Chapter Text

Roche was shaken from his darkening thoughts by the sound of tearing paper. He realized too late that the parchment in his hands was starting to crumple and tear under his grip. He forced himself to unclench his hands and put the letter down, smoothing it out gingerly before folding it up and stowing it carefully in his pocket. Not a second later, he took it out again, as though by looking at it more closely he might pick up on some secret message he’d missed on the first read-through.

There is yet no sign of the crown princess or Natalis, though we continue to chase down every lead concerning their whereabouts. It is possible, probable even, that Natalis has simply gone to ground, hiding somewhere with Anais. That we have been unable to find his trail suggests that our enemies are likely facing the same difficulties.

That said, in the name of thoroughness we have also begun looking into the deaths of unidentified individuals who match their descriptions. While we have no reason to believe they have been killed (and indeed, if the Black Ones or any other party had killed the heir to the Temerian throne, they should want to proclaim such news from mountain peaks), it is possible that they befell some harm at the hands of someone or something other than Termeria’s political foes.

“More bad news?”

“Is there any other kind?”

Ves sat across from him without answering.

Roche sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. The spies were right: if someone had captured or killed Anais knowing who she was, he would have heard about it by now. What aggravated him was the fact that his own spies -- seasoned, hardened professionals who should be used to bad news and death, plough it -- felt the need to reassure him. It only made him more cynical. At least if they ended every letter with “oh by the way, we’re wasting our time, because she’s probably dead already,” then he could take heart in contradicting them. He might be able to find it in himself to push back, to hope that she would surprise everyone and come out of it alright. But in the face of baseless confidence, his pessimism asserted itself. Violently .

In some ways, helping Geralt face the Wild Hunt had been a relief. It turned out there was an upside to facing almost-certain death and impossible odds: there was no room to think about anything else while one prepared for a battle of that scope. As long as he’d had a task he could sink himself into with single-minded devotion, he could crowd out the worry and worst-case-scenarios.

Now that battle was won, and it was back to the hideout for him. Back to keeping up the pretense of guerilla warfare, back to jumping at shadows. Back to twiddling his thumbs and waiting for news until bloody Dijkstra decided they were ready to act…

“Kingslayer’s left.”

Roche nodded.

Ves raised her eyebrows. “What, not even a curse or a ‘good riddance?’”

“Good riddance. But I’ll save my breath and insults for a time when I can inflict them on the man himself.”

She looked as though she was about to say something sharp, then thought better of it. She put her elbows on the table and took a long drink. For several long moments, they sat there in silence. In their quiet, the other noises of the hall seemed to grow louder. At the opposite end, closer to the fire, the two younger witchers were drinking and playing gwent, laughing a bit too loudly to be natural. Ordinarily the noise might have annoyed him, but under the circumstances… He could sympathize. As far as methods of coping with the loss of a father figure, there were worse options than a bit of forced cheer. He could attest to that many times over.

A storm pelted the roof with wintry slush, filling out the hall’s echoes and the crackling hearth with a rhythmic patter.

Ves broke the silence. “Look, I know better than to try and convince you Anais is safe,” she mumbled. “But we can at least talk about something else instead of brooding silently.” She pulled her cloak closer about her as a draft swept in. “How’d you wind up back in camp after the Black Ones smashed us? Never did tell me.”

“I was injured. I recovered. I made my way back to camp.”

She scoffed. “Gripping.”

“You expect me to write a song about it?”

She gave him a look. “We’re stuck in Kaer Morhen until this storm lets up anyway. And while the mead they have here is shite, it’s a sight better than what we’ve got back at camp. So I plan to enjoy a few mugs while I can, and I’m not going to do it sitting alone.”

He smirked. “At your size with witcher-made brew? One might be a few too many.”

“Come on, Roche. There’s more to it than what you’ve told me. I want to hear.”

His smile faded, and he resumed staring at the mug between his hands, stewing over his next words carefully.

Ves tapped a finger impatiently. “You scared to tell me you did something stupid? Afraid it’ll make you look bad?”

“No, I’m not concerned about that.”

“Then what?”

He grimaced. “Some of the details… There is no good way for me to tell you the story without getting into things that I would ordinarily keep private.”

