After dawn, with the mist not yet fully receded, we continued our journey.
The carriage rolled over the earth soaked with last night's blood, its heavy wheels crushing the scorched ground, and the blackened rocks seemed to still hold the lingering warmth of battle.
The air was thick with the smell of ash and blood, making my chest feel heavy.
The three guards looked grim, the coachman dared not speak loudly, and even Grape was quieter than usual, only letting out soft snorts.
I reined in my horse, falling back half a step, and whispered to Glick, "We can't keep going like this."
He glanced sideways, his brows tightly furrowed.
"These people aren't ordinary mountain bandits," I said, looking around the treeline, then added, "Have you heard the name Herber Escher?"
Glick nodded gravely, "He's a former mercenary from the Northlands. After deserting the battlefield near Hert, he fled south.
He and a group of battlefield deserters have been holed up in these mountains for almost two years.
I heard they even robbed a Sintra border tax cart; they've pulled off more than one job."
"Last night's bandits were testing us," I said, my gaze sweeping towards the high mountain forest.
"Since their scouts couldn't make them give up, they won't stop."
Glick said in a low voice, "You mean… they're still watching us?"
"Exactly. They know this cargo is worth the risk, and they know you have more than just cloth and wine."
He gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath.
"You continue with the caravan along the planned route," I said.
"I'll circle into the forest from the southwest to track their main camp.
If I can deal with their leader, we'll have a chance to get out of these mountains alive."
"Alone?"
I patted the steel sword on my back, my gaze calm: "One Witcher is enough."
Glick hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded, "We'll take the lower path and rendezvous at 'Broken Stone Cliff' in two days.
You… come back alive."
I tugged the reins, and Grape's hooves lightly tapped as he turned, his figure disappearing into the misty forest.
Deep within the Amer Mountains, the path narrowed, and the mountains grew steeper.
Intertwined branches were like the outstretched claws of a giant beast, blocking out the sun.
Stone slopes and tangled roots made every step precarious.
I tethered Grape by the stream valley and proceeded alone, lightly equipped.
The forest was thick with mist, the air damp and so quiet it was almost deafening.
My boot soles crunched on dry branches, making a faint sound.
I crouched down and found fresh footprints in front of a Gravel slope – more than a dozen people, marching in formation, with uniform fabric, all standard mercenary gear.
The direction pointed northeast, straight towards the main road.
I slowed my pace, adjusted my breathing, and entered stealth mode.
A Quen Sign shimmered beneath my skin, a faint protective film surrounding my entire body.
Suddenly, whispers reached my ears:
"…Is that Witcher still alive?"
"I heard seven died last night; he killed four of them alone."
"Will he track us here?"
"What's there to be afraid of? The captain said we'd go down the mountain after this job.
Besides, no matter how strong a Witcher is, he's just one person—"
"Shh, stop talking.
I hear… something!"
I had already silently leaped up, swooping down from the top of the slope like an eagle pouncing on a rabbit.
My steel sword cut through the silence, a flash of cold light instantly severing the sentry's throat, blood splattering the bushes before it could hit the ground.
I rolled down the slope, severing the second man's arm, then used an Aard Sign to blast him into a tree trunk, followed by the sound of breaking bones.
"Alarm—!" someone shouted in the distance, "The Witcher is here—!"
The entire camp erupted in commotion.
More than a dozen figures quickly gathered by the wooden huts, tents, and campfires along the rock face.
Arrows shot from the forest, one grazing my ear, the venom splashing on my shoulder guard, corroding and smoking.
I immediately cast a Quen Shield, then pulled out a Dream Dragon bomb and hurled it into a half-open tent.
Boom—!
The explosion ripped open the tent flap, the shockwave carrying flames and dust, and several bandits who were getting up were thrown back, screaming and rolling on the ground.
I charged through the flames, bisecting one enemy with a single sword stroke, then turned to sever another's arm, and then slashed across a throat, the sound of the blade tearing through flesh short and muffled.
"Stop him!" someone roared, "Avenge Herber!"
"Herber is still alive," I whispered, "But you won't be."
I spun, knocking one man down, then stomped on his shield, my sword piercing his chest.
Blood stained half my body as I turned to look at the far end of the camp.
There, a burly, red-haired, one-eyed man stood up.
He wore heavy chainmail, a black leather cloak over his shoulders, and wielded a black iron longsword.
His face was expressionless as he coldly assessed me.
"You are the Witcher?"
I didn't answer, only slowly advanced.
He raised his longsword high, roared, and charged, a horizontal slash bringing a whistling wind.
His swordsmanship was decisive, without any embellishment.
I drew my sword to block, and though the blade vibrated, his force was pressing, but he did not push me back.
I used his momentum to turn, my elbow striking a gap in his armpit armor.
He grunted and recoiled.
I counter-attacked with an Igni Sign, flames engulfing his left arm.
He roared and swung his sword again, this time with anger and pain.
I backflipped to dodge, then turned to cut his leg, my steel sword slicing through the hamstring behind his knee.
He staggered and fell to his knees.
"It's over," I said, raising my sword to his heart.
Herber gasped, staring at me, finally showing a trace of fear.
I thrust my sword through his chest, pinning him to the dirt.
His hand trembled slightly in the air, then slowly fell.
I withdrew my sword, wiped it clean, and walked into the main tent behind him.
On the table were piles of crowns, silver, several letters, and a simple "cargo manifest," which detailed the route information and suspected goods of the "Varei Merchant Guild": military supplies? precious metals?
They didn't even know what it was, only that it was valuable.
I burned the papers and letters, leaving only Herber's metal badge.
Then, I walked out of the camp, setting fire to all the tents and bodies, turning this forest into a forbidden zone no one would dare tread.
The firelight reddened the mountain forest as I led Grape over and mounted him.
With the embers still glowing in the forest, I rode south along the original path, circling back to "Broken Stone Cliff."
Two days later, at the junction below the rock face, the caravan arrived as scheduled.
Seeing me, Glick's eyes lit up, and he hurried forward, "Clean work?"
I tossed the metal badge, and it landed in his palm.
"They won't be coming back."
He nodded heavily, a relaxed look finally on his face, "You truly are… just like the legends."
I didn't respond, only glanced at the caravan: five carriages intact, all hands present.
Connie had fresh bandages on his back, his face pale, but he could still stand.
Ham's shoulder wound had healed considerably.
Anastasia stood by the last carriage, her gaze like frost, still on guard.
I looked up into the distance.
Beyond the ridge, a blue-grey skyline rose, a straight silhouette—that was the sky of the Sintra border.
We passed through the last stretch of dense forest, crossed the turbulent river valley stone bridge, and arrived at the end of Amer Mountain.
Sunlight pierced through the forest canopy from above, scattering onto the dirt road, illuminating the main path ahead leading to the kingdom.
The border outpost was faintly visible behind the trees, a silver lion banner of Sintra flapping in the wind.
We had crossed these mountains alive.
And the price of this escort had been paid in blood, fire, and steel.