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The road north was long and arduous. But the Scoia'tael were no strangers to hardship. They traversed the great woodlands and swamps of Cintra with grim determination, spurred on by bloodlust and undeterred by the obstacles in their path. Isaëd's group later pitched camp at the edge of the main road when their strength finally waned, hidden from view by a thick overgrowth of bushes and sapling trees. Many d'hoine had fallen to their blades that day, but the elves were still thirsty for human blood. They would have more to kill later, for the moment they would have to regain their strength.
They lit a fire when the chilly autumn breeze started to blow in their direction. The light was dim, easily concealed from prying eyes. Its warmth helped stave off the cold, and provided a basic tool to cook the dried meat they stole from the pantries of New Amendale. The elves were happy and took a moment to savor their victories, sharing a bit of wine to help ease the faint pangs of guilt that clawed at the younger ones among them. Isaëd took out his wooden flute and started to play a soothing melody to calm their spirits for a good night's sleep.
When they had finally drifted off, leaving only their leader a handful of watchful sentries to guard the campsite, Isaëd took a moment to admire the little bauble he took from the woman he killed at the manor grounds. It was a beautiful thing, far too exquisite for the crude craftsmanship of human hands. He recognized the faint dwarven etchings into the metals, confirming his suspicions. If he was honest with himself, he felt a little bad for killing her along with the unborn child in her belly. But at the same time, Isaëd was quick to justify his actions.
One less d'hoine born was good in any case. As for the woman, she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. She deserved to die.
Isaëd glanced up when his ears picked up on the faint clopping of hooves on the road. The noise was getting louder, until he could hear the voices of men and the whinnying of horses. Mimicking a bird call, he awakened all within the camp and mustered them for an ambush. The Scoia'tael put out their campfire and took up their weapons. The group of travelers was small, by his estimates numbering less than ten men. They were a ragtag bunch, possibly deserters from the Cintran army or stragglers from whatever force remained of the kingdom. Regardless of who they were, Isaëd's decision was easy to predict. They were d'hoine, and all d'hoine must die.
Isaëd and all his best archers took up positions in a crossfire. They waited until the group was within range and with little room to escape, then let loose a flurry of bodkin arrows. Isaëd got the one in bronze armor, hitting him in the chest and piercing his cuirass with pinpoint accuracy. He fell from his horse. The rest of the men became walking pincushions, they staggered into a tight bunch to weather the elven assault. To Isaëd's surprise, the bronze knight rose up from where he fell as did several others of the small group of human fighters who themselves sustained each a killing blow. They should be dead, but those same men were now fanning out and attacking the elven ambushers. They bled the molten blood of the earth, their most grievous wounds closed up in mere moments and they didn't tire as easily.
The Scoia'tael tried to maneuver around the men, only to be subsequently cut down one after the other. Elves were never good at facing humans on equal ground, preferring to dance their way through battle while the element of surprise was on their side. It was like poking at a lumbering near-sighted beast, only to have it turn around and gore its assailant before he had a chance to withdraw. Isaëd's company shattered within minutes, there wasn't even any time to run. The humans hacked, slashed, brawled their way into the Scoia'tael camp.
Leading them was Sir Reyncourt of Cintra, Lord of New Amendale and son of St. Vandal. He bore no ill will towards elven kind, but it was an entirely different story for the Scoia'tael. They represented the worst aspects of non-humans, trumping the cruelty of men tenfold. When he faced Isaëd, his ire burned even hotter. For when he sent that murdering knife-eared raider staggering to the ground, his eyes caught a glimpse of the ring upon his finger. Isaëd had raised his arm as if to beg for mercy, offering a generous view of the gilded ornament. The kindly face of the knight betrayed his rage, and he raised his mace high.
"It was you!" Reyncourt cried, "What justice does it serve; slaying men, women or children yet within their mothers' arms? What purpose, to slit the throats of young pregnant girls, save but to beget more bloodshed?"
