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TWL Chapter 292: A Storm Gathers Over Skellige
🕑 Added 2025-01-19 03:03:11 +0000 UTCIt was as if a bomb had exploded in the middle of the banquet. The atmosphere became tense and chaotic after Fritjof's arrival and his alarming words. His disheveled and bloody appearance made everyone present startled.
Udalryk, already pale and distracted, fell to the ground in shock. Jutta tried to keep her composure and raised her chest to appear firm, but her trembling hand on the hilt of her sword betrayed her nervousness. Even the normally calm Donar couldn't stop his hand from shaking as he tugged at his beard.
"Mr. Fritjof, no offense..." Lugos gulped and spoke cautiously, displaying unusual respect for the revered druid. "Are you sure of what you say? It could be that your injuries are so severe that they are causing you to see things... Is the Tordarroch clan about to be destroyed? The druid masters sacrificed? That sounds too much..."
"Lugos!" Fritjof interrupted him with a furious shout. "I don't care how crazy you've been before, but this isn't the time!"
The old druid, his gaze burning with rage, scanned the room with his eyes. "We have no time to waste. We have to... cough, cough!"
The druid stopped due to a fit of violent coughing.
Eist continued before the old druid continued to rage and aggravate his injuries.
"We must act immediately," he said, his tone firm and resonant throughout the room.
Eist approached Fritjof and, with a determined look, raised his voice: "There is no doubt that we are facing an unprecedented crisis. An enemy that we have ignored for too long has chosen the most unexpected moment to deal us the most painful blow. We are about to lose our brothers of the Tordarroch clan, who have accompanied us for centuries!"
Eist paused for a moment, his gaze scanning the audience. "We cannot stand by and do nothing. As King of Skellige, it is my duty to protect my subjects. And as Skelligers, it is our responsibility to defend our brothers."
Crach, seeing his uncle's movements, instinctively followed him, making clear his position of support.
Lann and Bran exchanged a look, placing both hands on the hilts of their weapons, thus showing their position.
The jarls of the great clans did not doubt Fritjof's news, nor were they capable of sitting back and doing nothing in the face of tragedy. However, the information had arrived so suddenly that they needed time to accept it. At that moment, Eist's intervention significantly shortened their process of reflection, as if an invisible spine had emerged, clearly marking out the direction to follow.
"The soldiers of Clan Tuirseach can assemble immediately. Bran!" Eist ordered firmly, turning to his brother. "I need you to take command right now."
Bran nodded determinedly and quickly left to summon his clan's warriors.
Lann also turned and called to House, instructing him to organize the witchers, squires, and Cintra soldiers.
"Master Fritjof, I need your continued support," Eist said seriously to the druid, who had just returned. "Please inform the Druid Circle and ask them to help transmit the jarls' orders to their respective islands. Also, we clearly do not have time to travel by boat to the island of Undvik. We need to use teleportation portals to send an initial group of soldiers."
Fritjof shook his head slightly. "I've already taken action on that."
As soon as he finished speaking, more portals began to open in the hall, unleashing strong gusts of wind.
Eist raised his hand to protect himself from the currents, but a growing determination shone in his eyes.
The advisory druids of each clan appeared one after another. They quickly found their respective jarls, exchanged a few brief words, and then opened new portals to transport them back to their territories, where they would begin mobilizing their forces.
However, three thickly bearded druids remained in place, ready to open the portals that would allow the advance party to move through.
"But this number is not enough," Eist commented with a frown.
Fritjof let out a sigh. “The portals require experienced mages to open and maintain. Without supporting magic materials, we can only rely on the magical energy of the most powerful druids, and even then they cannot sustain them for long.”
Eist frowned. "How many soldiers can we transport?"
Fritjof exchanged glances with his companions before answering. "Approximately five hundred."
Eist nodded slowly. “That means most of the army will have to go by boat… But five hundred soldiers as a vanguard will be enough, at least to protect the Tordarroch clan bloodline and evacuate the civilians from the island.”
At that moment, Bran had just hurried back after giving the necessary instructions to gather the troops of the Tuirseach clan, managing to overhear the conversation between Fritjof and Eist.
"Brother, you are the king now. You must not put yourself at risk by leading the advance. Let me go," Bran intervened hastily.
Eist looked at his brother and firmly shook his head. "It is precisely because I am the king that I must be present. The soldiers must see their leader on the battlefield while he can still wield a sword. You should understand that, Bran."
At the determination in his brother's eyes, Bran bowed his head in silence.
"Don't worry. I'll be with my uncle. You've seen what I'm capable of. If it comes to that, I can guarantee that I'll bring him back safely," Lann said confidently. "Besides, I'll be taking all the witchers with me. They're experts at dealing with magical creatures. There won't be a problem."
"Then let Gerd join them," an elderly voice interrupted their conversation.
