Chapter 67 - Interlude: Pomurnik
In the night sky, a small grey bird with black and red wings flew. In the north, such birds would be called pomurniks. In the south, they were often called wallcreepers, for their uncanny ability to climb. Unfortunately, the people who would recognise the bird’s species were largely constrained to a few academics hidden in the depths of Oxenfurt, along with some too-idle aristocrats.
The bird flew towards the burgeoning fortress of Marnadal, its sharp eyes taking in the details. The outer wall, though earthen, was quite mighty. Inside, the Cintrans were swarming like ants, finishing the inner wall as fast as they were able, barricading, moving supplies, and laying traps.
If a bird were capable of thought, and had knowledge of sieges, it would undoubtedly understand that taking the fortress would be a difficult task for an ordinary army.
The pomurnik’s flight was interrupted by an arrow, which the poor bird barely evaded. It did not pause after its dodge, flying away, barely making out the scarred visage of an elf who stared after it with a blank face.
Its flight did not stop any time soon. The grey bird flew north, through Erlenwald, occasionally pausing to rest on a tree, but never for long. It flew over the mighty forest, and then beyond.
When dawn broke, the bird slowed. In front of it, countless campfires marred the morning. Instead of risking the smoke and commotion, the bird flew back, eventually settling on a branch near a few horsemen. There were four men, all riding slowly and paying attention to their surroundings, wearing chainmail and leather caps, with their spears held close.
“I am telling you, the Nilfgaardians are insane,” one of them said, a young man who likely wished to have a beard, though no god or goddess had yet answered his prayers, leaving him with uneven stubble, “They say they believe that our world rotates around the sun. Rotates! Like a wheel!”
Another snorted, almost at the same time as his horse, which made the other three chuckle, “What can you expect from southerners? They are all suffering from heatstroke. My Ma always said not to stay in the sun too long, but they don’t have a choice, do they?”
“If we were rotatin’, wouldn’t we fall off the edge? That makes no sense to me,” the biggest and youngest of the group added, sneaking his hand underneath his leather cap to scratch his scalp.
“Right you are, Tepak,” the first one agreed, “They must all be insane.”
The other riders murmured in agreement.
The pomurnik watched them in silence, staying still, quite unlike a bird.
Then it flew down behind the group and grew into a black-clothed man, though none of the riders noticed this, nor the man’s bird-like gaze watching them.
Not until it was too late.
Vissegerd sat on his warhorse, frowning, as another group of scouts returned - charred beyond recognition, their bodies twisted in a rictus of pain.
He had already sent riders with orders not to bring any more bodies into the camp, but it appeared that this group had managed to miss the messengers.
The Marshal was not the only one staring. Though his soldiers did their best to appear busy, most struggled not to gaze at the grotesque remnants of their comrades.
At this point, the news was already out.
“Duke Reynmar,” Vissegerd called out to an approaching man. Unlike the Marshal, Reynmar was on foot, though his height was such that Vissegerd did not quite feel the elevated station of his rank, despite the added height of his warhorse. Though only one-sixteenth of Reynmar’s blood was elvish, many thought he had his great-great-grandfather to thank for his prodigious height.
“Marshal,” the duke rumbled. Even in his fifties, the man was built like a statue, with a great mane of hair that would have looked ridiculous even on someone half his age, but the man somehow made it work.
In his youth, Reynmar had been famous for his skill with both the sword and the ‘little sword’, much to the chagrin of many other lords. Yet, Reynmar’s martial skill, combined with his distant relation to the throne, was enough to keep any lethally angry husbands away.
Allegedly, the latter had rusted by now, though not the former. Seeing Reynmar’s muscled arms, Vissegerd could very well believe it.
“It seems Dreadhold has not lived up to its name,” Vissegerd said.
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“Indeed,” Reynmar responded.
Vissegerd sighed. That the enemy had penetrated so deep was deeply troubling. Either their force had been overwhelming enough that they could afford to leave sufficient men to box in Degurechaff and ignore her - a feat Vissegerd would have thought impossible. The young sorceress was not one to be ignored, if you valued your life. Or, they had crushed her utterly, Dreadhold not slowing them down in the slightest.
