‘Purple buffalo. Nevertheless, thank you, Avallac’h’
‘In a way,’ the elf shrugged, ‘I am interest to see what a small stone can do if it falls between the mill stone... Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘I think not. Because I guess you can’t show me where Ciri is, right?’
‘Who said that?’
Geralt held his breath. Avallac’h walked briskly to the cave wall and motioned the witcher to follow him.
‘The walls of Tir ná Béa Arainne,’ he said pointing to the glowing crystal, ‘have unusual properties. And I have, with all due modesty, extraordinary abilities. Place your hand here. Concentrate. Think hard. About how much she needs you right now. Think about how you want to save her. The image should appear to you. And be clear. Look, but refrain from violent reactions. Do not say anything. This is a vision and you cannot communicate.’
He obeyed.
Despite the elf’s claim, the vision was not clear. The images were vague, but intense and violent and he was taken aback. Severed hands on a table... A window membrane erupting with blood... Skeletons riding skeletal horses... Yennefer, bound in chains... A tower. A Black Tower. And behind it... The Northern Lights?
Suddenly without warning, the picture became clear and sharp. Too sharp.
‘Dandelion,’ shouted Geralt. ‘Milva! Angouleme!’
‘What?’ Avallac’h became interested. ‘Ah, yes. It seems to me that you’ve destroyed everything.’
Geralt jumped back from the wall of the cave, nearly falling on the basalt floor.
‘It doesn’t matter, dammit!’ he said. ‘Listen, Avallac’h, I have to quickly get to the Druid forest.’
‘Caed Myrkvid?’
‘Yes! My friends are in mortal danger there! They are fighting for their lives! They are threatened by other people! As quickly as possible... the devil! I’m going back for my horse and sword...’
‘No horse,’ interrupted the elf calmly, ‘will be able to take you to Myrkvid Grove before nightfall...’
‘But I...’
‘I’m not finished. Go after your famous sword, while I handle your horse. A perfect mount for the mountain paths. This horse is a little, I would say, atypical... But thanks to him you will be in Caed Myrkvid with a half an hour.’
The knocker smelled like a horse, and there any resemblance ended. Geralt had once seen in Mahakam a contest organized by the dwarves where they rode wild sheep down a mountain and it had seemed to him to be the absolutely extreme sport. But now, sitting on the back of the knocker that ran like a madman, he knew what a truly extreme sport was.
To avoid falling off, he convulsively dig his fingers into the rough mattered hair and squeezed his thighs into the hairy sides of the monster. The knocker reeked of sweat, urine and vodka. It ran as if possessed, the earth shook under the blows from his huge feet, as if he had soles of bronze. Barely reducing his speed, he slid down a slope and ran so fast that the air howled threw their ears. Flying over ridges, some paths and ledges seemed so narrow that Geralt clenched shut his eyelids and did not look down. He crossed waterfalls, cascades, pits and cracks which mountain goats would not dare to jump, and each jump was accompanied by a deafening roar. That is, even more wild and deafening that usual, since the knocker raged almost without pause.
‘Slow down a little!’ the wind pushed the witcher’s words back down his throat.
‘Why?’
‘Because you’ve been drinking!’
‘UUuuuuaaaahaaaaah!’
He jumped. The wind whistled in their ears.
The knocker stunk.
The pounding of huge feet on the rocks decreased, and rocks and scree rattled less. The ground became less rocky, something green swiftly passed by that could have been a dwarf pine. It was replaced by a green and brown fir forest. The smell of resin mingled with the stench of the monster.
‘Uaaaahaaaaa!’
The green needles were left behind. Now they were surrounded by different colors – yellow, ochre, orange and red. Under the knocker’s feet leaves rustled.
‘Slow down!’
‘Uaaaahaaa!’
The knocker went through a long jump of a fallen tree. Geralt almost bit off his tongue.
The wild ride ended as abruptly as it had begun.
The knocker dug his heels into the ground, roared and slammed the witcher into the ground. Geralt while lying on the fallen leaves, gasping for breath, could not even curse. Then he got up, hissing and massaging his knee, which was in pain again.
