‘I’m hungry,’ squeaked Ciri obediently, blanching slightly. The innkeeper stopped, looked at her in a friendly way, and then looked around at the revellers.
‘Can I give her some food, sir?’
‘Bugger off!’ yelled Skomlik indistinctly, flushing and spitting scrambled eggs. ‘Get away from her, you bloody spit-turner, before I wrench your legs off! None of that! And you sit still, you gadabout, or I’ll—’
‘Hey, Skomlik, are you sodding crazy, or what?’ interrupted Vercta, struggling to swallow a slice of bread piled high with onions. ‘Look at him, boys, the skinflint. He stuffs himself on other people’s money, but stints on a young girl. Give her a bowl, innkeeper. I’m paying, and I decide who gets it and who doesn’t. And if anyone doesn’t like it, he may get a smack in his bristly chops.’
Skomlik flushed even more, but said nothing.
‘That’s reminded me,’ added Vercta. ‘We must feed the Rat, so he won’t collapse on the road, or the baron would flay us alive, trust me. The wench can feed him. Hey, innkeeper! Knock up some grub for them! And you, Skomlik, what are you grumbling about? What’s not to your liking?’
‘She needs to be watched,’ said the Trapper, nodding at Ciri, ‘because she’s a strange kind of bird. Were she a normal wench, then Nilfgaard wouldn’t be chasing after her, nor the prefect offering a reward . . .’
‘We can soon find out if she’s ordinary or not,’ chuckled the fat one with the topknot. ‘We just need to look between her legs! How about it, boys? Shall we take her to the barn for a while?’
‘Don’t you dare touch her!’ snapped Skomlik. ‘I won’t allow it!’
‘Oh, really? Like we’re going to ask you!’
‘I’m putting the bounty and my head on the line, to deliver her there in one piece! The prefect of Amarillo—’
‘Fuck your prefect. We’re paying for your drinks and you’re denying us some fun? Hey, Skomlik, don’t be a cheapskate! And you won’t get into trouble, never fear, nor will you miss out on the reward! You’ll deliver her in one piece. A wench isn’t a fish bladder, it doesn’t pop from being squeezed!’
The Nissirs burst into loud chuckles. Skomlik’s companions chimed in. Ciri shuddered, went pale and raised her head. Kayleigh smiled mockingly.
‘Understand now?’ he hissed from his faintly smiling mouth. ‘When they get drunk, they’ll start on you. They’ll rape you. We’re in the same boat. Do what I told you. If I escape, you will too . . .’
‘Grub up!’ called the innkeeper. He didn’t have a Nilfgaardian accent. ‘Come and get it, miss!’
‘A knife,’ whispered Ciri, taking the bowl from him.
‘What?’
‘A knife. And fast.’
‘If it’s not enough, take more!’ said the innkeeper unnaturally, sneaking a glance at the diners and putting more groats into the bowl. ‘Be off with you.’
‘A knife.’
‘Be off or I’ll call them . . . I can’t . . . They’ll burn down the inn.’
‘A knife.’
‘No. I feel sorry for you, missy, but I can’t. I can’t, you have to understand. Go away . . .’
‘No one,’ she said, repeating Kayleigh’s words in a trembling voice, ‘will get out of here alive. A knife. And fast. And when it all starts, get out of here.’
‘Hold the bowl, you clod!’ yelled the innkeeper, turning to shield Ciri with his body. He was pale and his jaws were chattering slightly. ‘Nearer the frying pan.’
She felt the cold touch of a kitchen knife, which he was sliding into her belt, covering the handle with her jacket.
‘Very good,’ hissed Kayleigh. ‘Sit so that you’re covering me. Put the bowl on my lap. Take the spoon in your left hand and the knife in your right. And cut through the twine. Not there, idiot. Under my elbow, near the post. Be careful, they’re watching.’
Ciri’s throat went dry. She lowered her head almost to the bowl.
‘Feed me and eat yourself.’ The green eyes staring from half-closed lids hypnotised her. ‘And keep cutting. As if you meant it, little one. If I escape, you will too . . .’
True, thought Ciri, cutting through the twine. The knife smelled of iron and onion, and the blade was worn down from frequent sharpening. He’s right. Do I know where those scoundrels will take me? Do I know what that Nilfgaardian prefect wants from me? Maybe a torturer’s waiting for me in Amarillo, or perhaps the wheel, gimlets and pincers. Red-hot irons . . . I won’t let them lead me like a lamb to the slaughter. Better to take a chance . . .
