}!{
A day after the arrival of the mages, the blockade was lifted. Orders from King Foltest told the camp officers that they were to allow the refugees safe passage into Temeria, on the condition that every fighting man of Cintra would stay behind. The plan to hold Sodden Hill would involve mages from the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. Their numbers would hardly swell, but the power their new allies held would certainly tip the scales.
The Temerian monarch's conditions didn't sit well with a lot of people. The elderly, the women and children, they would have to risk losing their men to the blackclads. But this unease was swiftly swept aside, for no one wanted the Nilfgaardians to follow them north. If they weren't stopped there, in that lonely fortress ring upon the hill, all the North would wear black and gold for all time.
"The gods are cruel to have you return to me..." Serah said to her son tearfully, "Only to have you taken away, time and time again."
The caravans were reforming at the Yarugan Crossing not long after they've settled into the fortress grounds. The crush of bodies and wagon trains from desperate refugees threatened to undo the foundations of the ancient bridge. Half of Vissegerd's men had to be dispatched to keep them in an orderly fashion, that there may be a bridge left to cross over from by the time everyone of note had passed. Averon was trying to get his family to make the journey north, the bags and wagons were already loaded up. He'd chosen a few of the queensguard who had families among the refugees to go with them, to watch over the princess he was hoping to smuggle across the bridge. Vissegerd mustn't be made aware of her departure, same as anyone. Ciri must be brought far from the impending slaughter, to do that she must be hauled away to Temerian soil.
"What you call cruel I call wise." Averon spoke softly as he held his mother close. She relaxed a bit, feeling the firm steely valleys and mounds that formed his chest and arms. "You must grow accustomed to my absences, I'm not the scrawny little lad that used to run around the streets and skin his knees anymore. Someone has to stick it to the blackclads, and no one does that better than me."
"You cannot tell a mother not to fear for her child." The woman replied, clinging to the golem as though he were the rock in the midst of a raging river. "This damned war takes all, none are spared not even one so gifted as you."
"My father's blood burns brightly, and I am too full of life to fall to Nilfgaardian blades." Averon declared. He did, however, turn to look at Morénn. The hooded dryad was reminder enough of his weaknesses. Nilfgaard possessed plenty of magic in store, and the battles he would fight at Sodden would involve more than his fair share of them. He didn't want to worry Serah any more than she did, so he made no mention of his time in Brokilon. As far as that cursed forest was concerned, he'd never mention it to anyone at all. "Enough whimpering, mother. Show some of that marchioness spine you've been reputed to have. There will be plenty to cry about later, I would have none of it in the eve of battle."
Serah dried her tears and wrapped her cloak tighter around her neck. She bade her son farewell and boarded the wagon, shielding little Lyra among her skirts along with the princess. Averon took a moment to say goodbye to his half-sister, who clung to her new friend, unbothered by her lofty station. The girl's company was a great comfort for Ciri. Considering the loss she'd suffered in so brief a time, having friends surround her did wonders to the young mind. "Lyra, mother's going to take you for a ride across the bridge now. Be kind to Ciri, understand?"
Lyra bobbed her head. Averon pinched her cheek affectionately, "Good girl. As for you, princess... I will see you again soon."
Ciri didn't say anything in reply. She tucked herself in and stared quietly into the distance. The wagon shook and bounced as it rolled out into the path, taking with it the women of Cintra and the kingdom's most precious cargo. It disappeared behind the sea of bodies squeezing into a thin little stream pouring through the channel that was the Yaruga Crossing.
"Why not go with them? Morénn asked.
"Same reason why you're here." Averon replied, tucking his shield in so he could tighten the straps over his arm.
"I stay because you stay." The dryad said, "But you, you don't have anything tethering you to this stronghold of aged stones. So I ask again, why not go with them?"
The Myrmidon reflected on her words a bit before giving his answer, "Do you know what duty means, Morénn?"
"I do."
