Chapter Text
Eskel crouched on the ledge above the hall in Dun Dolmar, keeping to the deepest shadows, the hall below was lit with flickering torches, the draft through the hall made them burn unsteady and thus all the shadows in the hall moved, which made it easier for him to hide. The assembly had needed time to convene, there had been arguments because none of the rulers was allowed to leave anyone outside the hall, those who were with them had to join them inside the hall, or retreat to their respective camps, a mile away from Dun Dolmar. Thus they wished to guarantee that none of them would be ambushed when leaving. It made for more royal guards in the hall than had been anticipated.
The hall was the only intact overground structure of Dun Dolmar, the monarchs had no wish to convene under the rainy skies, thus they had chosen a hall which had only one way in or out. Just because it was missing the door, that once had closed it, it was not safe.
The mages stood in one small group together, Eskel scanned their faces, he could place their names, each of them. Stregobor, Atrorius, Marketius and Jastanius were men he had fleetingly encountered as a youth, during his time in Ban Ard. With them stood one woman: Yennefer of Vengerberg. They all looked pale, slight discomfort radiated from them, the dampening influence of the ancient elven magic must be stifling, did they even realise that they had been dosed with Elfroot, further disrupting their spells? Probably not, they were the group he would have to take down first.
His eyes surveyed the different monarchs, each standing with their advisors, those they had trusted to bring. Henselt of Kaedwen had brought all three of his dukes, which would make the succession nothing short of a mess, Vizimir also had brought a gaggle of nobles to the meeting, good, Queen Meve had brought one son, which was not ideal, it would leave a clear succession. Worst case that would be a problem for Coehoorn to sort out. And Foltest? He had been sparing in his entourage, but generous with his number of guards, and with him was a young woman, pale and with partially red and white hair. She looked odd, to the eye. She showed the signs of someone recovering from a curse. Eskel frowned. The daughter? The Striga daughter Geralt had rescued? The songs had been a staple even in Nilfgaardian taverns for years.
The guards kept to the edges of the room, ultimately Atrorius confirmed that all were present and everyone else had departed. Eskel waited for him to begin his spiel, greeting the monarchs, expressing his gladness of them being here and his worry about the situation in equal measure. He waited patiently, give their men the time to move away from this place, so they would never know what was to go down. There was some bickering between the monarchs with borders under threat and those further north, but Artorius did not let them bicker long, reminding them that they all were threatened by Nilfgaard, and that the success in Sodden would be fleeting if the North did not unite against the conquest by Nilfgaard. His words were calm and sounded stately, but Eskel heard the wording, the small things, about Nilfgaard and their horrendous allies, subtle words strewn in, working the theme. Artorius laid it on thick, building up a picture, that felt like the mages were the only solution to the problem.
Eskel was a little curious about what he would have to say, where this was going, the man was a good orator, but he could not afford to give him the chance to play this for who knew how long. He waited exactly an hour, before he raised his hand, sending a focused aard blast through the empty door of the hall, to hit the unstable structure outside, the two alchemical bombs the servants had deposited there earlier, ignited in green flame, blowing up the hallway, collapsing it, the door of the hall filled with rubble, blocking the only way out. Eskel drew his sword and dagger.
The entire hall was looking at the door, in shock, some going for their weapons, without knowing against whom. Eskel leapt off the ledge, landing behind the mage, his dagger blade slit through Artorius throat, before the mage could even realise what happened, hot blood shot out of the wound as he collapsed, Eskel did not stop to check, he came about, a brutal aard blast threw Yennefer and Stregobor into the hall’s ceiling, Stregobor’s skull was smashed on impact, Yennefer landed in a crumpled heap, Marketuis died to a blade into the back, while Jastanius screamed in agony at a short ranged igni to the face. Eskel let a second ingi explode past Jastanius into the hall, the flames hitting clothes and people causing panic.
The guards reacted predictably fast, coming at him from several sides, he whirled into the attack, not allowing them to gain their footing. His blade ate through armour and flesh, the sickening crunch of bones shattered and the thump of falling bodies an echo over the screams. It still felt strange to leap into such a fight again, a part of Eskel had tried to forget how exhilarating it felt. The screams echoed hollowly under the vaulted ceiling of the hall, like a grave echo of all the souls he had already sent to death. While he was racing across the room, dodging two axes thrown at him, he wished he could rely on the armour to take some damage, but the gear he took for this mission was chosen for inconspicuous appearance, not for heavy fighting. In the end, it did not matter, nothing mattered, the moment he saw the enemies close in.
Four major groups of them, the royal guards proved unable to coordinate with each other at a moment's notice, distrusting the other guards as much as they were mistrustful of him. They were scattered across a large room; some injured and burning nobles were running around in between like mad, but they did not count, they would die when the time came. Eskel's mind was calm now, calculating, seeing their movements, the weapons, angles and attacks becoming a pattern, that was too slow to catch up with him. He parried two heavy blows, broke his blade free and sent the first of them to the ground with the blade through the chest. A whirl around his own axis blades flying through cuts and slashes, eating through muscle and flesh as well as steel, leaving only death in their wake. Several corpses dropped, and he stepped over them. Let's open the dance, shall we?
Like a snake he ducked under another blow, a dagger to a leg, disabling the man, he came up and parried a second blow at the same time, and delivered a thrust diagonally upwards that pierced the wounded man's shoulder. The second group froze only for a moment, one moment too much, Eskel used it to carve them up. Block, avoid, block and break free again. The third group tried to be faster than him, to force him on the defensive. Eskel was beginning to warm up, to really get into his speed. For a short moment, his opponent managed to bind his blade, but Eskel brought his arm around and broke it free again before he delivered a long thrust that pierced another opponent clean through. Pushing a second one into the blade of his comrade where he was impaled. Good hunting.
