Chapter Nineteen: The Squirrel Party Collects Everything

A few months ago. Winter. The courtyard of Kaer Morhen—

Eskel wielded his sword with effortless precision, moving with fluid grace as he faced the whirling onslaught of three windmills. Even as he parried and countered, he spoke with ease, “We study swordsmanship so that, even when outnumbered three to one, we can find an opening to turn the tide and kill our opponents.”

An awestruck Victor asked, “What about five to one, when they have crossbows?”

“That’s when you fight to survive and look for a chance to escape.”

“And if it’s ten to one?”

“Then you’re finished. Just accept your fate.”

Then, Eskel burst out from between the three windmills’ relentless blades, pulling off the blindfold that had covered his eyes. His scarred face was calm and gentle as he looked at Victor. “Remember this: witchers are not knights. Facing many at once is impressive, but if given the choice, I’ll always prefer many against one.

Fully armed, with bombs and signs, a witcher can inflict terrible carnage. But so what? Not only does that go against our code, more importantly, no one will pay us for that. In certain situations, we might be able to fight ten or even twenty at once, but instead of fixating on how to survive such odds, it’s wiser to avoid getting into that predicament in the first place. Especially when facing a regular army—run as far and as fast as you can, that’s the only sensible course.

Swordsmanship matters, but choosing the right opponents is what lets you live long.”

When Eskel spoke those words, the knife scars on his face twisted and curled, making him look hideous, but in retrospect, those words felt warm.

...

Angoulême stood face-to-face with a female elf. From behind, Victor couldn’t see her features, but the graceful figure and the two single-handed swords she carried revealed much; to face off with Angoulême meant she was not far behind, even if she couldn’t win.

Thanks to Eskel’s swordsmanship lessons, Victor knew exactly what to do. With a sharp motion, he drew his steel sword, deliberately letting the blade scrape against the scabbard to produce a loud, ringing note.

Seizing the instant when the she-elf was startled, Angoulême charged like a tiger, both hands gripping her sword. She struck and knocked the elf’s left-hand sword away, then drove her left fist into the elf’s right arm to prevent a counter, while her right hand brought the hilt of her sword crashing mercilessly against the side of her opponent’s head.

The blow was vicious; the dull smack was painful to hear even from Victor’s distance. The hilt strike sent the elf spinning to the ground, where she lay unmoving.

Victor quickly waved to stop Angoulême from finishing her off. He kicked the fallen single swords far aside, then took out some medicinal powder and gently sprinkled it on the exposed skin of the elf’s hand.

He waited a moment, making sure there was no reaction, then knelt to turn her over.

...

The elf had a head of thick, coal-black hair that tumbled carelessly over her shoulders, with two slender braids framing her temples. Her lips were thin, her brows sculpted, her forehead high, and a swelling of blood rose where her skull had taken the blow.

She wore a deep green shirt, a simple handmade leather jerkin over it, lambskin leggings below, and riding boots. She bore two ornaments: a necklace made of fine leather cord wrapped several times about her neck, strung with golden wooden beads, and, more notably, a squirrel’s tail tied at her waist—this made Victor’s brow furrow.

It meant she was a “Squirrel.”

The so-called Squirrels were a resistance born of humanity’s oppression and discrimination against nonhumans—a protest movement that, after bloody repression by humans, quickly evolved into an armed insurgency, and then into a forest guerrilla force.

Victor vaguely recalled, through drunken haze at the Forgemaster’s Tavern, that the Squirrel leader in the Port of Mist region was… Iorveth!?

Damn it, just remembering the name and his deeds made Victor want to turn and flee, but he had one more thing to test.

He drew his steel sword and experimentally placed it at the elf’s throat. As expected, the voices returned.

“Kill her!”

“Do it, she’s a Squirrel. She’s surely got human blood on her hands—killing her would save lives.”

“Kill her, cut her throat.”

“All it takes is a little push—she won’t feel a thing.”

The same familiar litany, echoing in tangled layers. But this time, the voices were faint, little more than whispers, nothing like the thunderous clamor from before. The moment he sheathed his sword, the voices vanished.

Contemplating the difference between these two occurrences, Victor fell into thought.

Angoulême, who had stood guard by his side, noticed Victor’s gestures and the way he sheathed his sword. After a moment’s silence, she quietly approached.

She patted Victor’s shoulder gently. “It’s alright. Don’t force yourself. If you can’t do it, I’ll take care of it.”

Jolted from his thoughts, Victor shook his head and brushed aside Angoulême’s arm to stop her from stabbing, signaling for her to put away her sword.

Angoulême continued to persuade him, “There’s no shame in it. You can’t do it because you’re too kind. It’s alright—I’m willing to kill for you.”

Victor exhaled and tapped his forehead. “Ignore Lambert’s nonsense. I’m fine, and I can do it—just let me think things through first.”

For some reason, whether on the day he first stood up for justice or when he woke after his illness, he’d had countless chances to ask, but he’d rather be misunderstood as weak than speak to Lambert about the strange, murderous voices in his head.

His instincts told him this was a secret not to be shared.

Angoulême wanted to persist, but Victor’s cold glare stopped her. She could only stand aside as Victor took two vials of potion from his herb pouch and poured them down the elf’s throat, propping up her head.

Then he tore half a sash from the elf’s waist, thought for a moment, scribbled a note in an indecipherable script with bloody strokes, and hid both the girl and the message in a nearby thicket.

When all was done, “Let’s go! We’re heading to the Port of Mist, quick!” Victor’s voice was unusually grim.

Angoulême hurried after Victor. “That one’s a Squirrel. Won’t she tell her friends when she wakes up?”

“That’s why she drank two potions,” Victor replied, striding briskly on. “We need to make the most of our time—run as far as we can.”

“You seem nervous. Is this a big problem?”

“If you’d paid any attention in the tavern instead of grinning like a fool, you’d know the Squirrels in this region are led by that dog-bastard Iorveth!”

Angoulême fell silent and quickened her pace. Even someone as brash as she had to admit Iorveth’s name was infamous.

This Aen Seidhe elf, legendary former commander of the Vrihedd Brigade, was notorious for his hatred of humans. After becoming a Squirrel raider, he was directly responsible for many atrocities against human villages and civilians—pillaging, burning, killing.

These ruthless Squirrels gathered whatever they could, including human heads.