Chapter Eighty-Six: The Most Terrifying Monster in the World

By the lake near the slums, eating grilled fish and drinking wine, then getting drunk and starting to brag about their feats of arms—on that point, monster slayers are no different from ordinary men.

Three witchers and one apprentice, all of them hung with a glittering array of battle trophies. Of the four, Victor’s injuries were the most modest: a single scar along the bridge of the nose and three across one cheek.

“Ha ha ha! The long one on my chest? That was the foreclaw of an Andrag warrior. The bastard nearly sliced me in two. I still remember the pattern on its chitinous shell—black with white spots. And then? I burned it alive with the Sign of Igni until it screeched and writhed...”

“...It was a pack of little fog fiends.”

“I’ll say this for that bat-winged devil: it moved fast, a real vicious one. But I was meaner and faster. It gave me this mark, and I gutted it in return.”

“And you... Victor, what about those white lines on your face?”

After the witchers had told their tales, it was only natural for them to turn to the youngster. Though his wounds seemed minor, there was always time to give a man room to speak; for all they knew, beneath the leather armor might be something worth hearing.

The apprentice lightly traced the scars on his cheek. “...It was a human. The one on the bridge of my nose was made by a bandit. I hesitated instead of pinning him down at once, and he struck back. As for these three on my cheek, they were cut by a knight. He despises every witcher there is.”

Hearing the apprentice’s answer, perhaps each man had been stirred by his own memories, and the air fell briefly silent save for the crackle of the campfire.

After all, in the long lives of witchers, it was impossible never to suffer attacks from humans—without the slightest hesitation, the double negative says it all. Most humans treated the very people who had carved out a place for them in this world in exactly that way.

“Heh-heh-heh, the most terrifying monsters of all!” Oakes drawled sarcastically.

“People like to imagine and invent monsters, because that makes them seem less frightening by comparison.” Seret suddenly cried out in a lofty, declamatory tone. It was the first time that night he had spoken so long.

This was a line the witchers all knew by heart. Leso took a drink from the bottle and continued in his deep voice: “When they’re dead drunk, they lie, they steal, they beat their wives, let old women starve, hack foxes to death with axes when they’re caught in traps, or loose a storm of arrows to kill the last unicorn in the world.”

Oakes grinned and swayed from side to side. “They’d rather believe that a morning-dwelling ghoul in a farmhouse is far more frightening than they are. It lets them sleep easier at night, makes life more bearable.”

The words the three witchers had traded back and forth were those once spoken by the late legendary witcher, Geralt of Livia.

The White Wolf was no man of letters, but he had a literary friend in Dandelion. The bard polished his words and spread them across the Continent, and this sharply satirical passage became a favorite among his fellow witchers.

The apprentice added languidly, “It is said that this monster appears as a pale child, wandering through villages at dawn to bring death and disease to children. Strangely enough, because the creature is so rare, no one has ever truly seen it—not even witchers or mages—but that does nothing to shake the common folk’s certainty.”

At the apprentice’s apt explanation, Seret applauded softly in praise, while Oakes laughed until he doubled over.

Leso reached out and gave Victor’s arm a squeeze. “Thank you for the added clarification. But even when you run into this kind of rotten business, don’t lose faith in humankind, and above all don’t give up your calling. There are still some good people who understand us.”

“I’m fine,” the boy said with a smile and a shake of his head. “I understand this sort of thing perfectly. The foolish part of human nature won’t change, even in a thousand years.”

“Agreed.” Seret’s agreement with Victor came from a gloomy frame of mind; the boy’s, from plain fact.

“Your outlook is far too pessimistic...” Oakes said with dissatisfaction, slapping his thigh and lifting his bottle. “Let me tell you an inspiring story I overheard at the Hungry Thigh last time...”

And so the cold-faced, stern Seret, the ever-cheerful Oakes, the big-brotherly Leso, and the energetic Victor drank and talked through the night until dawn, until it was time to say goodbye.

...

The next morning, outside the Shepherd’s Gate, three witchers prepared to leave Vizima.

“Be careful on the road. Live well,” Victor said with a yawn.

“If you weren’t yawning while saying that, it might sound more sincere,” Seret replied coolly.

The boy yawned again. “I’m not a witcher. Staying up late drinking and getting sleepy is normal. But do you really have to leave in such a hurry?”

“Originally, if we hadn’t ended up hunting that vampire woman, we were going to come find you today and get the whole story out of you before leaving the city,” Oakes said, still smiling.

“Angren had a contract for a gliding lizard that Leso and I had accepted earlier. Hearing Oakes tell it, we detoured to come check on you first.” Leso patted the bundle at his side, inside which lay the dancing stars Victor had given him, along with some honeycombs. “The result was even more impressive than I expected. Your skill with making bombs is truly extraordinary. I’m almost starting to think you might have a better future as an alchemist.”

By the time they had drunk themselves well past sober the night before, the three witchers had carried the apprentice to the cemetery to watch him stage a show with his dancing stars, roasting ghouls in a display of alchemical power so astonishing that even a grand master of the Wolf School would have had to bow in admiration. Naturally, members of the Viper School were left thunderstruck.

Wanting to make friends, the boy was generous too, giving them a few moistureproof, shockproof bombs as parting gifts. As long as the Ram Gang’s supply held out, he would not be short of materials.

Watching the three of them ride off, Victor was about to turn back toward the city when Leso suddenly reined in and came back alone, as though he had something to say.

As the horse drew near, Victor asked, “What is it?”

Leso’s granite-carved features remained expressionless. “I remember you saying yesterday that after leaving Kaer Morhen, you no longer drank the body-strengthening vitality potion?”

The boy nodded. “Yes. It needs special ingredients that can only be found near Kaer Morhen.”

Leso gave a low grunt, then drew a sheet of paper from his breast and handed it to Victor. “A recipe for a vitality potion from the Viper School. It may not be as effective as the Wolf School’s, but the ingredients are easy to find.”

Just as Victor was lowering his head to look it over, startled by such a generous gift, he suddenly lifted his gaze.

Leso’s face was still unreadable, his voice steady. “Don’t be so surprised. This hardly counts as a secret formula. We’ve wandered the kingdoms for so long that we haven’t met a worthy apprentice to cultivate in ages.

A pity you’re not of the Cat School. Truly, a shame.”

With that, he turned his horse and rode off to rejoin the other two witchers, disappearing into the distance.