“I’m not going to tell the men, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not that.” He sighed and drained the rest of his mead, partly to buy a few seconds, but largely because he didn’t want to drink it anymore. The honeyed taste suddenly seemed oppressive and cloying, turning his already-sour stomach. “I’m not used to talking of such things. I’m not sure I can convey what happened. I worry if I describe them I won’t do them justice. Just trying to form the words out loud makes it seem two-dimensional and ridiculous.”

“What if I describe them?”

Roche looked over and immediately regretted it, as his eyes were assaulted by the approaching bard’s violently colorful ensemble.

Ves peered at him. “Why d’you want to write a ballad about the commander?”

Dandelion took Ves’s reply as an inviation to join them, and settled into a seat on the bench next to her. Roche tensed.

“Usually I rely on Geralt for source material. But this whole Wild Hunt business…traveling across worlds, a spectral army out to destroy a girl with the power of time and space itself…It’s dizzying. I can only write so much of it before I get bogged down in minutiae and lose sight of the human element. The adventures of the Temerian resistance seem downright humble in comparison. It makes a good palate cleanser.”

“Do you always flatter the would-be subjects of your tales so?” asked Roche.

“You jest, but I mean every word. To a bard, nothing could be more romantic than a lost cause. A few scrappy rebels, fighting to the last for their beloved country… or whatever it is you’ve been up to these days.”

To Roche’s surprise, Ves was studying Dandelion with interest. If he didn’t know better he’d say she was intrigued, and actually considering the possibility.

“Say Roche does tell you what happened between that battle with Nilfgaard and now--”

“ Ves! ”

“Roche, wait -- just listen.” She turned back to Dandelion. “If you get the story, will you spread it among the common folk? Stir them up with stories about us, make them want to support the Temerians?”

“The common folk, nobles, I’ll spread it to anyone who will pay to listen.” He looked slightly affronted. “But I won’t be a mouthpiece for propaganda. I may be willing to do a lot for coin, but I’m not going to give up my artistic integrity.”

Roche let out a dubious laugh at that. Ves didn’t, though Roche caught a flicker of a smirk before she suppressed it. “You won’t have to,” she said, determined. “People already hate the Nilfgaardians as it is. They just don’t see what they can do about it. Story could change that. Convince them they can fight back.” She gestured to Roche. “Give them someone they can rally behind.”

He glared at her. “You can’t actually be considering this?”

She shrugged defiantly. “Tell me I’m wrong,” she said. “Tell me giving the common folk hope and getting us a boost in recruitment isn’t just what Temeria needs right now.”

He didn’t stop scowling, but the severity lessened. He began to stand. “I’ll need water if I’m to talk nonsense with this peacock. And possibly something stronger.”

Ves pushed him back down. “I’ll get it,” she said, standing. “‘Sides, I already know what happened at the battle up until you gave the order to retreat. You’ll get your drink and I don’t have to listen to rubbish I already know about. Win-win.”

She sauntered away before Roche could protest, leaving him alone with Dandelion. The bard was already taking out a quill and parchment, readying himself for the tale.

“So,” he started, far too chipper given the subject matter. “it sounds like there was a battle?”

“Obviously.”

“Where was it?”

Roche tried not to lash out in frustration. The bard was making it very difficult. “Every sodding fool in Temeria’s heard about what happened at the Mount Carbon-Dol Blathanna line,” he said. “Why are you asking me?”

“Every sodding fool might have heard about it, but they weren’t all there. You were. On the front lines, I assume. Hearsay and village gossip don’t make for good ballads. I want to hear the details, the truth.”

“What, so you can spin it into a ridiculous fabrication?”

“Of course. What else are bards for?”

Roche ground his teeth. Ves was right, he knew that. It was a good idea. To say their numbers were dwindling would be an understatement in the extreme. They needed a boost to recruitment, badly . But that didn’t change the fact that there were some events he didn’t feel like recounting - lost battles among them. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done something he didn’t particularly want to for the sake of Temeria.

He sighed and closed his eyes. For Temeria . “When Nilfgaard crossed the Yaruga, I dropped everything. Threw it all away to hell and rode for the front to fight the invader. Joined the Second Temerian Army under John Natalis. We were to stop the Black Ones’ advance along the Dol Blathanna-Mount Carbon line. And we did. For three days. Then they smashed us into splinters…”

The Dol Blathanna-Mount Carbon line, many months prior

To the left, ahead -- one of the Nilfgaardians moved in on a Temerian -- a farmer, most likely, judging by how awkwardly he held a spear. He stood paralyzed in the attacker’s path, too far for Roche to shove out of the way to safety. That left one option.

