She was a happy thirteen-year-old girl, with a father who adored her—a well-respected, upright merchant—and a gentle, kind mother—a plain, hardworking homemaker.
This trip to Vergen was her first time leaving Ard Carraigh. She'd begged her parents for a long time before they finally agreed.
So different from the city's frantic crush, the vivid green outside the wagon window never grew old. Her bright eyes brimmed with wonder for the world.
…
He was a fortunate thirty-year-old man. He had a wife faithful to him, a daughter who idolized him, and as a traveling merchant he was doing fairly well for himself.
This run to Vergen was his first since the war ended. He believed the markets there had been waiting for Kaedweni beer and Ban Ard magical goods for a long time.
Having his daughter along also brought an unexpected joy—her chatter and laughter filled the road.
…
At dusk, storm clouds swallowed the last of the sun, laying a lead-gray blanket over this desolate wilderness scarred by war.
On the military road, hooves carried on at an even pace, stepping lightly past brigands and their victims by the roadside.
The brigands only stared at the witcher and the alchemist. The girl's half-formed, choking plea for help was cut off when one of them kicked her hard in the back.
"Don't get involved. They've got prey—so they won't bother two armed men," Lambert said darkly.
"..."
The witcher and the boy kept riding. What was happening at the roadside had nothing to do with them…
And yet, the glance they cast as they passed replayed again and again inside Victor's mind.
He was big. Filthy. Bald. Teeth yellowed and blackened.
He dragged the girl down from the wagon…
In front of her father, he tore at the girl's clothes…
And she was still just a child…
He said: It's time you met a real man!
────
Monster. You deserve to die.
Victor yanked the reins to a stop and snarled, "Lambert!"
He swung down from the saddle, ripped his steel sword free, and strode forward.
Lambert understood what was happening almost the instant Victor reined in. He let out a sigh, wrenched the reins hard with his left hand, and made the horse rear and pivot in a tight half-turn. His right hand flashed the Axii Sign to calm the mount's agitation.
"Three for me, one for you. The crossbow's mine."
He dug in his heels, spurred forward, and shot past Victor—charging first.
The sudden commotion naturally startled the four brigands mid-assault.
As Lambert's horse came thundering in, unstoppable with its speed already up, two closer brigands hurriedly grabbed their axes and split to either side, trying to strike him from the flanks.
Lambert made the horse surge faster.
In the instant he passed between them, he snapped his steel sword out and slashed once to the left, once to the right. The blade, driven by the momentum of the charge, skimmed across their throats.
Two heads launched skyward.
The headless bodies spouted blood like fountains.
The horse kept driving toward the third man—the one holding the crossbow. Panicking, the brigand raised it and fired, but Lambert cast the Quen Sign and the bolt bounced harmlessly away. Seeing the horse about to crash into him, the man threw the crossbow aside and ran.
He didn't outrun a horse.
Lambert cut through his spine from behind, dropping him face-first into the dirt.
Then he wheeled the horse around—
And trampled straight over him.
…
Lambert was carving through them like a storm, but over on Victor's side, something small went wrong.
Victor strode toward that "real man" with hatred burning in his chest. The distance closed fast—close enough to see the panic on the man's ugly face, and the wild, untrained hacking swings of his sword.
If he'd had an axe, it might've been harder, Victor thought. As it was, those sloppy motions were suicide. Victor lunged—one clean thrust—his steel sword flicking across the man's wrist with surgical precision. The brigand's sword clattered to the ground. Pain and terror sent him collapsing backward, scrambling until he landed hard on his backside.
Now it was simple.
One more step.
A downward thrust into the dirt—
But then, a voice boomed in his skull:
Kill him!
The voice was so clear it froze Victor in place.
Don't hesitate—now, kill him!
Hurry! Don't listen to him begging—stab down!
He's a monster—kill him!
No mercy! Do it!
Stab down! We'll—
The echoes stacked over each other, some sharp, some blurred, but all screaming for blood. Victor's head swam.
…
When Lambert galloped back, what he saw was a brigand on the ground shrieking, "Spare me! Have mercy!"—while Victor stood rooted in place, dazed and unfocused, as if he couldn't remember what he was doing.
Lambert naturally assumed Victor's hand had faltered. Hesitating the first time you kill someone was normal.
After a few desperate cries for mercy, the last brigand realized Victor really had stopped. When he saw the boy's lost, bewildered expression, he sensed an opening—and sprang up, whipping a dagger from inside his coat and striking.
Fast.
Precise.
The blade was only a few centimeters from sinking into Victor's eye when—
A violent, irresistible shockwave slammed in from the side and hurled the brigand away.
Lambert's Aard Sign.
Pain snapped Victor awake. The shockwave had come in time, but the dagger still grazed the bridge of his nose, slicing a thin line of blood.
Back in control, Victor watched Lambert—and finally did what he should've done already.
He drove his steel sword down into the dirt, pinning the monster to the ground.
His first real act of monster-slaying ended in a messy anticlimax.
He'd jumped down so dramatically…
And then he'd done nothing.
A few seconds ago, his mind had been a riot of Kill him! Now there was only silence.
In its place came a scream—so loud it seemed to tear the air apart.
The little girl's scream.
She screamed at the severed limbs and mangled bodies. She screamed at the blood. The sound pulled Victor's gaze, and when their eyes met, she screamed even harder.
Her terror—was it aimed at me?
Why?
Why is she screaming?
Did I do something wrong?
If I didn't, why is she screaming at me?
Can't she stop?
Or would she rather have "met a real man"?
With his emotions churning, Victor suddenly doubted himself.
Lambert yanked his sword free and stepped closer. With a quick Axii Sign, he soothed the girl and sent her slipping into sleep.
Victor looked around and didn't see her father. "Where is he? He ran? What about his daughter?" His throat felt dry, his voice so hoarse he barely recognized it.
Lambert chuckled, gave his blade a hard shake to fling the blood away, and sheathed it. "You were worked up—you weren't thinking straight. With the two of us standing here, of course he won't show himself. He's right over there—face-down in the grass, a little to our left."
Victor drew a long breath and forced his heartbeat down. "…Then let's go." He sounded drained.
"Hey, Sir Victor the rescuer—aren't you going to drag that man out and make him pay under the Law of Surprise?" Lambert teased.
"I remember that if it's killing, witchers can't demand payment. So let's go. Even one second sooner—I just want this to be over." In the sea of blood, Victor's face was bleak.
"We were killing monsters." Lambert sighed. "All right, all right—don't look at me like that. It's pathetic, poor Vic… Let's go."
…
They rode hard in grim silence and reached the Pontar's banks at midnight. After washing the blood off—mostly Lambert, since Victor was clean—they made camp near the ferry crossing, planning to take a boat over in the morning.
Lambert saw how heavy Victor looked and didn't try to needle him into talking. They ate a bit of travel rations and lay down separately.
But no one could have guessed—
Victor would not live to see the next day's sun.