The deep, resonant blast of the warhorn sent the already-jittery Nilfgaardians into a panic.
Even though they'd braced themselves for this moment, the chaos was instant. Horses collided in confusion; more than one knight nearly lost his saddle.
[Rumble-rumble—]
Druids chanted incantations, and the cliffs around the valley seemed to awaken, rising and shifting as boulders came crashing down from both sides.
Before swords could even cross, half the Black Army was crushed beneath stone.
The blow to morale was even worse than the casualties.
And then, the sky itself darkened.
Two massive dragons stretched out their necks overhead—
Flames roared in their throats, ready to burst.
An ice giant stood atop a cliff, a steel club forming in his hand.
Without hesitation, he leapt—
A living avalanche crashing down upon the enemy.
Eist drew his golden-hued sword and let out a thunderous Skellige war cry.
Behind him, the clan chiefs and warriors of the Isles roared with him.
"RRAAAHH!!"
Several guards near Eist threw back their heads and howled, their bodies swelling with fur and mass—
Turning into giant bears.
They were the berserkers, once rescued, now bound to his banner.
Seven thousand Skelligers charged downhill—
Unleashing a true avalanche upon Nilfgaard.
...
With a flash of golden light, Lan appeared directly beneath the largest and most eye-catching war banner.
This time, there was no need for caution. No need to assess the field. No hesitation.
[Aard Sign – Aard Sweep – Magic Burst]!
[FWOOOSH!]
With a burst of energy, the last remaining Nilfgaardian officers of the expeditionary force were torn apart—shredded into frozen chunks of flesh.
The nearby cavalry made no move to resist.
They would rather flee beneath a giant's iron club than draw swords against the Lion of Cintra.
The Black Army's final line crumbled.
But Lan frowned.
When he landed, he'd caught a quick glimpse—
The figure under the war banner had looked younger than expected. No… that hadn't been Marshal Menno at all.
His mind raced, putting the pieces together instantly.
He sighed twice.
Once for the sheer honor of a man willing to take another's place.
Once in sorrow—for a young life, wasted in vain.
Suddenly, he turned his gaze toward a distant point on the battlefield.
A cavalry unit had broken through—
They had found the weak point in the Skelliger line and were now charging with all their might.
Their ranks were tight, their formation coordinated—by far the most disciplined remnant force Menno had left.
Marshal Menno lay flat against his horse's neck, arms wrapped tightly around its neck.
At first, the breakout had gone well.
They had dodged three boulders that almost seemed to move with a will of their own.
They had avoided the lingering heat of dragonfire.
If not for the shouts and screams still echoing around them, they could have mistaken this for a fight against natural disasters.
His guards were falling one by one—
But with one last burst of heavy cavalry momentum, they shattered through the islanders ahead of them and finally emerged from the valley.
Just one more bend around the massive stone ahead—and then, open plains.
Someone in the group let out a whoop of triumph.
Too soon.
The ground beneath them—once solid—suddenly caved in.
Menno flew forward, over his steed's head, and slammed into a cliff wall.
All around him came screams—from horses and men alike.
In the chaos, Menno heard something different.
A sound that heralded death.
[Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.]
A warrior, massive as a bear, charged down from the valley rim.
Behind him came a lean squad equipped for speed—other warriors, clad similarly, each bearing twin swords.
A black-haired and a red-haired mage chanted in unison, protected by a team of archers.
At their head was a female marksman who signaled for a volley.
This—was Gerd's sea raider strike team.
The Bear School witcher had led them here, across the sea.
The warriors had arrived with the Skellige drakkars.
The witchers, sorcerers, and the rest of the Lion's pride had rushed in after their victory in Lyria—
Now, they continued their hunt here.
An ambush didn't need numbers—only precision.
Menno spotted one witcher without a sword.
He raised his hands—
And from his palms surged both fire and frost.
Menno felt a chill.
That man might be even more dangerous than Lannister.
Staggering, the marshal rose and rushed toward a horse still on its feet.
But before he'd taken more than a few steps, a soldier beside him collapsed—face-first in the dirt, an arrow buried in his back.
Then, Menno himself felt a crushing blow to his head.
His vision spun.
He toppled from the saddle.
He tried to scream—but only a raspy gasp escaped.
One of the fallen horses thrashed and kicked—
Its hoof caught Menno's helmet, shattered the iron plating, gashed his cheek, cracked his teeth, and tore open his tongue.
More bowstrings twanged.
Arrows whistled.
Steel tips tore through armor with thunderous snaps.
There were cries. Horse shrieks. Blood splashes.
Turning his head, Menno saw a group approaching.
At their lead was a knight with a lionhead steel sword.
Beside him lumbered a giant bear, its shoulder taller than any man.
The deputy who had fled the valley with Menno bit his lip.
Suddenly, he turned around—
And shouted his surrender.
He stepped over the Marshal's prone body, using him as a shield.
Then, in a loud and desperate voice, he begged for mercy—offering war ransom in exchange for their lives.
Gripping his sword blade with both hands, he presented the hilt to the Cintrans.
The gesture—a continent-wide sign of surrender.
But just as the Cintrans drew close, the deputy suddenly lunged forward.
Using the steel guards of his gauntlets, he grabbed the sword blade and swung it wildly like a club.
At the same time, he reached for the dagger at his belt—his backup weapon.
But then—
A lion-headed longsword pierced through his chest with blinding speed.
House yanked the blade back out coldly.
He had never been fooled by the surrender.
"For Nilfgaard, Cintra takes no prisoners."
He watched the light fade from the deputy's eyes as the man staggered backward, tripped over a corpse, and collapsed onto it in a disturbingly natural heap.
House scoffed softly—he'd seen through the trick.
With a stride, he kicked the body aside—
Revealing another man hidden beneath it, feigning death.
Marshal Menno.
"Hah. From the looks of that armor, he's someone important."
House raised his longsword.
Menno ripped off his battered helmet and tried to speak.
But most of his teeth were gone, and his tongue had been slashed.
"I… am Men… no… Coehoorn…" he stammered through the blood, each word more gurgled than the last. "...Marshal… Coe… hoorn…"
The blade sank into his collarbone.
Blood gushed from his mouth in torrents.
"Did you catch what he just said?" House asked suddenly, pulling his sword free and glancing at the bear beside him.
Bill was shifting back from his berserker form to human.
"Who cares? Let the Nilfgaardian choke on his own shit—wait, hold up, do you see that cloak?"
House looked him over. "Silver scorpion. That's… the Fourth Cavalry's Seventh-whatever Brigade? Wasn't it them who split Yarpen's head open?"
Bill shrugged. "Might've been a different unit. Whatever—cut his head off, wrap it in the cloak. We can bring it to Yarpen, at least we won't show up empty-handed. If he doesn't want it, we'll trade it in for a war commendation. He might only be a captain by rank, but clearly a commander type—unlike you, who's still not even a knight."
"Fair point. But I'd rather just stay as the Duke's guard. Titles don't matter."
"Yeah, whatever. Hurry it up. There could be more Nilfgaardians trying to break through."
Menno convulsed twice, blood flooding back into his lungs.
...
With the Central Imperial Army annihilated in the Marnadal Valley of Cintra, Nilfgaard's invasion of the Northern Realms officially came to an end.
As for this war, future generations in the South and the North would offer differing assessments.
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