"Justice?" Isaëd spat, "You don't know the word, d'hoine!"
His anger forbade him from reciting the great lists of crimes against his kind, perpetrated by the human race. Reyncourt never let him have the chance, for the mace descended upon the elf till his pretty face was a horrid mess of twitching bone and crushed flesh. When he was dead and the knight's arm ached with exertion, Reyncourt uttered a loud cry of anguish. He had opened the wound of grief once more, to gain vengeance on his lover's killer and the murderer of his unborn child, and now there was hardly anything he could do to close it up again.
Vortiger watched his savior take hold of the corpse and retrieve the stolen ring from its finger. With immeasurable sadness, the brass knight stared at the bauble as he turned it over and over in his hands. The company he kept were men transformed by the godsblood, that burning life-giving blood that flowed from St. Vandal when he saved the Continent from the Fall. A ragtag bunch, all of them, hailing from different parts of the kingdom. Some have suffered being impaled on lances, covered in arrows and bolts. Others still were hacked apart or disemboweled by swords. All have faced certain death at the hands of the Nilfgaardians, but have been saved by Reyncourt's intervention.
They could've gone their own way, continued on their own personal quests for fame and fortune. With godsblood running through their veins, it would be easy. But drawn were they to Reyncourt, the reason beyond mere gratitude. It was the beginning of a cult. Why he decided to bestow such gifts to mortal men, vile lechers and drunks as they were, they couldn't quite fathom. The knight had his reasons, but he wouldn't share them just yet. There was one thing clear with his intention, however, in that he was heading north towards the Yaruga. As for Vortiger, he vowed to follow Reyncourt wherever he would go.
"Are you alright, sir?" The mercenary captain inquired.
Reyncourt was silent for a long time. He didn't answer the man when he rose up to hoist himself up on his horse. The knight stared out into the darkness as though he could sense the armies of the blackclads drawing near. In a manner, they were. The Nilfgaardians, after consolidating their position in the ruined capital, were sending detachments out into the countryside to raze all the other towns and strongholds that the Scoia'tael hadn't touched. Reyncourt couldn't save any of them, he was too far away and the thought ate at his soul like a cancer. But for those who were yet out of the Nilfgaardians' reach, would he dare try? For them? For all the helpless men, women and children in a kingdom about to be consumed in the fires of war?
"Vortiger, is it?" Reyncourt asked.
"Yes, that is my name." Vortiger said with a nod.
"There are ten of us." The knight declared to the small party, "And daylight has long gone, but our strength has not left just yet. I ride for the towns and villages that lie along the kingsroad, I will help them make the trek if they are able. I ask you if you will follow me upon this venture, I can offer no gold nor glory. Only that your debt to me will be paid in full when the last Cintran has been ferried to safety."
Some of the men grumbled audibly. Vortiger sighed, a little perplexed by the simplicity of the knight. He thought the saintly fellow a mere façade, masking something more pragmatic or even sinister. Alas, it would seem that Sir Reyncourt of Cintra was every bit the chivalrous knight as his reputation entailed.
"Would you follow me now, men of Cintra?" Reyncourt asked again.
"I lay there in the field, a broken lance through my chest." A squat and stocky man with a heavy black beard hanging from the lower half of his face, named Joakim, rumbled after the knight's words. "For the life you gave back to me, I'll help save a dozen more."
Like most of the men in the motley band, there wasn't much to say about Joakim. He was a brute, a brawler and a drunk. He lived by the sword, sank his fortunes in dice and loose women, and nearly died by either of those three. And yet his words were a welcome warmth of goodwill to Reyncourt's heart. The spark had set alight the cold kindling in the mercenary's soul, and in that Reyncourt understood a measure of the meaning of his vision. The others weren't so inclined, but they had a debt to pay. Reyncourt imagined they'd go walk their own path the first chance they got, and he wouldn't stop them if they did.
