Castoff: Valor and Glory (ch. 26) (Patreon)

Despite what many might claim, the great battles weren't much different than the regular battles for the people that fought in the mud, blood, and shit. Some might be proud to have fought in one famous battle or another, but at the end of the day, during the fight, you had no idea if the battle would go down in history, or not even be remembered by the locals. For all of the mutterings and preparation, Guts fully expected that to be the case for the battle they now faced.

A battle for the world. To stave off the apocalypse. It was just his luck the world would try to end just as he got a leg up in life.

That wasn't the case, Guts realized, looking out at a field of soldiers as he sat on top of his horse with his cursed armor covering him from head to toe. There were fifteen thousand in total. Not a sizable amount, all things considered -- it was a joint army between Nilfgaard and the North. A core of five thousand knights while the remaining ten thousand were the dregs that were passed over for every draft. Probably never held a pike in their lives before today. However, they were foolish enough to answer the call that rang out.

A call to arms to save the world.

"Do you think it'd be bad form to just repeat most of my first speech? Swap out  'Nilfgaardian bastards' for 'the Wild Hunt'?" Ciri asked him, and in the few short hours it had been since their arrival, she had been shoved into a royal set of armor. It was practical in form, at least, but the jewels and glittering gold made her stand out. Which was likely the point.

"You could try elven bastards. That'll get them riled up," Guts remarked and Ciri pointedly rolled her eyes at him.

"Psssh, just promise them a free meal! I'll fight to the ends of the earth for food!" Puck helpfully informed, waving a fist into the air. Guts himself felt… odd. A sense of deja vu falling over him. He stole a glance at Ciri to see her looking out at the army with an indifferent expression. Words couldn't describe how good it felt seeing her back to her old self, but there was no small part of him that wished she stayed behind.

"Might try to slip that anecdote in. Thank you, Puck," Ciri said before she took in a long, slow breath. She held it in for a few seconds before letting it out as a heaving sigh. She spared a glance at Yennefer, who simply nodded, and with that, she urged her horse forward.

And Ciri began to speak. "Today is a strange day. Today is the day that you will fight beside those that you once called enemies -- for the Northern Kingdoms, you will fight, bleed, and even die beside Nilfgaardian warriors. For the Nilfgaardians -- you shall battle, kill, and die beside those you once considered barbarians." There was a stir at the mention of rather recent history, but Ciri continued, her voice magically amplified to reach everyone. "The difference between yesterday and today is a common enemy. The Wild Hunt. I'm sure you've all heard tales of them. Rumors. Some of you might have even seen them as they marauded through your homes"

Ciri paused and Guts saw emotion on a number of faces. At the end of the day, people didn't care about grand causes or the greater good. Or even about the world itself. They cared about their own interests and feelings. If Guts had to put a number to it, half of the army was here out of personal gain and the other half due to wanting revenge. Both motives Guts understood deeply.

Then Ciri continued. "I won't claim that this will be easy. Or that the problems will stop. In the end, should we win… what we gain is the right to continue onward. But how we continue onward is up to us -- all of us. It is my hope, in this moment as we all stand together in the face of an enemy that demands our annihilation… that we see that for all that we are different, we are more alike than not. That when the cards are down, and we stare the end of the world in the eye, that all of us here are united by one thing if nothing else -- that we spat in death's eye and told it, not today."

It was hardly the most rousing speech. It wasn't the type to garner cheers and applause as morale surged to the point that everyone forgot that they could die. Instead, the speech received a much grimmer response. Guts saw in the sea of faces how thousands upon thousands of men and women prepared themselves for death. To fight, kill, and die. Simply because they understood that this wasn't a fight for glory nor riches. This was a battle to live. For their families' lives.

And with a handful of words, Ciri transformed a pathetic army into one of the greatest the world had ever seen simply because they were willing to die. They wouldn't cut and run. They wouldn't break or cower.

"She reminds me of Griffith," Casca muttered to him, and he was almost relieved that she could see the similarities. It wasn't just the ashen hair or the ambition. Ciri… she carried the same aura as Griffith when she wanted to. That aura that sucked you in and made you want to listen. To believe in whatever she said or strove toward.

"She does," Guts agreed. "Except… she's what we thought Griffith was." Griffith was a lot of things to a lot of people, but to Guts… as much as he inspired, as much as he led, Griffith had always been one thing above all else -- a friend.

To that, Casca was silent, seemingly taking his word for it. Ciri glanced their way, seemingly looking for reassurance that she hadn't botched the speech. He gave her a small nod in response before stealing a glance at those that would be staying behind. Her father, for one, stood behind Ciri as the representative of Nilfgaard. Ciri didn't seem to pay him much mind and Guts saw a shadow of emotion flicker across his face.

Yennefer and the other mages began waving their hands while they pulled the same con as before. The warriors were so focused on the mages, they missed Ciri starting to glow white. It rose off of her like smoke as she used her power, and Guts took a bracing breath.

He felt himself move, but that was the only indication that something had happened. It transpired in the span of a single second and in that second, Guts felt himself being watched… it was the sensation of looking into the darkness and knowing something was looking back at you. It was a sense well honed in him by now, since it was usually true in his experience. However, that moment passed, bringing them to what must be another Sphere.

