Chapter Fourteen: Performing as an Exorcist in Fojian

Lambert sensed something was wrong in the middle of the night. Victor’s breathing had become noticeably short and urgent. Rising to check, he found the boy’s face pale, his forehead burning hot, jaw clenched, and sweat pouring from his body. The knife wound across the bridge of his nose had already closed. Was it poison? Or a slow-acting toxin?

Lambert had no time to wonder why a roadside bandit would smear slow-acting poison on his dagger—who knew where they’d gotten it. He hurried to shake Victor awake. The boy opened his eyes, dazed. “Hey! Vic, you’ve been poisoned. Quickly, look for an antidote.”

Lambert was anxious but not panicked; he knew Victor’s habits well. The boy never failed to prepare for himself, and surely kept a variety of antidotes close at hand.

Victor’s head throbbed as if it would split. He realized he’d been careless. Earlier, he’d been lost in self-reproach, troubled by the mysterious shouts and cries along the road, and he had ignored his body’s warnings. Thankfully, he had plenty of potions in his bag… he thought. But as he struggled to reach into the herb pouch Lambert handed him, a surge of muscle pain prevented him from focusing.

Victor’s herb pouch was a storage space bound to his own mental strength—the stronger his mind, the larger its capacity. In his usual healthy state, the space was about a cubic meter; but now, unable to concentrate, it was completely sealed.

After a few seconds of effort, Victor could no longer withstand the mounting dizziness and the violent spasms wracking his body. Lambert watched helplessly as the boy, unable to retrieve anything, slipped into unconsciousness.

…

In the city of Vergen, at the Angoulême residence.

“Is there anything useful in his herb pouch?”

“I checked, all unmarked liquids and ordinary herbs you’d find on the roadside.”

“It’s the plague! This is Catriona’s plague! Get him out of the city, now!”

“Nonsense! Stop talking rubbish. I’ve seen the plague before, this kid doesn’t look like it. If anything, it’s more like…”

As the symptoms worsened, the boy lying on the bed suddenly arched his body, his spine bending like a bow. A painful moan escaped his lips, his expression twisted: eyebrows raised, jaw clenched, mouth stretched in a bitter smile.

“Lockjaw!” Everyone in the room recognized the symptoms instantly. After the recent siege of Vergen, many had been wounded, and a few days later, this was the fatal look before death.

“Injured just yesterday evening? Then it’s acute—so rapid, it’s rare. This kid’s luck is truly awful!”

…

“This affliction isn’t contagious; he can stay here. I’ll prepare some medicine to ease his spasms. As for life or death, we’ll have to pray to Melitele.”

“Thank you, doctor. Thank you, Zoltan. Thank you, Angoulême.”

“Don’t mention it. The White Wolf drew his sword for us; his friends are my friends.”

…

Days later… Angoulême’s residence.

“This boy’s constitution is truly robust. The most dangerous period has passed; he’ll pull through.”

“Yes… sturdy, I’ll give him that, but he’s so plain-looking—not handsome at all.”

“Angoulême, I’ll need you to keep caring for him.”

“No problem. He’s Ciri’s brother; it’s only right I look after him.”

…

Time flowed by. It felt like rising from underwater, air suddenly flowing freely, the agony in his muscles easing at last. Victor opened his eyes.

Her eyes were deep brown—that was the first thing he saw. She had bright straw-colored hair and two wild, thick eyebrows—the second and third.

She waved her hand before Victor’s eyes, making sure he was truly awake, then ran out of the room, jubilant.

Victor, using the corner of his eye, laboriously surveyed his surroundings. “This room looks like a cave dwelling. Judging by the furnishings, it’s probably dwarven style. So, this is Vergen?”

His memory stopped at Lambert shouting about the poisoning, so he must have been carried into Vergen after losing consciousness.

…I need my herb pouch now!

When Lambert entered, he saw Victor struggling to sit up, trying to get out of bed for his belongings. With him came a dwarf sporting a punk hairstyle and the returning girl.

…

The next day, when Victor opened his eyes again, he was sure his body had truly recovered… Every inch still ached faintly, but the burden had lifted.

Yesterday, when he got his herb pouch back, he seized the moments of clarity to drink several vials of what might work. The symptoms, already fading, had finally vanished today. A bit more rest would suffice.

He accepted the warm water and white bread handed to him by the blonde girl. “Thank you, Angoulême.”

“No need, we’re Hanse! Looking after you is only right!” Her hearty tone, bold gestures, and easy familiarity gave Victor a strange feeling.

Never afraid to ask, he bit into the bread. “What’s Hanse? When did I become one?”

“Aen Hanse,” Lambert pushed the door open, evidently having caught the question outside. “In Nilfgaardian, it means a small armed group held together by friendship.”

“An armed group…?” The odd feeling grew stronger. Victor had no memory of the Hanse—unless, half-conscious during his illness, he’d pressed his hand or signed something.

“Hanse is Hanse,” the girl shrugged, adding, “You could call it ‘partners’ or ‘gang’ too.”

… Their words were tactful, but Victor suddenly understood. Nilfgaard’s version of a bandit brotherhood or street gang was a Hanse. The real issue was, when did he join?

“Heh heh heh,” Lambert laughed with mischievous delight. “Congratulations on becoming the newest member and leader of the White Wolf Hanse. I don’t even qualify to join myself!”

Lambert’s laughter didn’t stir Victor, but Angoulême was instantly displeased. “Hey! You baldy old man, got a problem with our White Wolf Hanse?” Hands on hips, she glared; her brown eyes wide and intimidating.

“No, no, no! I have no issue,” Lambert cut off his laughter, waving his hand seriously. “But, pardon me, young lady, could I speak with him privately? Also, my forehead’s just a bit high, that’s all.”

After giving Lambert a glare, Angoulême propped up Victor’s pillow, pulled the blanket over his legs, and left the room.

Now only the witcher and his apprentice remained.

In the quiet, Victor flexed his hands, knocking gently on his arm. “…How many days have I been unconscious?”

Lambert shifted to a serious expression, pulled up a chair by the bed. “Seven days.”

Victor exhaled. “Alright. Seems I missed a lot. Where do we begin?”

“Let’s start from when you collapsed.”