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Castoff: Rivals (ch. 22)
🕑 Added 2023-07-13 14:50:26 +0000 UTCHer father was doing his best to look regal and composed, but he had spent the better part of two days locked in a basement and, try as he might, he couldn't hide it. His hair was greasy, the perfumes he wore made the stench of sweat harsher, and his clothing was wrinkled and stained with dirt. All the same, he still held himself with composure, idly looking down at a map of Nilfgaard. "You're placing a great deal of faith in me," He made an idle remark that made Ciri regret having him brought up. Part of her wanted to just lock him in the basement and forget about him forever.
However, for better or worse, he was part of this plan. "I'm trusting your self-interest," Ciri corrected, crossing her arms as she leaned against a wall, refusing to even be seated at the same table as her father. "Even if you expect this plan to go up in smoke, you'll still send me after your enemies. The few rivals you have. Which, I imagine, would be the staunchest resistance to the unification and my place as your heir."
"Quite true," her father admitted, a core of pride in his voice. Ciri hated it. "Your education in etiquette is lacking, but you are adept at this, daughter. That is nothing to be ashamed of. It is a skill you shall need to cultivate if your reign shall be a long one." Ciri fought off a scowl, not wanting to give away how she felt to him. Especially when she found that she agreed with him.
Her lessons as a princess came back. Some lessons she was taught without realizing it. Her education was furthered by Yennefer and her life experiences on the Path. And, now, she was able to step back and see the cards she had up her sleeve. Triss and her secret society of mages. The riches of Novigrad. The vacuum of power in the North. Her own abilities. And, hopefully, Guts and that big sword of his. Just like a game of Gwent, she just had to play her hand correctly and she would win the game.
"Hm. Have you looked over the terms of your surrender?" Ciri asked, ignoring the remark. To that, her father's lips curled into the faintest of smiles.
"I have. I would recommend that they be harsher, my daughter. Rebellions are how a Lord pulls out the weeds in his garden. Increase the tribute to fifty thousand gold marks. I shall levy a tax on the merchant guilds and the nobility. Either they will rebel, giving you just cause to rip them up root and stem, or you will deplete their resources while strengthening your own." The tribute was to rebuild the North -- to rebuild homes, roads, and farmland that had been ravaged in the war. Thirty thousand gold marks had seemed excessive but more than enough to cover costs when paid out over the course of ten years.
Ciri worked her jaw, "And naturally, you will know who rebels and who will not."
Her father smiled, "Naturally."
He was good at this, Ciri hated to admit it. He was good at wielding power and influence. He knew exactly where to push and how hard to get exactly the reaction that he wanted. It was as if all the nobility of Nilfgaard were merely a puppet and he was expertly pulling their strings. Ciri knew that. She knew that she should listen to him. Despite his many and significant faults, Ciri did believe that he was being honest in this. His advice was valuable -- as valuable as the advice from Geralt about monsters. Whereas Geralt was a master Witcher, her father was a master politician.
She should heed his advice. Ciri knew that. She just didn't want to.
Then again, she didn't want to be queen.
"Fine. Have it your way -- fifty thousand gold marks in annual tribute," Ciri said, feeling like she lost even as she gained a truly ludicrous amount of money. "Any other concessions that need to be addressed?"
"Several, but they are minor things that needn't be addressed in the treaty itself. They'll take place during the negotiation," her father dismissed. A damn simple con, Ciri thought -- she would ask for a hundred thousand marks, her father would haggle her down to thirty- now fifty, she supposed. All to make the bitter pill go down easier. "Marriage."
Fuck.
"Marriage will secure your support with a great house, which will give you access to their soft and hard power. Armies, connections, gold. To be blunt, I did a rather excellent job culling the Northern nobility. You will not gain much from marrying into a Northern family," her father continued, ignoring her discomfort. "However, given the changes that you seek to implement and the disabilization of both realms, it would not do to have a single Nilfgaardian family rise too high. They would get ideas."
Distaste pooled in her stomach -- she would do what she must, but Ciri had to admit, she didn't much care for marriage. If not because of her preferences of girls to boys, then because it would infringe upon her freedom. The entire practice of marrying into families to have babies… It reminded her far too much of how horses or dogs were bred. All for that golden lineage.
Thankfully, she was rescued by the sound of footsteps. Heavy ones. Her heart leapt to her throat to see Guts was coming down the stairs -- he looked worse for wear, Ciri thought. His skin was covered in scars from the lightning that honestly should have killed him. Instead, he walked down the steps seemingly at peace for the first time since Ciri met him. Relief flooded her, "You're awake."
The image of Guts puking up black bile that consumed his armor, engulfing him in it, flashed in Ciri's mind. The armor was cursed, they knew that much. It fought them when they went to take it off and they couldn't even put it outside of Guys' room or it would collapse into shadows and reappear on him. She thought that armor would extract some terrible cost from Guts. That it would sap his strength, twist him in some way, but the man that came down the steps looked like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. A burden that had been crushing him since she knew him.
