“We'll see. As I said, we have to go through Verden.”
“Is it far? Do you know these areas?”
“I do know them. We are next to the waterfall of Ceann Treise, ahead of us is a place called the Seventh Mile. The hills beyond the river are the Hills of the Owl.”
“And we are going South, over the river? The Ribbon joins the Yaruga near a fortress somewhere in the vicinity of Bodrog ...”
“We will go South, by the bank. Where the Ribbon tapes toward the West, we'll go through the forests. I want to get to a place called Drieschot, or the Triangle. There, the borders of Verden, Brugge and Brokilon converge.”
“And from there?”
“We'll go over the Yaruga, to the mouth. To Cintra.”
“And then?”
“And then we'll see. If at all possible, you could force your slothful Pegasus to go at a slightly faster pace.”
The rain caught up with them during the crossing, in the middle of the river. First, a violent gale sprang up, its squalls like those of a hurricane, tugging their hair and clothes, and slashing their faces with leaves and sticks torn from trees along the riverbank. They spurred their horses towards the shore with cries and blows, as water foamed around their horses hooves. As they neared the other side, the wind ceased suddenly and a gray curtain of rain fell before them. The surface of the Ribbon began to crack and boil as if someone threw billions of lead pellets from the sky.
Upon reaching the shore with great difficulty, they were transfixed by the violent downpour that had descended upon them. They hastened to seek refuge in the woods. The trees formed a canopy over their heads in a dense, green roof, however it could not protect them against such a torrent. The rain quickly soaked the leaves, the branches bowed and after a while, it was raining in the forest just as much as it was out in the open.
They wrapped themselves in layers, and put on their hoods. Among the trees there was darkness, pierced only by the lightning, which came more and more. The storm raged without end, without interruption, and in a deafening roar. Roach, who was frightened, stamped and danced. Pegasus kept an imperturbable calm.
“Geralt!” Yelled Dandelion, trying to outshout another thunder clap, rolling through the forest like a giant wagon. “Let us go! Let's seek shelter somewhere!”
“Where?” the witcher replied loudly. “Ride!”
They advanced.
After a while the rain subsided significantly, the wind sounded again in the trees, the crackling thunder ceased to bore their ears. They found themselves amongst a trail of dense alder, then came to a clearing. In the glade grew a powerful beech, under its boughs, on a thick carpet of beechnuts and bronze leaves, was a cart drawn by a pair of mules. The driver who sat on the cart, measured them with a crossbow. Geralt swore, but the thunder drowned out the sound.
“Lower the crossbow, Kolda,” said a small man in a straw hat, turning away from the trunk of the beech, hopping on one leg and buttoning his trousers. “It's not who we expected. But they are customers. Don't threaten the customers. We do not have much time, but there is always a little time to haggle!”
“What the devil?” Dandelion growled behind Geralt.
“Come closer, gentlemen elves, "cried the man in the hat. “Without fear, I'm your man. N'ess and tearth! Va, seidhe. Ceádmil! I am one of your own, understand, elf? To trade with? Well, come here, under the beechwood, it will not fall on your heads so much!”
Geralt was not surprised by the mistake. He and Dandelion were wrapped in gray cloaks that had belonged to elves. He himself wore a doublet given to him by the Dryads, patterned with the leafy motifs favored by elves, his face was partially covered by his hood and he was sitting on a horse with reins that were typically elven and characteristically decorated. As for Dandelion the dandy, he had already been mistaken a few times for an elf or half-elf, especially since he had started wearing his hair to his shoulders and occasionally used curling irons.
“Watch out,” Geralt muttered, dismounting. “You are an elf. Do not open your mouth unnecessarily.”
“Why?”
“They are hawkers.”
Dandelion inhaled sharply. He knew what they were.
