The Devil of Cintra (The Witcher x Youjo Senki)

Riding towards my retreating troops gave me some time to reflect.

Utilising flame as a source of Power was a definitive no for the future, unless I was about to die. The amount I had drawn had certainly been a factor, but the effects had still been way too dangerous. I had, perhaps somewhat naively, thought that my training on dealing with and resisting mind magic with Tissaia, along with my past experience with the Type 95, would blunt the experience, yet the end result spoke for itself.

The issue, I mused, was the sheer difference between the aforementioned effects and my brief stint with Fire. While the cursed computation orb had sought to indoctrinate and brainwash me, making me act like an insane zealot, its effect on my decision making had been weak enough that I could still largely make sound tactical decisions, if with some extra zeal. My mind was being corrupted, true, but it did not offer anything more. Once I used it, that was it - I could not sell myself any further, and breaking out of the effect was largely just a matter of time, even if the effects of cumulative exposure might have changed that.

Mind magic was different still. Much of the discipline was concerned with mind reading, along with delving into deeper memories, and erasing them - a much more complex and dangerous proposition. Actual mind control was theoretically impossible, though Iin reality, the fairly widely practised compulsion was very much so, with the differences being mostly academic. The principle of compulsion lay in convincing the subject to do something - often to obey the caster, while mind control was defined as active control over the subject's mind. Not a distinction those outside sorcerous circles cared much about, of course.

The defense to mind magic largely lay in noticing such intrusions into your mind and retaliating. Fortunately, the defending party was heavily favoured, and the damage one could do to their assailant’s mind was great, while noticing such intrusions was possible even for regular people. Trying to influence a trained mage with mind magic without them noticing was nearly impossible without great familiarity, combined with a weakened state of mind. Sleep unfortunately counted for the latter. Mind reading, on the other hand, could be done stealthily, though such mastery of the subject eluded me.

The power of Fire was different, though. Parts of it were the same, but it was also true and pure in a way that I still struggled to comprehend. Sure, there was a hefty price attached to embracing it, but it did not lie. I felt the truth of it deep in my bones, even now. If I embraced it, I would lose myself, but I would gain power, and not just that. The inviting nature of the offer was difficult to put into words. Fire promised me a warm embrace, a place to belong - to become someone that was a part of it.

Warmth. Endless warmth. Who wouldn’t be tempted to go just a little bit further?

No wonder so many went insane trying to make use of it.

However, while the strength of Fire was undeniable, trading your wits for brute force in battle was an exchange only a sucker would agree to, while the rest made me think of drugs.

Suffice to say, I would be abstaining. My mind was my own - the only thing left to me of my previous two lives. I would not risk it.

All that considered, it was a small miracle that everything had worked out as well as it had. The end result of the battle was not anywhere near the disaster I had feared. On the other hand, the strategic implications were fairly devastating.

While Cintra’s intelligence may have been lacking, it would have been impossible to miss Nazair being invaded. And, as far as I could tell, we weren’t the only ones to be caught off guard. The Nazairi were as well.

And wasn’t that preposterous? It meant that Nilfgaard encountered little to no resistance, with someone on the Nazairi side of the border actively working to suppress any information on Nilfgaard’s movement.

In other words, they had been sold out by one of their own, a conclusion further supported by the thin man with the blue rose of Nazair on his armour I had seen standing next to the Nilfgaardian leadership.

It was hard to tell how bad the situation was, though. Perhaps all of Nazair would rally behind Nilfgaard in weeks, perhaps Nilfgaard would be busy putting out rebellions for decades.

Without any insight into what had truly transpired on their side, I could merely speculate.

We arrived at Dreadhold after the rest of my troops - to great cheers, and great relief of our horses, all of whom looked ready to keel over.

Isengrim waited near the gate, his face as grim as always. I jumped down from my horse near him with some difficulty. Much of my body hurt, but I had not been severely injured. The cut on my forehead was the most annoying of my assortment of wounds, even now bleeding, colouring my face and much of my armour red, all the while soaking my hair.

He stared at me for a few seconds, noting the scorch marks and the blood on my armour, before speaking, “Both Matheus and Roderic are severely wounded, as is the King, and we’ve-”

“The King?!” I interrupted his report, “How?”