"Then it shouldn't be too hard to imagine why I stay. You are wrong to say that nothing tethers me to them, I owe many of these men the courtesy to stand with them in battle. They fight for their families, as I do. I will not abandon them to their deaths, I will bathe my spear and sword in Nilfgaardian blood for the memory of Queen Calanthe."
With the fortress ring now freed of space from the retreating refugee caravans, the forces of the North garrisoned the great stone walls and towers. They stocked up on oil, tar, arrows and bolts. All the machines of war to give the Nilfgaardians a hard time were set up on strategic choke-points. Temeria's greatest strength lay with its archers, masters of the longbow who'd been training since they were six years of age. Swarthy men of steely backs and broad shoulders, equipped with slender bows of yew that stretched with the bellies of heartwood, delivering swift death beautifully in graceful whistling arcs. It was very different from the way the Scoia'tael or dryads waged ranged battles, both emphasizing accuracy over volume of fire. Humans, or Temerians in particular, fired in volleys. Once an enemy was ranged in the first drizzle of arrows, the rain would swiftly come and in much greater number.
Next to the mages, who could throw all manner of spellcraft with a wave of a hand, that bit of bloody ingenuity could mean all the difference in a pinch. Mages get tired easily, so said the experts who observed them in battle. As soon as they started dropping from exhaustion, the rest of the battle would have to be fought by steel and flesh.
The mirthful strum of Half-Leaf's lute filled the air as the elven minstrel sang for the men, "Oh Cin-tra! Oh Cin-tra! Gods shed off grace on thee! And smite thy foes with horrid woes, for all eternity!"
The Cintrans shared a laugh and passed the wine, savoring the rare moment of respite before the battle. The Nilfgaardian vanguard had been sighted a quarter of a mile from the main roads. Brief skirmishes with the scouting parties yielded much information regarding what kind of enemies they'd expect in the next few hours. Bogged down by mud and intermittent rain, the Nilfgaardian heavy infantry and siege equipment lagged behind. That left only the light cavalry, archers and regulars to assault Sodden Hill. However, no one could celebrate just yet. Word spread that the Nilfgaardians had their own mages too, a reminder of how easily they burned the capital down.
One could stare into the distant horizon bordered by the vast treelines and see the fluttering banners of marching blackclads. No matter how many the Cintrans felled at the Marnadal, then later at the capital city itself, there seemed to be no end to the Nilfgaardian horde.
She was still there, with him, his friend from the dregs of Cintra. Averon thought she would've gone with his mother by then. He thought to convince her to leave as well, but let his words be left unsaid. Half-Leaf was no helpless strumpet to be commanded by presumptuous betters, if she chose to stay it would be out of loyalty for him. He knew this and loved her all the more for it. Half-Leaf saw him watching her and smiled sweetly, breaking into another song that wasn't too subtle about who it was dedicated to. It was a song referencing the time he drove off the nob boys in the streets of Cintra, the day she'd lost half her ear. The spectacle of the elf drew the attention of the Temerians, who'd wandered over into the Cintran side of the fortress.
Averon noted the mixture of astonishment and smoldering ire in their eyes. Temeria didn't have the same tolerance for nonhumans as Cintra, and it showed. The Myrmidon gripped his spear tightly, ready to come to Half-Leaf's aid should some drunken lout try to cause a scene. A flash of red from the corner of his eye brought his attention to the lovely Triss Merigold, one of the sorceresses who came with Francesca's group. The woman came out of nowhere, possibly drawn to the music as it was the only source of merriment in Sodden Hill. Some other mages came up with her, though their reasons varied.
"My lady." Averon nodded to Triss.
The woman, startled by his ethereal statuesque voice, looked up at him with an odd twinkle in her emerald green eyes. Unlike the others, the sorceress looked too young, too soft to be this far out in the fields of battle. A head smaller than anyone else in Sodden, Triss looked more at home in the lofty courts of Temeria than treading the muddied soil of the fortress grounds like any other grunt. Her choice of attire did little to change how Averon looked at her. Too flashy, bright and one hell of a target for the prospecting marksman.
