Chapter Four: Before the First Snowfall of Late Autumn

The shallow brook murmured as it flowed, while Victor, clad in the armor of a witcher and with his hair styled in the shape of a mushroom cap, sat by the stream in meditation. His ever-present satchel of herbs hung at his side, and his sharpened steel sword rested unsheathed across his knees.

Today’s hunt was his first without a master’s supervision—his inaugural solo venture. Since the advent of autumn, Vesemir had taken him out every few days to hunt, tempering his mind and honing his skills. The menu in Kaer Morhen’s kitchen had evolved from venison and roe to wildcat, gray wolf, and even brown bear.

Now, with a wealth of experience and knowledge gleaned from books, Victor could discern the trails of large beasts, even if he lacked the keen senses that marked a witcher. He was waiting for an adult brown bear preparing for hibernation—this was to be a proper, honorable hunt.

...

That same day, two seasoned witchers, long-absent sons of Kaer Morhen, returned home. One was Lambert, sharp-tongued and quick-tempered with his M-shaped hairline; the other was Eskel, gentle in demeanor, his face marred by a disfiguring scar. Together they dismounted before the drawbridge, leading their horses through the gates.

“Made it back before the first snow,” Eskel remarked.

“Bullshit. I refuse to call this drafty hall, with rooms stripped bare of even basic furniture, a home,” Lambert retorted.

“Regardless, so long as Vesemir is here, it’s home,” Eskel replied.

“The moment the old man’s gone, I’ll never set foot in this place again.”

Exchanging barbs, they stabled their horses and entered the courtyard.

“Huh? A new apprentice?” Eskel noticed fresh footprints on the wooden training posts. He stepped closer to examine the signs of use.

Lambert, uninterested, headed straight across the yard to inspect the “windmill” and “pendulum” contraptions.

“The turning jumps show some skill, but not nearly fast enough,” Eskel commented after his assessment.

“Tsk, tsk—still far from mastering the windmill. Poor bastard probably took a hard blow this morning; the blood hasn’t even dried yet. The pendulum drill, though, seems to be going well—not many hits taken,” Lambert remarked, brushing dried blood from his hand onto a haystack. “Come on, let’s go see the old man and ask where he picked up this new apprentice. To reach this level, he must’ve trained for at least a year and a half. I don’t recall anyone new last year.”

“I’m more curious about the Trial of Grasses. If Vesemir’s taking on a new apprentice, maybe he’s found a way to increase the survival rate.”

“That damned trial should be buried forever!”

...

Victor opened his eyes to a roar. Across the river, the beast stared him down. Swiftly, he retrieved three vials from his satchel and drank them in quick succession: “Blizzard” for enhanced reflexes, “Thunderbolt” for increased strength, and the “Yellow Owl” for stamina.

These were secret witcher potions—potent, but highly toxic. For ordinary men, drinking them meant unconsciousness or death; even witchers, with their rapid metabolism, could not safely ingest too many at once. Should the toxicity accumulate, only “White Honey” could cleanse it; neglecting to do so was fatal.

But for Victor, an alchemist, such limitations did not exist. Behind closed doors, he had combined Blizzard with White Honey to create a non-toxic version, and had done likewise with Thunderbolt and Yellow Owl.

Though the effects were much diminished without the toxins, Victor knew this was only due to his current limitations. With improved alchemy, he would one day craft potions as strong—or stronger—without the drawbacks.

Feeling the potions circulate through his body, Victor assumed the Plow stance, sword tip leveled, and faced the charging, ravenous bear.

...

The newcomer’s chamber was nothing like the spartan, almost vagrant-like quarters of the other witchers. Simple yet practical wooden furniture, a bed of moderate softness, a small cabinet with a few books, and four or five cotton shirts hanging from a rack—all attested to the owner’s hygienic habits and quality of life.

The only clues that this was a witcher’s room were the alchemy cauldron by the hearth—used for brewing oils and potions—and the wolf pelt mounted on the wall, a trophy as was the custom among witchers.

Emerging from the room, Lambert glanced at Eskel and shook his head. “Whoever our new resident is, he clearly appreciates life more than the Princess of Cintra. Maybe he’s a king?”

Eskel replied, “Come off it. Kings don’t get beaten by the windmill until they cough up blood.”

“Vesemir and his crossbow aren’t around—must’ve gone hunting with the king,” Lambert joked.

“Maybe we should drop our things, light a fire in the hall, have a drink, and wait for them to return to start the roast?”

“I like that idea.”

...

The bear collapsed among the ferns at the forest’s edge, its chest pierced by five heavy crossbow bolts, its left forelimb nearly severed by a bear trap, its right hind leg caught as well, and its twisted neck pressed into the mud softened by the stream, wheezing for breath.

Then, a steel sword plunged through its left eye into its brain, ending its futile rage and misery, leaving only its glazed right eye staring blankly at the sky.

Victor examined the claw marks left on his armor and cursed under his breath. They could have been avoided, but his turning jump still wasn’t fast enough.

Rolling up his sleeves, he drew a short blade and turned the bear onto its back. With swift, precise cuts from the sternum, he carefully separated the layers of fat, removed the heart, gallbladder, and bezoar, then cut downward to the anus, circling the reproductive organs with the blade before finishing the incision.

What a treasure trove this beast was! The heart could serve as a rare catalyst, the gallbladder as medicine, the pelt could be tanned, the paws used for nourishment, the meat for sustenance, and the... other parts for their own peculiar uses. In this era, where conservation was no concern, Victor had already made full plans for the brown bear in his mind.

He heaved the carcass onto a protruding stone in the riverbed, letting the current wash out the blood and viscera from the opened abdomen.

...

When Vesemir entered the hall, the two witchers rose to greet him.

Eskel stepped forward for a firm embrace. “Master, we’re home.”

“Well, well, look who it is—our illustrious witchers. Back from the hunt? You don’t smell of blood, and you’re empty-handed too?” Lambert teased, embracing Vesemir as well.

Vesemir smiled kindly. “Wait a bit longer, Victor is still at the river dealing with the bear. Today was actually his first solo hunt. I followed in secret, just in case. Don’t mention it to him, will you?”

Lambert drew Vesemir to a seat and handed him a cup. “Of course not. But perhaps you should introduce us to this Victor first?”