Night fell over the timberline, bringing a razor wind that scraped across the frozen dirt like dull iron.
Will spread thick layers of straw over the hard ground to shield the two mounts from the frost, kindling a roaring campfire in the sheltered nook between them.
Thick slabs of beef sizzled over the coals, rich fat dripping into the ash with sweet, mouth-watering pops.
Geralt had dragged a broad river slate from the frozen gravel; on Will’s firm recommendation, the witcher had washed it in a blast of Igni before laying the meat across the stone.
Will tore off a steaming mouthful, his teeth fighting through the hot gristle as he spoke around the fat.
“Dorndal sits just beyond that ridge. Head garrison for Tailles and his brothers. You wager he has scouts on our trail?”
Their route took them north out of Ellander, cutting past the Dorndal road and through Vizima’s southern shanties before terminating at the merchant quarter inside the capital walls.
Geralt finished his strip in three clean bites, washed it down with cold water from his tin, and tossed a dry pine knot into the embers.
“A vain fool, not a madman. He wouldn’t pick a scrap under open skies while the roads are crawling with merchant guards.”
Will poked a stick into the ash, a knowing smirk touching his lips.
Tailles had grown up an unwanted foundling in a temple orphanage, leaving him with an obsessive, brittle vanity that most folk overlooked.
Will saw through it with ease; fragile pride made men predictable.
“Twenty crowns says otherwise, Geralt. Give me half a mile of space tomorrow and let us see if the fish bites. What do you say?”
Witchers made a habit of hoarding silver through autumn contracts so they could winter safely behind the walls of Kaer Morhen.
The fact that Geralt was still walking the southern highways in late January meant his purse was near empty.
Geralt let out a long, gravelly sigh, shaking his head.
“You sound like Nenneke when the parish ledger comes up short. I dropped a small fortune on her refectory to keep Ciri fed, and now you want to fleece my last crowns for taproom swill?”
“Every crown goes into an iron tin to cover my Trial of the Grasses,” Will said, wiping grease from his chin.
“I don’t bleed my friends for free.”
Geralt’s expression turned stern.
“Forget it. The Wolf never asks an apprentice to pay for his mutagens, and Vesemir would take a belt to my back if I pocketed silver for a trial.”
“Still, I’ll need to see Kaer Morhen for myself sooner or later. Yennefer tells me the ramparts are falling apart; a few thousand crowns in masonry wouldn’t hurt.”
If that keep stays a pile of loose shale, Will reflected quietly, any rogue mob will walk right through the front gate again.
“A witcher doesn’t fuss over silk sheets,” Geralt grunted, lips curling into a dry pout.
“Trust me on this one. If a noblewoman ever rides through the pass and knocks on your bedchamber door, the last thing she wants to find is a creaking cot stuffed with moldy straw and rat droppings.”
Geralt’s eyebrows shot upward, staring at the youth in genuine bewilderment.
“What in the hells? You’ve never shared a bed with a woman in your life, yet you lecture me on court manners?”
A broad grin broke across Will’s face.
“The bet stands. Now quit stalling and tell me what happened between you, Falwick, and that scarred peacock ten years ago.”
…
A pale winter sun peeked through the gray canopy the following dawn, casting long, fractured beams across the snowdrifts.
Will rode ahead on his brown gelding, letting the horse pick its way at a lazy walk.
Sitting on the outskirts of Dorndal, the patrol watches of the White Rose were certain to spot a lone traveler with two longswords at his belt.
A straight hook hung in deep water, waiting for a strike.
How long will you keep me waiting, Tailles?
Ten days since I carved your cheek.
Half an hour down the frozen track, a sharp snap broke the stillness in the spruce thickets to his left.
Twang.
Will’s ears twitched.
Instinct flared a heartbeat before the iron point arrived.
He threw himself sideways, tumbling out of the saddle into the snowdrift.
His brown mount let out a panicked whinny and bolted forward down the lane.
The gelding lacked the battle breeding of Roach, but Tris had picked it out with an old cavalryman’s eye.
The beast knew enough to steer clear of flying iron.
Will rolled behind an ancient ash.
The heavy quarrel lodged deep in the oak across the lane had a four-sided head and a foot-long shaft, fired from a windlass siege crossbow.
He shrugged out of his wool mantle, bunched it into a rough silhouette, and hurled it toward the next trunk.
Twang.
A second quarrel splintered the birch bark.
