For the first three days after the caravan departed, the journey was surprisingly peaceful.
On the first day, we crossed the Northern Hills of Toussaint, following the ancient road along the Amell Mountains. The sky was clear, and the terrain was open. We camped overnight on the high ground of the hills. Glick had chosen the campsite with extreme caution: three sides were slopes, one side was a cliff, making it easy to defend and difficult to attack. I sprinkled Forktail droppings around the edge of the camp to deter wild beasts. That night, we only heard distant wolf howls and no other disturbances.
On the second day, we passed through a stretch of oak forest. Wild beasts frequently appeared but never truly approached. Anastasia detected a limping wolf trailing us at dusk and slit its throat at the forest's edge. The body was incinerated, and plague marks were visible in the ashes. She silently wiped her twin blades, and Glick frowned without a word. The journey continued.
On the morning of the third day, mountain mist swirled. We entered the edge of a dense forest near the Toussaint border. The terrain was steep, and the road was winding. Ancient trees lined both sides, and the rocks by the path were sharp as blades. This was an ideal spot for an ambush.
As dusk approached, I reined in Grape and leaned down to examine the grass marks in the forest.
“There are drag marks,” I said in a low voice. “Not from a carriage, but from leather boots dragging on the ground, no fewer than ten, possibly more.”
Glick immediately came closer: “Ahead?”
I pointed to a patch of messy grass down the slope: “The marks are faint, left yesterday. No campfire, but someone has been here. Someone is watching us.”
His mouth twitched, his gaze alert: “So that scout didn't get away after all.”
I stood up, brushing the grass off my cloak: “Tonight, we won't camp in the valley. Choose high ground, set three layers of warning fires, and ensure enough rotations. Not everyone can sleep soundly.”
“Understood.” Glick nodded and immediately gathered the guards to arrange the camp.
That night, we chose to camp at a bend in a mountain path. Although the terrain was steep, there was a natural rock wall to lean on. Three wagons formed a semicircle, with the other two at the rear to close the gap. Piles of firewood formed an inner defensive line, and bonfires were placed around the four corners. Glick arranged the guards into four-person shifts. Anastasia volunteered to take the first watch.
I didn't stay in the center of the camp but climbed alone onto a rock on a high slope, sitting with my sword, closing my eyes to rest, using the sound of the wind.
The night wind carried the dampness of the trees, dead leaves rustled, and occasionally, animals and birds cried out in alarm. The distant mountain silhouettes were like slumbering beasts, silent.
Before the third watch arrived, I opened my eyes and tightened my grip on my sword hilt.
The wind suddenly stopped.
That dead silence was not a natural quietness but a suppressive premonition, like the held breath before a storm. The birds and beasts in the forest were silent, and the flames trembled slightly, as if sensing some anomaly.
I whispered, “They're here.”
The next moment, a muffled thud broke the silence—
“Bang—!” A muffled sound by the campfire. A black-feathered arrow embedded itself in the firewood pile, sparks flew, and the flames almost died out.
“Alert!” I leaped off the rock, my steel sword drawn, its cold gleam like water.
Three guards reacted instantly, rolling to evade, drawing their swords, and rushing to the edge of the camp. Glick roared, “Guard the wagons! Archers to the left slope!”
Shadows in the forest suddenly erupted. Over a dozen figures, like ghosts, charged out from among the trees. They wore gray-brown cloaks, almost blending into the mountain forest, moving swiftly with low stances. One rolled close, swinging an axe directly at a guard's chest. Two others leaped onto a wagon, attempting to cut the cargo ropes.
Typical bandit tactics—scattered assaults, disrupting formations, then seizing goods and fleeing in the chaos.
I suddenly hooked my left hand, and a golden light leaped from my palm.
“Quen.” Amidst the vibrating air, a shield materialized.
The next instant, a hooked axe cleaved from my left shoulder. With a “bang,” the shield shattered like glass. I parried the blow and counter-slashed, the sword tip sliding upward, piercing the enemy's throat. Blood splattered, the bandit made a dying gurgle, and fell to the ground, convulsing.
“Witcher!” A roar came from the darkness. “That's a Witcher! The bounty is mine!”
“Bounty?” I sneered, stepping forward. “The price you'll pay is higher than you imagine.”
Three bandits surrounded me. One wielded a sword, one swung an axe, and another wore iron gauntlets, intending to break my defense. I suddenly cast the Aard Sign, and a shockwave knocked the axeman on the left away, sending him crashing into a wagon and overturning. The one in the middle was about to bring down his long saber, but I had already raised my arm to block, twisting my right wrist to slash horizontally, severing his sword-wielding wrist bone.
