He clattered onto the planks of the pier. He tumbled, rolled and dived into the water, among the fishing boats and barges. The thick chains which were still attached to his right wrist, dragged him to the bottom. Faoiltiarna fought with all his strength to fight for his life, that until recently he thought he hadn’t cared about.
‘Catch him!’ the soldiers tore out of the shed. ‘Catch him! Kill him!’
‘There!’ shouted others, coming from further down the pier. ‘To the boats!’
‘Shoot him!’ shouted the civilian hoarsely, trying to stem the blood with both hands that flowed from his eye. ‘Kill him!’
He heard the click of crossbows. Gulls flew past, squealing.
The dirty water between the barges began to spay with the impact of arrows.
‘Hurray!’ The parade was lengthening and the multitudes of Novigrad were showing symptoms of fatigue and hoarseness. ‘Hurray!’
‘Glory to the kings!’
Philippa Eilhart looked around, making sure that no one unauthorized was listening and leaned in towards Dijkstra.
‘What did you want to talk to me about?’
The spy also looked around.
‘The assassination of King Vizimir in July last year.’
‘I’m listening’
‘The half-elf who murdered the king,’ Dijkstra lowered his voice even more, ‘was definitely crazy. But he was not alone.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Quiet,’ hissed Dijkstra. ‘Hush, Phil.’
‘Do not call me Phil. Do you have evidence? What? From where?’
‘You’d be surprised, Phil, if I told you where. When can I expect an audience with Your Ladyship?’
Philippa Eilhart’s eyes were like two black bottomless lakes.
‘Soon, Dijkstra.’
Bells rang. The crowd cheered hoarsely. The troops marched. The petals of flowers fell like snowflakes on the pavement of Novigrad.
'Are you still writing?'
Ori Reuven flinched and made a splash. He had served Dijkstra for nineteen years, but he was still not used to the stealthy movements of his boss, his sudden appearance and where or how he did it.
'Good evening, ahem, ahem, my lord...'
'Shadow People,' Dijkstra read the front of the manuscript that he had taken from the table. 'Or the story of His Majesty's Secret Service, written by Oribasius Gianfranco Paolo Reuven, law grad... Oh, Ori. At your age, such nonsense...'
'Ahem, ahem...'
'I came to say goodbye, Ori.'
Reuven looked at him in amazement.
'You see, my faithful friend,' said the spy, without waiting for the clerk to cough, 'I am old, and besides that, I am stupid. I said a word to one person. Only one. And only one word. It was one word too many, and one person too many. Pay attention, Ori. Do you hear?'
Ori Reuven rolled his astonished eyes and shook his head. Dijkstra was silent for a moment.
'You do not hear,' he said after a moment. 'And I hear them. In the corridors. Rats running around the city of Tretogor. Here we have them. Approaching on their soft little paws.'
They emerged from the darkness of the shadows. Black, masked and fast as rats. The guards and sentries in the antechamber succumbed without a cry to the lightning strikes of their stilettos with narrow angular edges.
Blood ran over the floor of the Palace of Tretogor, on its swept and stain wooden floors, seeping into the rare carpets from Vengerberg.
They came down all corridors, leaving a trail of corpses.
'There,' said one, pointing to a door. His voice was muffled by a scarf that covered his face up to his eyes. 'Through there. Through the office where old Reuven works.'
'There is no escape,' said the one who was in charge, his eyes shone through the velvet masks openings. 'Behind the desk is a blind room, it does not even have a window.'
'All the corridors are covered. All the doors and all the windows. He cannot escape. He is in our trap.'
'Forward!'
The door swung open and weapons gleamed.
'Death! Death to the murderous torturer!'
'Ahem, ahem?' Ori Reuven rolled his myopic and fearful eyes. 'What do you want? How can I, ahem, ahem, help you, gentlemen?'
The murderers went to the door to Dijkstra's private chamber rushing around the room like rats, penetrating every nook and cranny. They flew over the floor, picking at tapestries, painting and panels. With their stilettos they tore the curtains and upholstery.