Didn't look that much different than the last one, only it was nearing dusk and there was an immediate drop in temperature. Above them, in the darkening skies, were colorful lights that Guts glanced up at -- shades of green and blue. As if someone had taken a brush to the sky itself. It might have been a hauntingly beautiful sight if it wasn't for what laid before them.

An army. Their arrival had been anticipated, it would seem. The army before them was a motley bunch -- his Brand ached just looking at the sheer number of Apostles that stood inside of the ranks of elves. They didn't bother with their human form, revealing their true nature for all to see. Dozens upon dozens of them. And if that wasn't daunting enough, Guts saw that they were outnumbered. Rather severely.

"That's at least thirty thousand," Casca remarked, sounding tense but unafraid. Though, she gripped the reins to her horse tightly. Double their number. They were arranged before a… Guts supposed he could call it a building, but it was a funny looking one. A vast, expansive palace that was built with the goal to not have any walls in mind, leaving an interconnected web of walkways and rooms that defied gravity. "This won't be an easy fight."

"We aren't the only ones fighting to survive," Guts agreed. The elves wouldn't break. They couldn't. If they lost this battle, then they lost the ability to conquer Ciri's world. They would be stuck here until that White Frost thing killed them all and turned their Sphere into a massive snowball. This wasn't a battle for riches or glory…

This was a war for the oldest reason to fight in the book. To kill or be killed.

"I have to get to the center of the palace," Ciri informed them -- everyone that was nearby. Geralt, the witches, him and Casca. She pointed to her destination and Guts saw that the army wasn't arranged to defend the palace that lacked any walls. It was arranged to defend some old looking stones. They seemed vaguely familiar to him, Guts realized.

They looked a lot like the stones he had passed out near in his Sphere. A Place of Power? The only difference was that they were glowing with weird magic energy, casting them with a blue hue. Even with a quick glance and not really understanding what it was, he knew that it couldn't mean anything good. The fact that the army of Apostles was defending it meant that it had to be destroyed.

"Just worry about what you're going to do when you get there. Leave the getting there to us," Puck spoke up, snapping off a salute as he stood on Guts' shoulder. Ciri glanced his way, and Guts could see the nervousness in her eyes. The fear and uncertainty. All the same, she managed to flash a small thankful smile at him.

That proved to be a mistake.

Guts heard the whistling of air, and his body moved on instinct. He wouldn't have made it without the armor, he realized as he blurred forward, the reforged Dragonslayer in his hands as he put himself between Ciri and an arrow that was as long as a spear. The tip of it slammed into his blade with thunderous force, skidding him back a half step while splinters exploded outward. Horses neighed and bucked, and across the long field, into one of the many archways, Guts seemed to lock eyes with an Apostle. The one that used his demonic goat-like body to act as a crossbow, using his horns as leverage.

Just like that, the battle began in earnest.

…

It would be a lie to say that magic had always come naturally to Yennefer. At the very beginning, when she had just been another ugly girl with a hunched back, sold by her father for less than he would get for a pig…back before she knew what she could really do. It had been many years since that time, and since then, Yennefer had learned exactly what she was capable of. Sodden Hill had just been a taste, and now she gorged herself as she pulled upon the forces of chaos, imposing order upon it with her iron will, molding it like an artist would clay.

Only instead of art, Yennefer conjured death and destruction.

She stood upon a platform made for the mages beforehand, allowing them to cast without worry of friendly fire. She breathed in deeply, feeling the hum of magic in her veins. Fire sparked at her fingertips. And despite all the teasing that she might give about the nature of Signs that the Witchers relied on, at their core, they weren't that different from true magic. A simple Ignis Sign might conjure a shower of sparks and flame… but in the hands of a true magician, the scale could hardly be comparable.

Fire leapt from her hands, surging forward like a tidal wave towards the elven army that stood in her way. Emotions fed the flames, making them hotter, brighter, and deadlier. They surged forward like a moving wall, spreading up and out as Guts led the charge. He ran after the flames, leading the army even as those that followed him galloped on horses. A truly monstrous man. And she would be forever in his debt.

However, for all of her talent, it did not mean that she was without equal. After all, the Aen Elle had mages of their own. Some far older and more experienced than she. And the fact that it took a dozen of them to counter her wall of flames was a very cold comfort. A barrier stopped her flames dead in their tracks, washing over the shimmering surface. Yennefer grit her teeth, fueling the flames with raw emotion.

Hate. Rage.

Forged from thoughts of the life that could have been. Without the Wild Hunt hounding Ciri every step of her journey, they could have settled in that little villa. She and Geralt could have watched her grow up. A truly peaceful life wouldn't have likely been in the cards, but it would have been more peaceful than… this. At the very least, they would have had more time together. Yennefer channeled her mourning of what could have been into the flames, demanding that everything before her burn away until not even ash remained.

The flames grew in intensity, crawling up the barrier. A bead of sweat dripped down her forehead and next to her, Yennefer caught a flash of movement. Triss.

