Chapter 40: The Dragon Chase
The dragon hunt drew adventurers like carrion draws crows.
Word had spread through every tavern and guild hall across the Northern Kingdoms: a golden dragon spotted in the Mahakam foothills. Bounties stacked upon bounties—noble families wanting trophies, alchemists wanting ingredients, glory-seekers wanting legends. By the time we arrived at the staging area, three dozen hunting parties had already established camps.
"This is chaos," Viktor observed, surveying the scattered tents and arguing factions. "Nobody's coordinating. Half these groups will die fighting each other before they find the dragon."
"Which is exactly why we're not hunting." I adjusted my pack, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. "We're providing logistics. Let the glory-seekers chase legends—we'll make money off their ambition."
The Covenant of Blades had arrived with six members: myself, Viktor, Aldric, and three combat-capable fighters who could handle security work. Our purpose wasn't dragon-slaying—it was service provision. Equipment repairs, supply sales, camp security, trail scouting. The unglamorous work that kept hunting expeditions functional.
Within three hours, we'd established a command tent and taken our first contracts.
"Two groups want security for their base camps," Mira reported via message crystal. Her voice crackled slightly through the magical connection. "Another needs trail scouting toward the eastern ridges. A fourth is asking about medical supplies—apparently their healer ate something that disagreed with him."
"Take all of them. Standard rates, professional service." I reviewed the client roster. "Any competitors offering similar services?"
"A few individual contractors. Nobody organized like us."
"Good. We dominate the support market. By the time this hunt ends, every surviving party will know the Covenant name."
The hunting parties ranged from professional to pathetic.
One group—led by a minor Temerian noble with more gold than sense—had hired two dozen mercenaries and brought enough supplies for a siege. Their coordination was military, their equipment excellent, their prospects still poor because they were hunting a creature that could level their entire force in seconds.
Another group consisted of four dwarven prospectors who'd apparently decided that dragon scales were more valuable than gold. They had mining equipment, black powder, and absolutely no combat training. I gave them maybe thirty percent odds of surviving the journey home, let alone the hunt itself.
The most interesting party was smaller—just three figures around a campfire. White hair caught the firelight. Cat-slitted eyes tracked movement in the darkness with predatory attention.
Geralt of Rivia had come for the dragon.
I'd expected it. The golden dragon hunt was famous enough to attract a witcher, and Geralt's particular talent for surviving impossible situations made him exactly the kind of person who might succeed where others would die.
"Master Colen." His voice carried across the space between our camps. "Your guild keeps appearing wherever there's money to be made."
"That's rather the point of a guild." I crossed to his fire, settling onto a log opposite his position. "Contract hunting?"
"Curiosity, mostly. Golden dragons are rare. Possibly extinct." His expression was unreadable in the flickering light. "Hunting one seems... wasteful."
"But profitable, if you succeed."
"If." The word carried weight. "You're not hunting."
"We're providing support services. Equipment, supplies, medical care for the inevitable injuries. Let other people risk their lives for glory—we'll profit from their ambition while keeping our people safe."
Geralt grunted, something that might have been approval. His companions—two dark-haired women whose bearing suggested fighter training—watched me with professional assessment but didn't speak.
"Your guild's grown," Geralt observed. "Last I heard, you had operations in two cities."
"Three kingdoms now, actually. Teams working Temeria and Aedirn while we maintain Redania." I accepted the offered waterskin from one of his companions—a gesture of hospitality that said something about their evaluation of me. "The expansion's been aggressive but controlled."
"Why?"
The question was simple. The answer was complicated.
"Because killing individual monsters treats symptoms," I said, choosing words carefully. "Building something that trains people to protect themselves, that coordinates responses to threats, that creates infrastructure for communities to survive—that treats the disease."
Geralt was quiet for a long moment. The fire crackled between us, sparks rising toward stars obscured by mountain mist.
"Most adventurers I know care about glory or gold. You talk like a general planning campaigns."
"Most adventurers die young and poor. I'd prefer alternatives."
"And the people you recruit? What do they want?"
"Belonging. Purpose. The security that comes from being part of something larger than themselves." I met his eyes. "Same things anyone wants, really. We just provide a structure that delivers them."
His companions exchanged glances I couldn't read. Geralt's expression remained neutral, but something had shifted in his posture—assessment completed, evaluation ongoing.
"Your information-trade arrangement has been useful," he said finally. "The intelligence about monster populations, migration patterns. It's helped me take contracts more efficiently."