“A crossbow bolt, though the details elude me. One of the enemy riders, perhaps.”

‘Shit,’ I thought elegantly, “Where is he?”

“The medical tent,” Isengrim responded promptly.

I nodded, stepped forward, then stopped, “Isengrim,” I spoke, “Send three messengers towards our reinforcements, have them take different paths as well.”

I could try to find the Cintran force coming to help us with portals, but I didn’t know their exact location. It would take time and Power, both resources I did not have to spare, not for something uncritical. Though the Nazairi had been replaced by Nilfgaard, Cintra’s response would be the same.

There was nothing else to say, as the protocols for a siege were well established. The possibility of the Nazairi coming with a force too large to openly confront had always been there, however unlikely, and so we were ready, if for a different enemy.

Isengrim saluted, then left. As did I, followed by my harried bodyguards.

I scanned the faces of my troops as we passed, and was heartened to see their spirits strong. Considering their expressions, I might have even thought we had come back victorious.

‘Battle maniacs.’

The medical tent came into our view soon, overflowing with wounded. Many sagged outside, still bleeding, as my barber surgeons, herbalists and assorted healers did their best - which was not much.

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Despite all the possibilities magic allowed, for the common man, pouring alcohol over wounds was still considered a miraculous feat of science. Or made up nonsense, depending on who you asked.

One of the assistants stared at me with wide eyes, so I took my opportunity and spoke, “Where is His Majesty?”

“I-Inside, at the end,” the young man responded, pointing towards the tent.

I nodded before turning to my guards, “Stay outside. If you are too tired, find your colleagues from the second shift. Somehow, my words just made them straighten up, their eyes lighting up with determination.

I shook my head. This world really needed a proper understanding of a work-life balance.

Entering the tent, the first thing that hit me was the smell. The sweet scent of alcohol, alongside blood, shit and rot. One of my soldiers lay on a table screaming into a gag, while the surgeon was sawing off his mangled leg.

I stared for a second, considering, before moving on. I had neither the Power nor the expertise to help this man.

‘Such a waste,’ I couldn’t help but think. If only we had a proper healer - a sorceress specialising in the art. Or ten.

Alas, there was only me.

At the end of the tent, I finally laid my eyes on Roegnar. He was stripped of his armour, breathing heavily, a bolt protruding from a bloodied stomach, with no medics in sight. Roderic lay next to him, looking even worse. Ortagor stood nearby, watching over the wounded King, his armour tarnished with grime and dust.

“Baron,” I began, “We will be besieged soon. Attend to your duties. I will see what can be done here.”

Ortagor looked at me, his eyes resigned, before nodding.

I returned my gaze to the King. My first thought was that he looked salvageable. As my eyes flicked to Roderic, I realised that only the King had gotten lucky.

The surgeons had not stripped Roderic from his armour, for they could not. His once mighty plate was deformed, some of the joints folded into themselves, trapping the man inside.

Roderic’s placid, yet aware face was not encouraging either. It was very obvious that he had to be severely injured, for him not to even twitch from what must have been enough pain to drive some insane…

I shook my head. I would get to him later. For now, he at least seemed stable.

Focusing on the King, I did my best to think. Haela was the only proper healing spell I knew - a general-purpose one. Efficient and relatively easy to learn, it worked by supercharging the patient’s own healing, with two major weaknesses. One, if the body was unable to deal with a wound on its own, then Haela would struggle. Two, improper use had the unfortunate side effect of cancer. In other words, it should be usable here, even if there’d be some long-term risks.

“Degurechaff,” The King hissed out, “I am not gonna make it. I can feel the other side calling for me.”

“Please do not speak, Your Majesty. I have some confidence in saving your life, should you not worsen your wound.”

Indeed, there was hope. While healing was nowhere close to my speciality, my study of anatomy and use of Alzur’s Double Cross had improved my knowledge in that regard, if inadvertently.

The bolt had not gone deep. From what I could tell, it had perforated the stomach wall, but also plugged the hole, preventing any noticeable amounts of stomach acid from leaking out, as well as bleeding.

