Chapter 48: After Striking the Young, the Elder Arrives

The beautiful capital of Temeria sits on the shores of Lake Vizima. Exiting the city’s southern gate brings you straight to the ferry landing, where boats cross to the marshy forest on the far side. Once, only a tiny fishing hamlet sold its meager catches there. But ever since the forest was opened for logging, scheduled ferries ply the lake daily, and those previously insignificant bloodthirsty plants now had to be cleared away.

After two days of thorough preparation, this afternoon the Phantom Brigade set out for the forest to eradicate the Giant Thorn Demons—both to protect the loggers and to harvest their rare materials. Not to mention, there was a bounty of four hundred Orens at stake.

Seated securely at the prow, the alchemy apprentice counted on his fingers, calculating his anticipated haul: “Demon sap, thorny tendrils… I’ll need to collect plenty of both. After giving Kalkstein his share, I still want enough to test their properties myself…” Absorbed in his thoughts, he seemed utterly distracted. As the boat neared the shore, Angoulême had to lean close and remind him, “Captain, we’re about to land…”

Blinking and stretching his arms above his head, Victor emerged from his reverie. “Right, just as we said—once we land, we run into the forest to let them chase us. I’m genuinely curious why Lansmith’s men are following us with such hostility.”

Earlier that afternoon, not long after leaving, Angoulême first noticed they were being tailed; Victor soon spotted them too—and could even discern there were seven in total. This wasn’t due to any exceptional skill on his part, but rather the glaring ineptitude of their pursuers, who seemed not to understand the meaning of stealth.

It was summertime. All seven wore the local gang’s uniform: drab, wide-legged trousers bound at the shins, red sashes, and copper-buckled belts. From afar, their only distinguishing features were the varying lengths of chest hair peeking from their open vests. This motley crew, the very model of “fantasy medieval bandits,” followed at a distance, weapons in hand—making it impossible not to stay alert.

As Angoulême put it, their malice was so obvious she could feel it prickling the back of her neck. Victor had another sign—the amulet in his pocket was growing warm. Whatever magic the mage from Benard had woven into it, the “prank ward” would heat up whenever he was subjected to an extended malicious gaze.

They had been shadowed from the temple district, onto the boat, and now as the landing approached, Victor was impatient to learn their true intentions. He hoped it wasn’t for the reason he suspected, but that seemed all too likely.

...

“Stop! Don’t let him get away!”

“Damn it, you think you can skip out on your debts?”

“Ram’s Head business! Out of the way—move!”

That afternoon, as the ferry docked at the Marsh Village, a minor commotion broke out. Seven members of the Ram’s Head gang chased two people—not into the village, but straight into the forest.

Though the Ram’s Head wasn’t the vilest gang around, they were far from upstanding citizens. So the ones they chased were rarely villains, and their shouted accusations were not taken seriously. For those watching from the docks, this was simply another anecdote for the day, and, following time-honored tradition, they remained neutral and merely observed.

...

Let it be said again: this ancient sport of forest pursuit tests not only skill, but stamina. After just over ten minutes of hard running, those lacking endurance were left gasping. So, when the seven Ram’s Head thugs finally cornered their quarry in a clearing, even the dullest among them sensed something was off. The girl in mercenary attire looked composed, while the boy—clearly their main target—stood with arms folded, watching them, four pale scars clear on his face.

He spoke: “Excuse me, my Ram’s Head friends, could you tell me why you’re chasing us? I don’t recall ever having a conflict with Mr. Lansmith.”

His question prompted the gang to exchange uneasy glances; both Victor’s youth and ordinary looks had misled them. After a quick exchange of signals, their leader stepped forward—a bowl-cut man with half his face tattooed in black. He shouted, “You’re Victor Corleon, aren’t you? Don’t bother denying it—Big Bear Griffon told us your name! You owe debts, you stole treasures, and you even—assaulted a woman! Now it’s time to pay!”

Victor hadn’t even responded when Angoulême burst out laughing, pulling faces at him. “Well, well, Captain, I never imagined you’d done such grand things! Who would’ve thought…”

Suppressing his irritation, Victor ignored the thugs quietly fanning out to encircle them. He continued, “So you’re here to uphold justice, is that it? Aren’t you even going to check if I actually did these things?”

The wind howled through the forest; leaves rustled, but strangely, not a bird or insect could be heard near this clearing. Oblivious to the odd hush, the bowl-cut leader, seeing the circle was complete, drew his axe and roared, “Now—kill them!”

With their foes closing in, weapons drawn, Victor had nothing more to say. He raised his right hand and cried, “Spar dh'oinne!”—Shoot the humans!

For the third time, he heard the whistling, deadly sound. Arrows rained down; in an instant, each assailant was pierced by multiple shafts. Victor raised his hand again: “Caelm, evellienn!”—Cease, all of you!

Surveying the carnage, Victor approached the leader, who was barely clinging to life. Kneeling beside him, Victor spoke earnestly, “This is your last chance. Tell me—who sent you to kill me? Whoever it was, they sent you here to die. Surely you see now you were never meant to succeed. Don’t you want revenge?”

Blood spattered the leader’s face, and an arrow in his chest had filled his throat with blood. Summoning his last strength, he tried to spit at Victor’s face, but missed—his final words were nothing but a string of curses: “You damned dog, how dare you collude with the Squirrels, traitor to your kind, you—”

An arrow through his temple silenced him mid-insult. The elven scout Victor had seen days before lowered his bow and nodded in greeting. The Witcher apprentice returned the nod.

So be it—the advantage of having few enemies is you seldom blame the wrong man. Even without the leader’s confession, Victor could tell this was the work of Farwick’s mercenaries. They’d first used the local toughs to track him, then bribed a few more to attack. If they succeeded, so much the better; if not, Victor would at least have Lansmith and the Ram’s Head as new enemies.

Yet he still knew nothing about those truly behind it all.