"Mutual benefit. Your observations help us plan operations; our payment helps you maintain equipment. Practical exchange between professionals."
"Practical." He almost smiled. "Not a word most people associate with monster hunting."
"Most people don't survive monster hunting long enough to develop vocabulary."
Three days of chaos produced exactly what I'd expected.
Hunting parties scattered across the mountain slopes, following trails and rumors and desperate optimism. The noble's mercenary force pushed deepest, their military discipline allowing sustained advance through difficult terrain. The dwarven prospectors gave up on day two, retreating to the staging area with nothing but bruises and wounded pride.
Our guild handled seventeen separate contracts over the three days—camp security, supply runs, equipment repairs, medical treatment for everything from twisted ankles to arrow wounds sustained in conflicts between rival hunting parties. Revenue accumulated: forty-five crowns, plus the intangible value of reputation built through professional service.
The dragon appeared on the evening of the third day.
I was reviewing contract completion rates with Viktor when the screaming started. Distant at first—human voices raised in terror, the sound of something massive moving through air. Then closer, a roar that shook the mountains themselves.
Golden scales caught dying sunlight. Wings blocked out stars. The dragon circled the staging area once, twice, its shadow falling across camps like a judgement.
"Everyone down," I ordered, pulling Viktor behind our supply wagon. "Don't look threatening. Don't run."
The dragon didn't attack the camps. It continued circling, as if evaluating the gathered hunters, before descending toward the eastern ridges where the noble's mercenary force had established forward position.
Screams followed. Fire bloomed against the mountainside. The sound of battle—human weapons against something ancient and terrible—echoed for maybe ten minutes before silence fell.
Then the dragon rose again, circled twice more, and vanished into the night sky heading north.
Twenty-seven dead. Forty-two wounded. The noble's mercenary force had been decimated—eighteen men lost in the initial engagement, with survivors scattered across the slopes in various states of injury and shock.
Aldric earned his place in the guild that night.
"Compound fracture, left arm. Burns across the chest and face, second and third degree. Shock setting in—he needs fluids and warmth immediately." His assessment was rapid, professional, the voice of someone who'd treated worse during Temerian campaigns. "This one might survive if we work fast."
I assigned guild members to triage while Aldric performed emergency treatment. The potions we'd brought for sale became medical supplies—three used treating the most severe cases, their effectiveness shocking survivors who expected to die from their injuries.
"How?" one mercenary gasped as his burns began healing. "That's not possible..."
"Quality alchemical work," I said. "Rest now. Let the treatment do its work."
By dawn, we'd stabilized everyone who could be stabilized. Eleven of the wounded would survive. The dead were beyond our help.
Geralt appeared as the sun crested the eastern ridges.
"You didn't hunt," he observed. "When the dragon appeared, you protected your people and waited."
"I'm not equipped to fight dragons. Neither is anyone else here, evidently."
"But you could have. Tried, at least. For the glory."
"Glory doesn't spend. Glory doesn't keep my people fed or my organization functional." I watched survivors being loaded onto makeshift stretchers for transport. "The dragon won. Pretending otherwise would just add my corpse to the pile."
"Smart."
"Practical."
Geralt studied me for a long moment—the same evaluating gaze I remembered from our first meeting in Oxenfurt, but deeper now. More considered.
"The dragon wasn't what it seemed," he said finally.
"They rarely are."
His expression flickered—surprise, quickly hidden. "You knew."
"I suspected. Golden dragons are legendary for a reason. And the hunt seemed... staged. Too convenient, too public, drawing exactly the kind of attention that would expose human greed and ambition."
"A lesson."
"Possibly. Or something else entirely." I met his eyes. "Either way, not my business. My business is keeping my people alive and profitable. The dragon's motivations are its own concern."
Geralt nodded slowly. Something had shifted between us—not friendship, exactly, but recognition. Two professionals who understood each other's methods even when those methods differed.
"If you ever need witcher expertise," he said, "the information-trade arrangement could expand. Combat support, specialized monster hunting. Your guild handles what it can handle. We handle what requires witcher attention."
"I'd like that. Professional partnership, clearly defined roles."
We shook hands. His grip was iron, but controlled—strength without threat.
"I'll be in Oxenfurt for another week," he said. "If you want to discuss details."
"I'll find you."
He walked away into the morning mist, white hair catching sunlight. The most famous witcher on the continent, offering partnership with a guild that had existed for less than two years.
"Progress. Slow, careful, but real."
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