Money ruled everything, and demand induced supply. The Scoia'tael that raged in the woods looted valuable items. The spoils were useless to them, however they could trade them for scarcely available equipment and weapons. Thus an itinerant forest trade was born, and with it, came the kind people who like to trade in such paralysis. Speculators who dealt with the Squirrels emerged on the sly, with their carts in the transects, trails and clearings. The elves called them hav'caaren, an untranslatable word, but associated with insatiable greed. The term “Hawker” became widespread among humans, and the connotations were even uglier. This was because they were nasty, cruel and ruthless people, who would stop at nothing, not even murder. If they were captured by the military, hawkers could not count on mercy, so they did not to show it to others. If someone crossed their path who they could sell to the soldiers, they reached for their crossbow or knife without hesitation.
Geralt and Dandelion were not in very good position, but fortunately the hawkers had taken them for elves. Geralt tightened his hood around his face and began wondering what to do when they were discovered.
“What bad weather.” The merchant rubbed his hands. “It falls as if someone made a hole in the heavens! Tedd ugly, ell'ea? But it does not matter, there is no bad time for business. There is no good and bad weather, just as there's no bad money eh, eh! Understand me elf?”
Geralt nodded. Dandelion grunted something vaguely from behind his hood. Fortunately, the contemptuous dislike elves had for conversing with people was well known and surprised nobody. The coachman however did not put down his crossbow. It was not a good sign.
“Who are you and where are you from? From which commando?” The hawker, like any serious trader, was not to be put off by the gloomy reserve shown by his customers. “From Coinneach Dá Reo? Angus Bri Cri? Or maybe Riordain? I know Riordain was seen a week ago, he'd sliced the necks of the royal bailiffs circulating the area on a cart, collecting taxes. I'm after money, not wheat. I do not take payment in tar, or grain, or clothes stained with blood - only mink, sable and ermine. But most pleasing to me is the coins, or precious stones and jewellery! If you have any, we can do business. I have first class goods! Evellienn - vara en ard scedde, ell'ea, understand me elf? I have it all. Take a look.”
The merchant approached the cart, and pulled the edge of the wet sheet. They saw swords, bows, feathered arrows and saddles. The hawker rummaged through the pile of goods, and pulled out one of the arrows. The tip was toothed and jagged.
“You will not find these anywhere else,” he said boastfully. “Not many others sell them because with spikes like that, if they get caught trading them, the soldiers will tear them to pieces. But I know what Squirrels like, and the customer is king. You cannot make business without taking risks, as long as there is triple profit of course! Back home ... they are nine orens for a dozen. Aen Naev'de tvedeane, ell'ea, you understand seidhe? I promise that it's not a scam, I earn very little myself, I swear on the heads of my children. If you take three dozen at once, well, I'll give you six percent discount! Only on this occasion of course, it is a one time offer... Hey, seidhe, get off my wagon!”
Dandelion fearfully withdrew his hand from the canvas, and pulled his hood further over his eyes. For the umpteenth time, Geralt cursed the bard's curiosity.
“Mir'me vara.” Dandelion muttered, raising his hand apologetically. “Squaess'me.”
“No offence,” the hawker grinned broadly. “But do not look in the cart. There is another, ahem, commodity, but it is not for sale, not for seidhe. That is an order! Heh, heh! Well, here we stand and chatter ... Show me the money.”
Here we go, thought Geralt, looking at the taut crossbow pointing at him. He had grounds to assume that it held the infamous hawker's specialty – a fragmenting tip, which entered the stomach a
s one, and exited the back as three, sometimes four, mincing the internal organs.
“Tedd n'ess,” he said, putting on an accent. “Tearde. Mireann vara, va'en vort. We'll be back with the commando, then we'll trade. Ell'ea? Understand dh'oine?”
“I understand.” The hawker spat. “I understand that you are miserable, and would like to take the goods, but you haven't got a penny. Get out of here! And do not come back because I have important people to meet and it would be in the interests of your own safety that they do not lay eyes on you. Get out of...”
He paused, hearing the whinny of a horse.
“The devil!” He growled. “It's too late! They are already here! Hide your faces in your hoods, elves! Do not move or breathe a sound! Kolda, you asshole, put down the crossbow, and hurry!”