The red haired mage said nothing as she stood by her side, magic coiling around her hands like a snake before she flicked it forward. Compressed air slammed into the barrier that trembled under the force. She wasn't alone in her efforts to break through. Dozens of other mages, though few trained for war, still knew the basics of war magic. They hammered the shield until it shattered like a pane of glass, letting her flames surge forward once more.

Unlike Geralt, Yennefer did recall her time with the Wild Hunt. They weren't pleasant memories. She was treated worse than an animal, kept in a cage and only barely kept alive because she was meant to be bait for Ciri. Those memories too fueled the flames as well as they shot across the grass and field, reaching the Aen Elle army.

Only for the flames to be divided. Yennefer looked up at a shining light. One Aen Elle mage in particular.

Caranthir Ar-Feiniel. Perhaps the single most talented Aen Elle mage in existence. Yennefer recalled him quite well. Silent, calm, pragmatic -- all words that could be used to describe him. But, above all else, Yennefer would use the word incredible. His incredible talent for magic had been honed to a razor's edge, backed with centuries of experience. Simply put, if a normal mage was a candle, then Yennefer was a fireplace. And if Yennefer was a fireplace, then Caranthir was a burning building.

While the flames were pushed away by a cold wind, Caranthir was unable to stop Guts slamming into the waiting elves. Guts cut through them like a hot knife through soft cheese, sending pieces of corpses flying with every swing of his blade along with buckets of blood. He was carnage made manifest, and the morale of their soldiers soared at the sight because they understood that they had a monster of their own. Men poured into the wake that Guts created, and likewise, the Apostles carved lines through their army.

An expert of war, she might not be, but Yennefer could already see the writing on the wall. They would lose eventually. The Wild Hunt simply had more monsters at their disposal.

Which is why Yennefer had to win this battle to aid the war.

"I'm going to need your help with this one," Yennefer told Triss, her voice even. The betrayal had stung. It still did. But, Yennefer knew it would fade in time. For now, however, there were far more pressing matters than mere hurt feelings.

"I can support whatever you throw at them," Triss replied.

"As shall I," Philippa added, stepping to Yennefer's left. Their magic fed into the spell that Yennefer crafted as a deadly back and forth began. The mages on their side were stuck in a give and take of protecting the soldiers from the devastating spells that the Aen Elle mages unleashed while trying to do the same to their army. Only their situation was a lot more desperate than the Aen Elle elves.

Taking a slow breath, she turned her focus to Caranthir. He stood there, clad in Wild Hunt armor, and the only reason he stood out was due to his staff that glowed white with power.

It made him an easy target, at least. Now, to actually hit him…

With that thought in mind, fire blossomed between Yennefer's hands.

…

Geralt was starting to think he wasn't exactly good at being apolitical. Neutral. It wasn't the first time he had the thought, but there had always been a readily available excuse of something or someone forcing his hand. This time, though… well, it was more difficult when you found yourself working with Nilfgaardian and Temerian spies and assassins on a hunt to pick off a few specific foes behind the line.

"I suppose we could do worse for a Duke," Vernon Roache remarked as they stalked through the hallways and stairs of the palace. It was easy to tell what had prompted the remark when Geralt saw Guts slay an Apostle -- a large mammoth fiend-like creature, and before its body even hit the ground, Guts was slaughtering elves like a mad hound in a chicken coup. It wasn't the first time Geralt saw him in action, but it was a sight to behold when Guts truly cut loose.

"He makes a good distraction, at least," remarked a member of the Nilfgaardian equivalent to the Temerian special forces. Two of them, joining himself, Vernon and Vex. As far as a team of killers went, they were a small squad of the best both armies had to offer. Part of him wanted to be down in the field itself, even as monsters rampaged through crowds of men, fire and lightning exploding on both sides. But Geralt knew that he could have the greatest effect like this. Down there, he'd just be another sword.

The School of the Cat might have taken a step or two off the Path, but… they had one thing right. Sometimes a dagger had a lot more reach than a sword.

Which is why they stalked through the halls, putting the sounds of chaos out of their minds. Ciri had brought them here -- they started off in a guest room, the one that she had been kept in, Geralt imagined. Back when they had managed to capture her, before she managed to escape. The spells woven into their medallions and clothing would help prevent magical detection, but actually sneaking up on their targets was up to them.

A powerful blast of lightning struck a walkway, sending up chunks of rock before the entire thing gave out in the wake of a loud clap of thunder. Geralt heard sounds of panic below as Aen Elle elves were crushed underneath the weight of rubble, but his focus was on the fact that the direct walkway wasn't available to them any longer. Leaving the indirect walkway, that was currently being manned by a number of archers and mages.

"Underneath," Vernon spoke, taking out a spool of rope. Geralt saw what he was talking about. The Aen Elle elves were lovers of abstract beauty. The walkways that wove around each other weren't simple mundane arches, like you would find coming in and out of Novigrad or over a river. They were richly decorated with carvings -- Geralt wasn't entirely sure what of. The important thing was, they offered a number of handholds to let them climb under the bridge.