Triss read his thoughts and scowled. A snap of her fingers and those same clothes grew dark as blackest obsidian. Sheepishly, Averon pressed his lips together in a thin line and fell silent. The sorceress smiled, feeling his regret. "Apology accepted."
"I... I have no doubt you can bring sky and earth upon our enemies." The Myrmidon said, "But I must warn you, no words can ever describe the horrors you are about to witness."
Triss crossed her arms defensively, "You don't need to lecture me on the subject, I will do my part. I'm not made of sugar, I won't melt."
Averon relented, giving her the benefit of the doubt. "As you say. My name is Averon, Commander Averon of the Cintran Queensguard perhaps... but I fear that the title rings a bit hollow now that I am without a charge to protect."
He tried not to think of Ciri, having witnessed the telepathic powers of the sorceress. He didn't succeed.
Triss looked in the direction of the Yarugan Crossing, "Well met, Averon. I'm Triss Merigold. Don't you worry about them, they'll be safe across the river. I've convinced the king to have the refugees treated with the utmost care as though they were our own. Temerians may be a rough bunch but they'll do right by Foltest's decree."
Shouts from the Temerians and Cintrans shattered the atmosphere of calm. A soldier, a drunken one, had boldly walked over to Half-Leaf and slapped the tankard of ale from her hand. If the poor fool was looking for a scrap, he was way over his head. Half-Leaf didn't even need to lift a finger, she merely sat back as the Cintrans dragged the man over to a dark corner and beat him up. That started a fight between the two peoples, and all tensions were let loose in a good old fashioned Northern brawl.
"Thank you for speaking with the king on our behalf." Averon said to the sorceress, setting aside his spear and shield to break up the fight before lives were lost. "I will not forget it."
He helped his men move the stumbling, limping brawlers to their respective places. Orders were exchanged, warnings were issued, and wounds were tended to by army medics. The night wore on, and eventually all activity slowed to a crawl. Averon and his friends gathered together for what felt like would be their last supper. Half-Leaf had bartered some salted beef from the cooks and set it to roast over the fire. While they sang and traded stories, the men and women of the small party sharpened and cleaned their weapons.
The Myrmidon was wary of the eyes spying on him from the battlements. The mages were keeping a close account of him, he had a semblance of an idea as to why. He was a peculiarity, a creature worth spending coin and influence to study, just as Mad Miloch once did. He tried to pay little heed to them, or at least tried to make it look like he didn't care. In truth, he was afraid to earn their attention. Magic was his weakness, and should they try to force him to be their specimen- it would be the old odd tower incident all over again.
Just before they turned in for the night to get some sleep, one final creak of the fortress gates ushered in the newcomers who would face the Nilfgaardians alongside them. At the head of several caravan trains rode Sir Reyncourt of Cintra and his band. They looked tired, weary from loss as the next man. But when Rey saw Averon and the assembled throng of Temerians and Cintrans, his face brightened with hope. He dropped down from his horse and embraced his half-brother.
"Rey, I'm glad to see you're alright." Averon said, giving him a clap on the shoulder. As his eyes turned to the group of men with him, he couldn't help but notice the absence of one most dear to Reyncourt. "Where's... where's Fenne?"
Rey's brow furrowed, he closed his eyes as he blurted out in a broken voice. "Dead. She's dead, Bov."
Averon hung his head, feeling a measure of the same sorrow grasping at the brass knight's heart. He knew Rey loved her dearly, "The heart constricts at the thought of her passing, brother. We will have vengeance."
"I have had my vengeance." The knight declared, showing to his half-brother the wedding band he'd given Fenne upon a simple length of twine around his neck. "Now? I fight for the kingdom... or whatever's left of it."
"Who are they?" Averon asked, referring to the fellows who accompanied him. They were of a lesser number than before, some having separated from the band to go on their merry way after repaying their debts to the brass knight.