“Barely,” Guts admitted, his gaze going to her father, who eyed him warily. “I can still swing my sword, though. That’s enough.” Ciri felt a flash of gratitude for Guts -- for no other reason than he was himself. Only he was able to come off of his death bed and feel fit to take on an army. It almost felt like the nation that would be built was going to be built around that strength of his. “Wanted to talk to you about that.”
Ciri nodded, shrugging when Guts gestured to her father. He was… on their side. For better or worse. And as much as Ciri truly wanted to believe it was for worse, she also knew that this was impossible without him. “About what?”
“Price,” Guts admitted, sounding almost sheepish. “Things… are different for me now. I was planning to leave the Sphere after this was done. To pay you and Triss back for helping Casca. That's impossible now. We’ll be staying here and I have… to think about their future.” Guts said, and Ciri heard what wasn’t said. She missed the first half and a shit ton of context, but she heard the deal that was made.
Guts was doing this because he didn’t expect to be sticking around. He made the deal and did his best to make sure that his life was the only one that was collected. Her lips thinned -- this was a request for Casca and the child. A silent child that seemed to be able to see right through you. A Source, as Yennefer described him.
An equal to the Elder Blood.
That was a genuinely terrifying prospect. She was hunted across the multiverse because of the blood in her veins and all her life, she was told her human blood polluted it. Weakened it. The child could be the equal to Lara Dorren in pure magical might, and she had made the impossible possible.
“Ever the mercenary, huh?” Ciri remarked, smiling ever so slightly as she shoved what she learned to the side. The Elder Blood scared her. She hated it ever since she found out what it was. It was a curse that seemed to bring untold amount of trouble her way simply because others wanted it. However, as a ruler, she feared it for other reasons. Sources were powerful, needing intense emotions to use their magic, and in that headspace… self-restraint was secondary. Ciri had proven that more than enough times. “What do you want?”
For what they were asking, a mountain of gold would be a steal.
“A dukedom. Or whatever it’s called,” he answered and her father sucked in a sharp breath and she could hear him biting his tongue.
Ciri simply blinked. “You… want to be nobility?” She asked, trying to imagine Guts dressed up like a puffed-up peacock making small talk around a hearth. The mental image nearly got a laugh out of her.
“Want is a strong word,” Guts replied drily, glancing upstairs with his eyes. Ciri understood. She really did. She turned her attention to the map and considered the request -- she would grant him it. And, if she was honest with herself, it was nothing less than a relief to learn that he would be staying in this Sphere. In this kingdom that she would build. The future she would shape.
The road ahead was going to be a long one that was filled with danger and frustration. Having Guts there would make a heavy task a little lighter. Not to mention, she had few friends. It would be good to have one nearby. However, the question was where?
In a way, she was almost spoiled for choice. Her father had gutted the Northern nobility. It was going to be an absolute mess puzzling out blood claims and rights -- a problem for another day. There were a number of minor holdings that could easily fit the bill. Bloodlines that if they weren’t wiped out by her father, then by the war that followed. If Guts asked for a barony, she could throw a dozen at him. Perhaps create a new title? Would that be too much of a pain in the ass?
Damn nobles and their damn bloodlines. Half of the nobility could claim to be related to each other and the other half would say they were on the off chance that they could gain land and titles from it. Her eyes searched the map, flowing over the kingdoms-
Hm.
“Temeria,” Ciri muttered underneath her breath, her fingers brushing over the kingdom. Recently conquered. The nobility mostly scattered and replaced with Nilfgaardian nobility, and with a quick glance at the relevant names, a fair few of them were on Ciri’s shit list. The ones that weren’t had betrayed the kingdom for their rites, which put them on Ciri’s other shit list. The people would be northern enough to welcome whoever cast off the Nilfgaardians, which would make Guts popular. Given the state some of the lands were in… well, a strong hand would be appreciated.
More than all of that, though, was the fact it was a rather large swath of land. Larger than Cintra had been, her mother kingdom, and it wasn’t even on the map anymore after a mere ten years. It would be tempting to give Guts that land, but she would be taking the crown of Cintra for herself. She had done a little studying in the other Spheres, mostly to learn what made them so different from her home. The greatest lesson she had learned was that she needed territory that she had direct control over. The crownlands.
“That,” her father spoke up, trying to keep the hesitation out of his voice, “is a kingdom, my daughter.”
That bastard. He was trying to manipulate her. He thought that if she thought he was against the idea that she would assume that he was actually for the idea, so she wouldn’t do it. Too damn bad. “A grand duchy. Congratulations, Guts, you’re a grand duke.”
