Valiant Wanderer, Hero of Troubled Times (Witcher)

They passed through a belt of sparsely forested hills, creeping cautiously across small valleys full of mist, moving through broad, grassy glades, and across clearings of wind-felled trees. Braenn stopped once again and looked around. She had apparently lost her way, but Geralt knew that was impossible. Taking advantage of a break in the march, however, he sat down on a fallen tree. And then he heard a scream. Shrill. High-pitched. Desperate.

Braenn knelt down in a flash, at once drawing two arrows from her quiver. She seized one in her teeth and nocked the other, bent her bow, taking aim blindly through the bushes towards the sound of the voice.

"Don't shoot!" he cried. He leaped over the tree trunk and forced his way through the brush. A small creature in a short grey jacket was standing in a small clearing, at the foot of a rocky cliff, with its back pressed against the trunk of a withered hornbeam. Something was moving slowly about five paces in front of it, parting the grass. That thing was about twelve feet long and was dark brown. At first Geralt thought it was a snake. But then he noticed the wriggling, yellow, hooked limbs and flat segments of the long thorax and realised it was not a snake. It was something much more sinister.

The creature hugging the tree cried out shrilly. The immense myriapod raised above the grass long, twitching feelers with which it sensed odours and warmth. "Don't move!" The Witcher yelled and stamped to attract the scolopendromorph's attention. But the myriapod did not react, for its feelers had already caught the scent of the nearer victim. The monster wriggled its limbs, coiled itself up like an 'S' and moved forward. Its bright yellow limbs rippled through grass, evenly, like the oars of a galley.

"Yghern!" Braenn yelled.

Geralt hurtled into the clearing in two bounds, jerking his sword from its scabbard on his back as he ran, and in full flight struck the petrified creature beneath the tree with his hip, shoving it aside into some brambles. The scolopendromorph rustled the grass, wriggled its legs and attacked, raising its anterior segments, its venom-dripping pincers chattering. Geralt danced, leaped over the flat body and slashed it with his sword from a half-turn, aiming at a vulnerable spot between the armoured plates on its body.

The monster was too swift, however, and the sword struck the chitinous shell, without cutting through it; the thick carpet of moss absorbed the blow. Geralt dodged, but not deftly enough. The scolopendromorph wound the posterior part of its body around his legs with enormous strength. The Witcher fell, rolled over and tried to pull himself free. In vain.

The myriapod flexed and turned around to reach him with its pincers, and at the same time fiercely dug its claws into the tree and wrapped itself around it. Right then an arrow hissed above Geralt's head, penetrating the armour with a crack, pinning the creature to the trunk. The scolopendromorph writhed, broke the arrow and freed itself, but was struck at once by two more. The Witcher kicked the thrashing abdomen off and rolled away to the side.

Braenn, kneeling, was shooting at an astonishing rate, sending arrow after arrow into the creature. The myriapod was breaking the shafts to free itself, but each successive arrow would pin it to the trunk again. It snapped its flat, shiny, dark-red maw and clanged its pincers by the places which had been pierced by the arrows, instinctively trying to reach the enemy which was wounding it.

Geralt leaped at it from the side, took a big swing and hacked with his sword, ending the fight with one blow. The tree acted like an executioner's block.

Braenn approached slowly, an arrow nocked, kicked the body writhing in the grass, its limbs thrashing around, and spat on it.

"Thanks," the Witcher said, crushing the beast's severed head with blows of his heel.

"Eh?"

"You saved my life."

The dryad looked at him. There was neither understanding nor emotion in her expression. "Yghern," she said, nudging the writhing body with a boot. "It broke my arrows."

"You saved my and the boy's life, and that little dryad's," Geralt repeated. He looked around. "Where the bloody hell are they?"

Braenn deftly brushed aside the bramble thicket. "See for yourself, Gwynbleidd."

Alaster was standing there with his hand on his sheathed sword. He looked at another, younger figure hiding amongst the branches and leaves. The little thing was neither dryad nor elf, or sylph or puck or halfling. It was a quite ordinary human girl, if a very pale one with pale eyes and equally pale hair. And yet, in the centre of Brokilon, it was most extraordinary to come across and ordinary, human little girl.

"Think you found your princess." Alaster muttered. "We can finally get out of this bug-infested—" he stopped, gaze flitting cautiously to the dryad.

Geralt blinked. Then he sighed. "What's your name, girl? How did you get here?"