"They are my followers." Reyncourt replied, "Men gifted with our father's burning blood."
At first, his half-brother didn't understand what he meant. Slowly, as he looked upon their matching eyes that glowed with the same golden light as the bastards did, Averon realized that the men literally shared the same power as Reyncourt. How he managed to share this power, he hesitated to ask.
"Are they... reliable?"
"Yes."
Averon nodded, "Then let them make preparations. You are fortunate to have come before the Nilfgaardian vanguard. The time for battle is near."
At dawn, the much anticipated battle for Sodden began with a cry of alarm.
"Have a care!"
Crude code words had specific meanings in the Cintran military, easy enough to be picked up on by the Temerians. 'Have a care' was up on the shelf with 'incoming volley' or 'dragon sighted', but this was reserved in particular for mage spellcraft. And in this case, a massive fireball was heading for the battlements.
A great part of the outer wall gave way, sending stone, dust and wood flying in all directions. Men, in pieces, screeched in miserable agony while those left unscathed from the attack formed up. The Nilfgaardians were smart enough to soften the fortress defenses from afar, holding back the main body while their mages did all the work for them.
The North had its mages too. Their spells were spent holding the fort, that it might weather the storm of fire and hail till the South exhausted its strength and was forced to storm the gates. They only needed to outlast the Nilfgaardian sorcerers.
Averon and Reyncourt watched the battle from the relative safety of the battlements above the main gate, shielded from enemy fire by a shimmering crystalline barrier conjured up by one of the Northern sorceresses. Rey, in particular, was distracted by the woman in white who stood out from the rabble he surrounded himself with.
Adorned in white gossamer robes that parted suggestively at the hips, they called her Astrid Lyttneyd Ásgeirrfinnbjornsdottir, or simply Lytta Neyd. A Skelligean name. Her long flowing bounty of fox red hair fluttered, though there was no breeze blowing down from any direction. The energies radiating from her body caused faint crackles of light to dance in a circle at her feet. Men gave her a wide berth as she worked to save them from the hell raining down from the skies, but neither Averon nor Rey feared the aftereffects of her spells.
The barrier distended, bent and strained beneath the repeated strikes of fire and lightning. A noticeable tremor ran down Lytta's arms as she held them outstretched, pouring out her reserves of mana to keep the thing from shattering.
A different kind of crackle caused Reyncourt to look in the direction of the bailey, right in front of the cobblestone barbican that protected the main gate. He saw the collective essence of a forming portal, and he had barely enough time to scream in alarm before a Nilfgaardian surprise attack commenced. "Look out, here they come!"
The portal opened with a loud whoosh, dispersing both time and space as it spat out a small contingent of the empire's finest. Forty men, a single mage and a large lumbering greater golem of smoking rock and molten metal. Such a small number seemed too brazen an assault when compared to what the North had in store for the Nilfgaardians at Sodden. But Menno Coehoorn, for all his bravado, had selected well. Led by Fringilla Vigo, they were tasked with disrupting the defenders by destroying the main gate. They couldn't do it with the barriers up, but the repeated assaults upon the magical shielding opened a tiny chink, enough for the blackclad sorceress to exploit.
Crafty Fringilla gave the order and the Nilfgaardian soldiers fanned out to cover the golem as it lumbered over towards the gate.
She raised her hands to open up more portals for the rest of the Nilfgaardian army, now having slipped through the North's defensive ring, but was stopped when Yennefer of Vengerberg hurled a bolt of lightning her way. Averon and the Cintrans leapt down from the ramparts, brandishing their weapons high as they landed among the armored masses. The other ascended ones waded into the thick of the battle, unafraid to die as St. Vandal's blood bore them through the most grievous of wounds. Though they now shared blood with all of these strange men, Averon didn't think much of it as a good thing.
