New chapter is live.
Settle in, take your time, and let’s see what waits in the dark 🖤
✦
While winter sealed the mountains in snow, Marek considered asking the two younger witchers what had changed beyond Kaer Morhen and how the wars were unfolding.
To him, those things mattered.
He gave up quickly.
The witchers showed almost no interest in any of it.
Under Vesemir’s teaching and example, the two Wolf School witchers still tried to hold to the neutrality that had guided their kind for centuries.
They walked the roads, took payment, and protected helpless people from monsters.
No more and no less.
To Marek, that neutrality was also what had pushed them to the margins of the age.
They stood with no one, so no one stood with them.
They were insulted and spat on by the people they protected, then paid scraps to kill monsters anyway.
Noble, certainly.
Stupidly noble, too.
Fortunately, Marek was not a witcher.
***
By mid-February, the ice and snow began to melt.
Warm wind blew in through the southern mountain passes and swept the snow from the ground.
The witchers became a little more talkative.
They spoke of travel routes, possible contracts, and the monsters they might find: ghouls, leshens, wyverns, werewolves, basilisks, and more.
Then, in March, they left.
Kaer Morhen was shut and locked behind them.
The locks were elaborate enough to feel like magical security devices.
Some mechanisms required Aard to charge a crystal across a ditch; others required Igni to light a lamp set high above.
There was more than one of each.
In other words, the locks would easily keep out anyone who was neither a witcher nor a mage.
At least on the surface, Marek could not get back in by himself.
Those magical mechanisms also hinted at Kaer Morhen’s former glory.
Even so, Marek still did not feel entirely safe.
If a mage with bad intentions ever found the place, couldn’t someone simply steal the precious potion formulas and research?
For men with so much to protect, the witchers’ security was appalling.
Eskel supplied the rest: the Trail itself was part of Kaer Morhen’s defenses.
It was not only a training ground.
It was also a natural maze.
Without a guide or prior knowledge of the path, even a mage would struggle to find the correct route.
Only then did Marek relax.
Still, out of sheer paranoia, he packed every tangible result of his improved work and took them with him.
In the laboratory, he left only the original records for the Trial of the Grasses and a number of untested hypotheses.
Riding Trusty, he left the Kaer Morhen mountains and reached the campsite where the Gwenllech met the Buina.
There, the witchers would go their separate ways.
Vesemir and Eskel planned to head west through the Kestrel Mountains toward Redania.
They had heard of a basilisk there.
He wanted to see whether he had any chance of becoming one.
In the version of events Marek remembered, witchers could sometimes seem unstoppable.
In reality, every book he had read told him the same thing: without magic, he would always be vulnerable to those who could wield it.
Even a witcher master like Vesemir was wary of mages and avoided fighting them unless he had no choice.
So although Marek had never sensed anything resembling Chaos, he still had to try.
A man needed a dream.
Perhaps his talent was simply too strange to reveal itself in the usual way.
It was a flimsy hope, but still worth testing.
Lambert decided to travel with him.
“The road to Ban Ard isn’t easy,” he said.
“You need someone to see you there safely.”
Then he pointed at the Wolf School medallion on his chest.
At the moment it hung still, though it would tremble near monsters or magic.
“Besides, you don’t have a drop of magic on you.
You don’t look like mage material from any angle.
When the bastards at Ban Ard kick you out, you’ll need me to comfort you.”
Encouraging as ever.
Marek had intended to refuse the kindness, borrow some money, and travel alone.
Then Lambert lost his temper and demanded to know whether Marek looked down on witchers, whether he was ashamed to be seen traveling with one.
With the matter put that way, Marek had no choice but to surrender.
He thanked Eskel for the purse the man tossed him, then took several specially prepared potions from the herb satchel at his waist and divided them between Vesemir and Eskel.
For now, the four of them parted ways.
They were not in a hurry, so Lambert and Marek rode south at an easy pace.
The day passed peacefully.
That night at camp, Marek brought his practice sword down in a vertical strike aimed at Lambert’s head.
Lambert stepped forward and to the side, fast and precise.
Their blades met.
He caught the weak part near Marek’s tip with the strong part near his own hilt, using the leverage to knock Marek’s sword aside.
At the same time, Lambert’s point came to rest neatly against Marek’s forehead.
In a real fight, the smallest push would have driven the blade through his skull.
Marek stepped back, steadied his breathing, raised his guard again, and came forward with another cut.
This time Lambert used a different counter.
He met the same high cut with the thick of his own blade, released the hilt with his left hand, seized the place where the swords crossed, pulled back, and pushed forward with his right hand on the grip, turning the contact as if he were rolling a wheel toward himself.
The rotation twisted Marek’s arm and forced his fingers open.
Lambert disarmed him with insulting ease.
Then came a right hook to the stomach.
The heavy, efficient blow folded the stunned boy forward and dropped him to his knees, gagging.
“Ha!” Lambert said.
“Two exchanges and you thought you could go off alone?
Thought you didn’t need me?
Consider that punch a little lesson.
Remember this, little Marek.
You’re still a long way off.”
“Ugh…
we agreed this was controlled practice.” Marek gagged again.
“You vindictive bastard.” Get faster updates on g.com.
The punch had been restrained, but the target had been chosen with real care.
Lambert flicked his sword as if shaking off blood that was not there, then sheathed it.
“A lesson should hurt enough to stick.
I held back, just not enough to let you forget it.
Vesemir was too gentle.
I learned the rest from scars.
You’re already ugly enough.
A few more won’t help you with women.
Understand?”
Marek dragged in a breath.
With Lambert’s help, he climbed shakily back to the campfire, sat down, and pulled two potions from his satchel.
He drank them both.
Early spring still carried a chill, but the firelight warmed his face.
“Thank you.
That was a memorable lesson.”
He meant it.
Learning to take a hit was useful, especially when he had potions to speed his recovery.
“Wasteful,” Lambert said.
“I held back.
You would’ve been fine by tomorrow without a potion.”
“They’ll spoil in a few days anyway.”
Lambert had no answer to that.
For a short while, only the campfire spoke.
After catching his breath, Marek stood, lifted his sword, and saluted Lambert.
“Wait.” Lambert stared.
“You want to go again?”
“Yes.
After a loss, you get back up before fear has time to take root.”
Lambert’s eyes narrowed in sudden understanding.
“Ah.
So that’s why you drank two potions.”
“One heals.
One dulls pain.” Marek raised his sword.
“Come on, you old bastard.
I can fight you all night.”
“You’ve got nerve, brat.
Tonight, I’m beating you so hard you won’t even be able to drink your bedtime milk.”
✦
✦
✦
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.