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The mission went about as well as one can hope an undertaking of this caliber to go - successfully, though not without losses, and certainly not according to the plan. Still, Radovid was dead and it was enough occasion to celebrate.
They met Thaler as planned, in The Butcher's Yard, announcing their success as soon as they arrived. Dijkstra was nowhere to be seen, but they weren't about to wait for him.
"Geralt!" Roche called out to the witcher, realizing that he's not joining them. Instead, he remained at the back, discussing something with Iorveth.
Roche glared briefly at the elf. Their interests might have aligned for once, but it didn't make him any less displeased about his enemy's presence, nor was he more at ease. Still, these were desperate times and they couldn't pick and choose their allies - if he even was one, now that the deed was done.
Politics aside, they had enough bad blood between them to get at each other's throats for purely personal reasons. The only reason why Roche wasn't expecting an arrow in the back whenever he turned around was that he knew Iorveth enough to rather expect an arrow in the face.
"A toast?" he gestured to Geralt, pointedly ignoring the elf glowering back at him. He wasn't about to allow his presence to spoil the biggest success he managed to score in months.
"Isn't it a bit early to celebrate?" Geralt asked as he approached them. "Radovid is dead, but the worst is still ahead. The war is not yet over."
"It is," Ves grinned, though not without some bitterness. "For better or for worse. To North!" she downed her drink.
"Temeria!" Roche followed suit with a nod.
"Bloody Temeria," Thaler joined.
Geralt raised his eyebrows, but also picked up a glass, swirling the golden liquid around.
He stopped short in his tracks, recognizing the slightest familiar note in the smell of the drink. "It's poisoned."
Roche froze. That damned elf-
"There goes the surprise," a voice came from behind his back, making him turn around. Not Iorveth then.
"Dijkstra," Geralt drawled out, drawing his sword. "Care to explain?"
The sudden bout of nausea and dizziness confirmed to Roche that Geralt was right about the poison. Not that Dijkstra's monologue that came in response wouldn't make him sick by itself.
He found it impossible to focus. Words flowed in and out of his head - Redania, rule, no deal… All that he understood from it all was that Dijkstra was a two-faced whoreson and that his own naive trust in his intentions was currently getting him killed. And how proud of himself the bastard sounded.
"I suppose that you should understand this, Roche," Dijkstra directed to him.
Did he? Unable to process any sort of response, he gripped his sword with tingling fingers. He felt that behind his back Ves did the same. Thaler on the other hand just graced Dijkstra with some choice words.
Glancing upwards, Roche noticed a movement on the rooftops. They won't even get to go down fighting, he realized - they were going to be shot down like ducks.
"Geralt," the traitor continued, "you see, this doesn't concern you. Elf - I will uphold your end of the bargain. You two are free to go. Fare thee well and whatnot."
Silence fell for a while. Then, wordlessly, Iorveth turned on his heel and disappeared in the dark alleyway.
"So, Geralt?" Dijkstra repeated after a moment passed with no response from the witcher.
"I won't let you kill them," Geralt replied gravely, gripping his sword.
"A pity," Dijkstra replied, raising his hand. At that signal the crossbows of the men stationed on the rooftops were pointed at them. "I hoped that you would see reason."
Before he could signal to shoot, a short cry could be heard from above. With a thump, the body of one of the shooters fell to the ground, colorful fletchings of an arrow sticking out of his chest.
Looking around, Roche caught a glimpse of red disappearing behind a chimney. He had to admit, for once he was glad to see that bandana.
Dijkstra swore under his breath. "That's what I get for playing nice," he mumbled. "Shoot them!"
Though both Roche and Ves barely managed to hold their weapons and Thaler threw up in the midst of battle, the three miraculously survived the attack without even acquiring any serious injuries. It was hardly their own success - Geralt took down most of Dijkstra's men with the support of Iorveth, who joined the fight on the ground having beforehand emptied his quiver into the attackers.
Dijkstra himself managed to slip away somewhere amidst the chaos. Not for long, Roche thought bitterly. He wasn't about to let him walk free after that if he had any say in the matter. That would have to wait, though.
"Are you alright?" Geralt asked over his shoulder, pulling out his sword from some poor bloke's chest.
Thaler, sitting hunched among the dead bodies, responded to it with a groan.
"If you're not dying yet-"
"I might be," Ves commented in a pained voice.
"-then you should live," the witcher explained. "I'd bet that it was only meant to make you easier to kill."
"Bastard," Roche drawled out.
He certainly did feel easy to kill. His entire body ached and the world around him looked like its own reflection in a muddy puddle. Still, it was nothing compared to what nearly happened.
A gloved hand appeared in his field of vision and he took it, lifting himself off the ground. Only then he realized it was not Geralt's.
Obnoxiously enough, Iorveth looked to be fairly amused.
"You," Roche growled, letting go of the hand.
"In person," Iorveth confirmed, smug as ever.
"Say, why come back?" he blurted out before he could stop himself. "Could've killed two birds with one stone."
"I don't take kindly to being made a fool of," he replied, his eye narrowing.
The response only served to spark some old anger inside him. He despised avoiding death by a whisker only due to the squirrel's whim - twice. Once, losing and being spared in Flotsam, was already weighing on him, but being put in this situation once again?
He wanted to demand reasons, to see what hidden agenda was behind it all, but on the other hand it was the last thing he was willing to talk about. So he didn't comment, just huffed with irritation, watching as the elf returned to nonchalantly retrieving his arrows from the dead bodies.