Turning their gazes, they saw that Torgeir had stepped forward. "Gerd is particularly skilled with a defensive spell. Lann, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. Not even the most powerful crossbow can penetrate his skin. I'm sure he'll be able to protect Eist well."
Gerd exchanged glances with Lann and smiled widely. "An ice giant, eh? Since I came to Skellige, I've never had the pleasure of seeing one."
…
The sea wind blew hard, while the white waves beat against the shore with a deafening roar. Between the cracks in the rocks, fountains of foam rose again and again, as turbulent as the hearts of the sailors.
Lann led his seasoned Cintra guard alongside the elite warriors of the Tuirseach clan. Gathered into a single group, four master-level druids channeled their magic to open a portal. In the blink of an eye, the advance guard disappeared in the bright flashes.
Meanwhile, Bran was organizing the rest of the troops. He left Svanrige to protect the castle and maintain order. He, for his part, would lead a fleet of Drakkars towards the island of Undvik to reinforce the advance troops.
The advance troops' objective was to save the surviving members of the Tordarroch clan and evacuate the island's inhabitants. Bran's troops, for their part, were tasked with killing the ice giant and putting an end once and for all to this creature that had terrorized the archipelago for centuries.
"Do it, Bran. Wash your shame with the monster's head. I'll take care of Svanrige," said Torgeir, clapping Bran on the shoulder. "If it weren't for the fact that my age makes me such a burden, I'd love to take an axe and tear off a chunk of the giant, even if it were just a finger!"
Bran thanked Torgeir for his support and charged him with caring for his son and helping to manage An Skellig in his absence. Then he boarded the Drakkar along with the warriors of his clan. With sails unfurled, the ship sailed across the waves toward its destination.
In the straits between the islands and Undvik, the Drakkars began to appear one after another. The coloured sails gleamed in the sun, and the bronze shields hanging on the sides of the ships reflected the light brightly. It was a mass mobilization, something Skellige had not seen in a century.
...
On a cliff at An Skellig, a man with southern features watched intently as the Drakkars departed. He wore a thick beard, and his face was lit up with a smile of restrained excitement.
He was a military officer.
Behind him, nearly a hundred well-trained soldiers waited in formation. Next to him, a battered sailor was on his knees, trembling with fear.
"There is no doubt that this is an excellent strategic point. I owe it to you," said the bearded officer with a smile directed at the sailor.
The sailor, his face swollen and covered in bruises, did not know how to respond. But before he could say anything, the officer's expression changed and, without hesitation, he plunged his sword into his neck.
A soldier stepped forward and pushed the corpse over the cliff. The body fell into the sea, where the blood was quickly covered by the waves. Something underwater, perhaps a sea creature, dragged the corpse down into the depths.
The bushy-bearded officer took a deep breath and turned to his group. "While we don't know exactly what has happened, it is clear that the garrison of An Skellig is in a state of absolute weakness. For us, this is a unique opportunity."
"Skellige is about to become involved in the war between the north and the south. We must strike hard," the officer said through gritted teeth. "Now, can anyone tell me why we have chosen to attack this island?"
From the ranks of soldiers, a voice answered with determination: "Because the Tuirseach clan is the most vile, ruthless and corrupt of all! We must take revenge for what they did to the City of Golden Towers years ago!"
Several years ago, when Torgeir was jarl of the Tuirseach clan, accompanied by Bran, Eist and Crach, he had sacked what is now the capital of Nilfgaard.
At that time, Nilfgaard was just a small kingdom. Many of the soldiers present were descendants of the victims of that plunder or even direct survivors. Therefore, the banner of revenge carried far more weight in motivating the troops than any speech about northern or southern politics.
"Some suggested hiring bounty hunters, but... how could true revenge be carried out by someone else's hands?" the officer continued. "Furthermore, I have information confirming that the cruel Lion of Cintra is also on An Skellig."
He paused, letting his words sink in. “This operation is not within His Majesty the Emperor’s official strategy, but I am convinced that our actions will go down in history. What we do today will change the fate of the continent!” His voice rose like thunder. “Bring my armor! Put up your emblems! Let the inhabitants of Skellige and the Cintrians know who will bring death and fear to their doors.”
In an instant, the flags of the Black Sun began to flutter. The dark armor, adorned with golden edges, reflected a cold glow under the sun.
Meanwhile, in the tents behind them, large tarpaulins were being pulled back, revealing monstrous war machines made of metal and solid wood. They were imposing structures, painted in shades of black and grey, with thick iron chains extending down the sides. They latched like claws and fangs around pulleys and winches, ready to unleash devastating force.
They were the gigantic catapults of Nilfgaard.
Building a fortress can take decades, and with proper maintenance, it can last for centuries. But these machines could reduce it to rubble in a matter of hours.
The officer solemnly adjusted his helmet and shouted at the top of his lungs, "For the glory of the Great Sun! All honor to Emperor Emhyr var Emreis!"
The echo of his voice was quickly accompanied by the clamor of his men, a roar that surpassed even the roar of the sea wind.