She did not reply, her eyes going warily from the boy to him.

"Don't be afraid," he said, sitting slowly on his haunches. He held out a hand.

"I'm not afraid," she mumbled indistinctly. It was a lie.

"Let us get out of here," Braenn suddenly said, looking all around. "Where there is one yghern, you can usually expect another. And I have few arrows now."

The girl looked at her, opened her mouth and wiped it with the back of her hand, smearing dust over her face.

"What are you doing… in this forest?" Geralt asked again, leaning forward. "How did you get here?"

The girl lowered her head and sniffed loudly.

"Cat got your tongue? Who are you, I said? What's your name?"

"Ciri," she said, sniffing.

Geralt was quiet for a moment. He turned around. Braenn, examining her bow, glanced at him. "Listen, Braenn…"

"What?"

"Is it possible… Is it possible she… has escaped from Duén Canell?"

Braenn looked at him oddly.

"Don't play dumb," he said, annoyed. "I know you abduct little girls. And you? What, did you fall from the sky into Brokilon? I'm asking if it's possible…"

"No," the dryad cut him off. "I have never seen her before."

Geralt looked at the little girl. Her ashen-grey hair was dishevelled, full of pine needles and small leaves, but smelled of cleanliness, not smoke, nor the cowshed, nor tallow. Her hands, although incredibly dirty, were small and delicate, without scars or calluses. The boy's clothes, the jacket with a red hood she had on, did not indicate anything, but her high boots were made of soft, expensive calfskin. No, she was certainly not a village child.

He caught Alaster staring at him. Damned Rat, listened to Vesimir's blabbering and now he thought he knew something. Better he minded his own business. "Where are you from? I'm asking you, you scamp." Geralt asked with a scowl.

"How dare you talk to me like that!" The little girl lifted her head haughtily and stamped her foot. The soft moss completely spoiled the effect.

"Ha," the Witcher said, and smiled. "A princess, indeed. At least in speech, for your appearance is wretched. You're from Verden, aren't you? Do you know you're being looked for? Don't worry, I'll deliver you home. Listen, Braenn…" The moment he looked away the girl turned very quickly on her heel and ran off through the forest, across the gentle hillside.

"Bloede dungh!" the dryad yelled, reaching for her quiver. "Caemm aere!"

The little girl, stumbling, rushed blindly through the forest, crunching over dry branches.

"Stop!" shouted Geralt. "Where are you bloody going!?"

Braenn bent her bow in a flash. The arrow hissed venomously, describing a flat parabola, and the arrowhead thudded into the tree trunk, almost brushing the little girl's hair. The girl cringed and flattened herself to the ground.

"You bloody fool," the Witcher hissed, hurrying over to the dryad. Braenn deftly drew another arrow from her quiver. "You might have killed her!"

"This is Brokilon," she said proudly.

"She's only a child!"

"What of it?"

He looked at the arrow's shaft. It had striped fletchings made from a pheasant's flight feathers dyed yellow in a decoction of tree bark. He did not say a word. He turned around and went quickly into the forest. The little girl was lying beneath the tree, cowering, cautiously raising her head and looking at the arrow stuck into the tree. She heard his steps and leaped to her feet, but he reached her with a single bound and seized her by the red hood of her jacket. She turned her head and looked at him, then at his hand, holding her hood. He released her.

"Why did you run away?"

"None of your business," she sniffed. "Leave me alone, you, you—"

"Foolish brat," he hissed furiously. "This is Brokilon. Wasn't the myriapod enough? You wouldn't last till morning in this forest. Haven't you got it yet?"

"Don't touch me!" she yelled. "You peasant! I am a princess, so you'd better be careful!"

"Well, you heard her." Alaster said snarkily. "Better do as she says, or it'll be off with our heads. I'm sure she'll be fine on her own."

"Quiet, Rat. And you, girl—you're more a foolish imp than a princess! Princesses don't roam through forests alone. Princesses have clean noses."

"I'll have you both drawn and quartered! And her too!" The girl wiped her nose with her hand and glared at the approaching dryad.

Braenn snorted with laughter.

"Alright, enough of this," the Witcher cut her off. "Why were you running away, Your Highness? And where to? What were you afraid of?"

She said nothing, and sniffed.

"Very well, as you wish," he winked at the dryad. "We're going. If you want to stay alone in the forest, that's your choice. But the next time a yghern attacks you, don't yell. It doesn't befit a princess. A princess dies without even a squeal, having first wiped her snotty nose. Let's go, Braenn. Farewell, Your Highness."