Will broke into a dead sprint the instant the cord snapped.
Locking onto the lone emerald spark in his awareness, his mouth twisted into a cold grin.
A windlass crossbow took at least five seconds to crank and seat a fresh bolt; five seconds was a lifetime.
To his surprise, the bushes parted as the shooter hurled the timber bow aside, lunging into the open with drawn steel.
The white rose brooch gleamed stark against the red wool of his shoulder.
“Tailles, you incompetent butcher! It really is you!”
Murderous hysteria burned behind the knight’s eyes.
Careless of whatever insult the boy had barked, he brought his heavy longsword down in a furious overhead cleave.
“You left me freezing in the drift all night, you bastard!”
“Is that so? I had fresh roasted beef and a warm fire to keep me company.”
Clang!
Steel met steel with an ear-splitting shriek.
Tailles was thirty winters old, possessing the dense, heavy frame of an anointed man-at-arms in his prime.
But Will had been dragged through Kaer Morhen’s sword forms by Geralt himself.
Pivoting along his hips, Will parried the force and drove two lightning ripostes into the knight’s breastplate.
Tailles barely brought his crossguard up in time, stumbling back as the blows shook his shoulders.
“Captain of the White Rose? That all you have?” Will mocked, stepping inside the reach to keep the knight off balance.
The man’s footwork was sluggish, utterly lacking the ruthless discipline of a Nilfgaardian veteran.
Months of drills had stripped the clumsy flourishes from Will’s wrists.
He possessed barely a fraction of the White Wolf’s fluid grace, but he knew how to pivot off the line.
Feinting high, he snapped his point down, driving thirty inches of steel straight through the unarmored articulation behind Tailles’s knee.
Crunch.
The point sheared through cartilage and tendon.
The manic rage in his face began to fracture into cold, frantic despair.
“You devil’s get… you ruined me! The entire garrison laughs behind my back! The barons snicker into their wine, and the Prince won’t even grant me an audience!”
Will looked down along his blade, his golden irises flat and cold.
Ten years of nursing a grudge over Geralt’s easy victory had warped the man’s mind beyond repair.
He pressed the Skellige edge against the soft skin beneath Tailles’s jaw.
“Last words?”
“If you cut me down, Count Falwick and Grand Master Walras will burn your sanctuary to the dirt!” Tailles spat, blood flecking his chin.
“They’ll lead the company through the gates, rip the habits from your priestesses, and hang the lot of them from the rafters!”
Will gave a slow, deliberate nod, filing the names away.
“Anything else?”
He could only imagine the reception the White Rose would find if they tried kicking the doors down with Yennefer and Ciri sitting inside.
Tailles froze, his gaze turning frantic as he took in the lack of fear on the youth’s face.
“No… are you mad? You intend to butcher the High Commander too? That is…”
“Falwick holds the title of Count of Moen, and Walras commands the entire order. I know who they are.”
Will’s voice dropped into a quiet murmur.
“Did you think I would fall to my knees, weep into the dirt, bind my own wrists, and beg for mercy at the palace gates?”
He stepped closer.
“History taught me one simple rule: flesh cuts, bone breaks, and nobody is immortal.”
Before the knight could utter another sound, the steel drew a clean, silver flash through the freezing air.
Tailles’s hands flew to his throat, his body convulsing in the snow as dark blood pumped through his fingers.
Will knelt, resting a palm against the dying man’s ribs to open the siphon.
[Experience +10]
[Experience: 215/400]
He cleaned his blade with a handful of fresh snow, stripped the silvered clasp from the red cloak, and turned the knight’s pockets out until his fingers found a worn leather purse.
Unstringing the knot, he dumped the contents into his palm.
Twelve gold pieces.
“Miserable skinflint,” Will muttered, tossing the pouch into the drift.
A rhythmic crunch of hooves sounded on the road.
Geralt trotted into the clearing on Roach, taking in the scene without a word.
Raising his left wrist, the witcher traced a glowing sign in the winter chill.
“Igni.”
A gout of orange flame swallowed the corpse, reducing the meat and bone to a mound of blackened slag within minutes.
“How went the catch?”
Will held up the small handful of gold with a wry shake.
Geralt glanced down at the ruined mail, swung down from his saddle, and let out a tired, rattling breath before settling onto a fallen trunk.
“Sit down, Will. Let me tell you how that business with Falwick began ten winters ago…”