Chapter Forty-Nine: To Achieve Anything, One Must First Be a Decent Person

The murderer was slain in turn. Witnessing seven lives—hardly innocent—depart before his eyes, Viktor exhaled deeply. “Thank you,” he said. “Without your help, I would have been in real trouble today.”

“No need to thank me. The son of the Valley of a Hundred Blossoms is glad to be of service,” replied the elven scout, his tone notably warmer than just a few days ago. Evidently, he had done some investigating—or perhaps received instructions from Aiven.

Regardless, the fact remained that scarcely had Viktor set foot in the jungle before the scout appeared ahead to guide him. He led the boy to the clearing, into the ambush, then vanished, letting Viktor handle the final negotiations with the Ram Gang. Such keen intuition deserved recognition.

“I have one more request,” Viktor said. “Regardless of what you do with the bodies—when you’re done, please burn them or bury them deep.”

By “regardless of what you do,” he meant scavenging the corpses for spoils, an act often seen as disgraceful, shameful, and insulting. Yet, for the Squirrel Party, it was a vital source of supplies.

The scout looked surprised by Viktor’s request. “You show impressive mercy toward those who just tried to kill you. I promise—they’ll be properly dealt with.”

“It’s not about mercy,” Viktor shook his head. “I just don’t want ghouls prowling around here, and I have enough trouble as it is. The more thoroughly they disappear, the better.”

...

Deep within the forest, at the Squirrel Party’s temporary camp, Viktor walked with the elven scout toward the innermost tent. Along the way, he took in his surroundings. Compared to their counterparts in Floating Harbor, these elves’ tents were just as shabby, their food equally coarse. Curiously, though, some of their tools and weapons were brand new and finely crafted.

Observation went both ways: the elves in the camp eyed the Phantom Company with curiosity, but not with hostility. Whether Viktor, Angoulême, or even Catherine perched on her shoulder, all became subjects of hushed discussion.

It seemed word of their arrival had preceded them; there was no trace of simmering resentment or anyone looking to pick a fight. Still, Viktor remained on guard.

As the saying goes: “When someone is overly courteous, they must want something.”

Soon, they reached the medium-sized tent where Aiven waited. The scout lifted the flap for the pair to enter, then stepped a few paces away to stand guard out of earshot.

Inside, Viktor sat and offered thanks to the elven leader. “Thank you again. I couldn’t have managed today without your help.”

Aiven’s medium, sturdy frame was clad in leather armor trimmed with bear fur. His cheeks were lean, his brown eyes narrow, and his long black hair draped over his shoulders—giving him a look of cunning and wisdom.

With his right palm facing upward on his chest, he replied, “It was a trifling matter. I am Aiven, commander of the Swamp Forest Strike Force.” His voice was rich and well suited for recitation.

Across from him was another man of medium, sturdy build in iron-studded leather armor, his cheeks healthy, eyes clear blue, and short golden hair neatly parted—altogether unremarkable in appearance.

Damn it, outshone again! “Wolf School witcher apprentice, Viktor Corleone, from Bell Town, east of Serrikania.” Though briefly distracted, Viktor’s self-introduction was calm and steady.

He gestured to the wild girl. “And this is Angoulême Corleone, my most loyal companion. We currently operate as mercenaries under the name Phantom Company.”

Introduced as the most loyal companion, Angoulême beamed and nodded to the elf.

Aiven chuckled. “You’re far too modest, Master Alchemist. Even here in the distant Swamp Forest, I’ve heard of Viktor the Bard after the Summer Festival at Floating Harbor.”

Though Viktor knew the elf was exaggerating, he glared at the wild girl—if not for her drunken antics, there would be no rumors of a bard at all.

Aiven continued, “In truth, I have long admired the Master. They say your lute performance of ‘With You’ moved a thousand listeners to tears, and Lord Iophis himself praised it as ‘the music of the heavens.’”

Viktor was left speechless. If before he could dismiss it as mere flattery, now the intention was unmistakable.

Alchemist, bard—it was all polite hyperbole, and Viktor knew it. But Aiven’s admiration was clearly for his alleged musical talent. Had Viktor misjudged his friendliness? Perhaps the elf was simply a lover of song?

Aiven smiled. “If you would, I hope to hear you play ‘With You’ myself, and I’d invite all our warriors to listen as well.”

Without waiting for a reply, he fetched a lute from the rack and handed it to Viktor. The instrument gleamed with a warm sheen; its sound was clear and resonant—a true masterpiece.

...

Before long, Viktor and Angoulême departed the Squirrel Party camp. After his performance of “With You,” the talks with the Forest Strike Force went smoothly. In future hunts for demon-trees, not only would the Squirrel Party not attack the Phantom Company, they could even expect guides and supporting fire.

Yet as they walked the road back to Vizima, Angoulême sensed Viktor’s bad mood, the gloom etched plainly between his brows.

Unable to contain herself, she pulled the captain to a halt and leaned against a tree. “Vik, tell me—what’s bothering you? Didn’t things go really well with the Squirrel Party?”

He figured talking to her might help clear his head. Folding his arms and leaning against another tree, he replied, “That’s the problem—it went too well. He asked only one thing of us: perform ‘With You,’ and then treated us like friends. It doesn’t add up!

“Even if they have supplies from nonhumans in Vizima and aren’t short on healing herbs or potions, they know I’m an alchemist but didn’t ask for anything. That’s not normal! Maybe Aiven does love music, but he doesn’t strike me as a fool. What troubles me is that one day, we’ll have to repay this favor.”

Angoulême caught Catherine from the air and shrugged. “Psh! Why worry? If they need help and we can do it, we help. If we can’t, we make excuses. Besides, thinking about it won’t change anything. For now, we really do need their help.”

On reflection, the girl’s bluntness carried a certain truth—perhaps it was too early to be concerned about this.

She continued, “Besides, we should be thinking about the Ram Gang. What did we do to offend them? They trailed us today and tried to kill us!”

Leaning against the tree, Viktor chuckled. “Ah, but that’s exactly what our real enemy wants us to think—why would the Ram Gang try to kill us?”

Angoulême looked at him, puzzled.

“It wasn’t them. They were hired to test us,” he said. “It was Moen’s Falwick—his mercenaries tracked us down.”

Angoulême straightened up in alarm. “Then shouldn’t we get moving? Staying here, we’re on the Ram Gang’s hit list, and secretly Falwick’s as well!”

Viktor kept chuckling darkly. “Ah, but that’s also what they want—to drive us out of Vizima.

“Remember, Vizima is the capital of Temeria. We’re not vagrants, but registered homeowners in the Temple District, on official record. Just like I stopped you from assassinating Thales before—no one dares make a move on us inside the city. If they try, we just hold out until the guards arrive and they’ll all be strung up.”

Angoulême nodded, half-understanding. “So now?”

Viktor smiled. “Back to Vizima to accept Foltest’s protection. Then tonight, we’ll pay a visit to the Ram Gang boss. I’m about to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”