He parried his opponents' attacks for several minutes, sometimes seeming to literally duck away under their blows, only to deliver a surprising thrust at the neck of his opponent, who, completely caught off guard, no longer had a chance to stop him. From Eskel with best regards. He spun around, the next two had closed in, fear clearly written in their eyes. One he greeted with the dagger blade, coming up and slicing over neck and face, sending the man down screaming in a stream of blood, the second ended moments later with a sword to the gut.
The fight began to blur, one fighter, more of them, all closing in, trying to take him down, and filling the floor with corpses. By the time they finally slowed down Eskel had to jump over the heaps of flesh and gory metal that littered the ground. The nobles formed up with their lords - even now, faced with death, they kept separate. Eskel send a cone of flame at Vizimir and his entourage, putting power behind the flames, when he had been a boy, his fellow trainees had called him dragon, because of his extremely overpower igni, long grown into his powers, Eskel’s fire was much stronger and the screams of those who’s bodies are melted by the flames heralded a warning, the others heard but could not escape.
Queen Meve attacked him, sword in hand she advanced, he traded blows with her for a few moments, she was not especially good, but she tried valiantly. Tried and failed. One hard hit and her blade flew from her hand across the hall. She stopped, panting, eyes wide. “What are you?”
“Death.” Eskel made it a clean kill, no slow death for her, her body collapsed onto a heap of her former guards and her son. A movement behind him made him duck, roll over the floor, he came up and found himself with Henselt and his entourage. The Kaedweni Kings had earned Eskel’s dislike long before he had left the code and neutrality behind, they had been behind the pogrom of Kaer Morhen, a night that still lived in Eskel’s nightmares. He jumped into the fight, carving and gutting his way through the noblemen, working his way up to Henselt. The king had held back, studying Eskel’s approach, waiting him out before he attacked, his style improvised to what he had seen. “Sword dancing, I know where they taught you,” he spat. “That style is the style of the dogs.”
Eskel dropped the dagger and took the sword in both hands, consciously changing stance, falling from sword dancing into a southern two-handed style he had learned during his years in Nilfgaard. It was considered old-fashioned there, but if one was strong enough to pull it off, it was brutal. Henselt stumbled under his heavy hits, Eskel did not let him gain momentum again, but pushed him back, before disarming him, he flipped his blade around for one long hit that sliced through Henselt’s body from groin to chest bone. With a howl the monarch collapsed, writhing on the ground. Eskel walked past him, not bothering with a coup de grace. This death was for all the children Eskel had helped burn after that night in Kaer Morhen, for the murder of Wilfried and the hanging of Alvin, Henselt could only die once, but this one time would not be fast.
The last standing was Foltest, his guards were all down, he had shielded his daughter behind himself, and there was a flicker of fear in his eyes. Still, he managed to speak. “Stranger, I know you will kill me, but does whatever reason you have for this slaughter, truly necessitate my daughter to die too? I beg of you, let her live.”
Still running on adrenaline and the rage from fighting Henselt a dark thought flashed through Eskel’s mind. Letting Adda live, might be practical - if she could not talk. They knew she was a Striga, after all. He raised his free hand, waving the girl forward. “Step away, girl, I won’t kill you.”
Foltest pushed her to do as she was told, she looked at her father panicked and then shocked at Eskel. He touched her forehead, drawing a fast combination of axii and oblii in short succession, putting his full power behind them. Her eyes became empty, glazed over and she collapsed.
Her father made a choked sound. “What…”
“She lives. She will never remember what happened here,” Eskel said, giving him the false consolation that she would live. Then he brought his blade up and impaled him clean. The corpse dropped, and suddenly the silence was deafening. The hall was filled with corpses, the howls of the dying and the stench of blood. He focused, listening to the dying heartbeats, becoming less and less. There was one that was still too steady - he looked in that direction, spotting Yennefer.
A loud crash from the doorway, made him come about, the rubble was flying into the hall, pushed into the room by a medium-powered aard. Eskel used a quen shield to block the rubble flying, through the golden shimmering shield he saw a familiar figure standing in the doorway. Geralt. He had chosen the most inopportune moment to appear.
The white-haired man just stood in the door, eyes quickly surveying the carnage and then finding Eskel. “That’s… it’s not possible. You are not him,” he spat and drew his silver sword, leaping into attack.
Eskel evaded the first bout and fell into stance. Geralt was a brilliant fighter, and he was fresh, while Eskel had been fighting a room full of soldiers and nobles and been free with his use of signs. He parried the first few hits, dodging the next, with a roll over the floor, forcing Geralt to follow him across the room.
The silver blade came down on his sword hard, Eskel let it slide down his blade until it caught in the guard and broke it free with one powerful move. He used the momentary opening, to break through Geralt’s cover, the blade slicing open the armour on his flank. Then he needed to parry again, Geralt’s hits were like a hailstorm coming down on him, forcing him backwards, one block failed, and the blade cut along his chin, leaving a low bloody gash.
He could see Geralt expected a reaction, and that gave Eskel an opening, he hit Geralt with a brutal aard and a yrden before jumping in again, bringing down several hard hits. Geralt was so perplexed he could only parry. “Eskel…” he gasped in shock. Eskel brought one hand up and the next aard hit, a loud crack went through the hall as one of the pillars upholding the ceiling broke and collapsed, forcing them both to jump back, parts of the ceiling came down, and the outer wall of the hall broke apart, leaving a huge gap, revealing the steep falling mountain flank outside.
Eskel used aard to blast the broken pillar at Geralt, who was forced to use Quen to protect himself, Eskel jumped, landed and landed two long hits that sliced through armour and flesh, Geralt stumbled, came up and attacked fiercely.
Blows and parries became so fast, a normal eye could not see them, as they fought, their blades singing in the eternal song of steel. Eskel fell into the pattern that many of their practice fights had followed, forms and signs bleeding into each other, and Geralt fell in, pushing at him, now he was sure that he could win this and he began to work for it. Inwardly Eskel smiled, Geralt was relying on their familiar pattern. Get him used to one rhythm, then break the rhythm and break him.