Geralt looked at the mage, Caranthir, that stood on the bridge, magical energies swirling around him like air currents. "Hm. He was one of the shortlist targets anyway. I'll go first and secure the rope," Geralt said, wrapping one end of the rope around his waist. With little hesitation, he hopped over the edge of the railing that led to Caranthir and, one by one, the others followed him.

Looking up was something that one had to be trained to do. In the end, it simply wasn't a natural inclination for most species -- the only ones who did were the ones whose natural predator was able to fly. And that was to say nothing of the great many distractions that were before them as the battle raged, filling the air with the sounds of clashing metal and war cries. Even from where he was, Geralt could smell the scent of blood that wafted up from the battlefield.

It was a slaughter on both sides. A field of absolute ruin. Battles, in his experience, meant a few dozen, maybe a hundred, dying on the field with most of the deaths coming from injuries after the battle was done. However, even in the few short minutes since the battle began… at least a thousand were dead. Maybe more. It was bloody carnage, with neither side willing to retreat even a single step. And Guts was the tip of their spear. The Aen Elle knew it too, so they threw everything they could at him in an attempt to slow him down. Geralt wasn't even sure if Guts noticed.

Thanks to the generous amount of handholds, Geralt had an easy time reaching the walkway. Climbing underneath it, however, he saw that there were fewer in the arch itself. For a normal human, that might have proven a problem, but with his Witcher enhanced strength, he was easily able to make the few handholds available work as he claimed upside down towards the other end of the arch.

However, not before planting something of note. A gift from Guts.

Black powder.

This wasn't quite what Geralt had intended to use it for, but plans changed. He secured the brick of packed powder in a nook underneath Caranthir. Then he made sure it stayed there by slathering it in alghoul marrow -- sticky, and highly flammable. With the bomb secured, Geralt continued climbing underneath the walkway until he reached the other side.

When he did, he secured the rope around a statue that jutted out while the others did the same on the other side. One by one, they crawled along the taut rope over an army of elves. If Geralt let it, he knew that his heart would be beating like a drum, but they couldn't afford nervousness. Instead, they had to focus solely on the mission at hand.

“This is where we part ways, Witcher,” Vernon said to him, offering a small nod. Their explosive charges would be used elsewhere, while he had a different task to accomplish. Geralt offered the dour man a small nod, and it conveyed everything that he wished to say.

‘Good luck, and don’t die.’

The five of them split up, each going their separate way as Geralt continued onward to his target. It didn’t take him long to catch sight of him. He was in the very heart of the palace, overlooking the battlefield from a balcony. He cut an impressive figure, at least. As tall as Guts, wearing bulky heavy armor with a skull for a mask. Jutting out from his helmet was a crown, marking the elf as Eredin Bréacc Glas, the King of the Aen Elle. Killing him wouldn’t ensure victory. The army wouldn’t magically fall apart. What it would do was cause fractures.

Just like a blade, if the fractures were plentiful enough… all it would take is one big hit to shatter it.

He was unguarded, his Wild Hunt on the battlefield, likely deployed against Guts in hopes of slowing him down. It was their best chance. However, this wasn’t anything different from a normal hunt -- patience was required. A slow, cautious, approach would ensure that the job got done, even if the sounds of the battlefield echoed in his ears. He advanced inch by inch, foot by foot, drawing ever closer to the unguarded King. Second became minutes, and it felt like it was hours later that he was in position to get the drop on him.

Geralt entered the throne room from above, climbing through the windows, and allowing him to approach from behind. Slowly, soundlessly, Geralt drew his steel sword from its sheath.

Yet, all the same, Eredin spoke.

“Witcher… I had hoped you would come,” The King of the Aen Elle uttered the words like a death sentence, turning around as he drew his longsword. His voice was low and rough, that of a King that didn’t claim the crown through diplomacy, but with skill of arms. It was how he took the throne, and it was how he kept it.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, feeling the noose closing around his neck.

Things certainly looked dire for him.

…

Once, way back when Guts had been a boy that barely came up to Gambino's knee, he had fought in a bloody siege. Siege weapons, like catapults, weren't often used as a defensive weapon, but they could be if you were desperate enough. In those days, he had played more of a supporting role since he didn't have the strength to kill a man. He had been sent to bring up new spears and arrows, and when he came back…

He never forgot the sight of seeing a huge ass boulder come flying through, smashing through a dozen men and rolling over them like they were nothing when it continued onward with its momentum. A fate he had narrowly managed to avoid… and knowing what he knew now, that had been Fate trying to take his life.

The point being that the battlefield he stood on was unlike any he had fought on before. He caught flashes of lightning and fire exploding on clusters of people on both sides, the scent of charred flesh, blood, and smoke were heavy in the air. A lot of that fire and lightning was being thrown his way, only for it to be magically blocked with shimmering shields. And if it couldn't be blocked by those, then Guts used the enemies around him to take the brunt of it. There were plenty of them, after all.

