The Lady of the Lake chapter 9, by Andrzej Sapkowski
There were too many of them to be able to risk fighting, even in a narrow corridor. And Bonhart was surely nearby. Ciri turned back and bolted. She burst into the room with the marble goddess. And froze.
Before her stood a knight with a great sword, in a black cloak and helmet decorated with the wings of a bird of prey.
The town was burning. She heard the roar of fire, saw flames flickering and felt the heat of the conflagration. The neighing of horses and the screaming of the murdered were in her ears. The black bird’s wings suddenly flapped, covering everything… Help!
Cintra, she thought, coming to her senses. The Isle of Thanedd. He’s followed me all the way here. He’s a demon. I’m surrounded by demons, by nightmares from my dreams. Bonhart behind me, him in front of me.
The shouting and stamping of enemies coming running could be heard behind her.
The knight in the plumed helmet suddenly took a step forward. Ciri overcame her fear. She yanked Swallow from its scabbard.
“You will not touch me!”
The knight moved forward and Ciri noticed in amazement that a fair-haired girl armed with a curved sabre was hiding behind his cloak. The girl flashed past Ciri like a lynx, sending one of the approaching lackeys sprawling with a slash of her sabre. And the black knight, astonishingly, rather than attacking Ciri, slit open another thug with a powerful blow. The remaining one retreated into the corridor.
The fair-haired girl rushed for the door, but didn’t manage to close it. Although she was whirling her sabre menacingly and yelling, the lackeys shoved her back from the portal. Ciri saw one of them stab her with a pilum, saw the girl fall to her knees. Ciri leaped and slashed backhand
with Swallow, while the Black Knight ran up on the other side, hacking terribly with his long sword. The fair-haired girl, still on her knees, drew an axe from her belt and hurled it, hitting one of the bruisers right in the face. Then she lunged for the door, slammed it and the knight bolted it.
“Phew,” said the girl. “Oak and iron! It’ll take them some time to chop their way through that!”
“They won’t waste time, they’ll search for another way,” commented the Black Knight soberly, after which his face suddenly darkened on seeing the girl’s blood-soaked trouser leg. The girl waved a hand dismissively.
“Let’s be away.” The knight removed his helmet and looked at Ciri. “I’m Cahir Mawr Dyffryn, son of Ceallach. I came here with Geralt. To rescue you, Ciri. I know it’s unbelievable.”
“I’ve seen more unbelievable things,” Ciri growled.
“You’ve come a long way… Cahir… Where’s Geralt?”
He looked at her. She remembered his eyes from Thanedd. Dark blue and as soft as silk. Pretty.
“He’s rescuing the sorceress,” he answered. “That—”
“Yennefer. Let’s go.”
“Yes!” said the fair-haired girl, putting a makeshift dressing on her thigh. “We still have to kick a few arses! For auntie!”
“Let’s go,” repeated the knight. But it was too late.
“Run away,” whispered Ciri, seeing who was approaching along the corridor. “He’s the devil incarnate. But he only wants me. He won’t come after you… Run… Help Geralt…”
Cahir shook his head.
“Ciri,” he said kindly. “I’m surprised by what you’re saying. I came here from the end of the world to find you, rescue you and defend you. And now you want me to run away?”
“You don’t know who you’re up against.”
Cahir pulled up his sleeve, tore off his cloak and wrapped it around his left arm. He brandished his sword and whirled it so fast it hummed.
“I’ll soon find out.”
Bonhart, seeing the three of them, stopped. But only for a moment.
“Aha!” he said. “Have the reinforcements arrived? Your companions, witcher girl? Very well. Two less, two more. Makes no difference.”
Ciri had a sudden flash of inspiration.
“Say farewell to your life, Bonhart!” she yelled. “It’s the end of you! You’ve met your match!”
She must have overdone it and he caught the lie in her voice. He stopped and looked suspiciously.
“The Witcher? Really?”
Cahir whirled his sword, standing in position. Bonhart didn’t budge.
“This witch has more of a liking for younger men than I expected,” he hissed. “Just look here, my young blade.”
He pulled his shirt open. Silver medallions flashed in his fist. A cat, a gryphon and a wolf.
“If you are truly a witcher—” he ground his teeth “—know that your own quack amulet will soon embellish my collection. If you’re not a witcher, you’ll be a corpse before you manage to blink. It would be wise, therefore, to get out of my way and take to your heels. I want this wench; I don’t bear a grudge against you.”
“You talk big,” Cahir said calmly, twirling the blade. “Let’s see if your bite’s worse than your bark. Angoulême, Ciri. Flee!”
“Cahir—”
“Run,” he corrected himself, “and help Geralt.”
They ran. Ciri was holding up the limping Angoulême.
“You asked for it.” Bonhart squinted his pale eyes and moved forward, whirling his sword.
“I asked for it?” Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach repeated dully. “No. It’s what destiny wants!”
They leaped at each other, quickly engaged, surrounding each other with a frantic kaleidoscope of blades. The corridor filled with the clang of iron, seemingly making the marble sculpture tremble and rock.
“You aren’t bad,” rasped Bonhart when they came apart. “You aren’t bad, my young blade. But you’re no witcher. The little viper deceived me. You’re done for. Prepare for death.”
“You talk big.”
Cahir took a deep breath. The clash had convinced him he had faint chance with the fishy-eyed man. This man was too fast and too strong for him. The only chance was that Bonhart was in a hurry to get after Ciri. And he was clearly irritated.
Bonhart attacked again. Cahir parried a cut, stooped, jumped, seized his opponent by the belt, shoved him against the wall and kneed him hard in the crotch. Bonhart caught him by the face, battered him powerfully on the side of the head with his sword pommel; once, twice, thrice. The third blow shoved Cahir back. He saw the flash of the blade. He parried instinctively.
Too slowly.
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