Chapter Seven

It was a few hours after midnight. Geralt had been in place ever since dusk had fallen. His ambush point was carefully chosen—it wasn't his first time. There were only two routes from Oxenfurt to Novigrad that were wide enough to allow a wagon passage—one that took a direct path north and west; and one that wound through the countryside to the east. The eastern path would take almost twice as long as the western so Geralt didn't see any reason they would choose that one. He lay in wait a couple of hours outside of Oxenfurt, it would be too risky to try to take the transport too close to the walls. If the city guards heard what was happening, Geralt stood no chance.

So he had walked the path between towering trees, looking for a suitable vantage point. A particular bend in the road provided just that. The bend itself would slow the convoy down if they were traveling at speed and the ground banked up to one side giving Geralt not only the high ground, but a clear view of their approach while he remained hidden.

The trek hadn't been easy. After only a few miles, Geralt had been winded, legs burning. Not to mention the pain. He had donned his armor, knowing he would need it, but even the tiniest shift in his body caused it to rub and irritate his wounds, no matter how much padding Shani had tried to coat Geralt with. It was miserable, but bearable for the most part. And a far cry from how he had been the day before. He was just happy that he had recovered enough to walk. More importantly, to wield a sword.

He whiled away the hours meditating, preparing for the battle to come. He had no illusions that it would be easy, but he had no choice. For him, there was no option. To save a friend was not something that needed to be considered, deliberated. It was a given. And once decided, there was no turning back.

Roth wasn't going to win this time. Nor get away. No matter what. Geralt was going to end that blight upon the world once and for all. If not to stroke his own ego, then for Triss' sake. And Ciri's. Roth was a monster and the witcher profession had but one objective—to hunt down and kill monsters. In whatever form.

And so he waited.

But not for long.

A slow rumbling was building down the road—wagon wheels. Followed by footsteps and the clink of armor. It was definitely them.

Geralt slunk back into the shadows of the trees. Any minute now.

He was lucky. They didn't seem to be in any sort of rush, the horses were only walking. Then he realized it was because there were six guards surrounding the wagon, fully clad in armor. They wouldn't be able to keep up if they were moving any faster. Their armor wouldn't pose a problem for Geralt. It was impressive, but not well made, he noted. His sword would cut right through it. He slowly drew his steel sword from its sheath, its hiss echoing his own as a twinge across his chest told him several wounds had stretched and cracked.

Geralt waited until the front of the wagon pulled even with his hiding spot, the driver, oblivious to Geralt's presence, in full view.

Then he pounced.

In less than a second, the man's head squelched to the ground and chaos erupted. The horses spooked at Geralt's sudden appearance and ran ahead wildly, no longer guided by anyone, but stopped a short distance away when one of them became tangled in the trees and brambles.

Stunned, the guards took a moment to reorder themselves. In that span, Geralt felled two. The others came at him, shouting and swinging their swords crudely. They didn't seem too experienced. And Roth wasn't among them, Geralt noticed.

Strange.

There was no time to contemplate the circumstances. Geralt dodged and weaved amongst his foes, parrying, striking, thrusting, twirling. Dancing the deadly waltz that he knew so well. By the time the song had ended, severed limbs and heads were strewn about six corpses, Geralt alone left as a bloodied monolith to the spectacle.

The fight had drained him and his breath came in hard gasps. Still, it had been well worth it. He staggered over to the cart, searching the driver's body for the keys to the back door. Finding them in a pocket, Geralt unlocked the door and swung it wide.

The chamber was empty.

A decoy.

Geralt slammed the door shut, roaring into the night. Roth had somehow outplayed him again. If he had planned for a decoy wagon, then Roth must have taken Triss' threat seriously, despite his arrogance at the time. Geralt had honestly forgotten the threat behind her words considering the alternate significance they had held for him. A critical mistake.

It made no difference now. Geralt couldn't change what had happened, but there was still a chance, he would just have to hurry. He dragged himself away from the empty cart, giving himself not an ounce of concession. Not one ounce of self-pity. Not even when a torrent of pain lanced up his side. He didn't have the time or energy for self-pity anyway.

He cut loose one of the horses and leapt astride it bareback, digging his heels into its sides, pulling it eastward. The already frightened steed barreled forward through the forest, not bothering to avoid the small branches that sprung up to meet them.

Geralt didn't care. The nicks and cuts were nothing compared to the agony spreading through his body. The commotion had reversed any progress his wounds had made over the past few days. He could feel the fire gnawing at him once more. But it didn't matter. This time he had a reason to keep fighting.

No turning back.

Panic flickered in his heart and it urged him onward. He was beyond pain, beyond fear. Beyond even anger. He gritted his teeth and drove forward, spurring himself on just as much as his mount.

Geralt careened madly across the countryside, aiming more toward Novigrad than Oxenfurt. He hoped he could cut them off. As long as they hadn't left earlier than the decoy, he should be able to make it. The trip took almost an hour of hard galloping. Both man and steed were spent by the time they came across the road.

No fresh tracks. He had made it in time.

Pulling hard to the right, Geralt swung the mare south, urging her on. She was dripping sweat, frothing at the bit, but she did as she was asked.

Finally. Finally the wagon appeared in the distance, flanked by the same amount of guards as the decoy had been. But there, perched next to the driver, was Roth, pointing in Geralt's direction. The convoy quickened its pace, but it had nowhere to go except for straight into Geralt or back toward Oxenfurt, hemmed in as it was by trees.

Geralt hurtled toward it in a deadly game of chicken, only veering to his right at the last moment. As he rode past, he sliced through one of the two horse's necks, killing it instantly. The horse dropped and the other stumbled over it, trying to find its feet. Meanwhile, the wagon rolled to a halt.