He had only used the armor on Zodd before, which left him wildly underestimating his abilities. Zodd had been the greatest of his foes -- the strongest warrior, and the strongest Apostle. And it showed, because everything that they threw at him now couldn't hope to measure up. Even quantity wasn't enough to match Zodd in quality. The Apostles cried out as his reforged Dragonslayer cut into them, parting their twisted flesh with oceans of blood spilling from them. They cried out as they died. They cried out as they fought.

They cried out in fear as he ripped and tore his way towards them.

"You can't be human! You can't-" one of them denied before he found himself with Dragonslayer thrusted into his brain while Guts grabbed a member of the Wild Hunt to smash into another, reducing both to chunks of meat and shattered bones inside of twisted metal. Hurling the corpse at another, he leapt up at the lumbering Apostle, ripping his blade up and unleashing a shower of blood as the Apostle stumbled back and collapsed upon scattering elves.

Fire exploded above him, a shimmering shield protecting him from it, but the fire still spilled over the edges and rained upon those below, much like the bloody rain. Guts was soaked with it, it dripped from his armor in rivers, and the heat made it steam. From his small vantage, he saw that the heart of the palace might as well be miles away as arrows, fire, and lightning fell from the archways.

"Guts!" Casca shouted out, her blade darting between the plates of an enemy before dancing out of the way of another's swing. He knew what she was bringing his attention to as he shouldered Dragonslayer.

Big fucker. He almost looked like Skull Knight, only he was backed by a dozen others like him as they rode in the air as specters. "Struggler!" The lead one called out, his helmet marked with a few eye holes, but nothing else. His weapon of choice was a large hammer, the head of which was marked with a bunch of faces. "Face your death!" He roared a challenge, flying down and Guts realized that his horse had a horn sticking out of its forehead. A unicorn?

It didn't matter.

Guts leapt into the air to meet them, landing on the big one in the lead, who positioned a tower shield between them in anticipation of a blow. Their specter intangibility meant nothing. He was more aware of it now. The profane blood that soaked him to the bone. Tangible or not, he could cut them. He could kill them.

"Spare me the grandstanding. I don't even know who the fuck you are," Guts dismissed him, swinging Dragonslayer. The shield caught the edge, but the strength behind the swing made sure Dragonslayer continued. The shield gave way, then the armor, and finally flesh and blood. With a single swing, he took everything above the rib cage of the elf off, and he used his corpse as leverage to launch himself at another while sending the corpse into the side of another rider.

Before, Guts might have struggled against such foes. It might have been a true, genuine battle. But this armor… it was cursed. A curse that would never leave him. Even now, it fought for control of him, tempting him to fall into the black madness that was his hate. But it was this very same armor that ensured that he had the strength he needed to carve out the life he wanted. For Casca. For Judeau.

Gaunter might be the devil himself… but a life of torment was a price he was more than happy to pay so long as they were in it.

His gaze turned to Casca, who fought side by side with Ciri as they pushed through the army. The battle was going poorly. They'd lose eventually.

Which just meant he had to do the heavy lifting and ensure Ciri got where she needed to go.

…

The mages were flagging, Yennefer knew. It was to be expected, really. Most of the mages of their Sphere were researchers. Scholars. Most merely knew how to defend themselves, usually as a means to defend their research or to acquire materials needed for it. There were precious few that truly dedicated their time and talents to war.

It was something that Yennefer wished she could say about the Aen Elle elves. But they were a warlike race. Any advancement they discovered was in pursuit of finding a more efficient way of killing the enemy. And they were damn good at it, Yennefer found herself admitting as sweat dripped from her brow.

"We can't keep this up," Triss exclaimed, sensing the tide turning against them as she did. As if to prove her point, a shield shattered, letting a firestorm erupt in the mass of soldiers. A few mages collapsed, utterly spent. They all had their methods of leeching the energy needed to cast spells. And with the short battle, some of them already found themselves tapped out.

"I know," Yennefer replied. In a way, it wasn't strictly wrong to say that the greater a mage was, the better they could offload the cost of doing magic. Some drew from things around them. Others drew from predetermined trinkets that were loaded with stored power or power that it drew into itself. Yennefer had tried her hand at a number of sources over her near century of life. Some were more preferable than others. "But we must hold on until we see the signal."

She could see it. Her gaze was trained on Caranthir, and because of it, she saw the rope that was still tied underneath it. Geralt… honestly, his mind was like a tailor made glove at this point. She could read his thoughts easily, and with but a glance. Dozens had tried to slip into his mind, to see what he was doing, but she saw it. The bomb under the bridge. In her mind, the knowledge was well worth the cost.

Only she needed the right moment to use the information. Caranthir was a monster of a mage, and it would require more than a lucky shot to bring him down. Only they were rapidly running out of moments to spend waiting.

Magic coiled around her hands, shooting up and shaping to her movements. Under her breath, she chanted, speaking words of magic to shape the chaos that she unleashed. Fires that were snuffed out and lightning that was shattered into sparks. With each spell, she felt herself growing weary. And at this point she knew that the only reason she hadn't collapsed was the magic Triss and Philippa shared with her. But even with the two sorceresses' at her side, she was flagging, as were they.

