Chapter Forty-Seven: Let’s Talk About What Surprise Really Means

From tracking beasts along their trails to setting traps, Victor’s wolf-hunting skills were passed down to him by Vesemir. The boy spent the entire autumn learning, and before the first snowfall, he completed the Bear Trial, proving himself a competent hunter.

Witchers are required to learn the art of hunting for a particular reason: the recipes for blade oils. These formulas call for various animal fats, among which dog fat and wolf fat are marked as universal, and in this world, wolves are sometimes easier to find than dogs.

After finishing the dissection of the third wolf, Victor pitched a tent in the wild and brought Angoulême inside to demonstrate the brewing of cursed creature oil. Once the initial batch was made, he sent the girl outside to keep watch, then began the “incredible” process of purification.

The urgency of the witcher apprentice was not without reason.

The more one knows, the heavier the burden. Werewolves, in particular, weighed upon the boy’s mind like a mountain. They are not adversaries one can handle with ordinary methods: swift, powerful, sharp-clawed, thick-skinned, and possessing regenerative abilities. A mature werewolf can easily break an entire squad of soldiers.

Mechanical in his stirring of the cauldron, Victor’s outward composure belied his tension. He knew well that, should it come to single combat, he would be doomed, even the secrets of the Wolf School would be of no avail.

Yet, at the same time, Victor reasoned that such a dangerous creature could not exist in Vizima without notice—unless someone was concealing its presence. Moreover, the werewolf’s killings were remarkably restrained.

If even a single feeding site were discovered, panic would sweep the populace. Instead, everything remained tranquil; even Kalkstein, long resident in the temple district, was unaware.

Reflecting on this, Victor realized his anxiety might be excessive. Observing the reality behind appearances, the terrifying neighbor was not an imminent threat.

As he stirred, his thoughts settled. When he stepped out of the tent, calm had returned; there seemed nothing left to fear.

He handed a vial of cursed creature oil to Angoulême, who came to meet him. “Keep it on your belt at all times.” He placed the other vials into his herbal pouch. “If we run into one, shout as you flee, ‘There’s a werewolf! The werewolf’s eating people!’”

Hearing his instructions, Angoulême hesitated. “Um… aren’t we supposed to apply the blade oil and fight?”

Victor tapped her forehead lightly. “You’re overthinking. This is for last-ditch resistance, when there’s nowhere left to run. Maybe you’ll be able to drive it off with pain. But if I’m right, just shout as loudly as I said—the werewolf should retreat on its own.”

Angoulême blinked. “You mean it understands I’m calling for help? It doesn’t want to be discovered?”

Victor nodded. “Yes. A creature so distinctive and fierce, once exposed, would cause an uproar. Since you’ve heard nothing about werewolves these past days, and none of the local residents heard any howling tonight, the conclusion is clear: it deliberately conceals itself after transforming.”

After hearing his explanation, Angoulême stood in thought, while Victor turned to pack his alchemical tools and tent.

…

“Let’s go!” Before long, the packing was done. Victor approached Angoulême and spoke. The morning was still young and the air was fresh; he thought they might find wild fruits, pick herbs, and stroll leisurely back to the city.

Unfortunately, just then, Angoulême once again sprang forward, knocking him into the nearby bushes and rolling behind a tree trunk.

The sound of arrows whistling through the air came swiftly. Peeking from behind the tree, Victor saw several arrows had already struck the spot where they’d just stood.

The scene was all too familiar, filling Victor with a sense of absurdity—almost black comedy.

Damn it! Of all the forests in the world, is there nowhere one can rest in peace? Wherever I go, it’s always an ambush.

Without hesitation, he shouted loudly in sequence: “Caelm, evellienn! N’aen aespar a me. (Calm, everyone! Please don’t shoot.)”

“Essea Caer a’Muirehen wed Vatt’ghern. (I am a witcher apprentice from Kaer Morhen.)”

“Ceádmil, Wedd Dol Blathanna! (Greetings to you, children of Dol Blathanna—Valley of Flowers!)”

Then came a phrase whose meaning he didn’t fully grasp, but which Toruviel had whispered to him before parting, urging him to remember it well; she said if he were ever ambushed by the Scoia’tael again, calling it out might save his life.

“Neen evelienn Scoia’tael marw. Cáemm aep woedd, holl Aen Seidhe.”

Sure enough, as the last syllable faded, the effect was immediate—the arrows ceased entirely.

Not long after, an elf stepped out alone from the bushes, standing in the clearing. “Squass’me! wed Vatt’ghern. (Apologies! Witcher apprentice.)”

It seemed he owed Toruviel another favor; clearly, she hadn’t given him an ordinary password, but an important code to distinguish friend from foe—otherwise, it wouldn’t have made sense for the elves to cease fire and emerge so quickly.

Faced with the invitation to dialogue, Victor—though not fluent in Elder Speech—knew enough to express apology. He patted Angoulême’s wrist, signaling her to wait, and instead of abandoning his sword, stood upright and stepped out from behind the tree to face the elf.

Standing before him, Victor spoke first. “Sorry, I’ve used up all the Elder Speech I know just now. Can we speak in the common tongue?”

The elf nodded, hand resting on his sword hilt, maintaining a minimal level of caution. “Greetings. I am a scout under Yaevinn’s command. Where do you come from, friend of the forest?”

Victor’s expression was calm and confident. “Greetings, child of Dol Blathanna. I am Victor Corion, friend of the Flotsam Forest, guest of Iorveth. I attended this year’s Summer Festival and performed a song at the event.”

At his words, the elves listening seemed visibly stirred; even the surrounding bushes rustled faintly.

Victor didn’t find this reaction surprising. Iorveth was a spiritual leader to nearly all Scoia’tael across the Northern Kingdoms. The bonds between them might not be strictly hierarchical, but they would never willingly harm his guests.

“In that case, what just happened was a dreadful misunderstanding. Please forgive our recklessness, Mr. Victor, and I believe Yaevinn will wish to meet a guest of Iorveth as well,” the elven scout apologized again, gently extending an invitation.

Victor nodded. “I’d like to meet Yaevinn, too. My witcher training requires long periods of activity in the forest—perhaps we can help each other.

But today I have other matters to attend to. Is the southern swamp forest of Vizima within your patrol territory?”

The scout confirmed, “Yes, all the forests surrounding Vizima are within our range.”

“In that case, starting the day after tomorrow and for several days, I’ll be dealing with the ‘thorn fiend’—that bloodthirsty plant you elves call the ‘cursed bud’—in the southern region. Perhaps Yaevinn will be willing to meet me there.”

“Understood, Mr. Victor. I will certainly convey this message to Yaevinn.”

With that, the scout placed his hand over his heart in salute, then retreated slowly into the bushes. The rustling faded, and the children of the forest vanished without a trace, as if they had never come.