—and the smoking remains of the city lay just beyond.
"Shoulda seen this coming," Yarpen remarked. "History proves time and again. Ye start burnin' sorceresses, sooner or later they burn ye back."
"It's quiet…there are no screams," Saskia noted, stopping at the gate. "The smoke is thick and the flames are but embers. This happened hours ago, at least."
Others may have credited her familiarity with fire to her role in the battle ended by Sabrina Glevissig's flames. Iorveth knew better. As always he awaited her command, as did the rest.
"Watch your step entering the town, split up and search," she instructed. "Our goal remains the same: locate Tarn and Lionel. If you find survivors, you should try to help them, but do not compromise us." Her attention turned to the Scoia'tael. "Iorveth, take your ranks and occupy the guard house at the entrance. Watch for trouble, both inside the city and outside. Ring the alarm bell if we're threatened. Ring it in two hours' time, so we may all convene back here."
The skies overhead were still dark and cloudy. "We'll have need of the lamps," he told her.
She looked to Yarpen, who brought them forward. "Use 'em in good health, the lot of ye," he remarked coarsely.
"Dismount, break into pairs and spread out," Saskia ordered. They entered the city in doubles—no two without a weapon bearer—and soon only the Scoia'tael remained outside with the horses.
The guard house just past the front gate had no door; only a stone doorway and steps leading up. Iorveth ascended, Lark and the others close behind. At the top was the alarm bell, and windows facing every direction. There was a scattering of swords propped against the walls, suits of armor and crates of other supplies, but no soldiers to be found. Not even corpses. Shining a lamp onto the street below revealed their own allies searching the rubble, but not a scorched body in sight.
Lark sat on a crate overlooking the south window. "Hey!" She started as it nudged beneath her weight. She stood up and yanked the lid off. "You! You bloede d'yaebl!" she swore at the occupant—Count Tarn Marco.
He stood up straight, adjusting his feather hat and smoothing his silk jerkin. "That tone is unbecoming even for your stock," he said. "You must all be confused, but if you'll kindly show me to Lady Saskia, I'll explain everything to her."
"You'll explain to me," Iorveth insisted, shining the lamp directly in Tarn's face. The noble recoiled and tumbled out of the crate. "It had better be the grandest explanation I've yet to hear."
"And if it isn't? Should I concern myself with you embedding your knife in my foot?" Tarn challenged, stumbling back up.
"Only if you give me a sound reason. Now be out with it."
"Hengfors is a fool's errand. If only our Lady could see that," Tarn began. "I tried reasoning with her, humoring her, gaining her trust…but the voices of the peasantry and nonhumans echo ever louder in her ears, while my words remain but an echo to her. I had to show her there was a much easier way to provide for our population, right here on this side of the Kestrel Mountains."
"By selling Murivel what they were buying in bulk?" Iorveth guessed. "A sorceress' blood?"
"Me, a petty bounty hunter? Never!" Tarn shook his head. "Murivel is…well, was home to a prestigious dwarven bank. Wouldn't it have made much more sense to sell our ore right here, in the agricultural hub that is Redania, and go home within the week, fat with grain?"
"We can't assume Upper Aedirn is on amicable terms with Redania. Worse, with Nilfgaard if the Empire has already occupied this land."
"Get me in a room with the Emperor, and we'd be on amicable terms inside an hour," Tarn boasted.
Off to the side, Lark snorted.
"Not that it matters, now that Murivel is in cinders," Iorveth said. "How did this come to be?"
"The place was already in flames when I arrived with Lionel at dusk. …Yes, I brought him, too. No diplomatic mission should ever be undertaken alone; it's not good for one's public image," Tarn said. "There was hardly a soul in sight, but we heard a child screaming from that alley on the corner, under some rubble." He pointed. "Lionel charged in to help, while I hung back in the guard tower, above the flames and upwind of the smoke. I was waiting here for him to return."
"You opted to wait for your peasant charge in a crate?"
"…That was because I heard you coming," Tarn admitted. "I couldn't face Lady Saskia empty-handed. You stabbed a man's foot for much less, if you'll recall."
"I'm not inclined to take your word you speak true," Iorveth said. "How do I know for sure you came here to trade with Murivel, since we still have the wares and the town is destroyed?"