Caranthir shaped a spell, air condensing overhead. Yennefer shaped a barrier -- a cone with the base encasing them. It held strong, breaking the compressed air that flattened everything around them that wasn't within the area.

Yennefer's knees buckled and she found herself falling to them. A ragged gasp filled her lungs with air-

A streak of light shot up from the palace, and if she had any breath to spare, she'd let out a sigh of relief. The signal. It was almost too late, but better late than never, Yennefer supposed as she forced herself to stand. She took in a slow breath as she closed her eyes for the briefest of moments.

There was no school of magic that was truly forbidden. Certainly, there were schools of magic that were frowned upon. That were considered too dangerous to be worth the effort, or whose effects were disastrous for both the wielder of the magic and those that surrounded them. Such magics earned the title of 'black magic', making them as being as deadly as they were dangerous, and they were exceptionally dangerous. But, in the right hands, with the right knowledge, and with the proper care… even black magic was just another tool to be used.

One such black magic was necromancy. There was some scholarly debate about the nature of a soul. Some believed that wraiths and the like were simply a mind imprinting upon ambient magic, giving it shape and will. Others believe in the immortal nature of the soul, and every time you reach past death, you reached into heaven or hell. Yennefer didn't care one way or another, it was all the same to her. What did matter, however, was power.

And few things carried more power than life itself.

"I'm… sorry," she whispered to the killing field before her. An ultimately pointless apology, when it came right down to it. An empty one as well, for it implied that she felt any measure of regret for what she was about to do. The only regret she felt was that it was necessary. In a low building tone, Yennefer began to chant as she reached out with her magic towards the killing field. Where it then touched every single dying man and woman. The ones that were too far gone. At least, that's what she liked to think.

Some of their wounds could be survivable. But they were lying in the blood soaked mud, and that help wouldn't be coming for them. Instead, she grabbed hold of them by clenching a fist as a sense of… wrongness flowed through her. Like her blood was filled with pus and oil, her skin crawling while it felt like worms writhed underneath it. She tasted bile on the back of her tongue that she swallowed down.

Then, with a yank, the ones that could no longer fight died. The stolen embers of their lives gathered in her hands, acting as fuel for the next spell she crafted. Both Triss and Philippa helped shape it, sharing in the wrongness that Yennefer felt. The flames condensed into a single fire that was no larger than a candle's flame, but when she blew it forward with a breath, it erupted into a torrent of fire that swept forward like a sea of orange flames.

It raced overhead of the armies, going straight for the palace and Yennefer knew that barriers were being erected. However, they had a… flaw, Yennefer supposed you could call it. Personal barriers typically ended at one's feet in a bubble when you were defending yourself, but that was wholly impractical when you were protecting a position. Too much wasted energy. It was far simpler and more efficient to create a large shield. Perhaps curved and shaped to throw off the worst of the impact.

The inferno couldn't reach them, but with a heave, Yennefer rose a hand up high and the flames lurched up.

The sounds of explosions echoed out over the roaring flames as the bombs placed under the feat of the enemy mages went off. Yennefer felt the resistance there vanish entirely, like a stopper being removed from a drain. A smile tugged at her lips despite the wretched feeling that filled her with nausea.

"That makes things much easier."

After all, without mage support… well…

There were many valid reasons why common folk feared mages. With a dozen mages, they had managed to defend Sodden Hill and rout an army. With nearly a hundred, and with no mages to support the Aen Elle elves… Yennefer imagined that they would be inspiring a few more reasons to be afraid.

…

Geralt pivoted, blocking a blow that rattled his bones, sparks showering from his sword before he thrust as a counter. Eredin batted the thrust away before his form blurred, becoming translucent, and his sword flashed at his neck, forcing Geralt to dodge out of the way. A vibration ran through his feet, and he took that as confirmation that the mission was a success. When it came right down to it -- numbers, monsters… it didn't really matter. The side that had mages won battles like these.

"Your world will burn for this," Eredin snarled at him as they traded blows. Geralt found himself on the defensive, even as his veins blackened from the Witcher potions he had ingested. "I'll see to it that you survive long enough to watch everything you care for go up in flames!"

Geralt simply grunted, shifting from the defensive as he parried a blow and feinted a blow to his legs. As he expected, Eredin shifted and appeared behind him, arriving just as Geralt shifted his grip to perform a reverse thrust that managed to find purchase in a gap in Eredin's plate armor. His blade glinted with red, but Eredin was a warrior king. It would take more than a few scratches to put him down. Spinning his blade, Geralt blocked a retaliatory strike and their blades clashed together between them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw the fire that washed over the palace, nearly reaching the balcony they fought on. The walkways and rooms crumbled to the ground, chunks of rock slamming upon the enemy blow. Those were the lucky ones because the fire clung to the stone like they were covered in oil. It clung to the warriors as well, making them scream in agony.

"Looks like your world's already burning," Geralt replied, backing away a half step and their blades clashing in a deadly dance. He was answered with an animalistic growl before Eredin attacked with renewed ferocity. He understood what the flames meant -- that his mages were no longer protecting his army. And more than anything else, that made it vulnerable.

