A Hundred Years and One More Day

The Nilfgaardian horsemen emerge from a turning hidden by thick fog. Cahir, riding a little behind, is the first to notice them. Letting out a desperate whistle, he spurs his horse on and draws his sword. The working horse, unaccustomed to war dressage, neighs angrily, rearing up and almost throwing off the rider, and races forward with all its might. Ciri’s bay horse is quick to follow. And just in time: the first arrow whistles just above the witcher’s ear. The second hits the rocks under the horses’ hooves. The third pierces Cahir’s knapsack. “Hold it, you fuckers! Take ‘em alive!” hears the former officer. He exhales: this order gives them a chance to make it. Whatever the outcome. The country road is winding; the smoking horses, galloping for the first time in their lives, struggle with sharp turns. The Nilfgaardian helmets flash closer and closer. One of the soldiers whistles boisterously, spurring the others on. Snorting, their horses get lower to the ground and go faster. They sense it: the end of the race is near. Ciri, galloping ahead, glances back to cast a desperate look at Cahir. He can feel her fear with his own skin, fear that burns his heart. He knows: he must do everything to prevent the witcher from falling into the hands of the Nilfgaardians. He doesn’t matter; he’s secondary. They will just kill him. What awaits Cirilla is much worse. So he has to buy her some time, whatever the cost. The Vikovarian sharply turns his horse around. The beast gives out a painful neigh and rears up, almost falling over on its back. Its front hooves touch the ground before the leading rider of the Black squad runs into the horse’s side. The plan has worked just fine: the cavalryman, who did not expect such a suicidal manoeuvre, bashes into Cahir and his horse. Failing to withstand the collapse, the horse falls on its side, dragging the rider with it. The Vikovarian, already on alert, jumps out of the saddle with one deft, almost witcher-like movement. He manages to prevent the worst of the falling and rolls to the side of the road while the Nilfgaardian horses, racing at full speed, crash one by one into the instantly formed hodgepodge of horses and men. Wheezing and neighing mix with screaming and groaning. The desperately squirming pile of bodies and steel block the way for the others. One of the horsemen almost crawls out from under his convulsing horse before its hoof smashes the winged helmet and turns his skull into a mess of blood and bone. The newly arrived horsemen manage to find their bearings just in time and quickly dismount, forming an orderly arc. None of them bothered to help their wounded comrades. Cahir guesses why: this means they are ordered to take them alive at any cost. He squares off, using the horse's corpse to cover his back. “Surrender, traitor, and no one will get hurt,” a voice, hoarse from riding and muffled by a metal helmet, comes from behind the backs of the soldiers. An officer, then. The Vikovarian does not respond, and only tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword. He knows: he stands no chance. His job is to buy time for Ciri. If only a couple of minutes. Maybe then her strange gift will allow her to teleport someplace farther from here. Someplace beyond the reach of the cavalry that has made a detour and that of Emhyr. The first soldier charges, his shield in front of him and his hand with a sword high above him. Cahir freezes like a battered statue: he hasn’t got much strength and needs to save it. The Nilfgaardian’s sword descends in a graceful arc, only to collide with that of the Vikovarian. The solid shield with a golden sun on a black field flies left and up after a mighty push, and Cahir’s dagger is quick to find the gap between the armour and the helmet. He kicks the blood-gushing body towards the soldier approaching him from the right when his eye catches the tip of a spear flashing in the sun as it flies towards his shoulder. The Vikovarian ducks under the shaft, the blade of his sword reaching the unprotected joint in the groin. Grabbing the spear that has fallen from the weakened hands, he aims it at the gap between the shields, opened to let through another opponent. The soldier hesitates for a moment, and a mighty blow throws him a few steps back, the wall of shields closing before him, protecting the man. Chair grins despite himself. Not that bad for a simple soldier! A barely audible whistle, and a black-feathered arrow pierces his knee. The world explodes with sparks of unbearable pain, with bloody sports before his eyes and gnashing teeth. The Vikovarian give out a strangled groan as he tries to stay on his feet, but his left leg no longer belongs to him and treacherously gives way. Now on his knees but with the blood-stained sword still tight in his hand, he knows—this is the end. If only he could take with him a couple more of those with whom he has once fought