‘You didn’t fall off,’ said the knocker, his voice filled with amazement. ‘Well, well’
Geralt said nothing.
‘Here we are,’ the knocker pointed with his hairy foot. ‘This is Caed Myrkvid.’
Below them lay a valley filled with fog. Above the fog stood the tips of trees.
‘This fog,’ the knocker anticipated his question, ‘isn’t natural. Apart from that, you can smell the smoke from here. If I was you, I’d hurry. Eeech, I would go with you... I feel the desire for a proper fight. That would be a fine parade, running to the attack with a witcher on my back! But Avallac’h forbade me to show myself. For the safety of our entire community...’
‘I know.’
‘Do not resent me because I hit you in the jaw.’
‘I don’t’
‘You’re a real man.’
‘Thank you. Also for those words.’
The knocker showed his teeth from under his red beard and exhaled the smell of vodka.
‘The pleasure has been mine.’
The fog that flooded the forest of Myrkvid was dense and had an irregular shape, reminiscent of a pile of whipped cream planted on a cake by an insane cook. The fog reminded the witcher of Brokilon. The forest of the Dryads was often covered by a magical mist for protection and camouflage. And similar to Brokilon was the solemn atmosphere of the threatening forest, there on the edges, which mostly consisted of alder and beech.
And in the same way as in Brokilon, on the edge of the forest, on a path covered with leaves, Geralt almost tripped over a bunch of corpses.
The horribly mangled bodies were not Druids or Nilfgaardians, and they certainly didn’t belong to Nightingale or Schirrú. Before Geralt entered the fog he recalled that Regis had spoken of some pilgrims. It seems for the pilgrims the journey had not ended well for someone of them.
The smell of acrid smoke and burning in the humid air was getting stronger, so he was heading in the right direction. He soon heard voices, screams and the creaking of a violin.
Geralt quickened his pace.
On the path flooded by the rain was a cart. Lying next to its wheels were more dead bodies.
One of the bandits rummaging in the cart was throwing items and tools onto the path. The second held the horses; a third was tearing from a dead pilgrim a fox-trimmed cape and a forth was sawing at a fiddle with a bow which he must have found among the loot. For nothing in the world seemed able to make him produce a clear note.
The cacophony came in handy. Hiding the sound of Geralt’s footsteps.
The music stopped abruptly, the strings of the violin gave a wrenching moan, the bandit fell onto the leaves watering them with blood. The one who held the horses even managed to scream before Sihil cut his jugular. The third thief did not managed to jump out of the cart but fell, roaring, with a slit femoral artery. The last even had time to draw his sword from its sheath. But not enough to lift it.
Geralt used his thumb to wipe the blood off of his sword.
‘Well boys,’ he said towards the forest, in the direction of the smoke. ‘That was a stupid idea. You should have listened to Nightingale and Schirrú. You should have stayed at home.’
Soon he ran into another cart and more dead. Among the many pilgrims lay slashed and chopped Druids in white robes. Smoke from the nearby fire now lay close to the ground.
This time the thieves were more alert. He only managed to get close without being noticed by one, who was
busy collecting rings and bracelets from the arm of a dead woman. Geralt, without thinking, slashed at the bandit, the bandit screamed and the other bandits, intermingled with Nilfgaardians, rushed at him with shouts.
He retreated back into the forest, using a nearby tree trunk to protect his back. But before the bandits could reach him there came the sound of horse’s hooves and from the fog emerged a giant horse covered in gold and red barding in a diagonal checkerboard pattern. The horse carried a rider in full armor, with a snow white cloak and a helmet with a visor that stretched to a point. Before the bandits managed to recover, the knight was already among them, chopping at their necks with his sword, left and right and the blood flowed like a fountain. It was a beautiful sight.
Geralt did not have time to stand idly by, for two enemies threw themselves at him, one bandit had a cheery colored doublet and the other was dress in black Nilfgaardian clothing. The bandit he sliced across the face. The Nilfgaardian, seeing teeth flying, turned on his heels and disappeared into the fog.