A tree stump came crashing in through the window, taking the frame and broken glass with it. It landed on the table, wreaking havoc among the bowls and mugs. The tree stump was followed by a young woman with close-cropped fair hair in a red doublet and high, shiny boots reaching above the knee. Crouching on the table, she whirled a sword around her head. One of the Nissirs, the slowest, who hadn’t managed to get up or jump out of the way, toppled over backwards with the bench, blood spurting from his mutilated throat. The girl rolled nimbly off the table, making room for a boy in a short, embroidered sheepskin jacket to jump in through the window.
‘It’s the Raaats!!’ yelled Vercta, struggling with his sword, which was entangled in his belt.
The fat one with the topknot drew his weapon, jumped towards the girl who was kneeling on the floor, and swung. But the girl, even though she was on her knees, deftly parried the blow, spun away, and the boy in the sheepskin jacket who had jumped in after her slashed the Nissir hard across the temple. The fat man fell to the floor, suddenly as limp as a palliasse.
The inn door was kicked open and two more Rats burst inside. The first was tall and dark, dressed in a studded kaftan and a scarlet headband. He sent two Trappers to opposite corners with swift blows of his sword and then squared off with Vercta. The second, broad-shouldered and fair-haired, ripped open Remiz, Skomlik’s brother-in-law, with a sweeping blow. The others rushed to escape, heading for the kitchen door. But the Rats were already entering that way too; a dark-haired girl in fabulously coloured clothes suddenly erupted from the kitchen. She stabbed one of the Trappers with a rapid thrust, forced back another with a moulinet, and then hacked the innkeeper down before he had time to identify himself.
The inn was full of uproar and the clanging of swords. Ciri hid behind the post.
‘Mistle!’ shouted Kayleigh, tearing apart the partially cut twine and struggling with the strap still binding his neck to the post. ‘Giselher! Reef! Over here!’
The Rats were busy fighting, though, and only Skomlik heard Kayleigh’s cry. The Trapper turned around and prepared to thrust, intending to pin the Rat to the post. Ciri reacted instinctively, like lightning, as she had during the fight with the wyvern in Gors Velen and on Thanedd. All the moves she had learnt in Kaer Morhen happened automatically, almost without her conscious control. She jumped out from behind the post, whirled into a pirouette, fell on Skomlik and struck him powerfully with her hip. She was too small and lightly built to shove the hefty Trapper back, but she was able to disrupt the rhythm of his movement. And draw his attention towards her.
‘You bitch!’
Skomlik took a swing, his sword wailing through the air. Once again, Ciri’s body instinctively made a graceful evasive manoeuvre and the Trapper almost lost his balance, lunging after his thrusting blade. Swearing foully, he struck again, putting all his strength behind the blow. Ciri dodged nimbly, landing surely on her left foot, and whirled into a pirouette in the other direction. Skomlik slashed again, but again was unable to make contact.
Vercta suddenly fell between them, spattering them both with blood. The Trapper stepped back and looked around. He was surrounded by dead bodies. And by the Rats, who were approaching from all sides with drawn swords.
‘Don’t move,’ said the dark one in the red headband, finally releasing Kayleigh. ‘It looks like he really wants to hack that girl to death. I don’t know why. Nor why he hasn’t managed to yet. But let’s give him a chance, seei
ng as he wants it so much.’
‘Let’s give her a chance too, Giselher,’ said the broad-shouldered one. ‘Let it be a fair fight. Give her some hardware, Iskra.’
Ciri felt the hilt of a sword in her hand. It was a little too heavy for her.
Skomlik panted furiously, and lunged at her, brandishing his blade in a flashing moulinet. He was slow. Ciri dodged the blows which began raining down on her using quick feints and half turns, without even attempting to parry them. Her sword merely served her as a counterweight for her evasive manoeuvres.
‘Incredible,’ laughed the girl with the close-cropped hair. ‘She’s an acrobat!’
‘She’s fast,’ said the colourful girl who had given Ciri the sword. ‘Fast as a she-elf. Hey, you, fatty! Perhaps you’d prefer one of us? You’re getting no change out of her!’