The noise of the rain, thunder and the carpet of leaves muffled the rumble of hooves, allowing the riders to ride quietly and circle around the beech in the blink of an eye. They were not Scoia'tael. Squirrels do not wear armor, and the eight surrounding the tree did. Rain glistened on their helmets, shoulder pads and chain mail.
One of the riders approached the hawker, and stood over him like a mountain. He was already tall, and sat on a mighty battle stallion. His armored shoulders were covered with a wolf pelt, and his face was obscured by a helmet featuring a large nose guard that reached his lower lip. In his hand he held a menacing weapon, a warhammer.
“Rideaux!” He cried hoarsely.
“Faoiltiarna!” The trader shouted, his voice breaking slightly.
The rider came even closer and leaned over in his saddle. The rain splashed on the steel nose before falling onto the shoulder of the rider and then to the hammer head, which gleamed ominously.
“Faoiltiarna!” The hawker repeated, bowing at the waist. He took off his hat, and the rain instantly pasted the thinning hair to his skull. “Faoiltiarna! I am one of you, I know the signal and the password... I come from Faoiltiarna, your honor... I came to the meeting place under this beech, as had been arranged ...”
“These here, who are they?”
“My escort.” The hawker bowed even deeper. “This is what the elves...”
“The prisoner?”
“On the wagon. In a coffin.”
“In a coffin?” The rider wearing the helmet let out a nasal roar which was partially drowned out by the thunder. “You'll pay for this! Lord de Rideaux expressly ordered that the prisoner is to be delivered alive!”
“He's alive, he's alive,” stammered the dealer hastily. “In accordance with the orders... He was put in the coffin, but he's alive ... The coffin wasn't my idea, your honor. It was Faoiltiar...”
The rider tapped his stirrup with the hammer. Obeying the signal, three men on horseback dismounted and took off the cover of the cart. When they had thrown the blankets, saddles and harnesses to the ground, Geralt saw, in a flash of lightning, a freshly cut pine coffin. He was careful not to watch too closely however. He felt a cold tingling in the tips of his fingers. He knew what was about to happen.
“Now what shall I do?” The hawker said, looking at the mound of soaked goods on the wet leaves. “You've emptied my cart!”
“I will buy it all. Including your escort.”
“Ahhh,” a smile crept onto the overgrown mouth of the oily dealer. “Of course, that will be... Let me think ... Five hundred if, with the permission of your Excellency, you pay in Temerian currency. But if you pay in florins, then forty-five.”
“So cheap?” Snorted the horseman, a ghastly smile emerging from behind his noseguard. “Come here then.”
“Watch out, Dandelion.” The witcher whispered, discreetly undoing his jacket buckle.
It thundered.
The hawker approached the rider, naively hoping for the transaction of his life. It was to be the transaction of his life... maybe not the best, but certainly the last. The rider stood up in his stirrups, took his momentum and planted his hammer onto the bald head of the hawker. The merchant fell without a cry, shuddered, shook his hands, and tore his heels into the carpet of wet leaves. One of the horsemen ran to the cart, threw the reins around the driver's neck, and tightened them, another rushed forward, and finished the job with a dagger.
One rider quickly raised his crossbow to shoulder height, aiming for Dandelion. Geralt however, was already holding a sword he had pulled from the dealer's wagon. Seizing the weapon by the middle of the blade, he threw it like a javelin. The pierced bowman fell from his horse, still with an expression of boundless astonishment on his face.
“Run Dandelion!”
Pegasus caught up with Dandelion and with a wild leap he jumped into the saddle, but the jump was a little too wild, and the poet lacked skill. He was unable to stay in the saddle and flew to the ground on the opposite side of the horse. It still saved his life though, the attacking rider's blade cut the air with a hiss over Pegasus' ears. The gelding was startled, he stumbled, and collided with the horse of the assailant.
“They aren't elves!” Roared the rider wearing the helmet with the noseguard, drawing his sword. “Take them alive! Alive!”