side by side. The first already launches at him, sure of his victory. But before his attacker has a chance to get within the stroke-distance, Cahir appears next to him, cutting both his ankles. The soldier falls with an inhuman wail. But the Vikovarian has no time to rejoice over his victory: the sword of the nearby knight already touches his throat. The former officer closes his eyes. He's unafraid. He's ready. He was ready in Stygga, he was ready in captivity. Fate has given him too many days with her, intoxicating in their unreality. Dreaming of more would be madness. The blade at his throat gives a small shake, slightly scratching the skin under his chin. And disappears. Cahir imagines a swing that will cut off his head in a moment. With an incredible effort of will, he forces his body to freeze, not to give out the primal horror hammering inside him. But the blade does not swish, does not cut through the air that has become strangely thick and viscous. The Vikovarian slowly opens his eyes. The space around him shimmers, rippling with silver. And in it, as though flies in amber, the Nilfgaardian soldiers stand frozen. Their figures are ridiculous, twisted, like silhouettes in a shadow theatre. And there, from behind the heap of horse and human bodies, comes out Ciri. The Swallow gleams dimly in her right hand, ready to soar up in a menacing feint. Cahir watches, spellbound, as the witcher walks between the soldiers surrounding him and stands by his side. Her elegant foot in a worn-out boot stands on its toe, and Ciri spins around her axis. Strenuously, the gwyhyr cuts through the air that vibrates with magic, barely touching the Nilfgaardian soldiers at throat level, one by one. They stay motionless, like training dummies, only a dark-scarlet drop freezing on the very tip of Ciri’s sword. The witcher smiles, her smile a light, ghoulish thing, and kneels next to the Vikovarian. Her warm hands touch his sweaty back. The world fades, shrouding in a whitish veil embroidered with cold, flashing-by stars… …When Cahir opens his eyes, there are the branches of a young hazel tree, that has barely begun to turn green, swaying above him. The air around him smells of freshness and trampled grass. There is water babbling just above his ear, and a bee, awakened before its due time, buzzing somewhere close. This is the Isle of Avalon. The thought comforts him strangely, making his bloodless lips break into some sort of smile. The Vikovarian tries to sit up, but the first move he makes echoes with the stabbing pain in his knee. He groans, and props himself up on his elbow to see the black feathers on the smooth shaft. “Be still!” Ciri’s muffled voice sounds annoyed and worried. Cahir turns his head to see her against the sunbeams penetrating the foliage that rustles on the breeze. Her skin has turned all too white, blending in with the silver of her hair, and her big green eyes have become even brighter. They flicker like the leaves overhead, shimmer like the waters of a stream. The features of her concentrated face have pointed, prickly like the words rolling off her sharp tongue, her long thin fingers going over some dirty scraps of cloth. “Don’t move and bite this.” The witcher unceremoniously shoves a thick, moss-covered branch into his mouth. The Vikovarian chokes on its rotten odour and wants to spit it out, only to clench his teeth around the crumbling bark until it crunches. “There you are,” Ciri smirks contentedly, holding the blood-stained arrow in her hands. Blood thickly drips down the black feathers and onto the delicate petals of snowdrops. Skilfully, the witcher treats the wound, covering it with healing herbs and tightening the bandages. It is only now that Cahir notices that her shirt is torn, missing above her navel. Cirilla catches the line of his gaze and grins provocatively. “Like it?” “You’ll freeze.” His cheeks are burning, but his voice is strangely calm. “Take the shirt in my sack, I have a spear.” Ciri sniffs and looks away. She doesn’t want to think about how quickly the just-applied bandages become soaked with blood. How badly the tendons on the knee that will no longer bend are torn. How much she’d like Emhyr’s former captive to touch the bare skin on her stomach with his weather-beaten thin fingers. How much she’d like to take offence at his detached coldness. And how she can’t afford it because she has to save him yet again. The former princess concentrates, as Yennefer taught her, and feels the power pulsate around her. Wind, water, earth, trees. All now flowing through her skinny body and gathering into a heavy clot of magic, beating fast and sharply like her own heart. If only she could hold it, if only she could make it in time, if only she could keep it long enough… Ciri opens her eyes, shimmering with the depths of Col Serrai, and rushes into the glowing arc of a portal, where the cracked rocks of Kaer Morhen are basking in the scanty northern sun.