Guts seemed less than enthused. “What's the difference between a grand duke and a regular duke?” He asked, and Ciri wanted to laugh. If not at the question, then by the expression of her father when he was doing his absolute best to not look like he just bit into a lemon.
It was a bit of a gamble, all things considered. There was no promise that her descendants and Guts would always get along. The princess with political training in her told her that she was creating a problem in the future. It was a lot of land. A lot of people. A hotspot for rebellion in the future. However… that was the future. To accomplish half of what she wanted to, she needed strong allies that could bully the naysayers into submission.
“I’ll tell you later,” Ciri decided and her father was impassive as ever. "Any other final orders of business before we get this started?"
He worked his jaw for a moment, his gaze flickering to Guts, before settling back on her. "You have your mother's heart but do not let it rule you. Be ruthless, my daughter. Your heart cannot bleed for every sad story nor can you hesitate in doing what must be done."
That was probably the closest he had ever come to wishing her well.
Words, deep down, she knew he was right.
"I'll see you in a few days," Ciri said, looking to Guts, who simply nodded to show that he was ready. She turned to the door, not missing Guts lift his battered blade onto his back. It had taken Yennefer make the blade light enough for her and Geralt to carry it. Seeing him effortlessly lift it with a single hand was a reassurance. Swallowing her anxiety, Ciri stepped out of the tavern to see that the people were gathered.
Geralt nodded at her. He supported her in this, but only because she chose it. Yennefer and Triss were both there, with a gulf between them, and Ciri could only hope that it mended soon. Zoltan, Dandelion, Dudu. A little less welcoming was Philippa, who radiated approval at the grab for power. And, lastly, the criminals and conspirators.
Dijkstra was openly glaring at Philippa, who seemed aware based on her slight smile. A Temerian man named Vernon Roche and his right hand woman named Ves. Looking at them… Guts and Vernon would either end up hating each other or be the best of friends. Everyone's eyes landed on her and she could feel the opportunity slipping out of her fingers.
This was her last chance to call this off. To say that it was a mistake. Once they did this… they were committed.
She swallowed that down. For better or worse, this was her path. She just had to not horribly fuck it up. "None of you strike me as the type to be wowed by flowery speeches, and I'm not one for giving them. So, I'll just say this -- this is the day that the world changes. For better or for worse is for history to decide. I have my plans and my intentions, as do all of you. You all have your own reasons for being here -- personal ambitions, loyalty, or you're just sick of the fighting like so many others. I can't promise you that the fighting will stop. In all honesty, we have a long road ahead of us but I've decided to walk this road to its bitter end."
Not exactly what Ciri would call rousing, but she did see that it had the desired effect. These people -- Witchers, witches, gangsters, spies, rebels, loyalists, and friends. None of them had a grand reason to be here. They wouldn't buy into it. For them, maybe beating back Nilfgaard was the hard part. For her, that's where the real work began.
"Are the men ready?" Ciri asked, and it was Vernon that answered.
"They are. A thousand and five hundred of them. Even with the element of surprise, we have little hope of beating an army ten times our number," he replied, his gaze sliding to Guts. Who Ciri thumped on the shoulder.
"That's why we're paying him the big bucks," Ciri stated with confidence and she could see no one understood her saying. However, the message was understood. "Let's get this done. It's going to be a long day ahead of us." Ciri decided, purposely walking off and the rest followed her with but a moment. The rioting in Novigrad had petered out, mostly due to the army that had been gathering outside of the city. They didn't know who it belonged to, and while it was a comparatively small force, it gave them something to be concerned about.
Still, a fair bit of damage had been done to the town and it would be some time before it got undone. She passed by the ruined remains of buildings -- some of them having been burnt down, others half demolished in the rampage. From the buildings she felt the eyes of people so destitute that they could only afford to stay in those ruined buildings upon her, watching her every move. Elves and dwarves who had escaped the race riots. Puck had saved a lot of lives with that act. More than he likely knew.
She stood a bit straighter underneath their eyes as they headed for the gate. It was for them, she reminded herself. For the helpless and marginalized -- for them, she would make a better future with her own two hands. The weight on her shoulders was immense, and the only consolation that she had was if she failed… well… it wasn't like things could get any worse for them.
It was a cold comfort, but a comfort all the same.
The gate opened for them, revealing the army that had been assembled. If she had to summarize them in a word… the word thugs came to mind. She saw some soldiers among them -- some wearing Tamerian colors. Others were wearing the colors of Redania. But, the vast majority were thugs. Gangsters and scum. This was her army, Ciri reflected for a moment. They just needed to hold things in place. A thousand and five hundred of them, and it would be Guts that did the heavy lifting. Every piece on the board was in place -- Dandelion had already composed a song. A good one too, if the snippets she heard him muttering under his breath was any indication.
