New chapter is live.
Settle in, take your time, and let’s see what waits in the dark 🖤
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Iorveth, an elf and former officer of the Vrihedd Brigade, had rendered the Nilfgaardian Empire great service during the Second Northern War.
Without the Vrihedd Brigade destroying supply lines, disrupting deployments, and feeding intelligence behind the Northern Kingdoms’ backs, Nilfgaard’s early victories would never have been so brilliant.
But after the Battle of Brenna, the tide of the war turned.
Under the Peace of Cintra, Nilfgaard surrendered thirty-two Vrihedd officers hated across the North.
Bound and handed over, they were hanged by the Northern Kingdoms.
Iorveth escaped by luck.
But he and the Scoia’tael left in the North had lost the cause they served and the future they had fought for.
What remained was revenge.
***
Angoulême had already been close to collapse after running all day.
She had been holding herself up by will alone, and against an opponent on Iorveth’s level, will meant little.
His one-handed sword looked light in motion, but when it met the two-handed blows of Angoulême’s blade, he parried without the slightest strain.
Strength, speed, technique.
He surpassed her in all of them.
After only a few exchanges, her sword was knocked from her hands.
Then the pommel struck the left side of her skull.
She spun twice in the air and fell into Marek’s arms.
The elves cheered like thunder.
Marek crouched with Angoulême in his arms and checked her injury.
As expected, the spot matched Toruviel’s wound almost exactly, though Angoulême’s was worse.
He looked up at Iorveth.
“Angry?” Iorveth asked, relaxed smile still in place.
“I was angry too when we found Toruviel in the brush.
If you don’t like it, pick up your sword and try me.”
He stood casually and made an insulting gesture with his left hand, one popular among dwarves.
Marek drew a deep breath and shook his head.
He would not fight.
Instead he took out a healing potion, lifted Angoulême’s neck, and helped her drink.
“Why did you chase us?” he asked.
“From the beginning, we showed no hostility to the Scoia’tael.
Everything was an accident.
I thought we made that clear.”
Iorveth spun his sword once and sheathed it.
Then, as if without concern, he strolled over, pulled his other blade from the ground, and set the point at Marek’s throat.
“I thought one look at my scar would tell you that you were already dead.”
“By ancient law, witchers remain neutral.
We don’t involve ourselves in worldly disputes.
Even the queen of Dol Blathanna must acknowledge that.
You have no reason to hunt us.”
Marek faced the point calmly.
Before, he had liked their odds.
Now he was almost certain.
Iorveth was a capable guerrilla commander.
If Marek could steer the talk in the right direction, neither he nor Angoulême would die here.
Iorveth’s contempt was plain.
“You are not a witcher, human.
And as one of your kind, you will pay for what humans have done to us.”
Marek answered contempt with mockery.
“What evil are we talking about?
Slaughtering defenseless merchants?
Burning grain that farmers had spent months growing?”
“I do not owe you an explanation,” Iorveth said, his voice flat.
“But this once, I will give you one.
The merchants worked with nobles to bait us into a trap.
The clever farmers poisoned the grain they sold at inflated prices.”
Another person might have dismissed it.
Marek did not.
At heart, he pitied and despised the greed of this arrogant, prejudiced age.
He did not think Iorveth was lying.
He also did not believe Iorveth was so pure that every atrocity had been a reaction forced upon him.
“Then you have even less reason to kill us,” Marek said.
“Why destroy genuine goodwill?
Why turn possible friends into enemies?
Has life in the forest worn your reason down to nothing?”
That landed harder.
Iorveth fell silent for a while.
Then he asked, “Was what you wrote on that cloth true?”
“It was.
Apart from my being an apprentice rather than a full witcher, every word was true.
“She will only sleep for three days.
That sleep will help her injury.”
“Fine.” Iorveth pointed at Angoulême.
“Her injury settles the score for Toruviel.
She will live.
“But you will be sentenced to death for setting traps that badly wounded five elves and left them with lasting injuries.
“Because you used stones to blunt the jaws and reduce the damage, I can let you choose a death without blood.”
Marek’s tone turned almost cheerful.
“That surprises me.
Have the Scoia’tael’s medical resources fallen so far?
I thought injuries that mild could be healed completely.”
Iorveth’s voice went cold.
“The Scoia’tael fell this far because of humans.”
“Humanity did not sell out the Vrihedd Brigade or the Scoia’tael,” Marek said.
“That honor belongs to the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of His Enemies, or to the Daisy of the Valley. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
It certainly does not belong to Marek Radan of Bell Town.
“Iorveth, have you fallen so low that you can no longer hate the right people?”
A winter with Lambert had sharpened Marek’s tongue considerably.
“Shut up.”
The needle went in deep.
Grief and rage shook Iorveth’s body.
His expression hardened, and the blade at Marek’s throat twitched.
Marek did not mind letting the wound hurt, but he was not willing to push far enough to get himself killed.
So he changed direction at once.
“What if I can heal them completely?
No crippling.
No aftereffects.”
Gradually, the frost thawed.
Iorveth calmed, and a faint smile of understanding appeared.
“So that is why you are so confident.
Traps, poisons, healing.
Are you a Griffin School apprentice?”
“No.” Marek pulled the Wolf School medallion from beneath his shirt.
“Wolf School.
Swordsmanship, blade oils, and bombs.”
Iorveth thought for a moment.
“Very well, Marek.
Whatever school you belong to, if you can heal my people completely, then you are our guest.
Of course, you know what happens if you lie to me.”
Marek shrugged.
Iorveth sheathed his left-hand sword and raised his voice.
“Bring stretchers.
We have two guests, and one of them needs carrying.”
Then he looked back at Marek, his voice mild.
“Guests.
Yes?”
Marek laid Angoulême down, silently collected his and her weapons, and offered them to Iorveth hilt-first.
“Yes.
Two guests.
“I will prove my goodwill once my safety is guaranteed.”
Iorveth accepted the swords with both hands.
“You have my word.
You are as safe here as you would be in your own home.”
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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.