“Why Eskel?” Geralt panted. “Why?”
Eskel did not reply at once, it would cost him precious breath, he blocked another attack, whirling through his favourite form, seeing Geralt getting ready to deliver a stab, and force Eskel into a parry, but Eskel did not parry, he let the blade slice along his side, and attacked full force, is sword eating into Geralt’s shoulder. “I found something real,” for a moment it seemed that the answer - an echo of what Geralt had told him when they were twenty - hurt more than the wounds, then Geralt used aard to push Eskel back, and pull himself steady. He was swaying on his feet.
Suddenly Eskel felt something cold, like a black creeping liquid touching his skin, draining warmth and power from him. Yennefer had gotten to her feet, standing wobbly and casting something at him. “Now, Geralt!” she snapped, “I cannot weaken him long,”
Geralt attacked, holding nothing back. Eskel parried, his arms were like lead and his powers were rapidly draining. He evaded two hits, retreating towards the wall, Geralt followed, ready to make an end, pure rage on his face. The roll over the floor, to evade a hard attack was almost too much for Eskel, he needed all his will to come up again, but he had picked up the short blade of a dead soldier. He dodged Geralt’s next attack and then threw it, it flew past Geralt and impaled Yennefer.
The cold in his skin abated, though it left him still drained. With a fierce angry shout, Geralt leapt at him, his blade eating through Eskel’s armour, the chainmail unable to hold off the brutal hits, that carved into his body, leaving deep wounds. Eskel staggered his vision swimming. With the full force of will, he pulled one last hard igni, aimed at Geralt, and the room, Geralt shielded himself as the corpses around him began to burn. His attack abated and that was all the time Eskel needed. He stepped back towards the gap in the wall, his breath came slow, his heart had trouble beating and blood ran from the wounds in his body, streaming over the torn chainmail. He could barely stand and Geralt advanced again, a dagger thrown hit Eskel in the shoulder and he dropped his sword- he gave in to the pain, to nothingness. Maybe this was all there was to dying, surrendering to the darkness. Through the gap in the wall, he felt the cool spring wind outside smelling so familiar of melting ice and winter bloom, he thought of Emhyr, they would not meet again, but hopefully, this would be enough to hold the field. He smiled, when Duny’s face swam before his eyes and let himself fall into the rapid depths outside, he saw the rockface whirling by, his body was thrown against something and he knew no more.
***
Still reeling with shock Geralt watched as Eskel let himself drop to his death, outside was a steep rockface, falling long down to the river. It was a fall even a witcher should not risk. He staggered, his wounds burning, hot blood smearing his armour. He used one hand to support himself, peering through the gap. The rockface fell steep towards the river, deep down in the dark water he could see a red speck, Eskel’s body most likely, carried away by the water.
His hands were shaking. Was this it? Had he just killed his own brother? The rage inside him was not abating, when he had seen Eskel attack Yennefer, he had not been able to hold back any longer. What... what had pushed them so far? How had they ended up like this? Fighting each other like enemies?
Nilfgaard, he answered to himself. Nilfgaard had twisted Eskel, making use of his talents to commit murders, using him. They had gotten their claws into him and then used him.
“Geralt,” Yennefer had pulled herself up and yanked the dagger out of her body. “We need to go.”
“He is dead, Yennefer, no one could survive this fall,” Geralt replied morosely. “He’s dead.”
The mage scoffed. “Do you think I give a rat’s ass what happens to him? I hope he is good and truly dead. My spell should impede his enhanced healing, maybe it is enough. But we need to go.” She reached down, yanking the cloak of a dead man free, tearing it into stripes to bandage her wound.
“What are you talking about?” Geralt asked, helping her with the bandage, they needed to make sure they survived this. Eskel had dished out an astonishing level of damage.
“You fool,” Yennefer groaned. “No one is alive up here, and you were not invited, but stand in the hall with a bloody blade in hand. What does this look like? There are enough tracks that say that a Witcher was involved, sign magic all over - and here you are, a Witcher, with the bloody weapon still in hand. We need to get away from here, before anyone can realize what happened, or we will hang for this slaughter.”
Geralt tried to follow her logic, and she was right, someone would be blamed for this, and certainly not the witcher who was not present, and where there was no proof he had ever been here. He shivered. Was this why Eskel had committed suicide? Not just to avoid capture but to make sure no one could link this attack to him? To Nilfgaard? Had he really been willing to die for… for what? He did not know the answer. “How do we get out of here? If we go the way I came…”
“We will be caught. There are huge substructures under this fortress. Istredd always prattled on about them,” Yennefer replied. “We need to get down there and away from the seal dampening my magic. Once we are out of reach, I can make a portal and bring us away from here.” She walked slowly, and needed to lean on Geralt’s arm, she could barely walk alone. “Blast it, that curse drained me,”
“It was a curse?”
“Yes, a lethal curse, but it barely took hold with that thing,” Yennefer grumbled. “Whatever they made him from, it was sturdy.”
They descended a long flight of stairs and deeper into the ancient substructures of the fortress. They were painfully slow and Geralt’s thoughts were still reeling about Eskel. “I don’t understand it,” he said softly. “Why would he do that.”
“Do what?” Yennefer asked slightly impatient. “Remember I barely knew him. And after that up there, I would refrain from ever meeting him again.”
“Fight for Nilfgaard. Die for them. Commit suicide for them.” Geralt had contemplated many things in his life, but never suicide. He could not imagine a cause that he easily could commit suicide for. Witcher self-preservation was brutally strong, most Witchers were unable to truly commit suicide, their survival reflexes would kick in and rescue them before they could die from whatever they tried.
“It’s a trade-off,” Yennefer replied impatiently. “He’s lived the same life you did: contracts, scant pay, being hated. Then he began to fight for Nilfgaard, decent pay, respect, a place that accepts him, and all he has to give them is his loyalty. He must have been a man who found that trade fair.”