What did she say? What would motivate a bunch of scoundrels and patriots? "FUCK NILFGAARD!" Ciri shouted out, throwing a fist in the air.
The simple declaration was met with roaring approval. The men cheered at the top of their lungs, united by a common enemy. Perhaps this public speaking stuff wasn't so difficult after all. Ciri looked to Yennefer, who was giving her a dry look.
"Fuck Nilfgaard," she echoed in a deadpanned voice before magic gathered around her hands. A light show, in essence. The people before her wouldn't know magic if it slapped them in the face. They would see sparks of light and assume what came next was a spell cast by the mages. While Yennefer and Triss pretended like they were weaving a spell, Ciri called upon the power in her blood. Drawing more of it, more than she ever dared to before out of fear of being discovered.
Her power sang, eager to obey her commands now that she used it. Her entire life, the Elder Blood was something to be feared. It had ruined her life, completely dashing what could have been upon the rocks. Ciri was happy with the life that she lived, but that didn't mean she couldn't mourn what could have been.
Time and space rippled around her like a stone tossed into a still lake, this time, the ripples were waves large enough to encompass everyone that stood before her. And it was as she felt a pull in her gut that she sensed it. A pair of eyes looking right at her, and her gaze snapped to the voyeur. She saw who it was clearer this time -- a man with dark blue eyes, pale skin, and a handsome face hidden behind a hawk helmet.
The figure reached out -- not at her, as was her first thought. His hand went to Guts, as if he were about to caress his cheek… or strangle him. It was impossible to tell because before the figure could make contact, his fingers dissolved like sugar in water. They struck an unseen barrier that rejected him, even if the fingers reformed. He didn't even look at his hand, only looking at Guts with an expression that made her stomach twist. His lips moved-
Then he was gone and they stood outside of Oxenfurt directly behind the Nilfgaardian army, who seemed startled by their abrupt arrival. For a moment, Ciri hesitated, reeling from what she saw. She was only broken out of it when Guts rushed forward, sprinting at the army when a small group of riders started to charge at them to buy some time for the Nilfgaardian to react. With two swings of his sword, he killed six men and their horses.
"For the North!" Ciri heard someone scream before the army surged forward, attacking the much larger army that wasn't entirely aware that they were under attack yet. They would now, though, with the thunderous roar of a thousand men. Even better, Ciri saw -- the Nilfgaardians had been in the middle of another assault on the city. They would be distracted and spread thin. A perfect opportunity. Those that did manage a response were smashed an within minutes, her small army was carving their way into the beating heart of the army.
However, Ciri couldn't shake off the feeling. Her gut was telling her that something was wrong. It was a sensation that she only felt when on a hunt, stepping foot into a monster's lair and knowing that she was fighting on enemy territory. The two armies clashed, Guts leading the way and carving through everyone he saw with that massive sword of his. She saw it more than she saw him, each time seinding up chunks of bodies still clad in their armor. The sight inspired the army and, with Guts at the helm, they felt invincible.
Then she felt it. A chill in the air that shouldn't be there. A chill that was accompanied by the sudden sound of galloping horses. Her stomach did flips inside of her, her gaze going to the sudden arrivals. She knew who they were even before she saw their spectral forms as they streamed over a hill and through a thin forest.
The Wild Hunt. They were here.
She clenched the sword in her hand with white knuckles, seeing the skeletal armor that the Wild Hunt wore clad in whitish mist that reminded her of frost. Some of the riders she recognized, because they rode at the head of a cavalry charge of more than a hundred. Her breathing hitched when the Wild Hunt slammed into the Nilfgaardians, cutting through them like a knife through cake, old fears resurging with a vengeance. At the very tip of the charge, however, she didn’t see Eredin Bréacc Glas with his bone crown and skull mask.
Instead, above the sounds of war and death, she saw one man -- though, it was an honest challenge to call him a man. He stood closer to eight feet tall than not, his skin dark as well weathered leather with blood-red eyes. He only wore a loincloth, revealing rippling muscle that threatened to rip free of this skin that covered them with each swing of his sword that cut through men and horses with the same ease as Guts’ Dragonslayer.
The Wild Hunt tore their way through the Nilfgaardians, heading straight to her army. So direct that there was little doubt in her mind who they were here for.
"GUTS!" The man yelled out, shouting the challenge across the battle and she knew Guts heard it. What she didn't expect was for him to shout back.
"ZODD!" Guts roared back, pivoting from the men that he had been killing to march straight to Zodd. Both men met in the middle, their blade raised high… and in a thunderous crash they began their most terrible battle.
There was only one word to summarize her thoughts.
"Fuck."
Comments
Ultor73
Christ all mighty ZODD! Dam I did not expect the wild hint to bring in that kinda of outside muscle!
Wolfdragon Sage
Awwww shit here comes the greatest death battle that the world of the Witcher will ever see in their lives!