Geralt was almost trampled by the horse with the checkered trappings. Which galloped by without a rider.
Without hesitation, he sprang through the underbrush toward the place where he could hear shouting, cursing and blows.
Three bandits had managed to pull the knight from his saddle and were now trying to beat him. One of them stood astride the knight and beat him with an axe, the other was slashing with a sword. The third, a man with red hair, was jumping around like a rabbit and waited for an opportunity to be able to stick his triangular spear tip in between the armor plates. The fallen knight shouted something unintelligible from inside his helmet and reflect the blows with a shield which he held in both hands. After each blow from the axe, the shield was getting lower, almost pressing against his chest. It was clear that one or two more blows and the guts of the knight would flow through the cracks in the armor.
In three leaps, Geralt was in the middle of vortex, slashing the neck of the jumping redhead with the spear and opening the belly of the one with the axe. The knight, agile despite the armor, punched the third bandit in the knee with the edge of his shield and pummeled him when he fell three times in the face until blood splattered the shield. He knelt and searched among the reeds for his sword, like a huge horsefly made of metal. Suddenly he saw Geralt and froze.
‘In whose hands am I?’ a voice sounded from the depths of the helmet.
‘In the hands no one. Those that lie here were my enemies.’
‘Oh...’ The knight tried to lift the visor, but the metal was warped and the hinges were stuck. ‘On my honor! A thousand thanks for your help.’
‘For my help? After all, it was you who came to my rescue.’
‘Indeed? When?’
He didn’t see anything, thought Geralt. He did not even notice me through the holes in his helmet.
‘What is your name?’ asked the knight.
‘Geralt. Of Rivia.’
‘Coat of Arms?’
‘This is no time, sir knight, for heraldry.’
‘On my honor, you speak the truth, brave knight Geralt.’
The knight found his sword and stood. His jagged blade, like the horse’s barding, was adorned with the red gold diagonal checkerboard pattern, and each square alternately bore the letters A and H.
‘This is not my ancestral coat of arms,’ boomed the knight in explanation. ‘These are the initials of my lady, Duchess Anna Henrietta. I am called Knight of Chess. I am a knight-errant. I am not allowed to reveal my real name or coat of arms. I have made a vow of chivalry. On my honor, thank you once again, sir.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’
One of the fallen bandits moaned and rustled in the leaves. The Knight of Chess approached and stabbed him with a powerful thrust to the ground. The bandit waved his arms and legs like a spider stuck under a pin.
‘Hurry,’ said the knight. ‘Bandits still roam around here. On my honor, it is not time to rest!’
‘True,’ admitted Geralt. ‘Bandits wander through the forest, killing pilgrims and Druids. My friends are in danger...’
‘Excuse me a moment.’
Another bandit was showing signs of life and the knight pinned him to the ground. He kicked his legs so hard that his boots fell off.
‘On my honor.’ The Knight of Chess said, wiping his sword on the grass. ‘These bandits are hard to part with life! Do not be surprised, sir Geralt, that I give them an end to life. On my honor, before I would not. But these bandits recover health so quickly, that an honest man can only envy. Since I’ve had to measure myself against these rogues three times, I’ve started to finish them off carefully. So they are gone for good.’
‘I understand.’
‘As I said, I’m a knight-errant, but, on my honor, I am not vicious in spirit. Ha, here is my horse. Come, Bucephalus!’
The forest became more spacious and clear, it began to be dominated by great oaks with spreading, but rare crowns. The smoke and stench of the fire already felt close. After a while they saw it.
Reed roofed huts burned in a small village. Cloth was burning on wagons. Among the wagons, lay the dead – many were visible from a distant and wore the white robes of Druids.
