Chapter Twenty: Jungle Escape and Life-or-Death Duel

“Click... click click... clack!” After securing the last bear trap, Victor wedged several shards of stone into the biting mechanism, sprinkled a few potions, and covered it with leaves for concealment.

“Captain... Captain, you don’t need to worry about me, just go!” Slumped beneath the oak tree, Angoulême’s face was pale, sweat soaking her back. “Go ahead to Floating Harbor and book a room for me. The Squirrel Party isn’t on our tail, so I can rest when I arrive. If they catch up to me, at least I can buy you some time.”

It was now dusk. The Phantom Brigade had been traversing the jungle since dawn, undertaking a grueling obstacle course that tested not only endurance but skill. Six or seven hours in, the witcher apprentices began to display overwhelming physical superiority over the girl. As the ordeal stretched past twelve hours, the difference between those still full of energy and those barely clinging to life became stark.

Victor, no longer needing to disguise the purpose of his herbal pouches, used each brief pause in their flight to set up another bear trap for Angoulême to catch her breath.

Returning to the oak, Victor knelt and stared at the girl, blue eyes locking onto brown. He gazed until her brown eyes faltered and looked away.

“Angoulême Corleon, with your intelligence I doubt I could explain why being caught spells certain death for you, while my odds of survival are as high as eighty percent,” the youth said. “Anyway, do you still remember the brigade’s code?”

“I do. Whatever the captain says, goes…” she muttered.

“Good. Now I say it’s not time to give up! Do you hear me?”

She met his gaze for a moment, then nodded. The captain of the Phantom Brigade pulled his exhausted member up and continued their flight along the river.

Who knows how much farther they ran. In the distance, faint starlike lights flickered—the night illumination of Floating Harbor. Seeing this, both of them quickened their pace, but suddenly Angoulême lunged sideways, dragging Victor down. They rolled together, narrowly avoiding an arrow meant for the heart.

...

Through the hiss of arrows, the two scrambled behind the thick trunk of a beech tree for cover.

The rustling of leaves signaled the movement of elves—the footsteps of death drawing near. The situation was dire; Victor had no time to hesitate. He shouted loudly: “Ceádmil, Wedd Dol Blathanna!”

His voice rang out, and the sound of arrows ceased, though the rustling leaves persisted.

Angoulême gleefully grabbed Victor’s arm. “Captain, they stopped firing! What did you say to make them stop?”

Victor shook her off, not nearly as optimistic. “Just a greeting: Children of Dol Blathanna—Valley of Flowers—hello. Now shut your mouth and let me concentrate, or I’ll add ‘learning Elvish’ to the brigade’s requirements!”

Angoulême immediately fell silent. Reading and swimming were enough; she had no wish for another burden.

Victor moved his lips, making sure his tongue followed the proper rhythm. “Caelm, evellienn! N'aen aespar a me. (Calm down, everyone! Please don’t shoot.)” he shouted again.

The rustling gradually stopped; perhaps the elves had ceased advancing, though Victor suspected they had merely taken up positions.

In the silence, footsteps sounded. “Glaeddyvan vort! (Lay down your swords!)” came the elves’ reply, deep and commanding.

Victor cautiously peeked from behind the tree, observing his interlocutor.

Beneath a deep red kerchief, once a beautiful Elven face, now marred by an ugly scar running diagonally from forehead, brow, nose, and cheek to jaw, lent him a predatory masculine allure.

He was tall—taller even than the burly Eskel—carrying a longbow, two elven shortswords at his waist, though unsheathed, clad in chain-leather armor that barely contained the powerful muscles of his ape-like arms and wasp-like waist. His aura could not be hidden.

In appearance alone, this man was the fiercest Victor had seen since coming to this world.

He patted Angoulême’s hand. “Stay here and keep hidden. Don’t come out unless I call you.” With that, Victor gently tossed both his steel and silver swords from behind the beech, moving slowly and carefully to avoid any misunderstanding.

Then, hands open and facing outward, Victor stepped out from behind the tree, facing a dozen elves with drawn bows—at last, coming face to face with Iorveth, the infamous butcher.

Iorveth glanced at the swords on the ground, noting the silver blade Victor had deliberately revealed. “Vatt'ghern? (Witcher?)” He studied Victor’s eyes. “Vatt'ghern wed. (Witcher apprentice.)”

Victor said nothing; his self-taught vocabulary was insufficient.

Sensing his awkwardness, Iorveth laughed loudly. “Que l'en pavienn, ell'ea? (You’re just a monkey, aren’t you?)”

The Squirrel Party delighted in this taunt; laughter echoed through the forest. It was the elves’ favorite phrase for mocking humans, a staple in the curses traded at the Fortitude Tavern.

Victor responded without hesitation: “Nell'ea, T'en pavienn, Aen Seidhe. (No, you’re the monkey, Aen Seidhe.)”

The elves were overjoyed by the standard retort; the laughter grew louder. Insulting someone in a language they understood, yet knowing they could only reply weakly, was far more amusing than being incomprehensible.

Ignoring the jeers, Victor knew only the elf before him held the power of life and death over the brigade. He locked eyes and said, “M'aespar que va'en, ell'ea? (Are you going to kill me, or...?)”

Iorveth smiled and switched to Common Tongue. “Don’t force yourself to speak Elvish, human. If you have