still fighting, parting and scattering them. Ciri barely managed to pull Triss out from beneath the crazed horses' hooves at the last moment. The swingle-tree tore away with a crack, the wagon leaped into the air, lost a wheel and overturned, scattering its load and smouldering boards everywhere.
Ciri dragged the enchantress under Yarpen's overturned wagon. Paulie Dahlberg, who suddenly found himself next to her, helped, while Geralt covered them both, shoving Roach between them and the charging Scoia'tael. All around the wagon, battle seethed: Ciri heard shouting, blades clashing, horses snorting, hooves clattering. Yarpen, Wenck and Geralt, surrounded on all sides by the elves, fought like raging demons.
The fighters were suddenly parted by Regan's span as he struggled in the coachman's box with a halfling wearing a lynx fur hat. The halfling was sitting on Regan trying to jab him with a long knife.
Yarpen deftly leaped onto the wagon, caught the halfling by the neck and kicked him overboard. Regan gave a piercing yell, grabbed the reins and lashed the horses. The span jerked, the wagon rolled and gathered speed in a flash.
'Circle, Regan!' roared Yarpen. 'Circle! Go round!'
The wagon turned and descended on the elves again, parting them. One of them sprung up, grabbed the right lead-horse by the halter but couldn't stop him; the impetus threw him under the hooves and wheels. Ciri heard an excruciating scream.
Another elf, galloping next to them, gave a backhanded swipe with his sword. Yarpen ducked, the blade rang against the hoop supporting the canvas and the momentum carried the elf forward. The dwarf hunched abruptly and vigorously swung his arm. The Scoia'tael yelled, stiffened in the saddle and tumbled to the ground. A martel protruded between his shoulder blades.
'Come on then, you whoresons!' Yarpen roared, whirling his axe. 'Who else? Chase a circle, Regan! Go round!'
Regan, tossing his bloodied mane of hair, hunched in the box amidst the whizzing of arrows, howled like the damned, and mercilessly lashed the horses on. The span dashed in a tight circle,
creating a moving barricade belching flames and smoke around the overturned wagon beneath which Ciri had dragged the semiconscious, battered magician.
Not far from them danced Wenck's horse, a mouse-coloured stallion. Wenck was hunched over; Ciri saw the white feathers of an arrow sticking out of his side. Despite the wound, he was skilfully hacking his way past two elves on foot, attacking him from both sides. As Ciri watched another arrow struck him in the back. The commissar collapsed forward onto his horse's neck but remained in the saddle. Paulie Dahlberg rushed to his aid.
Ciri was left alone.
She reached for her sword. The blade which throughout her training had leaped out from her back in a flash would not let itself be drawn for anything; it resisted her, stuck in its scabbard as if glued in tar. Amongst the whirl seething around her, amongst moves so swift that they blurred in front of her eyes, her sword seemed strangely, unnaturally slow; it seemed ages would pass before it could be fully drawn. The ground trembled and shook. Ciri suddenly realised that it was not the ground. It was her knees.
Paulie Dahlberg, keeping the elf charging at him at bay with his axe, dragged the wounded Wenck along the ground. Roach flitted past, beside the wagon, and Geralt threw himself at the elf. He had lost his headband and his hair streamed out behind him with his speed. Swords clashed.
Another Scoia'tael, on foot, leaped out from behind the wagon. Paulie abandoned Wenck, pulled himself upright and brandished his axe. Then froze.
In front of him stood a dwarf wearing a hat adorned with a squirrel's tail, his black beard braided into two plaits. Paulie hesitated.
The black-beard did not hesitate for a second. He struck with both arms. The blade of the axe whirred and fell, slicing into the collar-bone with a hideous crunch. Paulie fell instantly, without a moan; it looked as if the force of the blow had broken both his knees.
Ciri screamed.
Yarpen Zigrin leaped from the wagon. The black-bearded dwarf spun and cut. Yarpen avoided the blow with an agile half-turn dodge, grunted and struck ferociously, chopping in to black-beard -throat, jaw and face, right up to the nose. The Scoia'tael bent back and collapsed, bleeding, pounding his hands against the ground and tearing at the earth with his heels.
'Geraaaallllttt!' screamed Ciri, feeling something move behind her. Sensing death behind her.
There was only a hazy shape, caught in a turn, a move and a flash but the girl – like lightning – reacted with a diagonal parry and feint taught her in Kaer Morhen. She caught the blow but had not been standing firmly enough, had been leaning too far to the side to receive the full force. The strength of the strike threw her against the body of the wagon. Her sword slipped from her hand.
The beautiful, long-legged elf wearing high boots standing in front of her grimaced fiercely and, tossing her hair free of her lowered hood, raised her sword. The sword flashed blindingly, the bracelets on the Squirrel's wrists glittered.
Ciri was in no state to move.
But the sword did not fall, did not strike. Because the elf was not looking at Ciri but at the white rose pinned to her jerkin.
'Aelirenn!' shouted the Squirrel loudly as if wanting to shatter her hesitation with the cry. But she was too late. Geralt, shoving Ciri away, slashed her broadly across the chest with his sword. Blood spurted over the girl's face and clothes, red drops spattered on the white petals of the rose.
'Aelirenn…' moaned the elf shrilly, collapsing to her knees. Before she fell on her face, she managed to shout one more time. Loudly, lengthily, despairingly:
'Shaerraweeeeedd!'
Reality returned just as suddenly as it had disappeared. Through the monotonous, dull hum which filled her ears, Ciri began to hear voices. Through the flickering, wet curtain of tears, she began to see the living and the dead.
'Ciri,' whispered Geralt who was kneeling next to her. 'Wake up.'
'A battle…' she moaned, sitting up. 'Geralt, what-'
'It's all over. Thanks to the troops from Ban Glean which came to our aid.'
'You weren't…' she whispered, closing her eyes, 'you weren't neutral…'
'No, I wasn't. But you're alive. Triss is alive.'
'How is she?'
'She hit her head falling out of the wagon when Yarpen tried to rescue it. But she's fine now. Treating the wounded.'
Ciri cast her eyes around. Amidst the smoke from the last wagons, burning out, silhouettes of armed men flickered. And all around lay chests and barrels. Some of were shattered and the contents scattered. They had contained ordinary, grey field stones. She stared at them, astounded.
'Aid for Demawend from Aedirn.' Yarpen Zigrin, standing nearby, ground his teeth. 'Secret and exceptionally important aid. A convoy of special significance!'
'It was a trap?'
The dwarf turned, looked at her, at Geralt. Then he looked back at the stones pouring from the barrels and spat.
'Yes,' he confirmed. 'A trap.'
'For the Squirrels?'
'No.'
The dead were arranged in a neat row. They lay next to each other, not divided – elves, humans and dwarves. Yannick Brass was amongst them. The dark-haired elf in the high boots was there. And the dwarf with his black, plaited beard, glistening with dried blood. And next to them…
'Paulie!' sobbed Regan Dahlberg, holding his brother's head on his knees. 'Paulie! Why?'
No one said anything. No one. Even those who knew why. Regan turned his contorted face, wet with tears, towards them.
What will I tell our mother?' he wailed. What am I going to say to her?'
No one said anything.