Geralt ducked his head. Eskel was a very loyal man, once committed he stuck with it, no matter what. I found something real. The words were bitter in Geralt’s mind. He had told Eskel long ago that he wanted to find something real, real love, a real partner, something more… he well remembered the sad expression in Eskel’s eyes on that day, and yet… he had not been happy with what they had shared in their training years. Only something real had never come for Geralt, he had found many things, but not what he had dreamt of. And Eskel? He had never expressed such a wish. But Eskel… he had been someone who needed to be able to love, to give love, even if he wasn’t necessarily loved back. That was why he had stuck with Geralt, back when they were trainees, without missing something. He could give love and that was enough. And when he had found someone else… when he had found Emyhr, how easily had he been to manipulate? Emhyr did not even need to love him back, scraps would be enough, and it had won him a loyal fighter. Cold hatred rose inside Geralt. Was this how he had lost his brother? To a man who had found a useful tool, discarded by others? Or had there been more to Eskel’s years in Nilfgaard? Had he meant the friendships there, with something real? Had he come to consider Nilfgaard his home? If so, then there was nothing he would not do for them.
“Careful now,” Yennefer said softly. “We are almost at the portal chamber, Istredd told me about it. It is the one place in here where we can portal out. We need to lie low for a while, not be found even by spies.”
“Kaer Morhen,” Geralt said gruffly. “There is no one there. Vesemir is still south, as are the others. No one will come there until fall. We can recover, heal, and make plans.” He was not sure what he should plan to do. He needed to warn Vesemir, let him know what had happened, and warn Lambert too. For the first time, Geralt wondered whether it would have been better, if Eskel had stayed dead, fallen long ago. It would be at least less painful.
***
Water enveloped him, the burning of the anger of the river on his skin like a constant fire, and each movement of his body was slower than it should be. The water felt almost sickly warm and burned against his body like it was trying to chase him out of its rolling floods. He opened his eyes; it hurt worse than the first time after the grasses, all was blurry and he could not remember where he was, or how he had come there. There was only pain and a vague conscience, drifting in and out, like a space in between that he did not truly understand. Should he be here? Or should he stop? Stop breathing? Stop feeling, just drift unto the dark. It would be so easy. But deep down there was something, something that refused to give in, that refused the peace that drowning would bring. Embrace the pain, draw it inside; the pain becomes your strength, accept the pain and be alive, a voice from the past whispered again and again. His sight cleared and he saw vague, inky shapes around himself. One was close by a dark shape rapidly becoming larger as the water surged around them, he barely managed to move, to just scrape by it, stone, a bridge, or something else? He did not know.
He tried to swim, to move, but his body barely registered the will. Each stroke of his healthy arm felt harder than the one before and even the lingering light of the surface was far off, fading out. The air burned in his lung and his chest constricted; he wanted to breathe and the body he was pulling up with him seemed like a load of lead. When he finally broke to the surface, he was gasping not just for air, though his strained lungs demanded to breathe – he also was panting from the strain.
The heavy wind greeted him above, spray clashing against his face and the waves nearly pressing them under again. The river was enraged, her anger directed at him or so it felt. Thunder rolled through the air, the noise drowning out the rage of the rushing of the rapids. A blurry, dark form danced close to him on the water, the waves playing with the shadowy shape, pushing it up and down like a toy. When it came close, he reached for it, feeling slippery wood under his fingers. Huge and round as it was, he guessed it was a piece of a tree. Keeping his one-armed hold onto the wood, he tried to stay awake but drifted. Pain and drifting, blurring into each other. He could tell where he was, except in that water, hot and cold, and his body draining. He tried to take the strain off his wounded arm, his hand brushing along a strap of leather wrapped tightly around the wrist, and something inside. Something that felt warm, like a spark. It was there for a reason, though he did not quite remember what the reason was. He had placed it there, so he could reach it, in case... in case of what? He was not sure. It had something to do with safety, he knew. Everything else was a blur. Maybe he should let it go, drift, drown, go down in the cold. Again a surge of pain reminded him he was alive, and there was a reason for that. Why were things alive? Being dead seemed more logical. His fingers closed around the slender stone attached to the leather strap, it was carved, runed, and somehow he knew it just needed to be used. Most things were used. His finger traced over the runes, as they were washed over by cold water. Sharp and clear runes, he had once understood. In a strange and distant way. The runes flared and suddenly his body was yanked forward, the pain great enough to blind all his senses. He was passed out when he crashed onto hard ground.
***
Lux wondered what the hold-up was that blocked the crossroads. A patrol ahead had stopped a cart and managed to position themselves around it in a manner that basically blocked passage for all other travellers. Were Lux only out to exercise his war-horse, he’d have taken it with good humour. Military life consisted not out of boredom disrupted by sheer dread, but of a series of the most idiotic hiccups interrupted by the bad mood of one’s superiors, most of the time. Lux took the dread and horror of a field fight over that any day, especially over his most superior's bad mood. Such a mood had earned him a ride through this particularly stormy spring day.
A report from Lathir’s governor had been overdue and the courier had forgotten to insist on receiving it. The courier was in deep sh*t and probably out of the Imperial courier service for good. When the Emperor ordered it a Captain of Impera would get in the saddle and get that report, no matter what methods were necessary to acquire it. The sheer shock of his presence had made the governor race to procure the document and now it was just a matter of riding back to Cintra and delivering the document to an Emperor in a terse mood who was prone to work through yet another night. Which did nothing for his disposition. Lux had been forced to assign punishment to two of his men this morning when he had caught them joking that it was high time Commander Eskel returned from his field mission. Because that at least would see to it that his most imperial majesty would see a good night’s sleep and would improve his mood by a few degrees as a consequence. They had been stupid enough to say it where others could hear, and thus the lesson about keeping one’s secrets had to be reapplied in force.