"W… wait."

"Aha?"

"I'm coming with you."

"We are greatly honoured. Aren't we, Braenn?"

"I'm not."

"Nobody asked you."

"But you won't take me to Kistrin again? Do you swear?" Ciri asked, sniffing again.

"Who is—?" he began. "Oh, dammit. Kistrin. Prince Kistrin? The son of King Ervyll of Verden?"

The little girl pouted her little lips and turned away.

"Enough of these trifles," said Braenn grimly. "Let us march on."

"Hold on, hold on." The Witcher straightened up and looked down at the dryad. "Our plans are changing somewhat."

"Eh?" Braenn said, raising her eyebrows.

"Lady Eithné can wait. I have to take the little one home. To Verden."

The dryad squinted and reached for her quiver. "You're not going anywhere. Nor is she."

The Witcher's face turned grim. "Be careful, Braenn," he said. "I'm not that kid whose eye you speared with an arrow from the undergrowth."

"Bloede arss!" she hissed, raising her bow. "You're going to Duén Canell, and so is she! Not to Verden!"

"No. Not to Verden!" the mousy-haired girl said, throwing herself at the dryad and pressing herself against her slim thigh. "I'm going with you! And he can go to Verden by himself, to silly old Kistrin, if he wants!"

Braenn did not even look at her, did not take her eyes off Geralt. But she lowered her bow. "Ess dungh!" she said, spitting at his feet. "Very well! Then go on your way! We'll see how you fare. You'll kiss an arrow before you leave Brokilon."

She wasn't wrong. Without her, the two of them wouldn't get out of Brokilon nor reach Duén Canell. Perhaps he'd manage to persuade Eithné… "Very well, Braenn," Geralt said placatingly. "Have it your way. We shall all go to Duén Canell. To Lady Eithné."

The dryad muttered something under her breath and unnocked the arrow. "To the road, then," she said, straightening her hairband. "We have tarried too long."

"Ooow…" the little girl yelped as she took a step.

"What's the matter?"

"I've done something… To my leg."

"Wait, Braenn! Come here, scamp, I'll carry you pick-a-back." She was warm and smelt like a wet sparrow. "What's your name, princess? I've forgotten."

"My feet are sore too—" Alaster grumbled.

"Too bad. Say it again, girl. Your name."

"Ciri." She said, glancing at the boy and giving him a haughty look.

"And your estates, where do they lie, if I may ask?" Geralt said after a pause.

"I won't tell," she grunted. "I won't tell, and that's that."

"I'll get by. Don't wriggle or sniff right by my ear. What were you doing in Brokilon? Did you get lost? Did you lose your way?"

"Not a chance! I never get lost."

"Did you run away from Kistrin? From Nastrog Castle? Before or after the wedding?"

"How did you know?" She sniffed, intent.

He ignored her question. "Why did you run away to Brokilon, of all places? Weren't there any safer directions?"

"I couldn't control my stupid horse."

"You're lying, princess. Looking at your size, the most you could ride is a cat. And a gentle one at that."

"I was riding with Marck. Sir Voymir's esquire. But the horse fell in the forest and broke its leg. And we lost our way."

"You said that never happens to you."

"He got lost, not me. It was foggy. And we lost our way."

You got lost, thought Geralt. Sir Voymir's poor esquire, who had the misfortune to happen upon Braenn and her companions. A young stripling, who had probably never known a woman, helped the scamp escape, because he'd heard a lot of knightly stories about virgins being forced to marry. He helped her escape, to fall to a dryad's dyed arrow—one who probably hasn't known a man herself. But already knows how to kill.

"I asked you if you bolted from Nastrog Castle before or after the wedding?"

"I just scarpered and it's none of your business," she grunted. "Grandmamma told me I had to go there and meet him. That Kistrin. Just meet him. But that father of his, that big-bellied king…"

"Ervyll."

"… kept on: 'the wedding, the wedding'. But I don't want him. That Kistrin. Grandmamma said—"

"Is Prince Kistrin so revolting?"

"I don't want him," Ciri proudly declared, sniffing loudly. "He's fat, stupid and his breath smells. Before I went there they showed me a painting, but he wasn't fat in the painting. I don't want a husband like that. I don't want a husband at all."

"Ciri," the Witcher said hesitantly. "Kistrin is still a child, like you. In a few years he might turn into a handsome young man."