Giving that kind of power to men of Vortiger or Joakim's sort, it rarely ended well. They'd be handy in a fight, but what about after?
The Myrmidon locked shields with the mercenary captain alongside his faithful queensguard. Together they braced against the charge of the blackclads and knocked many a man to his backside. They found their rhythm, bashing first then stabbing second. Vortiger howled with wicked glee, hacking and slashing through the black tide to earn his toll for the day. Averon and the others worked their way towards the golem, giving ground for the dueling sorceresses to work with as they did so. The great stone brute had already torn free the steel grating and unmoored the iron chains keeping the gates together. With a loud crash, it split timber like kindling and sent the aged stones crumbling to rubble.
The gate was open.
Amid the clash of steel, the distant trumpets signaling the advance could be heard. Alarmed, the sorceress Lytta conjured up a great wall of ice to block the gap. She sacrificed the barrier for that bit of magic, exposing herself upon the battlements for the storm of arrows that came after. With an exhausted desperate cry, she raised her heavy limbs to shield herself from death. Moving quickly, the brass knight dragged her beneath him and used his body to block the deadly hail. The whistling and patter of steel-tipped bodkin arrows against the cobblestones soon faded, and a battered Reyncourt hauled himself upright.
Shaken to her core, Lytta Neyd cast a bewildered look in her savior's direction and muttered a word of thanks. The knight smiled awkwardly through the sharp singular tips protruding through his cheek. Below, the duel between Fringilla and Yennefer ended in a bloody draw. The Nilfgaardian sorceress sustained an unseen injury at the raven-haired mage's hands, the latter of which suffered an agonizing wound when the former blinded her with a well-cast incendiary spell to the face.
Yennefer screamed, covering her injured eyes as she staggered back and fell to the ground. Sweating and cursing through gritted teeth, Fringilla prepared to finish her off. Two of the ascended Cintrans blocked her path and attempted to end her just then. The spell she'd been saving for Yennefer was instead used on them, and the pair were petrified into stone statues where they stood. Realizing that she'd stayed long enough, and quite satisfied with her success with the fortress gate, Fringilla fled through a hastily cast portal to fight another day. She left her unhappy countrymen to the Temerian reinforcements, who soundly cut them down as they poured into the breached bailey.
The lumbering thing picked him up like a doll and clutched him around the middle, both of its gargantuan stone hands pressed together to squeeze the life out of the Myrmidon. Averon hadn't the breath to scream, for it was all pushed out of his lungs as his ribcage strained against the golem's iron grip. His spear, though powerful enough to fell even the mighty dragon Idlekkarnhamth, was useless against rock and magic. Helpless, he squirmed like a hare caught in a hunter's trap.
Suddenly, the golem's movements became increasingly sluggish. A noticeable frost formed over its limbs, cast by an enraged Yennefer. The sorceress turned out to be only half-blinded by Fringilla's assault, and she took the opportunity to lend a vital hand to the Myrmidon. Averon seized this chance to strike at the golem's hands, at last freeing himself from its grip with a dozen bashes of the shield. He dropped to the ground, still in pain but ready to finish off the creature.
Averon leapt upon its chest and drove his spear deep into the glowing heart rock that gave it life, proving that his weapon had its use against magic after all. The thing grew stiff, turning into a pile of smoking rocks as its essence leaked into the ground. The Myrmidon uttered no sound of triumph, save for a tired sigh as he slumped down to sit beside the injured sorceress.
"At least..." He wheezed, "... at least it's not a dragon."
As if on cue, a collective screech from the Nilfgaardian gigabeisten rang clear through the air, announcing the arrival of the Imperial Air Cavalry. Yennefer rolled her head slowly in his direction, glaring at him silently as if to chastise Averon for his hasty words. She winced through the burns that marred her beautiful face, struggling to get to her feet. Averon offered her a helpful hand, which she gladly received. The pair slowly made their way back to the rear, that they might recover and let the Temerian fresh troops pick up where they'd left.
}!{