In hindsight, maybe it wasn't the best idea to piss him off, Geralt reflected as a blade nearly took his head off, but only managed to give him a new scar below his right eye. Provided he lived long enough for it to heal. Once again he was forced on the defensive as he was nearly overwhelmed with a flurry of blows. His heart pounded in his chest, even as his hands were steady. His reflexes saved him as Eredin came at him from all angles -- the sides, behind, and even above.

He had hoped one of the others would be able to make their way here to lend a hand, but no such luck.

At least, so Geralt thought before he caught a flash of movement before a familiar woman leaped on Eredin's back before driving her saber into a gap in his armor. Eredin cried out for the first time as a half foot of steel slipped down past his collarbone and when he lashed out, Casca flipped over him to land lightly on her feet.

He was relieved to see her. He understood what it meant. The blocks on teleportation were gone, and he had never been more happy about portals than he was now. They had managed to cut through the army, and that meant Ciri was nearing her destination. However, he couldn't say that. There wasn't time. Instead, he said, "Can you keep up?"

Casca gave him a smile that reminded him dangerously of Ciri. "I can keep up with Guts. I imagine I can keep up with you," she replied with some amusement.

"Heh."

With that, the two of them sprung forward. And Geralt believed her. Casca let him take point in the fight, drawing Eredin's attention while she flanked with her blade darting out like the head of a snake. He and Eredin were on nearly even footing when it came to ability, exchanging a flurry of blows as they danced around each other. Casca, however, was tipping the balance.

The injury she had delivered slowed Eredin. And with every passing second, he slowed more. It was a fatal wound without magic, and he likely knew it. Which is why he didn't waste his breath with pointless taunting and focused on trying to take them with him. He also realized the danger that Casca presented, because while she wasn't as fast or as strong as either of them, she was used to fighting around someone that was faster and stronger.

Her blade struck out, needling Eredin with blow after blow that never failed to strike a gap in his armor. Sometimes the chainmail held, but sometimes it didn't. With every wound he took, it showed in his swordsmanship.

Until it reached a tipping point.

It was a desperate gamble and Geralt had been waiting for it. Eredin blurred forward, not at him, but for Casca, intent on taking her out of the equation. Geralt did something that Vesimer would throttle him for if he ever saw it, but he reversed his grip on his blade before he launched it.

Just as Eredin materialized behind Casca, who had barely started to turn around to face him, Geralt's blade punched through his throat with enough force that the crossguard was the only thing stopping it from sailing all the way through. Eredin aborted the attack, one hand groping up at the blade lodged in his neck, but the hesitation cost him. Casca pivoted sharply, going low before driving her blade into him at his hip in an upward thrust, skewering his heart.

No final words. No grand gestures or acts.

Just another dead king with his trousers full of shit as he died.

…

Ciri didn't know how to describe Guts other than as a monster for monsters. It was a daunting thing to follow in his wake as he butchered everything in his way. It was humbling. And terrifying. With enough time and enough swings of his sword, Ciri could truly believe that he could slaughter the army on his own. The only difficult part of it would be convincing them to climb up the mountains of their fallen comrades to reach Guts at the top.

As much as she would like to stop and stare at the grisly display, they didn't have the time.

Ciri had seen what happened. A line of possible futures. Yennefer and the others were completely spent, and running on spite. They inflicted an astounding amount of damage upon the Aen Elle elves, but only enough to make up for their lesser numbers. Ciri couldn't say for certain, but she felt they were still outnumbered. The men would be ground away, and if they weren't careful… Guts really would be the last man standing.

She caught a glimpse of their destination -- the Place of Power. She could feel a hum as it resonated with the Elder Blood. A bridge between space and time -- a bridge that connected this Sphere to her home. A bridge she was going to have to burn down.

And with a final spray of blood, Guts carved the path for her to arrive. It seemed awful to ask any more of him, but she didn't have much of a choice in the matter. "I need you to defend me while I do this," she said, stepping towards the Place of Power. A dozen stones erected around a single one that acted as an anchor for this half of the bridge.

"Just do your thing," Guts said, stepping upon charred corpses. "I'll handle it on this end." Only he could say that in the face of an army, and have her believe him wholeheartedly.

It was a struggle to tune out the sounds of death and destruction around her. All the same, she forced the sounds from her mind as she knelt before the center stone, closing her eyes and pulling upon the power in her blood. The sensation that filled her… she could only compare it to when Judeau held her hand and, honestly, that was a pretty terrifying comparison. Pure power flooded her veins and Ciri felt herself… expanding. Like her body couldn't hold her mind so it bled out into space.

The sounds of battle were gone. The stench of blood and burnt hair were gone. The aches in her body, the stinging of the few wounds she had endured… all of it was gone. She couldn't hear anything. She couldn't smell or taste anything. She couldn't feel anything. What she could do, however, was see.

And if she could breathe, what she saw would have left her breathless.

A vast infinity that stretched on endlessly, and the infinity only grew with every passing second. Before her eyes, Ciri could see Spheres coming into existence. She could see them being wiped away. She could see a thousand different Conjunctions happening in a thousand different places, all at the same time. Each was contained in their own bubble that floated in a black void. It was mesmerizing. It was terrifying.