"Easy," Tarn replied. "Lionel was carrying a satchel, containing some samples of the ore. I prepared it to negotiate with Hengfors, but then I thought what if I brought it back to Saskia full of Redanian crop? Surely she'd agree to part with the rest, then. Find Lionel, and you'll see my intentions were pure from the start."
"Fine." Iorveth shone the lamp down the staircase. "You first."
"Beg pardon?"
"You saw where Lionel went last. Lead the way. Then you will explain yourselves to Saskia."
"If you insist," Tarn conceded. Iorveth handed the lamp to Lark, who continued pointing it down the staircase so they could both venture on.
Down in the streets, the rest of the crew had moved on to further parts of the town. Tarn led the way to the collapsed alley where Lionel had rushed in to help a child, or so the former claimed. The lamplight from the guardhouse remained omnisciently on them. There was nothing but splintered fragments of wood in the alley now. A discarded axe lay at its entrance.
"That's Lionel's," Tarn said. "The chap was a woodsman before joining our Lady's rebellion."
Iorveth picked up the axe. "He must have used it to break this child free. Would he have gone in search of medical aid after that?"
"That'd be giving him too much credit. Knowing him, he probably went straight for a fountain or stream to douse the poor thing in."
"Then we keep looking."
The two trudged further into the fallen city. Reluctantly, Tarn turned back to Iorveth. "Know that I would never wish harm on, nor speak ill about Lady Saskia. I acted in her best interest."
"So you say, but you presumed her incompetence and went against her orders," Iorveth retorted. "Consider yourself fortunate that I gave my word not to allow her men to come to harm on this quest. We shall soon see if that indemnity still extends to you. It is her mercy you will appeal to."
"My peers in Aedirn thought me far too liberal, pledging my support for such a radical young woman, of what they called improper birth," said Tarn. "But I say Lady Saskia's ideals are the wave of the future. The world is on the brink of change, with harbingers like her at the helm."
"In that we agree." Iorveth assented. "Search over there." They came upon the nearest water source: a trough for horses. Finding it dry, they moved on.
"…And she is remarkably beautiful," Tarn added. "By human reckoning, at least."
Iorveth longed for an end to the sound of Tarn's voice. "Perhaps that is why the human aristocracy supports her," he remarked.
"I only wish she would realize this and stop postponing the inevitable."
"What do you mean, Count?"
Tarn donned a knowing look. "You elves may be prone forget this—excusable, granted your longevity—but Lady Saskia won't live forever. She is only human, after all."
Iorveth chewed his lip in silence. "…What's your point?" he finally prodded.
"I'll tell you precisely my point. A harmonious realm, a land of tolerance, and so forth…true, she's built a commendable legacy. But what's to become of it, if its founder yields no heir?"
"I don't like where this is going, dh'oine."
"But it affects you and yours most of all; you're the ones who will live to see it. Only a successor can guarantee the ongoing stability of the domain. Look no further than the former Temeria, and you'll see what I mean. One day, the Virgin of Aedirn will have to relinquish her firmly-held title and choose a worthy suitor, if she expects the free Pontar Valley to survive her."
"Worthy, he says. Do you appoint yourself to judge who is worthy of the Dragonslayer?"
"There'll be no need. It's obvious; one of noble birth is the only option that makes sense for her."
Iorveth imagined how Tarn's incessant jaw might look dislocated, but opted to wait until after Saskia's judgment to find out. "I wonder if she would agree," he said sourly.
"She must, surely. It isn't that your younger peers are entirely without merit…but the young and fertile elves are so pitiably scarce these days. As for the dwarves, when was the last time they set their rigid sights beyond their own unsightly women and crossbred with humans? And then there's the peasantry. Bless her, our Lady meant well when she granted them rights and privileges, but they've been serfs and indentured men for so long, it will be some time before they've adjusted to all the new responsibility set before them. No, the only candidates who could couple with Saskia to produce a strong heir to Upper Aedirn are the noble-born."
Iorveth scowled. "Like you, perhaps?"
"Now, those are your words, not mine. I never said I intended to court her. I'm just saying that she'd do well to give adequate thought to how her legacy continues. But I know she won't take my word. I only suggest that since she seems to listen to you—comrades that you clearly are—on your advice she might start looking for one to whom to give her hand."
"Enough of your drivel," Iorveth spat. "How her legacy continues is for her alone to decide. And hear me well, Count: there is no one among us who deserves Saskia's hand." He paused after issuing those words, reflecting on them himself. "…Not you, not anyone," he finished.