Roche rammed into the Nilfgaardian shoulder-first. The invader, thrown off-balance, let his shield sag as he fought to regain his footing. Roche put a sword through his chest before he had the chance.

He peered down to see the man was properly dead, then he turned to the trembling farmer.

“Fall back,” he barked. “Natalis has ordered a retreat. Round up as many men as you come upon and fall back behind the Dyphne. We’ll regroup there and use the bridge as a bottleneck.”

“What about them mobile bridges? The Nilfgaardians have got--”

Roche shook his head. “We’ll deal with that later. That kind of war machine is built for sieges, not speed. It’ll take hours to lug those monsters into position. Gather as many soldiers as you can and stick together. Scavenge for supplies along the way. We’ll need as much food, water, and medicine as we can muster. And arrows, so when the bastards do show up with their bridges we can pick them off from afar.”

The farmer nodded vigorously. “Aye, sir,” he said, in a voice that gave the distinct impression he was too frightened to remember half of what had just been said.

Roche simplified. “Look for a woman in blue stripes. I sent her ahead to coordinate the regrouping. Now move!”

The farmer scurried off.

Roche found his next target.

Forty yards off, a Nilfgaardian on horseback was terrorizing a pair of infantrymen and a handful of terrified archers.

The rider struck. One infantryman and a handful of terrified archers.

He sprinted at the lot. A boulder jutted out of the ground a short way from the cavalryman, and Roche took advantage of it. Clambering up the boulder, he jumped up and off its peak, launching himself at the rider with a yell.

The rider was too sure in his saddle to be thrown off that easily. Roche kicked one of the stirrups away, then threw an elbow into the man’s jaw. He heard teeth snap together. As the Nilfgaardian reeled in pain, Roche grabbed on tight and rolled to one side as hard as he could. He fell from the horse and dragged the Black One down with him. He’d hoped to land on top and use his enemy to cushion the fall. As fate would have it, they landed side by side. Roche let out a grunt of pain. But there was no time to be winded. Panting and growling for breath, he drew a dagger and forced the crown of his opponent’s head into the mud, exposing his throat. He ended the Nilfgaardian with a single, clean cut.

As he got up he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, streaking blood and dirt across his face in the process. He turned to look at the archers and surviving infantryman, who were looking at him with a mixture of thanks and horror.

He kept his orders brief this time. “Dyphne. Bridge. Gather supplies along the way. Look for a woman in blue stripes and follow her orders.”

They nodded dumbly and hurried in the direction of the river.

The next hour was a blur filled with more of the same: fend off Nilfgaardians who had broken off from the line, relay orders to fall back, and do everything possible to slow the Black Ones down. He helped a few men with axes fell a cluster of small trees, set an overturned wagon ablaze (once it had been stripped of supplies -- except for some of the vodka, which he left inside to fuel the fire). At one point he got lucky and stumbled on a cache of munitions. He stowed as many bombs as he could reasonably fit on his person and attached the rest to a makeshift fuse. With luck, they would ignite right as the bulk of the Nilfgaardian force was swarming through. An explosion of that scale might slow them down. If nothing else, he’d ensured that no useful munitions would fall into the invaders’ hands.

He kept fighting. Victory was a lost cause. Survival was now the only goal: his own survival, and the survival of enough men that this wouldn’t be the Temerian army’s last stand. He needed to buy them time to get across Dyphne. He focused on the stray pockets that were advancing too quickly and got separated from the main army. Perhaps if he harried the outliers enough, they’d take heed and stick with the rest of the (slower-moving) main body of the army.

He could only slow them so much. Eventually -- much sooner than he’d hoped or expected -- the Nilfgaardians had pushed him and the remaining forces within eyesight of the Dyphne. He could see the bridge, not far off. To his immense relief, Ves was no longer there. He prayed that meant she’d fallen back with some of the troops to a rallying point beyond the river. If not…but… no, he didn’t see any fallen soldiers in blue stripes.

Yes, she must have fallen back with the remnants of the army, as he’d ordered. The few stragglers making their way over the bridge were injured, or helping the injured. None of them were fighting forces in any position to ‘rendezvous’ or ‘rally’ anywhere.

The black line on the horizon grew thicker. Nilfgaard was pressing in.