Every time she jumped between Spheres, she thought she knew how vast space really was. Ciri realized that she didn't have a single clue. Within each Sphere was a universe of endless space where entire worlds were filled with life. And within each Sphere, countless timeliness were being created every second. It was… it was honestly indescribable. Hauntingly beautiful but utterly terrifying.

It made her feel small. It made her Sphere feel small. All that she had endured, everything that she had done and accomplished… her Sphere could vanish and it wouldn't be noticed. It was all that insignificant.

It was a struggle to focus, but she managed to turn her attention to the task at hand. Between the Spheres, Ciri saw what amounted to lines drawn in sand. A road, or a bridge, that connected the stolen Sphere of the Aen Elle to her home. And with an action as simple as wiping her hand across a line in sand, the bridge vanished entirely. It was simply gone.

Space and Time were hers.

Ciri looked down to her Sphere, and she could peer into it. She could see everything. She could see her father pacing in a room, a heavy frown on his face. She could see Dijkstra plotting a betrayal. She could see everything. And that included the Wild Hunt, joined by Apostles that were terrorizing her home. Only the Apostles…

Ciri saw what she could only describe as chains attached to them. They were invisible to the naked eye, but she saw them all the same. Each one… each one anchored into the Brand that was burned into their flesh. Ciri saw that it was the same for Guts and Casca -- She watched them fighting to defend her body, joined by Geralt and so many others. It reminded her what she was here for.

The White Frost. It was big. Even in an ever expanding infinity, it was big. It had claimed trillions upon trillions of Spheres and it was encroaching ever closer. And she saw it. A cold hard truth that she couldn't deny even if she wanted to.

She couldn't stop the White Frost. It was inevitable. It wasn't a disaster so much as a fact. Just as you grew colder the further you got from a fire -- that's what the White Frost was. It progressed logically and, just as if you were next to an iceberg you would feel its coldness, it affected the Spheres near it.

"I didn't come all this way to give up," Ciri said with no voice, imposing her will on her domain.

The White Frost was inevitable, but it could be delayed. A delay of millions, even billions, of years. Nearly an eternity and barely an instant. But a delay all the same.

Ciri swept the affected worlds together and shoved them away into what amounted to the corner of infinity. Eventually, the space between the affected Spheres would grow cold enough that it would continue but… she didn't have to stop it forever. So long as the people that she loved and the future she wanted to create had the chance to thrive…

"And that gives me an idea on what to do with you," Ciri continued, turning her attention to where the chains led. Guts' Sphere. Or, rather, Hell. She peered into it, and she saw Hell in all of its terrible glory. She saw the Godhand and she saw them looking back at her. Griffith's piercing gaze met her own, but she was unfathomably their greater. They stood uncowed but helpless, left waiting for her sentencing.

Only she couldn't destroy them. Just as she was the daughter of Space and Time the Godhand were the physical manifestations of Evil. Ciri couldn't destroy them any more than she could destroy the concept of Evil within the Sphere. Not unless she chose to destroy the Sphere itself. And she hated them -- for what they did to Guts. For what they represented. Their very existence was Evil. There was no hope for redemption or antonment. So long as they existed, they would inflict evil upon the innocent and undeserving.

Her training as a Witcher came in handy. There were plenty of things that you couldn’t simply slay with a swipe of a sword, or the right combination of words and herbs. To those things… you sealed them away. You isolated them and ensured that they couldn’t harm anyone else until you, or another, figured out how to kill them.

Ciri reached out to the Sphere, holding it in her hands as if it were no greater than a marble. "You won't get to lay your filthy hands on their souls. I can't kill you… but enjoy a billion years in time out," Ciri snarled at them and the Godhand was helpless to stop her as she closed the door on them. That didn’t stop them from trying, though. They were powerful, in their own way. They were just picking a fight in her domain. The first sign that the battle of wills was turning against them was the chains that stretched across Time and Space that would ensure that the Branded would be damned to Hell shattered. Freeing Guts and Casca while robbing the Apostles of their power.

The very last thing she saw as the doors closed to Hell was Griffith’s piercing gaze, and with that, the doors slammed shut. Hell was closed. The Godhand would be trapped within, unable to affect even their own Sphere. It wasn't as satisfying as squishing them like a couple of bugs, but… it wasn't about satisfaction. It was about stopping them so there wouldn't ever be another Guts or Casca.

Who knows. Maybe in a billion years, the Idea of Evil wouldn't mean a damn thing.

Ciri smiled to herself as she began to fade away, falling back to her kneeling body. It wasn't a particularly pleasant feeling, but she ignored it in favor of standing on her own two feet. She took in a deep breath and tilted back her head, savoring the feeling even as chaos erupted around them.

"We've won!" Her triumphant cry echoed out, impossibly loud. She looked to see Geralt, Guts, Casca and all the others fighting to defend her. She gave them a gentle and thankful smile. "And it's time for us to go home."

They didn't win for forever… but for today?

Today, they had won.

...

Next chapter will be the epilogue of Castoff and it will earn its Complete tag.