Tarn pursed his lips and maintained a welcome silence after that.
They turned a corner and found themselves at the heart of the city, marked by a well. They also found they weren't alone; Faye and Zoltan had their backs to them, leaned in over a huddled figure. Getting closer, Iorveth saw the figure was Lionel. His back was against the well, his knees were drawn up and his shirt was off, wrapped around an unseen bundle in his arms.
"I…I just didn't want her to be alone when she went," the peasant murmured softly. He lowered his arms to reveal what he was holding: a little girl's lifeless body. Her face was burned beyond recognition, but her vacant face appeared human. Her clothing suggested she was an orphan, maybe a street urchin.
"Right decent of ye, lad," Zoltan assured a distraught Lionel. "But have ye seen any other survivors?"
He shook his head.
"Other fallen souls?" Faye asked.
"Only her." Lionel squeezed the bundle in his arms. "She didn't have no one."
"Guess it wasn't sorceresses' work after all," Zoltan said. "Else the streets would be lousy with the dead."
Tarn emerged at Lionel's side and retrieved a satchel seated beside him, draping it on his own shoulder. "Then how does an entire town just burst into flame, and its citizens all vanish without a trace?" he pondered aloud.
"I expect Murivel fell much like the elven palace of Shaerrawedd did," said Iorveth.
"And how is that, exactly?"
The alarm bell started to clang, and all five turned their direction towards the guard tower. "We're in trouble," Faye announced softly.
As though on cue, a black shape began to materialize in the town's square. As if burning a hole between this dimension and another, its ragged edges expanded and then finally convened into a figure the size of an Arachas, though it was not an insect of any kind. It resembled a panther with exaggeratedly large claws and jowls. Its tail was long and whip-like, and it sported leathery wings like a dragon. Its glowing yellow eyes focused on the group by the well, and with a throaty rumble more menacing than a snake's hiss it crouched down, tail twitching, ready to pounce.
"Gods save us!" cried Tarn. He tore in the opposite direction of the beast. A crack split the air, and Tarn fell face-first under the lash of the monster's tail. The satchel spilled open to reveal it did, indeed, contain some of the ore. As the noble crawled desperately on hands and knees, the beast sprang at the others.
With Lionel's axe still in hand, Iorveth hurled it at the creature's open maw. It clattered against bared teeth, and the beast's head jerked to the side. In that moment's delay, Iorveth drew his swords. Faye teleported behind the creature, Zoltan readied his sword, and Lionel stumbled up—setting aside the girl's body—to pick up his axe.
The beast snarled and raised a massive paw to make a strike. From behind, Faye cast a fireball.
It promptly passed right through the monster and ignited Tarn's sleeve instead. Taking no notice of this, the monster swiped at Iorveth. The impact sent him reeling, but if not for the layers of armor he wore the razor claws would have left much more of an impression.
"What?! What are you playing at, witch?!" Tarn hollered, patting the sleeve to put out the flame.
"I...I don't understand," Faye puzzled. "It's a phantom?"
"It can't be that—it just took an axe to the teeth!" said Zoltan, just barely ducking under another whip from its tail. "Lob that thing again, lad!" he barked at Lionel. The peasant reared the axe over his shoulder and swung. This time the axe passed through its target and landed on the ground feet from Faye.
The beast, in turn, snapped at Lionel. Fortunately, he stumbled back in time and the massive teeth only gnawed his boot, which he slid off promptly.
"Pick on someone yer own size, ye shite!" bellowed Zoltan as he made a forceful jab with his sword, this time trying to hit the creature's leg. Alas, his sword too passed through as if its mark was nothing more than vapor. The phantom beast ignored Zoltan's taunts and continued to stalk Lionel as the panicked peasant backed away on all fours. Unwittingly he backed into Tarn, for whom a singed sleeve was about to become a comparatively trivial problem.
By now the rest of Saskia's party had arrived on the scene. Lark and the other Squirrels skirted the edge of the action, bows poised. Iorveth looked at the defenseless Tarn and Lionel. It was due to their carelessness the party was in this predicament to begin with, and it seemed fitting they reap the consequences. Tarn's arrogant words alone earned him a worthy spot on a monster's palate, in Iorveth's mind anyway. But he had promised Saskia that he'd guard her ranks from the elements and from monsters, so long as the safety of the Scoia'tael remained unimpeded. On the sidelines and ready to fire, the Squirrels were in no immediate threat.