'He's gone!' shouted one, running from the office. 'He's gone!'
'Where is he?' asked the leader, leaning over Ori and drilling him with a look from behind the holes of his black mask. 'Where is that bloody dog?'
'Not here,' said Ori Reuven, without fear. 'You can see that for yourself.'
'Where is he? Speak up! Where is he?'
'I don't know, ahem, ahem,' Ori coughed. 'Am I my brother's keeper?'
'You will die, old man!'
'I am an old man. I'm sick. And very tired. Ahem, ahem. I do not have any fear of your knifes.'
The murderers left the room at a run. And disappeared as quickly as they appeared.
They did not kill Ori Reuven. They were following orders. And among those orders where nothing concerning Ori Reuven.
Oribasius Gianfranco Paolo Reuven, spent six years in various prisons, interrogated repeatedly by successive judges, who questioned him on various topics, which often did not seem to make any sense.
After six years he was released. At that time he was very ill. Scurvy had left him without teeth, anemia hairless, glaucoma sightless and asthma without breath.
During the interrogation they broke the fingers on both hands.
He lived for less than a year in the wild. He died in a temple hospice. In misery. Forgotten.
The manuscript of his book Shadow People, or the story of His Majesty's Secret Service disappeared without a trace.
The sky was getting light to the east, the tops of the trees had a pale aura that heralded dawn.
There had been silence around the bonfire for a long time. the pilgrim, the elf and the tracker watched the dying fire and said nothing.
Elskerdeg was again silent. The howling specter had moved on, tired of howling at them, having finally understood that the three individuals sitting around the fire had seen too many horrors to worry about a single specter.
'If we are to travel together,' Boreas Mun said suddenly, his eyes still lingering on the embers of the fire, glowing ruby-red, 'we ought to overcome our misgivings. Leave behind everything that happened. the world has changed. We have a new life ahead of us. Something ends, something begins... We hoped...'
He paused and coughed. He was not used to talking about these things and was afraid of ridicule. But his companions were not taking it as a joke or laughing. On the contrary, Boreas felt warmth emanating from them.
'We hoped that beyond Elskerdeg Pass,' he continued, 'that the we will be safer in Zerrikania or Haakland. We expect a long and dangerous journey. If we are going to explore it together... we must overcome our misgivings. My name is Boreas Mun.'
The pilgrim with the brimmed hat stood, straightening his powerful frame, and shook the outstretched hand towards him. The elf also rose. A strange grimace appeared on his macabre disfigured face.
After shaking hands with the tracker, the pilgrim and the elf also shook hands.
'The world has changed,' said the pilgrim. 'Something ends. I'm Sigi Reuven.'
'Something begins,' the elf with the scarred face grimaced in what, according to all indications, was a smile. 'My name is... Wolf Isengrim.'
They shook hands quickly. forcefully, even with abruptness.
For a moment it seemed like a preamble to a battle, more than a gesture of harmony. But only for a moment. The wood in the fire threw up sparks, celebrating the event with lively fireworks.
'The evil take me,' grinned Boreas Mun, 'if it's not the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
...As well as many of the other faithful, St. Philippa was also besmirched with betraying the Kingdom, inducing riots and plotting a coup. Willemer, a heretic and sectarian, unlawfully appointed himself the title of archpriest, and ordered St. Philippa to be thrown into a dark dungeon, and to plague her with cold and hunger, until she confessed to her sins of which she was accused and repented. Also various instruments of torture were used to try and break her spirit. But ST. Philippa with distain, spit in his face and accused him of sodomy.
The heretic had her disrobed and whipped her with barbed wire and placed sharp splinters under her nails. While unceasingly preaching about his faith and denouncing the Goddess. But St. Philippa laughed at him and recommended to him to heal his sick mind.