Skomlik withdrew, looked around, then suddenly leapt forward, trying to stab Ciri with a thrust like a heron seizing its prey. Ciri avoided the thrust with a short feint and spun away. For a second she saw a swollen, pulsating vein on Skomlik’s neck. She knew that in that position he wouldn’t be able to avoid the blow or parry it. She knew where and how to strike.
But she did not strike.
‘That’s enough.’
She felt a hand on her shoulder. The girl in the colourful costume shoved her aside, and at the same time two other Rats – the one in the short sheepskin coat and the close-cropped one – pushed Skomlik into the corner of the inn, blocking him in with their swords.
‘Enough of this lark,’ repeated the flamboyantly dressed girl, turning Ciri towards herself. ‘It’s going on too long. And you’re to blame, miss. You could’ve killed him, but you didn’t. I don’t think you’ll live long.’
Ciri shuddered, looking into the huge, dark, almond-shaped eyes, seeing the teeth exposed in a smile. Teeth so small they made the smile seem ghoulish. Neither the eyes nor the teeth were human. The colourful girl was an elf.
‘Time to run,’ said Giselher, the one in the scarlet headband, sharply. He was clearly the leader. ‘It’s indeed taking too long! Mistle, finish off the bastard.’
The close-cropped girl approached, raising her sword.
‘Mercy!’ screamed Skomlik, falling on his knees. ‘Spare my life! I have young children . . . Very young . . .’
The girl struck savagely, twisting at the hips. Blood splashed the whitewashed wall in a wide, irregular arc of crimson flecks.
‘I can’t stand little children,’ said the close-cropped girl, wiping blood off the fuller with a quick movement of her fingers.
‘Don’t just stand there, Mistle,’ urged the one in the scarlet headband. ‘To horse! We must fly! It’s a Nilfgaardian settlement; we don’t have any friends here!’
The Rats sped out of the inn. Ciri didn’t know what to do, but she didn’t have time to think. Mistle, the close-cropped one, pushed her towards the door.
Outside the inn, among pieces of broken beer mugs and chewed bones, lay the bodies of the Nissirs who had been guarding the entrance. Settlers armed with lances were running up from the village, but at the sight of the Rats bursting out of the inn they disappeared among the cottages.
‘Can you ride?’ yelled Mistle at Ciri.
‘Yes . . .’
‘So let’s go. Grab a horse and ride! There’s a bounty on our heads and this is a Nilfgaardian village! They’re all grabbing bows and spears! Jump on and follow Giselher! Keep to the middle of the track and stay away from the cottages!’
Ciri hurdled a low fence, seized the reins of one of the Trappers’ horses, jumped into the saddle, and slapped the horse on the rump with the flat of the sword, which had never left her hand. She set off at a swift gallop, overtaking Kayleigh and the flamboyant elf they called Iskra. She raced with the Rats towards the mill. She saw a man with a crossbow emerging from behind one of the cottages, aiming at Giselher’s back.
‘Cut him down!’ she heard from behind her. ‘Have him, girl!’
Ciri leaned back in the saddle, forcing the galloping horse to change direction with a tug of the reins and pressure from her heels, and swung her sword. The man with the crossbow turned around at the last moment and she saw his face contorted in terror. Ciri’s arm, which was raised to strike, hesitated for a moment, which was enough for the galloping horse to carry her past him. She heard the clang of the bowstring being released. Her horse squealed, its croup twitched and it reared up. Ciri jumped, wrenching her feet from the stirrups and landed nimbly, dropping into a crouch. Iskra, galloping up, leaned out of the saddle to swing powerfully, and slashed the crossbowman across the back of his head. He fell to his knees, toppled forward and fell headlong into a puddle, splashing mud. The wounded horse neighed and thrashed around beside him, finally rushing off between the cottages, kicking vigorously.
‘You idiot!’ yelled the she-elf, passing Ciri at full pelt. ‘You bloody idiot!’
‘Jump on!’ screamed Kayleigh, riding over to her. Ciri ran up and seized the outstretched hand. The impetus jerked her, her shoulder joint creaking, but she managed to jump onto the horse and cling to the fair-haired Rat. They galloped off, overtaking Iskra. The elf turned back, pursuing one more crossbowman, who had thrown down his weapon and fled towards some barn doors. Iskra caught him with ease. Ciri turned her head away. She heard the mutilated crossbowman howl briefly and savagely, like an animal.