The ten men rode out for the kingsroad, intercepting Scoia'tael and Nilfgaardian raiding bands while directing refugee caravans towards the Yarugan Crossing. Reyncourt hoped his family got out of the capital before the main army group put it to the torch. Knowing his half-brother, Rey took solace in the fact that Averon would've taken the first chance to get them as far north as he could. The only problem was that it may take a while before he could find them again. Wars had a tendency of breaking families apart, most hardly ever got the opportunity to make themselves whole after the slaughter.
He would endeavor to spare the refugees that fate.
Sodden Hill
The Yarugan Crossing
Averon met up with the main caravan group after a fruitless attempt to find his half-brother. The encroaching main army of the blackclads forced him and his band to give up their search prematurely. With a heavy heart, he prayed to whatever gods would hear that he'd see Reyncourt alive again and rode hard for the Crossing. Sodden Hill was one of many sites along the great river that offered passage north, but it was the only point of crossing for hundreds of miles in either direction. Moving further north would require traversing the narrow stone bridge, any alternative would involve a needlessly long trek through raging torrents or impassable bogs infested with drowner swarms. For those of sharp wit, the Yarugan Crossing of Sodden Hill was a strategic location, the proverbial bridge connecting Nilfgaard to its highly coveted lands. The war would bring the blackclads there, a fact that hardly escaped the minds of all seeking refuge away from the fighting.
At Sodden Hill stood the fortress ring, which protected the threshold leading into the Yarugan Crossing bridge. The remains of the Cintran royal army rallied there, along with the thousands of refugees clamoring for passage. On the other side was a large Temerian encampment. None were allowed entry, for the Temerians feared that the Cintrans would let Nilfgaardian spies into the kingdom along with the refugees. No amount of gold nor impassioned pleas could sway the commanders in charge of the blockade. And so, the Cintran people made their own camp in the fortress ring to await their fate.
The skeleton army of Cintran regulars, mercenary groups and militia fighters that formed the base of the defenders were led by one man- Marshal Vissegerd. As soon as word reached him of the arrival of the queensguard, the marshal summoned Averon to his tent for the purpose of binding him to their cause. The commander of the queensguard reluctantly answered his summons, in hopes of finding a way to get his family across the river. It was a slim chance but he would at least try. He did, after all, carry with him the future of the kingdom.
"I'll go with you, sir." Silas offered Averon once they were safely through the gates of the fortress of Sodden Hill.
"I appreciate the gesture." The Myrmidon shook his head, immediately adding something to ease the younger man's disappointment. "But I would have you watch over my family. Tis a rare thing to find reliable men in this land, I would entrust their safety to no one else."
"Very well, sir."
"Cirilla, stay close to me." Averon said to the princess, extending a hand for her to take. The little girl clung to him as they made their way through the dense crush of tents, thatch huts and campfire gatherings. Men, women, children and horses bustled with activity all around. It was like the Cintran marketplace again, albeit messier. The militiamen stared sullenly at the pair as they ascended the steps of a ruined stone staircase, offering a crude salute to the princess as she passed them. The regulars paid better respect, much to Averon's satisfaction. These men were at the Marnadal just like him, seeing them continue the fight in their own way was a comforting sight.
The marshal's headquarters, a gaily colored yellow tent stretched out over the remains of a temple that had its ceiling give way to the elements, lay just at the edge of the fortress wall. Four guards saluted the queensguard commander and bade him enter. Inside, the nerve center of the Brugge Cintran Armed Resistance was alive with earnest battle preparations. The men and women of the Cintran defense anticipated an impending attack from the Nilfgaardians. All around the map spelled the encroaching vanguard of the Center Army Group, reported by the few mages trained by the now missing Lady Belen. Any hope of holding the Nilfgaardian advance had long evaporated when the crown and capital fell within a fortnight.
And it didn't seem like the other Northern kingdoms were in any hurry to help. Cintra stood alone against the blackclads, and it would seem that the dark tide would wash their very identity away in the next few days. But when the old soldier; the gray-haired Marshal Vissegerd, lifted his tired pale blue eyes to the fluttering flap of the tent entrance to see Averon leading Ciri inside, he let out a mirthful noise to put all work to a stop.