"Then they can send me another painting, in a few years," she snorted. "And him too. Because he told me that I was much prettier in the painting they showed him. And he confessed that he loves Alvina, a lady-in-waiting and he wants to be a knight. See? He doesn't want me and I don't want him. So what use is a wedding?"

Alaster snickered. "So he didn't want you. Can't imagine why."

"What do you know, you peasant, you?" Ciri said angrily. "If I had a serf as cheeky, I'd have hanged him upside down from the rafters until his eyes popped out—!"

"Ignored him." Geralt said, interrupting. "Ciri, he's a prince and you're a princess. Princes and princesses marry like that, that's how it is. That's the custom."

"You sound like all the rest. You think that just because I'm little you can lie to me."

"I'm not lying."

"Yes you are."

Geralt said nothing. Braenn, walking in front of them, turned around, probably surprised by the silence. She shrugged and set off.

"Which way are we going?" Ciri asked glumly. "I want to know! Answer, when I ask a question!" she said menacingly when he didn't respond, backing up the order with a loud sniff. "Do you know… who's sitting on you? I'll bite you in the ear!"

The Witcher had had enough. He pulled the girl off his back and put her on the ground. "Now listen, you brat," he said harshly, struggling with his belt buckle. "In a minute I'll put you across my knee, pull down your britches and tan your backside. No one will stop me doing it, because this isn't the royal court, and I'm not your flunkey or servant. You'll soon regret you didn't stay in Nastrog. You'll soon see it's better being a princess than a snot-nosed kid who got lost in the forest. Because, it's true, a princess is allowed to act obnoxiously. And no one thrashes a princess's backside with a belt."

Braenn watched dispassionately, leaning against a tree. Alaster looked on expectantly.

"Well?" the Witcher asked, wrapping his belt around his wrist. "Are we going to behave with dignity and temperance? If not, we shall set about tanning Her Majesty's hide. Well? What's it to be?"

The little girl snivelled and sniffed, then eagerly nodded.

"Are you going to be good, princess?"

"Yes," she mumbled.

"Gloaming will soon fall," the dryad said. "Let us make haste, Gwynbleidd."

The forest thinned out. They walked through a sandy young forest, across moors, and through fog-cloaked meadows with herds of red deer grazing. It was growing cooler.

"Noble lord…" Ciri began after a long, long silence.

"My name is Geralt. What's the matter?"

"I'm awffy, awffy hungry."

"We'll stop in a moment. It'll be dark soon."

"I can't go on," she snivelled. "I haven't eaten since—"

"Stop whining." He reached into a saddlebag and took out a piece of fatback, a small round of white cheese and two apples. "Have that."

"What's that yellow stuff?"

"Fatback."

"I won't eat that," she grunted.

"Give it here." Alaster said, holding out his hand.

Ciri hesitated, then she threw it at his feet so he wouldn't catch it. He did, and stuffed it in his mouth with a gloating smile.

"Eat the cheese. And an apple. Just one." Geralt said.

"Why only one."

"Don't wriggle. Have both."

"Geralt?"

"Mhm?"

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Food'll do you good."

"I didn't… Not for that. That too, but… You saved me from that centipede… Ugh… I almost died of fright."

"You almost died," he confirmed seriously. You almost died in an extremely painful and hideous way, he thought. "But you ought to thank Braenn."

"What is she?"

"A dryad."

"An eerie wife?"

Alaster snorted.

"Yes." Geralt said before they could start a quarrel.

"So she's… They kidnap children! She's kidnapped us? Hey, but you aren't small. But why does she speak so strangely?"

"That's just her way, it's not important. What's important is how she shoots. Don't forget to thank her when we stop."

"I won't forget," Ciri replied.

"Don't wriggle, future Princess of Verden, ma'am."

"I'm not going to be a princess," she muttered.

"Very well, very well. You won't be a princess. You'll become a hamster and live in a burrow."

"No I won't! You don't know anything!"

"Don't squeak in my ear. And don't forget about the strap!"

"I'm not going to be a princess. I'm going to be…"

"Yes? What?"

"It's a secret."

"Oh, yes, a secret. Great." He raised his head. "What is it, Braenn?"

The dryad had stopped. She shrugged and looked at the sky. "I cannot go on," she said softly. "Neither can you, I warrant, with her on your back, Gwynbleidd. We shall stop here. It will darken soon."