Not that they had spoken an untruth - his Majesty was a chronic overworker, believing sleep was for other people, often working himself to a collapse, falling asleep at his desk. The first time into his tenure that had happened, it had sent Lux men into a panic, because what to do with an Emperor snoring peacefully at his desk? Lux solution - tell the chamberlain to delay any immediate unimportant appointments and have them bow and scrape in the antechambers a few hours longer, and then put something warm on the sleeping man’s shoulders, to block the draft from the high windows, had shocked his men, the chamberlain, and everyone else. But it had worked. It was never mentioned, never spoken of, his majesty had gone back to working four hours later, without comment. Or almost without. Since that day, some kind of warm item of clothing - usually a fine wool blanket embroidered within an inch of its life - was available somewhere in his study, for exactly that unspoken purpose. Eskel being there and not knee-deep into some hunt, or other mission, was the best guarantee that his majesty would get sleep and actually sleep in a bed. So, all true things, but none they should have ever said out loud. Impera’s most important virtue besides loyalty was their silence. Lux had little patience with men who did not understand that. Those two either learned at once, or they would be out of the personal guard by the end of the month.
He had closed in at the crossroads while contemplating this and now had to slow his horse to a halt. The cart was a rickety thing, driven by two youngsters, a boy and a girl of maybe fifteen, to judge by the braids in their hair, they were a young married couple. “Good Sir, he was on your wanted warrants only a few weeks ago,” the young woman told the patrol leader. “And we are here to deliver him.”
The patrol leader shook his head. “That bounty does not exist any more,” he grumbled. “And you couldn’t catch such a man anyway. Whatever you have on that cart, get rid of it.”
Lux rose in his stirrups to peek ahead into the cart. A wounded man, definitely, a mess of blood-soaked bandages, not lasting through the challenge, if the man’s chest wasn’t rising and falling, he’d have believed him dead, the gear he wore was that of a low-rung sellsword and… his left wrist was lined with dull crystals. Another glance confirmed what Lux had almost not seen: the wounded man was someone he had just been thinking about. Eskel. Lux heart stopped for a moment when the entire canopy of destruction sank in - Eskel’s body was a mess of blood and gashes, and he looked more dead than alive. How in the world had this happened? Lux wondered but forced himself not to freeze in shock but to act.
“You are a fool, patrol leader,” he interjected, pulling out the Impera-is-better-than-the-rest-of-you tone that he thoroughly disliked when General Mac Tirmain employed it.
The patrol leader was a young sergeant from the sixth cavalry, who certainly did not feel up to departing with an Impera Captain. “Sir, that bounty was…”
“... is above your purview,” Lux had jumped off his horse, handing the reins to one of the perplexed soldiers. He jumped onto the cart with ease, balancing himself, to not upset the rickety construct, and checked on Eskel in more detail. The skin was still warm and there was a faint pulse, Lux let go of the breath he had been holding. Sun above… having to report to the Emperor that Eskel had died… Lux would rather report on half the Empire having fallen to some draconid species from Zerrakania, it would definitely be easier. He carefully took stock of what he was dealing with. Eskel was definitely alive, definitely through a beating that put anything he had been through before to shame, and still hanging on, barely. Any mortal man would be dead thrice over. The wounds were not healing, which was unusual. The preternatural healing of witchers usually was their best medicine, so something was off here.
“Sergeant, get your hose in front of that cart, the poor donkey, cannot bring it to Cintra with due speed,” he ordered, “and then you can escort us there,”
The young man on the cart looked bewildered and shocked. “So you want him after all?” he asked.
“Yes, and you will see a reward for your pains,” Lux replied, the coin would be found, without a doubt. “Where did you find him? I doubt it was you who put him into this state?”
“No, Sir, we did not. It was the strangest of things that happened. He appeared just outside of our farmstead, last night. He appeared in a huge torrent of water that washed over our field. It even held fish, if you believe it. We thought he was dead, but then he was moving, or trying to move.”
Water with fish in it? That sounded like a portal gone wrong or a portal stone called up wrongly. Usually, the stone would produce a portal just above the waterline to prevent such an effect, but if called up wrongly, it would have taken along whatever was around the caster, and if that was a lot of water… then it came with fish, algae and whatever else was in there. “Last night?”
“Two hours past midnight, Sir,” the wife spoke up. “We heard something and feared it might be thieves, so we went to look.”
“You did good,” Lux looked up, seeing the Sergeant had actually managed to tack his horse to the cart, and now looked a bit sheepish about how he was to proceed. “Take my horse, Sergeant, and then escort us to Cintra, sent one rider ahead, I want the gate free for us when we arrive, no hold-ups, and the healer’s ward warned that we have work for them.” The Sergeant had decided that this was truly above his purview and asked no further questions but obeyed.
As the cart began moving, Lux took a more detailed stock of Eskel’s injuries. Several hits to the upper body, the armour had not lasted long against, traces of fire and lots of blood, not all his own most likely. Checking the cut along the neck, he noticed a soft smell, sweet and sickly - Ajuvar Oil - a weapon oil only useful on a silver blade. So someone who had either believed that fighting Eskel compared to a creature or had not been prepared to encounter him. There also was a dark residue on Eskel’s skin, a sheen of black sweat, one might describe it. Magic residue becoming visible? Possibly. The crystals in his wrists and arms were dulled like they had been drained of too much energy. So he had been hit with something that deprived him of the arcane energies that fed his mutations - and alterations.
Worry rose inside Lux like a multi-headed serpent, Eskel was alive but whether he would arrive living in Cintra was another question. And the Emperor… he would be furious, at best, at worst he would find someone to blame. It was one thing to joke about someone having an appointment with the ballroom floor and having a situation at one’s hands that might warrant an entire new ballroom. And the worst of it - the Emperor was not without blame for this one either.