Not squandering his momentum, Geralt made sure to trample as many guards as he could on his way past. One man fell in the stampede. A hoof-shaped dent was all that was left of his face. Another received a swift kick from the mare, who was unhappy about being attacked, and he joined his comrade in the dirt. The third was nimble enough to move out of the way and forced Geralt to deflect the sword he sent arcing over the mare.

All this in the span of a second.

Then Geralt yanked his mount to a stop, front feet rearing as her back feet slid underneath her. Together, they rounded the other side of the wagon, running past the guards on that side, who were too wise to try to get in the way, and pulling up next to the remaining horse hauling the wagon. Geralt dismounted in a flurry and cut the straps binding the horse to the cart to quash any chance of escape. Geralt's mare floundered a few steps forward before collapsing, utterly still save for her heaving sides.

Time slowed. The four remaining guards had gathered themselves, but they had yet to attack. The driver had already fled.

Then Roth's outraged bellow struck them. "Don't just stand there, you idiots, kill him!"

They wasted no time in complying. Adrenaline coursed through Geralt's veins as he fended off four guards at once. They knew what they were doing.

But they were still no match for a witcher.

Geralt ducked a blow from his left, twirling and slicing through the man backhanded before he could recover. The fatal blow extended into a deflection to the right which sent the attacker sailing past Geralt, but a quick jab from another landed a hit on Geralt's arm. The cut was long, but shallow. Geralt hopped backward just in time to avoid a killing stroke from above, stabbing the man through the chest under his arm in return.

The last two men put up more of a fight than their brethren. Between the two of them, they landed several blows to Geralt's arms and legs. He was lucky they weren't too severe. And that his armor had deflected those that sought to pierce his heart. It took every ounce of fortitude, but Geralt finally struck them down.

The scene was a massacre. The second one of the night. A dozen cuts and bruises marred Geralt's limbs. He was limping slightly from a nasty cut through his hamstring and the stitches in his side had long since torn out, the small trail of blood lost among the collection.

He could hardly breathe through the pain and exhaustion, each breath like sand scraping down his throat, a fire burning in his lungs. But his mission was not yet finished.

"You." Roth approached from the wagon, livid.

Geralt put on an air of serenity. Of assurance. He tried to hide the shaking in his arms. "I make good on my promises." His tone grew deadly. "You threatened the wrong person. You won't leave this place."

Roth seethed, lip aquiver, so infuriated as to be incapable of forming a verbal response. He drew his sword instead.

"Just a word to the wise," Geralt jibed, holding his sword at the ready, "if you're going to leave someone for dead, cut off their head first."

"I plan to," Roth snarled in return, already swinging at Geralt.

The blow came faster than Geralt had expected, faster than he could compel his body to move. The clumsily parried blow cut through the air inches from Geralt's face. Pressing his advantage, Roth closed in and Geralt had no choice but to back away, giving ground as Roth greedily snatched it up, avoiding death by a hair's breadth.

Roth seemed pleased with himself at the course of the battle, a vicious light glowing in his eyes at the prospect of Geralt's imminent demise. Geralt fought desperately just to stay on his feet. He had been right about Roth. The man was a better swordsman than he had let on at their first meeting. Perhaps not as good as Geralt, but with Geralt's condition, Roth had the edge. And the man wasn't opposed to using Geralt's injuries against him either.

Roth had Geralt reeling backwards, barely able to keep up with the onslaught of blows. In one instance, when Geralt's guard was momentarily down, Roth swung a swift kick at Geralt's chest, where he knew it would pain him the most. A howl rent the night air as Geralt clutched at his chest. Bright, white light flashed before Geralt's eyes, blinding him, sending him sprawling on the ground. He narrowly recovered in time to avoid Roth's sword, slashing down into the mud after him. Geralt rolled away, blundering his way to his feet, forcing his arms up to the ready. Taking a stance to begin the battle anew.

He couldn't win like this. Couldn't win with strength and skill alone. Geralt had to play it smart.

He feigned a stumble, knowing Roth would capitalize on the opportunity. Roth didn't disappoint. As soon as Roth took the bait, Geralt threw himself backwards in the opposite direction, landing behind Roth who desperately tried to recover. Geralt aimed for his head, but Roth was too quick. The move cost Roth a gash down his arm. Enraged, Roth swung wildly at Geralt. He dodged it easily.

That trick wouldn't work again, Geralt knew. But the tide had turned.

They clashed for an eternity, trading blow for blow, stroke for stroke. Even in his depleted state, Geralt refused to accept defeat. He would not greet death until he knew his friends were safe.

Some unspoken agreement had them pull apart simultaneously, both staring intently at the other, gauging, analyzing, studying the other for any weakness. Any subtle shift in weight that would give away their next move.

A quiet calm had settled over Geralt. He suspected part of it was from the blood loss, his failing mind and body. The other part was borne of his bond. With Triss. With Ciri. With those that he loved and would give anything to protect. It gifted him the strength his body lacked.

In stark contrast was the utter wrath sputtering from Roth. He likely hadn't met anyone he couldn't bully or bribe. All had fallen before his lust for power. He stood on the summit of a mountain of conquered foes with no room for anyone beside him. Geralt's opposition stood against everything Roth knew and believed in. Geralt's nonchalance served only to infuriate Roth even more.

Both men stood transfixed, panting, bloodied. Both drew back their swords.

And lunged.

Roth exploded, incapable of checking his rage. "Why won't you die!"

In his tranquility, the world sharpened to a crystal focus for Geralt. He knew what was going to happen. And accepted it.

Geralt's sword skewered Roth through the chest, through his black and withered heart.

Fear chased surprise across Roth's face. Then a glimmer of triumph before Roth slid to the earth, unmoving.

His death grip pulled his sword from Geralt's chest.