He struck at the phantom beast again, if only to draw its attention away from Tarn and Lionel. This time, the sword blow connected with the creature's flank. It snarled and stumbled. So far, he had been the only one whose attacks had any effect. Why? While the beast was recoiling, he issued a follow up strike. This one passed through, and earned him a lash from the beast's tail. So, its susceptibility was not elven rage. What, then?
As he stumbled, three arrows sailed at the menace in procession from the direction of the Scoia'tael. The first went through and struck the well on the other side of the beast. The second went through and pinned into the ground. The third hit the beast's wing. It yowled and flapped furiously, stirring up dust and ash all around them.
Iorveth coughed, his one eye stinging. He thought he knew the phantom beast's weakness now, but he had to confirm his suspicion. "Shoot it again!" he ordered the Scoia'tael.
Three arrows swathed through the beast to no avail. He stabbed its flank, and again it shrieked in disdain. He sprang back to avoid the resultant tail lash. Now he knew.
Zoltan had figured it out, too. "Bloody hell, only one out of four attacks hurts it!" he exclaimed.
"Surround it, men!" Saskia cried out from just beyond the battle. "Watch out for its tail and claws!" She, Yarpen and a handful of others joined the fight, swords and axes raised.
There was danger now of the archers hitting allies. "Aim high! Go for the wings!" Iorveth commanded. The arrows now flew safely over the heads of the close-range combatants.
Even with their full power focused on the phantom beast, only a fourth of their combined strikes did it any harm. The combatants were all armed with only plain steel, making their attacks even weaker against the monster's hide. Already, the damage it dealt with its teeth, claws and tail began to outweigh the damage they dealt it. Zoltan was slowing up after enduring a massive claw swipe, and Iorveth was just becoming aware that the blood stains on him were his own. This direct assault would end in casualties, unless another tactic was found.
Maybe there was a way for the monster's incorporeal nature to be used against it. Iorveth broke away from combat, an idea forming. He retrieved the items he had confiscated from the bandit on the trail: half a dozen caltrops. Immediately after a sword blow from Saskia hit its tangible mark, he used the window of time that the beast was once more intangible to hurl one of the caltrops through its body. The barbed device landed inside the monster's huge, ghostly foot.
The beastly menace became solid again and reared back with an enraged roar, foot bleeding from the spiked object now deeply embedded in it. The trick worked…and it made the phantom beast angry. The town became a whirlwind of dust and ash as it beat its wings and swung its tail wildly, caring not who it hit.
"Call your men off!" Iorveth shouted to Saskia over the commotion. "I will finish this!"
She blocked a tail lash with her shield. "Fall back!" she issued to her men. Then, to Iorveth, "I hope you know what you're doing."
The perimeter around the phantom beast was cleared. Its sights fell on the helpless Lionel and Tarn…the former struggling to fit his mauled boot back on and the latter scrambling to pick up the fallen ore. Both froze when they realized the monster's attention was back on them. It staggered in their direction on three good feet, intent on taking its rage out on them.
Iorveth needed to redirect the thing's aggression on him. He scattered the five remaining caltrops before him and drew his bow. "Spar'le!" he called to the Scoia'tael. The first resulting arrow hit—the second two darted on through. The phantom beast turned in their direction.
"Sorceress, a fire spell!" he ordered.
Faye tilted her head. "But it will miss…" she protested.
"Do it!"
Compliantly, she launched a ball of fire at the creature. As she predicted it careened on through, making a total of three misses. Iorveth then shot, his arrow piercing the phantom beast's neck. That was all the provocation it needed, and it started to lumber his way with murder in its smoldering eyes.
It didn't get far before falling victim to one of the other caltrops on the ground, this time in its hind paw. Iorveth backed away, bow still aimed, and the beast doggedly followed. There were smeared red paw prints trailing behind its every step. It trudged weakly, finally succumbing to the loss of blood. It raised its tail feebly, but could not even muster the strength for a last ditch lashing. It collapsed, its feral face mere inches from Iorveth's, and its eyes dimmed into nothing.
When the dust settled, the group gathered around cautiously.
"How the bloody arse fuck did you do that?!" demanded Yarpen.