Willemer then gave the order to have her taken to the rack and stretched, while tearing her body with sharp hooks and burning her with candles. Although thus tormented, St. Philippa showed no weakness in body and indeed her resistance and endurance seemed almost superhuman. The executioner’s arms went limp and with fear they retreated from her. Then the filthy heretic, Willemer, began to threaten them and told them to continue the torment. They burned St. Philippa with red-hot irons, pulled her limbs out of their joints and pulled at her breasts with blacksmith tongs. And although she passed away from this torment, she confessed nothing.
The shameless heretic Willemer, we read in the books of our holy fathers, later suffered for this punishment and it was that lice and worms began to eat him alive, his entrails rotted away and he died miserably. His carcass carried with it a foul stench and nobody wanted to bury him, and so he was dropped in a swamp.
For the suffering and death of St. Philippa the eternal memory of a martyr’s crown rightfully belongs. Let us give the Great Mother Goddess praise for her lessons and teachings. Amen.
The life of St. Philippa, martyr of Mons Calvus,
From the Book of Martyrs compiled in the Breviary of Tretogor,
For the contemplation of the holy fathers and mothers.
They galloped at breakneck speeds like madmen. They rode through vibrant spring days. The horses were flying, and people who were toiling, straightened their bent necks and backs and could not believe their eyes – did they just see riders or ghosts?
They galloped at night, in the dark, damp nights and through the warm rain. People awoke in bed and looked around terrified, fighting against the pain that grew in them, in their throats and chests. They jumped out of bed at the sound of the pounding of the shutters, the crying of the children and the howls of the dogs. They peered through the windows, not believing their eyes – were these riders or ghosts?
In Ebbing stories began to circulate about the three demons.
The trio of riders appeared suddenly, out of nowhere, as if by magic, catching by surprise The Lame, who had no opportunity to escape. Neither did he have time to turn for help. More than five hundred paces separated the cripple from the first row of house of the village. Even if it were closer, the cripple would receive no help from the residents of Jealousy. It was siesta time, which in this sleepy hamlet usually lasted from late morning to early evening.
Aristotle Bobeck, nicknamed the Lame, a local beggar and philosopher knew that during siesta time the villagers would not respond anything.
The riders were three. Two women and a man. The man had white hair and a sword lying across his back. One of the women was dressed in black and white and had inky black, curly hair. The youngest, had ashen hair and a disfiguring scar on her cheek. She rode a beautiful black mare. The Lame had a sense of seeing the horse before.
The youngest girl spoke first.
‘Are you from here?’
‘I did nothing,’ said the Lame, his teeth chattering. ‘I collect morels here. Have pity, do not hurt a cripple.’
‘Are you from here?’ she repeated, her green eyes flashing with warning.
The Lame started to cringe.
‘Yes, my lady,’ he said. ‘I come from here, from Birka. I mean, Jealousy. I was born here and here I will surely die...’
‘Were you here last summer and fall?’
‘Where else would I be?’
‘Do not answer me with questions!’
‘I was here, my lady.’
The black mare shook its head and pricked up its ears. The cripple felt the glares from the white haired and the black haired woman sting like thorns. He feared the white haired man the most.
‘Last year,’ the girl with the scar told the cripple, ‘in September, more specifically September ninth, during the first quarter of the moon, six young people were murdered here. Four boys... And two girls. Do you remember this?’
The Lame swallowed. He suspected for some time, now he was sure.
The girl had changed. It was not just the scar on her face. She was not the same now as she was back then when she was tied to the pole and Bonhart forced her to watch as he cut the heads off of the Rats. Not the same as when she was forced to undress in the Chimera’s Head Inn and the Bounty Hunter beat her. Those eyes... Those eyes had changed.
‘Speak!’ snapped the woman with the black hair. ‘Tell us what we ask!’
‘I remember, my lady,’ said the Lame. ‘I remember the six kids being killed. Last year it was. In September.’
The girl was silent for a while. Not looking at him but at some point in the distance, above his shoulder.