Bandits and Nilfgaardians, taking cover behind wagons which they pushed before them, attached a large house that stood on stilts. The house was built of solid wood beams and covered with wood shingles arranged in a slope, which torches thrown by the bandits harmlessly slid down. The house was under siege and was successfully being defended – in front of Geralt one of the robbers inadvertently leaned out from behind the wagon and fell like a thunderbolt, struck with an arrow in the skull/
‘Your friends,’ said the Knight of Chess, ‘must be in that building! On my honor, they are in considerable difficulty. Come on, to their rescue!’
Geralt heard a loud shout and some orders, her recognized the bandit Nightingale with a bandaged face. He saw for a moment the half-elf Schirrú covering the black Nilfgaardians from behind.
Suddenly horns blared until leaves began to fall from the oaks. The sound of battle horses hooves drummed, armor shone and swords flashed of charging knights. With a roar, the bandits ran in different directions.
‘On my honor!’ growled the Knight of Chess, spurring his horse. ‘They are my comrades! They have overtaken us! To the attack, let is also gain glory! Slay, kill!’
Galloping on Bucephalus, the Knight of Chess came upon the scurrying bandits. He killed two of them and the others scattered before him like sparrows before a hawk. Two turned in Geralt’s direction. The witcher took care of them in a blink of an eye.
A third shot at him with a Gabriel. A miniature crossbow invented and built by Gabriel, a craftsman in Verden. He pioneered the slogan, ‘Protect yourself from banditry and violence’, said the advertisement. ‘The law is helpless and powerless. Protect yourself! Do not leave home without a handy Gabriel brand crossbow. Gabriel is your guardian angel, Gabriel will protect you and your loved ones from bandits,’
The demand had surpassed all expectations and the sale had achieved a true record. Soon all bandits wore a Gabriel when assaulting someone.
Geralt was a witcher and was able to dodge the arrow. However he had forgotten about the pain in his knee. The dodge was delayed by an inch and the blade-shaped tip tore his ear. The pain blinded him, but only for a moment. The bandit did not have time to tighten the crossbow and defend himself. Geralt, full of rage, cut of his hands and then spilled his guts with Sihil.
He had no time to even wipe the blood from his ear and neck when he was attacked by a small bandit with eyes like a weasel, eyes that shone unnaturally, armed with a curved Zerrikanian sabre, which he spun with skill worth of admiration. Geralt had already stopped two slashes and from the two blades poured sparks.
Weasel was quick and observant. When he saw that the witcher was limping, he began to circle him and attack from the side that was most beneficial. He was incredibly fast, the sharp blade of the sabre h
owled in attack. Geralt avoided the blows with increasing difficulty. Every time he limped, his injured leg had to bear his weight.
Weasel crouched, then suddenly jumped up, made a clever feint followed by lighting slashes and lunges. Geralt was able to repulse him. The agile bandit moved into a position to launch a dangerous low cut, when suddenly his eyes shut, he sneezed loudly and mucus ran from his nose, at the time dropping his guard. The witcher quickly slashed him in the neck, the blade going all the way to his spine.
‘Whatever anyone says,’ he said looking at the expiring bandit, ‘that drugs use is extremely dangerous.’
A bandit who was coming at him with a club raise over his head, tripped and fell with his nose into the mud, an arrow protruding from his groin.
‘I’m coming, witcher!’ Milva cried. ‘I’m coming! Hold on!’
Geralt turned around, but there was no one to fight. Milva shot the last remaining bandit in the area. The rest had fled into the woods, chased by the colorful knights. A number of them were being pursued by the Knight of Chess. He disappeared among the trees but they could still hear the roars of his belligerent.
One of the Nilfgaardians, not quite dead, rose suddenly and rushed to escape. Milva quickly rose and drew her bow. The arrow whistled, hitting the fleeing man between the shoulder blades.
The archer sighed.
‘We will be hanged,’ she said.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘This is Nilfgaard. And for the last two months, we have killed mostly Nilfgaardians.’
‘This is Toussaint, not Nilfgaard.’ Geralt felt the side of his head and took his hand away covered in blood. ‘Fuck. What has happened there? Look, Milva.’
The archer looked at the damage with a critical eye.