“Ah—!” He screamed and stumbled back. I kicked backward, leaped up, and ran my sword through the third man's chest, staining the ground with blood.
In the left flank's battle, Anastasia's figure was like a dance. Her twin blades crisscrossed, one slashing a leg, the other slitting a throat. Each attack was clean and precise, the cold gleam of her blades like a reaper's judgment. She briefly spun in the air, flinging a blade to sever the arm of someone attempting to climb a wagon, blood spraying without touching her.
Behind, Ham roared and charged forward. He swung his battle axe with both hands, cleaving a bloody path. One axe blow directly shattered an enemy's lumbar spine. He stood like a rock, guarding one side of the wagon, his heavy breathing and the clash of metal intertwining into a wild battle song.
On the east side of the camp, Connie was almost tripped by a chain-blade assassin, a bloody gash already torn across his shoulder. I leaped over, my steel sword flashed, deflecting the chain-blade, then used the momentum to deliver an elbow strike, knocking the assassin down. The sword tip spun, slicing across, and the enemy's throat opened.
“Tha… thanks!” Connie panted like an ox, still shaken.
“If you can stand, don't fall.” I said coldly, not looking at him, already turning to face another charging shadow.
Near the main campfire, Glick was locked in combat with a tall bandit. The man wielded a massive axe, stood nearly seven feet tall, wore heavy armor, and had crisscrossing knife scars on his face, looking unlike a common brigand.
“He's a mercenary!” I warned in a low voice.
“Northern accent.” Glick gritted his teeth, parrying an axe handle, then suddenly spun, his right-hand short axe slashing upward, splitting the enemy's shoulder armor.
I rushed to assist, spewing flames with the Igni Sign, forcing him back. He roared, sweeping his axe horizontally. I slid along the ground to evade, my sword flashing up, precisely severing his kneecap. He knelt, wailing, and I seized the opportunity to decapitate him, hot blood spraying out.
The enemy's morale instantly collapsed. The remaining bandits began to waver, fighting and retreating. I shouted:
“Leave some alive! Kill the rest without mercy!”
Anastasia was the first to pursue, delivering a side kick that knocked down an assassin attempting to flee, then stunned him with her blade hilt. Glick, meanwhile, directed the guards to encircle, gradually forcing the enemies back, eventually allowing only two to escape.
In less than half an hour, the camp returned to quiet. The fires were rekindled, and the charred wood still emitted white smoke.
We counted the bodies—fifteen attackers, seven dead, seven wounded, one captured alive. Two caravan assistants had minor injuries, and one guard had a knife wound to the chest and abdomen but could still be saved. The cargo was undamaged, and only one wagon's wheel frame was damaged. A stroke of luck.
I walked over to the captive. He leaned against the rock wall, his eyes staring at me with terror.
“Who hired you?” I leaned down and asked.
He bit his lip tightly, remaining silent.
I slowly drew my dagger, drawing a shallow bloodline along his thigh. Crimson blood stained the blade. I wiped the blade clean and said in a low voice:
“You know who I am.”
His eyes trembled, his face pale.
“Witchers,” I said, my voice cold, “our hands don't shake when we skin people, understand?”
He finally broke down, saying in a hoarse voice: “It was those people from Ilton South Road! It was Herbol—Herbol Esher, he received intelligence that you have metal boxes, they're… they're priceless treasures!”
“Who is Herbol?”
“A former Northern mercenary, after fleeing, he camped in these mountains, buying off brigands. He's attacked seven caravans in a year…”
I nodded, committing the name to memory.
“He knows your route, he might not give up just like that,” the captive gritted his teeth. “He… he'll probably still pursue.”
I looked up at the night sky. The clouds were thick, the moonlight obscured, and a chill came with the wind.
In the early hours of the morning, we hastily burned the bodies, sealed the bloodstains, and after tidying up, set off again.
Ham's shoulder wound was properly bandaged, and he insisted on guarding the second wagon. Anastasia hadn't slept all night, her expression like frost, her twin blades constantly at her back. I rode at the rear of the convoy, patrolling the shadows at the forest's edge.
This attack proved one thing: this journey was far more complicated than just escorting goods.
They knew that what the “Vare Merchants” were transporting was perhaps not just cloth and wine.
Perhaps it was information. Perhaps it was some technical blueprint.
But I knew—none of that mattered.
What mattered was that I had accepted this commission, and I would not abandon it halfway.
A Witcher's oath is not written on a golden contract but carved in steel and blood.
I leaned forward and patted Grape's neck. He whinnied softly.
“Don't worry,” I whispered. “I'll get you out of this forest alive.”
The wind rustled torn cloth, and silence returned to the forest.
But within this silence, still lurked unretracted claws and unignited dark fires.
