For the Angstpril prompt 16 "Cry for help" and the Whumpril prompt 4 "Swaying"
"Shit!" With his shirt sleeve he wipes at the sudden stream of blood that is pouring into his eyes and over his face. "Damn those fucking, blasted bastards!" he swears, adding a few colourful curses in Nilfgaardian. Then, with a few seconds delay after the impact, the pain registers, sharp and searing, like somebody had cut half his head off. Judging by the flood of blood, they might well have. Cahir heaves a heavy groan, swallowing hard as bile rises to his mouth. Feeling faint all of a sudden, he starts to sway in the saddle.
"Geralt! Help me!" he croaks and collapses onto the neck of his horse, frantically clutching at its mane to not fall off. The Witcher was right next to him just a moment before he got hit in the head by something hard and sharp, a hatchet most likely. He will not abandon him here, bleeding profusely and close to blacking out any moment while caught between Nightingale's bandits, the corrupt Bear's soldiers and the fighters for the freedom of the Slopes. Or will he?
"Geralt!" he hears Angoulême's voice yell over the din of the raging skirmish like through thick fog. "Help Cahir!"
Then he feels somebody gripping him by the shoulder and holding him up, supporting him. Groaning weakly, Cahir blinks and again tries to brush the blood from his eyes so he can see something, but instantly, more blood is pouring over and into them. Shit, shit, shit. He begins to tremble and can only just so keep himself from vomiting all over his horse. But they need to get away from here. They have to find Ciri, save the Princess. The Princess whose life he destroyed and who still let him live. Sucking in a deep breath through gritted teeth, Cahir straightens in the saddle despite the nausea and pain.
"It's nothing — a scratch ...," he gasps out, his voice shaking. "Ride, Witcher ... follow Angoulême ... Ride!" Through a curtain of red, he vaguely sees the young girl not far from him, her flaxen hair streaming behind her as she spurs her horse into a gallop. Cahir kicks his own steed with his heels. Hopefully, Geralt will do the same instead of trying to hunt down the half-elf Schirru and getting himself killed in the chaos of the fight.
Reluctantly and with much regret, Geralt does spur his horse into motion. He hates letting the half-elf get away, but it is the right, the wise thing to do. Dead, he would not be of much use to Ciri and there is no way they could win this fight, not even if Cahir was still able to swing his sword and help him. Which he clearly is not. Intent on getting through to Schirru, Geralt did not see what happened to his comrade, however, bleeding like this, the man's head wound is definitely not just a scratch. Hopefully, Cahir will be able to stay in the saddle long enough for them to shake off any pursuers. If not, they are deep in the shit and royally fucked.
The three companions flee in a wild, reckless gallop, hugging their horses' necks for speed and to minimise the risk of catching an arrow in the back. Cahir would not have been able to ride any other way anyway as dizzy and in pain as he is. He barely manages to stay atop his mount while bleeding copious amounts of blood onto its mane and neck. Luckily, the stallion follows Angoulême's down the highway at break-neck speed without any guiding signals from its injured and hardly more than semi-conscious rider.
To Geralt's dismay, it does not take long and his own horse begins to snort and wheeze. As much as the Witcher hates to force the poor animal to ride on as fast as it possibly can, he has no choice. Not only do they have to save themselves from whoever is pursuing them, but they need to warn Jaskier, Milva and Regis. There is no other safe option for them than to flee across the border and into Toissaint, regardless of how much Jaskier seems to dislike the idea. And they must get there before Nightingale and the Nilfgaardians, even if it means ruining the horses.
Luckily, Angoulême's and Cahir's mounts, a small but fleet bandit steed and a strong army beast, are sturdier and tougher than Geralt's bay and not wheezing half as badly. However, Cahir's condition seems to be getting worse. His forehead still gushing blood, he sways precariously in the saddle, mechanically clenching with his thighs and panting as heavily as the horse. Yet, they gallop on. They have to.
With his eyes closed against the nausea and seeing a multitude of stars dance across his retina, Cahir holds onto his horse's mane for dear life. He must not fall off, not for the life of him. For one, it would hurt like hell to head-on hit the stone-paved highway and he could easily break his neck. More importantly, though, it would slow them down and get them caught. Yet, the feeling of vertigo and faintness is so overwhelming, it takes all Cahir's remaining strength to fight the darkness that is creeping up on him. Like from far away, he hears Geralt and Angoulême arguing about something but, although they are riding close by, he does not grasps a single word for the pounding and throbbing in his head and the thrumming in his ears. In addition to the badly bleeding cut, he must have sustained a concussion and riding like this is not helping with the symptoms.
Still, they press on.
Then the horses slow and finally come to a halt. Why, Cahir does not know. Neither does he care. Completely drained, he simply lets himself fall from the saddle and onto the road. He just so manages to raise himself onto his hands and knees before his stomach lurches and he starts to retch spasmodically. As he has not eaten anything, it is only bile and gastric juice, nevertheless it is so bad it feels as if he was puking his guts out - literally. Then Geralt and Angoulême are by his side. They touch his forehead. He screams from agony and starts to shake violently. Angoulême swears and says something about a haircut and a hatchet that he does not understand. Neither does he get what Geralt replies, but then, there is the sound of ripping fabric. His friends help him into a sitting position when he is done retching and Geralt binds his head tightly with a piece of cloth - probably a torn off shirt sleeve - while Angoulême is holding him. Biting his lip to not cry out, Cahir almost blacks out from the pain. Through the mist of agony, he hears Angoulême and Geralt talking, most likely trying to figure out what to do, yet their voices are horribly distorted and Cahir's head is swimming and hurting far too much to catch what they are saying. He wants to tell them to leave him behind and save themselves and their friends, however, all of a sudden, he does not know how to in the northern tongue. His lips are trembling too badly to form any coherent words anyhow. There is no way he can get to his feet on his own either when Geralt is done. The Witcher pulls him up and more or less drags him off the highway and into the roadside bushes where they collapse into a heap. Over the noise of his own loud wheezing Cahir can hear what sounds like the hoofbeat of a single horse galloping away from them at top speed. Angoulême? Is she riding to warn the others? To get them help?
With all his heart, Cahir hopes the girl will make it. Then he faints.