One of the men who jumped from the cart, confused by this order, hesitated. Geralt, who'd had time to grab his own sword, did not make the same mistake. The ardor of the last two riders was somewhat cooled by the fountain of blood that poured on them. Geralt took the opportunity to kill a second, but the riders were already on his back again. He escaped their swords, parrying their blows, he made a dodge and suddenly felt a pressing pain in his right knee. He felt that he was falling. Yet he was not injured. Without warning, the leg that had been treated at Brokilon refused to obey him.
The man on the ground who was about to knock him out with an axe, suddenly uttered a groan and staggered, as if someone had pushed him.
Before falling, the witcher saw an arrow with long feathers stuck deep into the side of the attacker. Dandelion yelled. It was drowned out by the thunder.
Geralt, clinging to the wheel of the cart, in the brief light of the lightning, saw a girl with flaxen hair coming out of the alder, a bow in her hand. He also saw the horsemen. They could not see her however, because one of them had just went over the rump of his horse, his throat sprayed with crimson pierced by the tip of an arrow. The three remaining riders, including the commander in the helmet, realizing the danger of the situation, cried and galloped towards the archer, hiding behind the necks of their horses. They thought that the horse's necks would provide sufficient protection against the arrows. They were wrong.
Maria Barring, nicknamed Milva, stretched her bow. She measured, calmly, with the chord pressed to her face.
The first of the attackers screamed and slipped from his horse, his foot caught in the stirrup, and he was crushed by the shod hooves of his own mount. The next arrow simply swept the second rider away from the saddle. The third rider, the commander, was already close. He stood in his stirrups, and raised his sword to strike. Milva did not even flinch. She looked at her attacker fearlessly, stretched her bow and from a distance of five paces, stuck an arrow in his face, right next to the steel noseguard. The arrow passed through, the helmet dropped to the ground.
The horse slowed to a canter. Without a helmet and a large part of his skull, the rider remained in the saddle for a few moments, then slowly leaned and fell into a puddle. The horse whinnied and ran away.
Geralt got up with difficulty. He rubbed his leg, which hurt, but surprisingly, it seemed to be quite efficient. He was able to stand on it without trouble, and he could walk. Dandelion crawled up from the ground nearby, pushing away the body with the split throat, which had landed on top of him. The poet's face was the color of quicklime.
Milva approached, pulling her arrow from the dead horseman.
“Thank you.” The witcher said. “Dandelion, this is Milva Barring. Thanks to her we are still alive.”
Milva pulled another arrow from a corpse, checking the bloody tip. Dandelion muttered some indistinct words, bent down in a courteous,
though somewhat shaky bow, then fell to his knees and vomited.
“Who is he?” The archer wiped the tip on some wet leaves, and put the arrow back into her quiver. “A friend of yours witcher?”
“Yes. He's called Dandelion, he's a poet.”
“A poet.” Milva looked at the troubadour who was now dry-vomiting, then raised her eyes. “Well yes, then I understand. I do not understand however, why he is here puking, instead of sitting in a town quietly writing rhymes. Anyway, it's not my business.”
“To some extent it is your business. You saved his skin. And mine too.”
Milva wiped her face splashed with rain, in which you could still see the imprint of the chord. Although she fired several times, there was only one mark – the string was always placed at exactly the same position.
“I was already in the alder when you started talking to the hawker,” she said. “I did not want those villains to see me however, and there was no urgency. But then the others came and started all the fun. You knocked down a few, and you certainly know how to shake a sword... But you are lame, you should have stayed in Brokilon to heal your leg. If your injury gets worse, you risk a limp for the rest of your life. You are aware of this, no doubt?”
“I will survive.”
“That's what I believe, indeed. Because I was riding behind you on your trail to warn you. To warn you to turn back. Nothing will come of your journey. In the South, is war. Nilfgaard's troops march from Drieschot to Brugge.”
“How do you know?”
“Just look around you,” the girl pointed to the corpses of the men and horses with a flourish. “These are Nilfgaardians! Do you not see the sun on their helmets? The embroidery on their trappings? Gather your things, we should take to our heels, there may be more coming from downstream. These men were sent to scout the area.”
“I don't think,” he shook his head, “these men were sent to investigate. They came here for something else.”
“Why were they here then, out of curiosity?”