‘So, you most likely know...’ she said at last, with effort, ‘where the young ones where buried. At the bottom of which stockade... under which dumpster or what dunghill... Or if the bodies were burned... If they were taken to the forest and left for the foxes and wolves... Take me there. Do you understand?’
‘I understand, my lady. Follow me, it is a short walk.’
He limped forward and felt the hot breath of the horses on the nape of his neck. He never looked up. Something told him that he should not.
‘Here we are,’ he pointed after a while. ‘This is our village cemetery. And here are the ones that you asked about, Lady Falka.’
She took a deep breath. The Lame look at her to see the expression on her face. Black-hair and white-hair were silent, their faces like stone. She stared at the long low mound of the common grave, neat, tidy and topped with sandstone slabs. The spruce that had adorned the mound was discolored and the flowers that someone had placed here long ago were now dry and yellowish.
The girl jumped down from her horse.
‘Who?’ the girl asked quietly, still staring at the mound.
‘Well,’ the Lame cleared his throat, ‘a lot of the locals from Jealousy contributed. But mostly it was the widow Goulue and young Nycklar. The widow has always been a good and kind woman. And Nycklar... he was haunted by terrible dreams. Until he gave the dead a proper burial.’
‘Where can I find the widow and Nycklar?’
The Lame was silent for a long moment.
‘The widow is here buried behind that twisted birch,’ he said finally, looking fearlessly into the green eyes of the girl. ‘She was taken by pneumonia this winter. And Nycklar was drafted into the army. We heard that he supposedly died in the war.’
‘I had forgotten,’ she whispered. ‘Forgotten that their fate had been linked to mine.’
She approached the mound and knelt, or rather fell to the ground. She bent low, almost touching her face to the sandstone slabs. The Lame noticed that the white haired man made a motion as if to dismount, but the dark-haired lady caught him by the arm and held him with a gesture and a gaze.
The horses snorted, tossing their heads and rattling their bridles.
For a long time the girl knelt over the graves, he lips moving in a silent litany. She rose, faltered. The Lame inadvertently caught her elbow. She started strongly, and yanked her arm away. She looked at him angrily through her tears. But did not say a word. She even nodded with thanks when he held her stirrup.
‘Well, my lady Falka,’ he dared. ‘The strange wheel of destiny is turning. You
were at that time in a dreadful position. Few of us here in Jealousy thought that you’d escape with your life. And here you are today, alive and well, while Goulue and Nycklar are in the other world. Who can you express your gratitude to for the grave...’
‘My name is not Falka,’ she said sharply. ‘My name is Ciri. And in regards to my gratitude...’
‘You can feel honored because of her,’ the dark-haired one spoke chillingly, making the Lame shiver. ‘For her grace, for humanity has come to you all, to your entire village, and that is your reward. And you do not know how big that is.’
On the ninth of April, shortly after midnight, the first inhabitants of Claremont awakened to a bright red glow flickering through the widows of their homes. The rest of the inhabitants of the town rushed out of bed to screaming, a commotion and the ringing of an alarm bell.
Only one of the buildings were on fire. A large wooden building of the former temple, once dedicated to a deity, whose name was not even remembered by the oldest of old women. The temple, had now converted into a amphitheatre, which occasionally held circus spectacles, fighting and other diversions used to pull the Claremont villagers out of boredom, melancholy and lethargy.
The amphitheatre was now in flames and shaking with explosions. From all the windows shot tongues of flames.
‘Put it out! Roared the owner of the amphitheatre, a merchant named Houvenaghel, running about and waving his hands, his powerful paunch shaking. He was in a nightcap and a heavy fur-lined coat which he had thrown on over his dressing gown. He ran barefoot through the mud in the streets.
‘Put it out! Men! Get water!’
‘This is the punishment of the gods,’ said one old lady. ‘For the grievances that took place in their former abode.’
‘Aye, aunt. It certainly is.’
From the burning building radiated heat which evaporated puddles of stinking horse urine, with hissing sparks. Suddenly a wind sprang up.