It had not been smart to field Eskel so shortly after he had been forced through a modification of that magnitude. He had not been given time to stabilise or train the changes he had undergone. Had anyone even bothered to check on all the changes? Lux suppressed a snort. Who should? The others from Dragon School hopefully, Mage Kynan was one of the finest researchers on the field after all. But everyone else? They would rely on Eskel being almost unkillable and that he would handle it, somehow. Had anyone wondered how Eskel’s mind had handled the changes? His soul? Now there was a point where no one would have bothered with. Most of Eskel’s comrades, men like Garanwyn and Ciar would simply not think of the problem at all. The Incarnation of the Sun said it was not a topic, then it wasn’t. And both of them never bothered with the faith, beyond the required and perfunctory appearances in the temples now and then. Ciar knew nothing of the faith, what was not taught to young children and Garanwyn’s true faith was war, and he worshipped all that was lethal. Neither of them would consider the state of a soul, or what brutality or fierce changes could do to a soul.
Lux had often found that Eskel was the most spiritual-minded of the whole bunch. He had been raised in mountain folk beliefs, before being taken in by the Witchers, but expressed certain beliefs of his people now and then. The belief was that his people were born from the storm and needed to return to the storm in death. Ercai beliefs were that the soul could only exist in an undamaged vessel, and that grave changes to the body could lead to the loss of the soul. He had years ago actually asked Eskel, how he balanced that part of his faith with his own existence, and that had earned him a rather thoughtful answer. My people know that the Storm Gods exist, Lux, that they created the mountains and the skies, the wild winds and the summer rains, we also know they created nightmares, because they created us.
Maybe, Lux mused, it was better that almost no truly religious men made it far in the Emperor’s service. Thus they had no debates about individuated souls and other matters in regard to the huntsmen or the Emperor’s chosen paramour. It spared them a lot of debate, based on principles half understood, on things that took serious studies of the mysteries. Lux had no doubt that Eskel had an individuated soul, he could not be the man he was if he hadn’t. The ability to love was one of the definers, the ability to reflect one’s spiritual existence another, and above all the capacity for self-sacrifice, those who were able to recognize a person or cause as more important than their own survival instincts had souls. He smiled wryly, by those criteria, one might call the Emperor’s soul into question. No, that was unfair to the man. He had a soul, but he and his soul weren’t speaking any more.
“We’re going to get you through this, Eskel,” Lux said softly. “You were found, so you will have to live.” He often wondered if Eskel was in love with death, his soul striving to leave his battered body behind, but forced to endure due to too strong survival instincts. And loving the Emperor, was a death sentence in the long run, hence his soul was drawn to him. It was as good an explanation as any.
Lux noticed that the blood seeping from the wounds had two colours. Red and Black. Was it possible that one of the modifications still existed separately in Eskel, not integrated into his overall physique? If so, then the mage had been sloppy, or it had simply been too much. He carefully reached for a not injured spot along the other man’s arm. “I do not know if you can hear me, I hope you do,” he said, still speaking Nilfgaardian, the peasants needn’t understand this. “But something from the inside is tearing you apart. You need to somehow integrate the striving part into yourself. Have you ever studied the Mercury of the Alchemist? You were an avid reader, you might have. It is what you need to find a way of doing.
“For the quicksilver of the moon, also known as the mercury of the alchemist is an apparent substance and often goes unrecognized by those material-minded. In its raw form, the ancients teach us, it appears as a common substance of silvery quality, fey and elusive, a scion of Luna of mean estate. The mercury of the alchemist is an unpromising material, yet able to transform and merge with other substances often to the most surprising results. In this, the student understands that in the shattered beginnings lies the opportunity to not mend what was broken but to transcend into something entirely new.”
Lux wasn’t even sure that Eskel could hear him, but if he did, maybe he could find a way to help himself, much more than the healers could from the outside.
***
Lux had always known that mage-healer Jacinthe was not a person to cross or annoy and she proved to be a force of nature in this case. She had at least a dozen helpers running, racing and being in a state of near panic, while she and her colleague worked on Eskel. A fast mage healing was certainly not forthcoming, that much Lux could see. He had decided to delay that blasted report for another half hour, to get a sense of what the healers would say - because the report from Lathir would be a mean second to the news Lux had to carry to the Emperor. He did not fear bringing bad news to the Emperor, contrary to other people. He was not allowed to fear. He had to stand up to the man when he disregarded security or was obnoxious about the protection of his own person, and Lux had long learned to dig in and not be fazed by terse words, bad mood, light threats or outright beratings. But he knew the Emperor hated news without answers, so for answers he waited.
Jacinthe emerged from the healer’s room in the ward barracks after over an hour and she looked tired. “Captain, good you waited,” she said, downing a jar of clear water.
“How bad is it?” Lux asked.
“We might yet lose him,” Jacinthe said grimly. “I cannot do anything for him. Any magic healing applied translates into further injuries. His own preternatural healing is somehow blocked by a spell or curse, I have the mages on that, to find out what we are dealing with.”
“What about the Witchers?” Lux asked. “They are well versed in curses, and might have encountered this one before.”
“Master Vesemir is in there, to look at it,” Jacinthe replied. “I told my people to give him some space, he was vexed enough to call us a superfluity of mages. Which means the gaggle of female mages grated on him the moment he arrived.”
The door opened and the old Witcher walked out, looking tired and sad. Bad news then. Jacinthe turned to him. “Vesemir?”
The witcher sighed. “Stem the bleed, bandage the wounds and feed him as much blood weed as he can tolerate - and wait it out. If he lives through the next two days, his healing will return and he will make it, or his body breaks before under the strain, and decides this world is too painful to deal with any longer.”
There was a grim, resigned quality to the man’s words, Lux noticed. Vesemir spoke Nilfgaardian fluently, hence his inflections could usually be taken at face value. “You know what blocks his healing?”
“Old Witch-hunter curse,” Vesemir replied, “Finem naturae, it affects all unnatural energies in a body, it is rarely used, as it has severe effects on the caster. Not sure if the mage casting was knowing what he did. Someone weakened him and then another Witcher finished him off, there’s sign residue on him, and not his own.”