"Behold, sons and daughters of Cintra! The princess lives!" He cried, "Gods be good!"
The Cintrans knelt before the girl, offering promises and swearings of fealty. They saw in her the hope of a nation's survival, a hope that Averon knew would be dashed either way. Queen Calanthe wanted him to bring her to Geralt of Rivia. For whatever reason she had to forego the succession, upon which the continued existence of the kingdom relied heavily upon, he dared not question. The only reason why he was showing her to Vissegerd and the Cintrans was a means to an end, to get them across the river.
"Marshal Vissegerd, you have words for me?" Averon asked, keeping a firm hand clutched over Ciri's. He had the pleasure of knowing Vissegerd briefly in his time with the regulars, then later the Emberhearts.
"Aye, that I do." The old man placed his hands over the war table of crudely cut oak, where a crude and tattered map of the local area was laid out. It depicted the fortress ring, the raging river and the crossing itself. Surrounding the ring stood several thick forests, the favorite battleground of Scoia'tael and Nilfgaardian ambushers. With all the ground to cover, there was simply too much for such a small force to effectively hold. They were spread thin, too thin to mount an effective defense.
But before Vissegerd could conscript him into the effort, Averon made his conditions known. "Marshal, I must have my family across the river. That includes the princess. Only after they are safe will I aid in this endeavor."
Vissegerd's face grew hard and his tone stern, "I would, if only I could. The damned Temerians have locked up the passage tighter than a miser's purse! Said they'd fear the blackclad spies spillin' into their lands. Hogwash, I say! They don't want refugees cloggin' up their cities an' towns, that's the truth!"
"Did you try forcing your way through?"
"Of course we did, just shy of tempting their archers from turning us all into pincushions! We're desperate enough to poke at the blockade, but I'm not about to let my people die to Temerian blades afore the blackclads e'en get here. Damned pickle we got ourselves in."
Disappointed, Averon looked out through the cracks of the temple wall at the massive stone archways holding up the ancient Yaruga Crossing bridge. The thing stood the test of time, a marvel of human and dwarven engineering. It was wide enough to fit seven men, side by side, and could weather the storms that frequented Sodden Hill. On the other side of the bridge was a hastily erected barrier of stones and wooden spikes, where the Temerians shored up the meager defense in preparation for the Nilfgaardians once they trampled the Cintran resistance at Sodden. He was out of ideas, this was the end of the road for them and a lot of people.
The flap of the tent fluttered once more, a soldier soiled in mud and grime reported the arrival of some visitors. "Marshal, ya expecting some mages? Cause there's a whole lot o' them standing at the gate, sir."
Vissegerd couldn't believe his ears. "Mages, you say? Well by Melitele, let them in!"
Later, the visitors from the Brotherhood of Sorcerers made their way through the headquarters entrance to offer their aid in the war after a period of absence. Maintaining neutrality appeared to have lost its charm on the mages, and they couldn't have picked a better time to intervene than in the last minute. Averon felt Ciri hide herself behind his pelt cape as the tall and glamorous sorceresses appeared before the war table. There were four of them, each more beautiful than the last. There was Francesca Findabair, the elven sorceress of Dol Blathanna. Triss Merigold and Keira Metz, lady advisors to the king of Temeria.
And then there was Yennefer of Vengerberg, an austere raven-haired woman with a spiteful haughty look in her violet eyes. Her pale skin glistened with the stray droplets of the light drizzle that blew down from the east. She walked with swanlike grace, oozing with otherworldly elegance and regal poise. She eyed Averon with curiosity, noting his iron golem-like features. Her attention shifted to the ashen-haired girl at his side, then her brow arched.
"My ladies, welcome to Sodden Hill." Vissegerd greeted gruffly. "Now, what brings you here?"
"We've come to help you fight Nilfgaard." Francesca declared, "Their advance stops here. Now."
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