New chapter is live.
Settle in, take your time, and let’s see what waits in the dark 🖤
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Click.
Click.
Click.
The last bear trap snapped open and locked.
Marek wedged small stones into the jaws, sprinkled several liquids over the teeth, and covered the trap with leaves.
“Captain…” Angoulême sat collapsed beneath an oak, pale and soaked in sweat.
“Leave me.
You go first.
Get to Flotsam and book me a room.
If the Scoia’tael don’t catch up, I’ll rest when I get there.
If they do, I can at least slow them down.”
It was evening now.
The Phantom Company had begun the ancient and dignified art of fleeing cross-country through a forest before dawn.
The contest tested stamina and skill.
After six or seven hours, a witcher apprentice’s physical advantage had become obvious.
After more than twelve, the difference was between tired and nearly dead.
Since there was no longer any point hiding the satchel’s function from Angoulême, Marek had used every short pause to take out bear trap after bear trap and set them along the way.
He walked back beneath the oak, crouched in front of her, and held her brown eyes with his blue ones until guilt made her look away.
“Angoulême Radan,” he said, “I don’t have time to explain why getting caught means certain death for you, while I still have a decent chance of surviving.
So I’ll keep it simple.
Do you remember the Company rules?”
“I remember,” she muttered.
“The captain decides everything.”
“Good.
Then I say it isn’t time to give up.
Did you hear me?”
She looked at him for a moment, then nodded.
The captain of the Phantom Company hauled his exhausted companion to her feet, and together they continued along the river.
He did not know how much longer they ran.
At last, faint sparks appeared in the distance.
Flotsam’s night lamps.
The sight made both of them quicken their steps.
Then Angoulême suddenly lunged sideways and dragged Marek down with her.
They rolled together through the dirt as an arrow passed where his heart had been.
***
Arrows hissed through the trees.
Marek and Angoulême scrambled behind the trunk of a thick beech and pressed themselves into cover.
Leaves rustled all around them: elves moving through the undergrowth, death closing in step by step.
The situation had become too dangerous for hesitation.
Marek raised his voice and shouted, “Ceádmil, Wedd Dol Blathanna!”
The words rang through the forest.
The arrows stopped.
The rustling did not.
Angoulême grabbed his arm, delighted.
What did you say?”
Marek pulled free.
He was not nearly as optimistic.
“A greeting.
‘Greetings, child of Dol Blathanna.’ Now shut up and let me remember the rest, or I’ll make Elder Speech another required subject for Company members.”
Angoulême fell silent at once.
Reading and swimming were already enough.
She had no wish to add another burden.
Marek worked his tongue, making sure the rhythm fit the words.
“Caelm, evellienn!
N’aen aespar a me.” Calm, friends.
Do not shoot.
The movement in the brush gradually stopped.
Perhaps the elves had stopped advancing.
More likely, they had simply taken their positions.
Then footsteps sounded in the silence.
“Glaeddyv vort!” a deep, powerful voice answered.
Lay down your swords.
Marek slowly leaned out from behind the beech to see the speaker.
Beneath a dark red headscarf was a face that must once have been beautiful.
An ugly scar cut diagonally across forehead, brow, nose, cheek, and chin, giving that beauty a fierce, hawk-like brutality.
He was tall, even a little taller than Eskel.
A longbow rested on his back, and two elven one-handed swords hung at his belt, neither drawn.
Chain-linked leather armor wrapped a lean, powerful body.
In appearance alone, the man was the most dangerous-looking person Marek had seen since arriving in this world.
Marek patted Angoulême’s hand.
“Stay hidden.
Don’t come out unless I tell you.”
Then he slowly threw out both his steel sword and his silver sword, moving carefully enough to avoid any misunderstanding.
With his palms open and turned outward, he stepped from behind the tree.
More than a dozen elves stepped from concealment and drew bows on him.
Marek faced Iorveth, the butcher whose name had spread through tavern talk and war stories.
Iorveth glanced at the two swords.
Marek had deliberately let the silver blade show when he threw it down.
“Vatt’ghern?”
Witcher?
Then he studied Marek’s eyes.
“Vatt’ghern wed.”
Witcher apprentice.
Marek did not answer.
His self-taught vocabulary did not reach that far.
Iorveth seemed to notice the awkwardness and laughed.
“Que l’en pavienn, ell’ea?”
You’re only a monkey, aren’t you?
Laughter broke out among the trees.
It was one of the elves’ favorite ways to mock humans, and tavern arguments in Vergen had given Marek plenty of practice with the answer.
So he replied without hesitation.
“Nell’ea.
T’en pavienn, Aen Seidhe.”
No.
You’re the monkey, Aen Seidhe.
The standard answer made the elves laugh even harder.
To mock someone in a language he did not know was amusing; to mock him and have him answer clumsily was better.
Marek ignored the laughter.
Only one person here could decide whether the Phantom Company lived.
He met Iorveth’s eyes.
“M’aespar que va’en, ell’ea?”
Are you going to shoot me, or what?
Iorveth smiled and switched naturally into the Common Speech.
“Don’t force the Elder Speech, human.
If you have anything else to say, say it now, before I have you gutted.”
The words had barely left his mouth when Marek knew the situation had gone wrong.
Steel rang from its scabbard.
Angoulême sprang out from behind the beech and put herself in front of Marek.
Thank the heavens, she had at least not been stupid enough to attack Iorveth outright.
Had she done that, she would have died before the thought was finished.
Iorveth’s smile vanished.
“Glaeddyv vort, beanna.”
Seeing that she did not understand, he shifted back to Common.
“Drop the sword, woman.”
Marek stepped forward, trying to take Angoulême’s sword, but Iorveth suddenly drew his left-hand blade and threw it.
The sword buried itself in the earth before Marek’s feet.
“Stand still.
If he takes one step, shoot him.”
The second half was an order to the elves around them.
Iorveth rolled his neck, drew his right-hand sword, and beckoned Angoulême with his left hand.
“Come.
Beat me, and you both walk away.”
Marek did not know what had made Iorveth change his mind, but he did not think this was an opportunity.
Whether Angoulême could defeat the infamous elf was one question.
Whether Iorveth would keep his word after challenging her in anger was another.
Angoulême did not think that far.
She sank into her stance and glared at the elf, who held a single sword and seemed, at first glance, full of openings.
Then Marek saw the half-dried blood on Angoulême’s pommel.
In that instant, he understood.
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Want to keep going?
I hope this chapter gave you another reason to stay with the story.
There’s still plenty ahead, and things are only starting to unfold.