The Marshal thought the former theory had more merit, but either spelt disaster for Cintra, and neither was easy to accept.
Yet, the proof was undeniable. For the enemy to massacre his scouts so completely, their army had to be close.
“Is that a pomurnik?” The duke suddenly exclaimed, with something akin to excitement colouring his deep voice.
Vissegerd turned to Reynmar, tracing his gaze to a small grey bird, staring at them from atop a tent, “The pigeon?”
The duke frowned, “Do you not see the red on those wings? That’s a pomurnik, I’d bet my horse on it. Incredible.”
Vissegerd rubbed the bridge of his nose, “Are birds truly important now?”
Reynmar coughed, “Of course not.”
Hours passed as the camp grew more fortified, while more and more of the reinforced scout groups returned - all with nothing.
Of the enemy, there was not a single trace.
The entire affair left him feeling deeply uneasy.
Vissegerd stood near the middle of the camp, still in his armour, though he had long ditched the horse, staring at Duke Reynmar. Moving before they knew where the enemy was - at least in general - would be unwise.
He had left the comfort of his tent to think. Unlike most, quiet was not something that helped his mind. The bustle of the war camp helped.
The duke, if Vissegerd’s eyes served, was back to observing the bird, which was once more perching on a tent.
The Marshal thought of rebuking him, but it wasn’t as if the duke was remiss in his duties. There just wasn’t anything to do right now.
When Vissegerd approached, the duke startled slightly, the movement almost comical on such a huge man. With some amusement, the Marshal noted the small pouch overflowing with seeds nearly hidden in one of the duke’s large hands.
“Any success?” Vissegerd asked, half-seriously.
Reynmar nodded, “It’s a lot more fearless than I expected from the little bugger. Until just a few minutes ago, it was running around quite energetically. See?” He pointed to the ground a bit in front of them, where a few shallow furrows lay, “Strange for a flying bird.”
“Maybe it’s a chicken someone dunked in paint,” Vissegerd retorted.
“Ha, ha,” Reynmar laughed drily.
Just then, the bird flew down, and both men fell silent.
The pomurnik walked towards them, with a rather serious gait, fit more for royalty than poultry, before beginning to circle Vissegerd, tapping the ground here and there.
The Marshal looked on in amusement.
Suddenly, Reynmar’s eyes widened.
Vissegerd frowned, but he didn’t get any further than opening his mouth.
“It must be a mating ritual!” Reynmar exclaimed.
The Marshal sputtered, ”Mating? Mating who? Do I look like a chicken?”
Reynmar smiled, looking pointedly at the blue and gold armour of the Marshal, “Some birds are known to be attracted to bright colours.”
Vissegerd shook his head, though the slight smile made his amusement obvious.
The bird jumped around for a bit more before flying away.
A second later, Vissegerd was engulfed in flames.
The pomurnik flew south. Its tiny wings flapped through the air, the bird not looking back at the chaos-engulfed camp.
Hours later, it once more set down on a branch of a lonely oak tree to rest. Erlenwald was still a distance away.
The tree was surrounded by autumn grass, each blade swaying gently in the wind.
No one and nothing was near, but the bird did not relax much - as one would expect from a bird, really.
It was this vigilance that saved it.
At the last moment, the pomurnik sensed something and tried to fly off.
Instead of losing its head, the claws only nicked its wing.
The pomurnik chirped in pain, staring after the silent owl that had almost killed it as it flew away, before flying back to the tree and setting down on a branch close to the trunk.
A bird enthusiast might have recognised it as a grey owl, though a fairly large example of its species. Alas, the pomurnik was a bird, and not a bird enthusiast, so an owl was as far as its identification skills got it.
The grey owl circled the much smaller pomurnik before sitting down on another, higher branch.
The two birds stared at each other, silently communicating using bird expressions that no sane man should seek to understand.
Eventually, the owl broke the stare, hooted twice, and flew off to the north.
Naturally, the pomurnik did not quite trust this development, and it remained in its position for quite some time, before finally flying off, one of its wings trailing crimson.
Even hours later, it never shook off the feeling of being watched.