“I know when I am dying, sorceress,” The King continued, undeterred, “My death may not have been as glorious as I had intended, but it will do.”

If I extracted the bolt, and closed the hole in the stomach quickly enough, I might be able to save him. As long as it was not barbed, but the chances of that were low.

‘Wait, did he say intended?’

My thoughts screeched to a halt, as I turned my eyes to the King’s face. Was that happiness I was seeing? Surely not. Surely it was a simple figure of speech. He had planned to die gloriously in battle in an abstract way, as many meatheads did. That must have been it.

“There is a letter for Calanthé. She will know where to find it. Tell her, it is my wish for the Urcheon to get his due.”

I frowned, before I turned back to the wound, electing to ignore the clearly delirious man.

There was one issue with my plan - the bolt had gone through his plate, and there was a very large chance that the violent entry introduced quite a few foreign objects into the body. If I just closed the King up, he would likely die of sepsis.

“Thar aev morn veth,” I incanted, and the King went limp, the magical coma taking hold.

I removed my gauntlets, conjured a bit of water to wash them - magical water was sterile, and there was plenty of alcohol to add to the mix - then raised my pointer finger up, and cast again, “Gloir Gláeddyv.”

A tiny mage-blade grew from my finger, thin and only a few centimetres long. It was sharper than any scalpel, and sterile. It also glowed, which simplified things.

Then I got to work.

I made as few cuts as possible, and used Haela as much as I had dared. When I needed more dexterity, a skin-tight application of Vaeltha, the shield spell, served instead of sterile gloves, letting me pick out splintered pieces of metal and wood.

The work was slow going, and to say I made no mistakes would have been a lie - while human innards were not foreign to me, this was the first time I was trying to put a person back together, instead of merely disassembling them. Moreover, I was hardly at my best. Fortunately, a few shallow, easily healed cuts were the extent of my mishaps.

Once I was reasonably sure I had gotten everything that did not belong out of Roegnar’s innards, I turned towards the bolt itself.

I carefully positioned my hand, and was about to pull, when someone gently grabbed my hand.

I blinked, suppressing my instincts to lash out, and raised my head. It was one of the barber surgeons, a man on the older side, easily over forty. The man wore a formerly white, now quite red, tunic and a leather apron, both wrapped by a tool belt. It was from this toolbelt that he grabbed a strange, silver, rod-like instrument, with one end spatulated into a thin, flat scoop.

“What is this?” I asked, as the man released my hand, his face grim and utterly uncaring of the faux pas.

“A specillum,” he explained, “It can be used to determine whether a bolt has barbs. I do not dare doubt your ability, for this man would have very likely already perished under my own care, but I do not think you have checked the bolt, and I have pulled more than one with barbs out today.”

“The King,” I emphasised the word slightly, as the man did not seem to be aware as to who exactly was lying here, and I’d really hate it if someone snitched on him for his lack of respect, “was wearing full plate. It is unlikely anything but a bodkin could have passed through.”

“Well reasoned, yet there are hints in the armour that would suggest barbs. It would be a shame for him to die now, when you are so close to a miracle,” he replied.

After a second, I nodded. While my opinion of these doctors was not exactly high, I was not so stubborn as to refuse rational advice from a professional. It had not even occurred to me to check the armour.

I had subconsciously dismissed these men. Too hastily, it seemed.

A muttered incantation had me conjure a tiny flame, the sort I used to light up bonfires ordinarily. I stared at it for a moment, watching it flicker. I had never noticed how fascinating fire was to look at before. A moment later, I sterilised the tool.

The surgeon looked on with some confusion, but I was too tired to explain. Let him think it was a weird sorcerous custom for all I cared.

“Please,” I handed the tool back to him.

The man nodded, stepping closer, forcing me to shuffle to the side. I watched carefully, ready to intervene should he make a mistake, or worse.

He gently inserted the specillum, hugging the bolt with it and lightly moving the tool forward, before moving it to the side slightly. His movements were incredibly slow and careful.

Then he tried to withdraw the tool, and immediately stopped. He once more shifted it to the side, then withdrew it successfully.

His face was even grimmer than before.

“It’s barbed.”