Lux had the sneaking feeling, that Vesemir knew whom Eskel had fought and was unhappy about it. But that was neither here nor there. “You have my thanks,” he said, before turning to Jacinthe. “Maybe move him to his quarters instead of keeping him here? You will have to run and check his bandages anyway, and if he dies…” if he died, it would be in somewhat comfortable surroundings. It might not sound important, but Lux had sat beside the beds of enough dying Impera to know it was.
***
Emhyr var Emreis was striding through the long hallways of Cintra Castle at a speed that made it hard for his staff to keep up. “But your Majesty, your appointments after…”
“I should expect you are familiar with the words cancel those appointments, Mererid. If not, you might not be suitable to be my chamberlain,” Emhyr’s voice was terse, harsh.
“And the appointment with Duncan aep Ffion? He requested a full afternoon due to matters of state.” Mererid insisted, more than Emhyr had expected him to. An issue that might need looking into at some point.
“He is the Imperial chancellor and I trust he can function as such. I will give him two hours later in the evening, at my convenience.” he waved Mererid off and cast an equally sharp look at the Marshall, only Coehoorn didn’t flinch. “You know your orders, get Vattier to ascertain the situation and act with military prudence.” Coehoorn was good at what he did, but his ambitions were strictly military, he had no designs for a political role or - Sun forbid! - the throne. He saluted and walked off, not wasting any of Emhyr’s precious time.
They already reached their destination, and Impera spread out to secure the floor and stairwells, they at least did not need direction to do what they were supposed to. Outside the door, Emhyr saw the mage healer, who curtsied swiftly. He waved it off as well. “Any developments?” he asked, the first report had not sounded good.
“None really, your Majesty. The blood-weed indeed put him into a more stable sleep, which should help his natural healing. Anything else is still unchanged. If the natural healing persists, and he lasts through the night… then maybe there is hope he will last the rest of the way. I shall join mage Kynan in finding a counter for that curse in the meantime.”
She was a stubborn woman, the quality why Emhyr had given her that assignment. He glanced at the door, Emperors deferred to no one, not even healers, most of the time, but here he wanted her expertise, in a roundabout way. “Can someone stay with him?”
The healer shrugged. “One of my apprentices will be up here at all times, Sire, otherwise - yes, someone might stay with him, it will not change a thing. He is too far gone to know at this point.”
Behind him he heard steps and saw Coehoorn striding up the stairs, obviously willing to even browbeat Impera into giving in. “Marshall, were my orders unclear?” Emyhr asked tersely.
“No, Sire. Vattier’s mage, who watched the field reported in.” Coehoorn was not to know who Emyhr’s spies were, and he never asked, accepting what he was told of their identity. “Vattier said, to give you this.” he handed a small, narrow scroll to him. “And to report the following: they are all dead.”
The words send a cold chill through Emhyr’s skin. He had seen the list of those going into the meeting, the list the rulers had brought, and it had been an impressive one, plus five mages. He had not expected more than half of them to lose their lives, not even with Eskel being a very capable fighter. Hence he had ordered the portal stone, to allow an escape from the field. Half of them dead would be enough to sow chaos through the north. But all? He unrolled the scroll, it seemed to contain only scribbles, but he could read the shorthand well enough, it confirmed the kills to all four parties. All of them. The entire northern leadership dead in one fell blow. He had not expected it and now that he had it in his hands… he saw the endless possibilities laid out before him. The entire north would be in brutal disarray from this. More than that, the accusations would be flying. A ripe fruit falling into his lap. He bit his lip, it was too good an opportunity to pass it up. “Vattier will brief you in detail on what this means, Marshall.” He said, forcing his voice into a steady quietness. “Make the most of it.”
Entering the familiar room felt strange, usually, Emhyr was alone when he walked in here, a place not shared with the many servants in his orbit. Right now a young mage healer stood in the corner by the window, watchful and painfully unobtrusive. The table was packed with supplies, bandages, oils and so forth, a basin of water.
Someone had had the presence of mind to put a high-backed chair beside the bed, so that Emhyr could sit down. He needed to sit. He had seen Eskel injured before, a number of fights against monsters had put him into the healer’s hands. Usually, though, by the time Emhyr saw him, the mages were already done, and Eskel was drained, but very much alive.
This time… he was not.
The first-moment Emhyr saw him, he almost believed Eskel had quietly died, and no one had noticed. He was pale, and his breathing so slow, it could easily go unnoticed. Bandages covered up parts of the body Emhyr could see, only the left arm, outside the of the blanket, seemed fairly healthy. There was no sign of pain - in fact, there was nothing. If not for the very slow breathing, he might as well be dead. His skin had a pale, grey tone, and the matted dark hair was an even starker contrast to it. He was drained, drawn… whatever had happened to him, it had taken all he had out of him. Emhyr didn’t dare to look away - it might be the moment the breathing stopped and Eskel slipped away from them. It would be like him to die quietly, without drawing notice to himself.
Emhyr’s stomach clenched, when he realised he might be well sitting here to watch Eskel die. Up till now, he still had been sure, somewhat sure, he would pull through and the healers were panicking, nothing else. Eskel had always seemed too strong, indestructible, and able to face off against a hostile world. Now that hostile world was winning and Emhyr couldn’t even blame it on someone else, only on himself.
