Chapter Seven: I, Victor, Have a Dream

When the mountains were sealed by winter snow, Victor once considered consulting the two "younger" witchers about changes in the outside world and the state of international wars. To him, these seemed important matters, but he quickly gave up, for the witchers paid such things no heed whatsoever.

For the two Wolf School witchers, under Vesemir’s tutelage, they still tried to adhere to the centuries-old principle of neutrality. They wandered the land, collected their pay, and protected the helpless from monsters—no more, no less, and nothing further.

But in Victor’s eyes, it was precisely this principle of neutrality that had gradually pushed them to the margins of the changing times, reducing them to a dying breed. Siding with no one, they found no one willing to stand with them. They endured contempt and curses from the very people they protected, and for meager pay, they hunted monsters—a noble sentiment, certainly, but also a painfully stubborn one. Fortunately, he was no witcher.

...

Time passed, and by mid-February, the snow and ice began to thaw. The drifting snow vanished without a trace, swept away by warm southern winds through the mountain passes. The witchers grew somewhat more talkative, discussing their upcoming journeys and the new monsters they might encounter: ghouls, leshens, ekimmaras, werewolves, basilisk lizards, and so on.

Then March arrived, and they departed; Kaer Morhen was locked up tight.

The fortress’s lock could be called a medieval version of an electronic lock: a bolt, charged by a shockwave across the moat to energize a crystal, and a portcullis at a height that required lighting an oil lamp with fire. Both mechanisms existed in multiple places, corresponding to the Aard and Igni Signs, respectively, to unlock them.

In other words, anyone who wasn’t a witcher or a sorcerer would be easily kept out—at least, Victor himself couldn’t enter on the surface. These magical mechanisms were symbols of Kaer Morhen’s past glory.

Still, Victor felt uneasy. If a malicious sorcerer ever came knocking, wouldn’t all the precious alchemical formulas and research be stolen away? The witchers’ sense of security was woefully lacking!

Eskel further explained that the fortress’s security system also included the winding path encircling Kaer Morhen—a training facility, but also a natural labyrinth. Without a guide or prior knowledge, even a sorcerer could not easily find the correct way in.

Only then did Victor feel at ease. Nonetheless, driven by a touch of paranoia, he packed up every practical result of his improved processes and took them with him, leaving behind in the alchemy lab only the original Trial of Grasses records and some untested conjectures.

...

Riding his faithful steed out of the Kaer Morhen mountains, Victor arrived at the campsite where the Gwenliuch converged with the Buina. Here, the witchers would each set out for the southwest.

Vesemir and Eskel were heading west, across the Kestrel Mountains to the Kingdom of Redania, where rumors spoke of a basilisk lizard.

Victor, on the other hand, planned to travel south, passing through the capital of the Kingdom of Kaedwen, Ard Carraigh, and onward to Ban Ard to visit the famed Sorcerers’ Academy. He wanted to see if he might become a mage himself. Perhaps in the game, witchers were peerless and all-conquering, but in the real world, every book had taught Victor that unless one became a mage, one would remain an insignificant ant.

Even Master Vesemir held mages in considerable dread, never fighting them unless absolutely necessary.

So, though he’d never sensed this so-called chaos energy, he still had to try. One must have dreams, after all—perhaps, as the stories always say, his talent was simply so overwhelming that he couldn’t sense it at all.

Lambert decided to accompany him. “The road to Ban Ard isn’t that easy. You’ll need someone to see you there!” he said, pointing to the Wolf School witcher medallion hanging around his neck—now utterly still, but it would tremble in warning if magic or monsters were near. “Besides, you don’t have a lick of magical energy. You don’t look like you have the least potential as a mage.

When those bitches at Ban Ard kick you out, you’ll need good old Lambert to comfort you.” An encouraging summary, to be sure.

Victor had intended to refuse his offer, borrow some money, and go it alone, but Lambert promptly grew angry and demanded to know if Victor looked down on witchers, if he was ashamed to walk together, and so refused his company.

Faced with this, Victor had no choice but to yield. After thanking Eskel for the purse he tossed over, Victor drew out a few flasks of his specially brewed potions from the herb pouch at his waist, handed them to Vesemir and Eskel, and the four parted ways for now.

...

With no need to hurry, Lambert and Victor rode south at a leisurely pace, passing peaceful days until, at night in camp, Victor launched a downward slash at Lambert’s head. Lambert swiftly sidestepped forward, parried as their blades met, and counterattacked.

His movements were quick and precise. He struck Victor’s blade near the tip with the thick part of his own blade by the hilt. The leverage sent Victor’s sword flying aside, and Lambert’s point was already pressing against Victor’s forehead.

In a real fight, a little more force and the blade would have pierced his skull.

Victor stepped back twice, caught his breath, and, rallying himself, attacked again. This time, Lambert changed tactics. When Victor struck high, Lambert met the blow with his blade’s thick edge, then released the hilt with his left hand, gripped the crossing blades, and pulled back, while pushing forward with his right, as if spinning a wheel toward himself.

The “wheel’s” turning wrenched Victor’s arm, forcing him to release his grip. Lambert disarmed him with ease.

Next came a swift right hook to the abdomen, sharp and decisive, doubling the dazed youth over and leaving him kneeling and retching on the ground.

Lambert clicked his tongue. “Tsk, tsk! Two moves and you think you can go solo? Don’t need old Lambert’s company? That punch was just a little lesson—to remind you, kid, you’ve got a long way to go.”

“Ugh… blegh… you said we’d stop at sparring… ugh, you vindictive bastard!” The blow was controlled, but he’d chosen his target with care.

The witcher habitually flicked his blade as if to shed nonexistent blood, then sheathed it. “Training’s supposed to leave an impression! I did stop at sparring—just made sure it stuck. Vesemir’s not harsh enough, that’s why my face has so many scars. You’re not much to look at as it is—add a few more and you’ll really be out of luck. Got it?”

Gasping and leaning on Lambert for support, Victor slowly climbed to his feet, wobbled back to the fire, and retrieved two potions from his herb pouch, draining them both.

Early spring was still chilly, but the fire’s glow was warm on his face.

“Thanks! That was a memorable lesson.” Victor felt calm—some hardening was good, especially when he had ample medical supplies.

Lambert snorted, “What a waste. I held back—you’d heal by tomorrow without medicine.”

“It’s fine. If I don’t use them, they’ll spoil in a few days anyway.”

Lambert fell silent, and for a moment the campfire was quiet.

After a while, Victor recovered, rose, sword in hand, and saluted Lambert.

“Huh… you mean, you want more?!”

“Yes. When you face setbacks, you must confront them again as soon as possible. Otherwise, you’ll become afraid, and if you’re afraid, you’ll never improve.”

Lambert suddenly understood. “Oh… so that’s why you just drank two potions…”

Victor replied, “One for healing, one for the pain. Come on, you old bastard—I can go all night!”

“You’ve got guts, kid! Tonight I’ll beat you so hard you won’t even be able to drink your milk before bed!”