Mistle caught them up, pulling a saddled riderless horse behind her. She shouted something which Ciri didn’t hear properly, but understood at once. She let go of Kayleigh, jumped onto the ground at full speed, and ran over to the horse, which was dangerously close to some buildings. Mistle threw her the reins, looked around and shouted a warning. Ciri turned around just in time to avoid the treacherous thrust of a spear, dealt by a stocky settler who had appeared from behind a pigsty, with a nimble half turn.
What happened later haunted her dreams for a long time after. She remembered everything, every movement. The half turn which saved her from the spear blade placed her in an ideal position. The spearman was leaning well forward, unable either to jump away or to protect himself with the spear shaft he was holding in both hands. Ciri thrust flat, spinning the opposite way in a half turn. For a moment, she saw a mouth open to scream in a face with the bristle of several days of beard growth. She saw the forehead lengthened by a bald patch, fair-skinned above the line where a cap or hat had protected it from the sun. And then everything she saw was blotted out by a fountain of blood.
She was still holding the horse by the reins, but the horse shied, howling, and thrashed around, knocking her to her knees. Ciri did not release the reins. The wounded man moaned and wheezed, thrashing about convulsively among the straw and muck, and blood spurted from him as though from a stuck pig. She felt her gorge rising.
Right alongside, Iskra reined back her horse. Seizing the reins of the still stamping, riderless horse, she tugged, pulling Ciri – still clutching the reins – up onto her feet.
‘Into the saddle!’ she yelled. ‘Get out of here!’
Ciri fought back nausea and jumped into the saddle. There was blood on the sword, which she was still holding. She struggled to overcome the desire to throw the weapon as far away as she could.
Mistle rushed out from between some cottages, chasing two men. One of them managed to get away, leaping over a fence, but the second, hit by a short thrust, fell to his knees, clutching his head in both hands.
Mistle and Iskra leapt into a gallop, but a moment later pulled up their horses, bracing themselves in their stirrups, because Giselher and the other Rats were returning from near the mill. Behind them rushed a pack of armed settlers, yelling loudly to summon up their courage.
‘After us!’ yelled Giselher, riding past at full speed. ‘After us, Mistle! To the river!’
Mistle, leaning over to one side, tugged on her reins, turned her horse back and galloped after him, clearing some low wattle fences. Ciri pressed her face against her horse’s mane and set off after her. Isk
ra galloped along beside her. The speed blew her beautiful, dark hair around, revealing a small, pointed ear decorated with a filigree earring.
The man wounded by Mistle was still kneeling in the middle of the road, rocking back and forth and holding his bloody head in both hands. Iskra wheeled her horse around, galloped up to him and struck downwards with her sword, powerfully, with all her strength. The wounded man wailed. Ciri saw his severed fingers fly up like woodchips from a chopping block and fall onto the ground like fat, white grubs.
She barely overcame the urge to vomit.
Mistle and Kayleigh waited for them by a gap in the stockade; the rest of the Rats were already far away. The foursome set off in a hard, fast gallop, and hurtled across the river, splashing water which spurted up above the horses’ heads. Leaning forward, pressing their cheeks against the horses’ manes, they climbed up a sandy slope and then flew across a meadow, purple with lupines. Iskra, riding the fastest horse, took the lead.
They raced into a forest, into damp shade, between the trunks of beeches. They had caught up with Giselher and the others, but they only slowed for a moment. After crossing the forest and reaching moorland, they once again set off at a gallop. Soon Ciri and Kayleigh had been left behind, the Trappers’ horses unable to keep pace with the beautiful, pedigree mounts the Rats were riding. Ciri had an additional difficulty; she could barely reach the big horse’s stirrups, and at a gallop was unable to adjust the stirrup leathers. She could ride without stirrups as well as she could with, but knew that in that position she would not be able to endure a gallop for long.
Fortunately, after a few minutes, Giselher slowed the pace and stopped the leading group, letting Ciri and Kayleigh catch up with them. Ciri slowed to a trot. She still couldn’t shorten the stirrup leathers, since there were no holes in the straps. Without slowing, she swung her right leg over the pommel and switched to side-saddle.
Mistle, seeing the girl’s riding position, burst out laughing.
‘Do you see, Giselher? She isn’t only an acrobat, she’s a circus rider, too! Eh, Kayleigh, where did you happen upon this she-devil?’