He should have told Vattier to scrap the mission or told him to pull it off with his own resources. Resources, that word stung. When had he begun to accept Eskel as a resource, a weapon to be used? He knew Eskel saw himself as a weapon, forged to fight the things others could not fight. But when had Emhyr started to see him like that? Always. His mind supplied sardonically. From that day you realised he could help you survive. It wasn’t untrue, Emhyr had to admit. Sure, his youthful self had been drawn to Eskel, for other reasons too. Reasons of the flesh, reasons of loneliness. Of course, he had liked being around someone who did not see him as a monster, or abhorrent. Someone who saw him as special. To this day he wondered what in Eskel’s mind, had drawn him to Duny, because that he had loved Duny, had been beyond doubt and not just his human form. And while Emhyr had enjoyed that someone did not shy away from him, he had also seen the protection he gained. Protection independent from his capricious allies in Nilfgaard, protection in a wild and dangerous land, and protection from someone who was too good a man, to be bought for a large sum of coin. Even if the Usurper’s men had known to make the offer, Eskel wouldn’t have taken it. Not for riches, not for a title… and even back then Emhyr had known Eskel would keep his secrets, even under torture.
He hated this line of thinking. Had he always seen Eskel’s usefulness first? Oh, there had been many tender moments between them, over the years. All the moments during that terrible first year in Nilfgaard, that year that brought Emhyr’s nightmares back in full force, that year full of pain and anger. How often had he buried himself in Eskel’s arms, to forget the pain for a while? How often had Eskel’s soft voice kept the nightmares away? How often had he reminded Emhyr that vengeance only destroyed those exacting it? Even there the good had been balanced with the useful. But then… how often had Eskel made Emhyr laugh? He thought of that summer morning in Loc Grim, dawn outside slowly fading into early sunrise, they both lying on that huge bed, a warm summer breeze billowing the silk curtains, Eskel playing with Emhyr’s hair while making a mock suggestion about the title for the retiring governor of the south. His most magnanimous and gracious elephantness… Emhyr had laughed heartily that morning and irritated his court because he conducted the governor’s release from service with such a smile, that anyone wondered why he was fond of that man.
Of course, such moments had been interspaced with absences. Eskel was out in the field a lot, hunting the creatures that plagued Nilfgaard. His reputation had certainly been useful to Emhyr. The commander of the huntsmen, the gentle giant who protected farmsteads from fire worms and rescued little girls from basilisks, the man the Emperor sent to protect his people. The common people may not be as dangerous as the nobility was, but their perception of Emyhr was coloured by these things. Eskel’s gentleness was very much real and woe betide anyone who got past it and saw the raw core of blood and steel Witcher training had hammered into him. Maybe Eskel had needed to preserve his heart to not become a monster under the blows of that training. Emhyr knew there were aspects of wolf training that Eskel had refused to import into the school of the dragon, and Ascanar had very much agreed with him.
Eskel’s breath slowed even more like his powerful body slowly stilling forever. There had never been a doubt that Eskel would walk to his death if Emhyr asked it of him and now that the moment might be here, Emhyr realized he could not live with that consequence. He had always believed that he could live with whatever consequences their relationship would bring, including the inevitable moment that it would either break or end in Eskel’s death. Now Emhyr realized that he disliked the thought that either could come true. His shoulders tensed, like a sudden draft of chill air was brushing past it, what if this was the hour?
All men must die, my Prince of the forest. He could almost hear Eskel’s voice from far away, from long ago, when things had seemed so easy, and so without risk. He shivered, why had that blasted healer opened the window?
Angry at himself, his fingers curled around the sides of his chair. It was not that he had not loved Eskel, there were highly emotional sides to their relationship, that Emhyr had not always found easy to handle, and he was often unduly attracted to his graceful predator.
“Go down… down the stairs, through the tunnels, I’ll be right behind you…” Eskel’s voice was no more than a whisper, rough and barely understandable. “Go, I’ll get Geralt and the others…” His body was shuddering in his sleep, as it became restless. “On down, Lambert… don’t listen back, those blood hounds are already in the adept’s bastion. Don’t listen… we need to run…”
Emhyr frowned, a nightmare was not unexpected in such a state, but he could not place the words to anything recent. It was something about his brothers, that much was clear. He leaned closer, trying to catch the words. “I know you are afraid, Delmar, but it’s the only way. Creep under the beams, ignore the fire… deeper in, deeper in, they won’t dare follow. Don’t listen back…”
Emhyr reached for Eskel’s hand, trying to calm him, trying to somehow reach him, wherever his dreams were drawing him. “Shh.. be silent, be still, Lambert… they mustn’t hear.” Eskel’s voice was a bit louder but rough. “We’ll hide under the rubble, let them think we are dead…”
Fire, his brothers, enemies… was he dreaming about the fall of Kaer Morhen? Emhyr knew not much about it, except that it had happened and Eskel was among the survivors. What in the world had brought back this dream? Or was it a nightmare that had never left him? Emhyr gently stroked his fingers over the back of Eskel’s hand, the touch seemed to make him relax a little. “It’s over, Eskel, you are safe,” he said, softly, hoping that a part of Eskel might hear him, might recognize the familiar voice.
Suddenly the hand closed hard around his fingers, a grip almost unbreakable. “Don’t cry… little wolf, don’t cry, be silent, be still, they must not hear…” It was not more than a whisper before Eskel drifted back into a deep sleep.
Emhyr shifted a little, to sit more comfortably, with his hand still caught in Eskel’s grip. Kaer Morhen. The massacre was long ago, very long. What had brought it back? The fighting he had endured? Unlikely, Eskel had walked out of the fighting for the palace at the end of the return without a shred of a nightmare, and he had been on the frontline of that bloodbath. He was no stranger to brutal violence. So it was unlikely that this fight would have brought it all back. Something else, Emhyr concluded. Something else had stirred those memories. And he wished to know what. Realizing Eskel had fallen into a deep slumber again, he waved the mage apprentice closer. “I need you to run two messages for me,” he told her, she confirmed with a nod, without speaking. “First, I wish a full written report on the mission from Vattier - I want details, as many as he has, he will know what I mean. And secondly - Llewlyn, my librarian, is to prepare a report for me - on the fall of Kaer Morhen. Facts, details, all he can get.” Emhyr was not sure what it would accomplish, but analyzing what he heard helped a little with the hollow feeling in his chest.