“MOVE!” Roche bellowed. “If they’re too feeble to run, carry them. Now move! Get over the bridge, NOW!”

Besides the men escaping, a feeble pack of soldiers were holding fast, assembling a patchwork barricade at the mouth of the bridge. Brave . Brave and stupid. He counted only two crossbows among them, and gods only knew how many bolts they had left.

One of the men let out a gurgling cry. Roche spun to see the man pale with panic, a black-feathered arrow buried in his throat as he fell. He was still upright, eyes open and back against the barricade, when he stopped shuddering.

Roche grit his teeth. May your flesh and blood strengthen the barricade, he thought , and buy your brothers-in-arms the time they need .

The army was still a few hundred paces off by his estimation. The arrow had been a lucky shot, but soon more would be incoming.

“Cover overhead!” he ordered. “Shields, wood, fabric, anything to stop the arrows.”

To their credit, the remaining troops complied the best they could. Most of the sturdy material had been spent on the barricade, but they made do with a few scraps of wood and the draped gambesons of the fallen. Two more fell in the time it took to gather the materials. Barely a dozen remained.

Roche took cover, ducking out occasionally to see if the Nilfgaardians were in range. He didn’t have enough bolts to spray them wildly. He’d have to pick and choose his targets.

As he came down to the last bolt, he cursed his stupidity for not grabbing arrows or a bow. He cursed the farmer for not being able to remember his request to do so. He cursed bloody Nilfgaard for all of it.

The last bolt grazed his target’s arm and kept going into another soldier behind him, one whose corpse would be smaller and less likely to trip up his comrades. The near miss made Roche itch. In target practice he would have insisted on one more round as a matter of pride, but he didn’t have that luxury. He’d have to make peace with the fact that his last shot -- perhaps ever -- had missed.

He cursed Nilfgaard again. Then he looked around and took stock. Twelve had become five.

Five men and a flimsy barricade wouldn’t hold back the White Flame’s armies for long.

His fingers settled upon one of the bombs, tied to his belt. He settled on a plan.

“Fall back,” he ordered, hoarsely. Earlier, he’d felt a crackle and a tear in his throat as he shouted at the soldiers. Now he was feeling the effects. He breathed deep into his belly, putting as much gumption behind the command as he could muster. “Fall back,” he ordered. It wasn’t a roar, but it was audible. Audible and firm.

The remaining five exchanged glances.

“I’ll hold them off,” he said. “I’ll manage. Go. Rendezvous with the others. Go !”

The soldiers had the good grace to look hesitant, but they obeyed. Keeping low to the ground, a couple of shields carried over their heads, the five moved across the bridge towards the forests waiting just beyond.

Roche didn’t have time to watch and see if they made it. The army was close now.

Working as fast as he could, he laid out the bombs in an evenly-spaced ring. He hoped it would be enough to break through the stone.

He laid down a line of fuse as he backed away, crouched low to the ground. He was beyond the barricade’s awning now. Arrows were beginning to rain down.

He growled as one hit his shoulder. No time to deal with it now. He had to slow them down.

He pulled out a flint and began working furiously, trying to create enough sparks that the fuse would light reliably. If a wind blew it out or the horses got here and trampled it before the bombs could ignite…

It caught.

He let out a triumphant laugh and a smile that was more grimace than grin. Rolling up his sleeve, he tore away some of the fabric and laid it down alongside the fuse for good measure. More to burn.

Then he ran. The fuse was burning quicker than he thought it would. Too soon and not soon enough, for he could hear the thunder of horses drawing ever nearer.

One of the bombs went off.

The percussive force caught him off-guard. He staggered to the side, clapping hands to his ears as they rang ferociously. World spinning, he looked to the other bank. He still had half the bridge to go. Too far to run.

He looked down at the river. He hoped the water was deep.

He jumped. He distantly heard the second bomb detonate just before he hit the water, then all was silent. It was a very loud silence -- his ears ringing on the high end, the rush of water filling in the low.

He could feel himself being pulled -- in one direction by the current, in another by the weight of his chainmail -- but he had no sense of direction. His vision was a blur of gray and darkness.

A sharp pain erupted at the crown of his head, the kind that began as a shock and a sharp intake of breath before the injury really settled in. His last waking thought before he lost consciousness was keen awareness of the pain: stinging, then throbbing, then black.