Chapter Twenty-One: A Hundred Mouths, Ten Miles, and Three Lifetimes

The elf Iophis, commander of the guerrilla group "Vrihed Brigade," which rendered outstanding service to the Southern Empire during the Second Nilfgaard War. Without the Vrihed Brigade sabotaging supply lines, disrupting defenses, and gathering intelligence behind the Northern Kingdoms, the "Nilfgaardian Empire" would never have achieved such glorious victories in the early stages of the war.

Yet, as the tide turned following the "Battle of Brenna," with North and South trading fortunes, the Emperor of the Southern Empire and the Elven Queen agreed to preserve their hard-won gains by condemning the thirty-two officers of the Vrihed Brigade—loathed by the Northern realms—as "war criminals," binding them and handing them over to the North for execution.

Though Iophis managed to escape by sheer luck, he and the remnants of the Squirrel Party in the North found themselves bereft of loyalty and purpose. All that remained in their hollow shells, perhaps, was the spirit of vengeance against humankind.

...

Angoulême was already on the verge of collapse after a day of relentless running, sustained only by force of will. Yet against an opponent of Iophis’s caliber, willpower meant little. His single-handed sword seemed to dance lightly, but when faced with Angoulême’s double-handed strikes, he parried effortlessly with one hand. Under the total dominance of strength, speed, and skill, her sword was knocked aside within a few exchanges. Then the pommel struck her left temple, spinning her midair twice before she crashed into Viktor’s arms.

Thunderous cheers erupted from the surrounding elves.

Viktor knelt, cradling Angoulême and inspecting her wound—identical to the female elf’s earlier injury, but far more severe. The youth glared fiercely at the elven butcher.

“Angry, are you? I was furious too when I found Toruviel in the underbrush. If you’re dissatisfied, pick up a sword and let’s have some fun.” Iophis flashed a relaxed, almost leisurely smile, his stance casual as his left hand formed a dwarven gesture infamous for its insult.

Taking a deep breath, Viktor shook his head, indicating he wouldn’t fight. He produced a healing potion, supporting Angoulême’s neck to help her drink. “Why are you pursuing us? From the very beginning, we had no hostility toward the Squirrel Party—everything was accidental. I thought we made that clear enough.”

The elf spun his blade, sheathing it in his right hand, and, seemingly defenseless and indifferent, strode up to Viktor, extracting the sword embedded in the ground with his left and pointing it at the youth’s throat. “I thought... seeing my scar, you’d know your fate was sealed.”

“Following the ancient rules, witchers remain neutral; we do not meddle in worldly disputes. Even the Queen of Aen Elle must acknowledge this. Your pursuit of us is utterly unwarranted.” Facing the blade, Viktor kept his composure, for from his observations, he already foresaw the conversation’s outcome.

If his chances had once been eighty percent, now he was almost certain of safety. The elf was a competent guerrilla leader, so Viktor knew that if he steered the topic correctly, neither he nor Angoulême would die.

Iophis sneered, “You’re not even a witcher, just a human. And as one of your kind, you’ll pay for the crimes your race committed against us.”

The youth, confident, retorted with sarcasm, “What crimes? Do you mean the slaughter of defenseless merchants? Or the burning of crops painstakingly grown by farmers?”

“Heh, I owe you no explanation, but this time I’ll tell you why. Merchants and nobles conspired to lure us into a deadly trap, and those cunning farmers poisoned the grain they sold at exorbitant prices.”

Perhaps others would ignore such a claim, but Viktor, who both pitied and looked down upon this age of arrogance and greed, did not think Iophis was lying. Of course, he also didn’t believe Iophis was so pure as to always act in self-defense.

“In that case, you have even less reason to kill us. Why extinguish genuine goodwill? Why turn potential allies into enemies? Has the primitive life of the wild utterly eroded your reason?”

This argument struck hard, and Iophis was silent for a moment.

Then he asked, “What you wrote on that note—was it true?”

Viktor replied, “It was. Except that I’m still an apprentice, not a full witcher, every word was true. She’ll only be unconscious for three days, and that kind of coma will help her wounds heal.”

“Very well.” He pointed at Angoulême. “This woman is even. She’ll survive. But you—because your trap left five elves seriously injured and maimed for life, you’ll be sentenced to death. Yet, since you scattered gravel to lessen the trap’s lethality, I’ll let you choose a bloodless death.”

At this point, Viktor joked lightly, “Amazing—the Squirrel Party’s logistics have deteriorated so much? I thought such minor injuries would heal completely.”

The elf replied coldly, “The Squirrel Party’s misfortune is entirely thanks to you humans!”

“Hahaha, betrayers of the Vrihed Brigade and the Squirrel Party could be ‘the white flame dancing on enemy graves’ or ‘valley daisies’—but never Viktor Corleon. Iophis, have you sunk so low you can’t even direct your hatred at the right target?” Thanks to Lambert’s company through the winter, the youth’s sharp tongue was reborn after twelve years of fairy-tale innocence, returning to its glory.

“Silence!” That venomous jab pierced deeply, and helpless rage made the elf tremble, his face icy, blade quivering at Viktor’s throat.

...

Though unconcerned by prolonging his foe’s torment, Viktor feared the game might go awry. So he changed tack at the right moment. “What if I can heal them completely? No disability, no lasting effects.”

Slowly, the frost thawed.

Iophis calmed, a smile of realization dawning. “No wonder you’re so fearless. Traps, poisons, medicine—you’re from the Griffin School?”

“No!” Viktor drew a Wolf School medallion from his chest. “I’m from the Wolf School, specializing in swordplay, blade oils, and bombs.”

After a moment’s thought, the elf said, “So be it, Viktor. Regardless of your school, if you can fully heal my comrades… you’ll be our guest. Of course, you know what happens if you deceive me.”

Viktor shrugged indifferently.

The elf sheathed his left-hand sword, raising his voice. “Bring the stretchers! We have two guests, one of whom needs assistance.”

He then looked at Viktor, his tone gentle. “Guests… correct?”

Viktor set Angoulême down, quietly gathered both their weapons, and handed them to the elf, hilt first.

“Yes, guests—both of us. I’ll prove my goodwill, once my safety is assured.”

Iophis took the swords in both hands. “I promise, you are now as safe as if you were in your own home.”