It was the same kind of summer—one year ago, in the Kaer Morhen library—
"Nekkers are creatures that arrived with the Conjunction of the Spheres. They're small, usually three to four feet tall; a few rare variants can reach five. Pale-skinned, with long, wide jaws, sharp teeth and claws. They possess rudimentary intelligence and prefer to attack in packs."
Vesemir clapped his hands twice. "Nearly perfect, child."
Smiling, the boy didn't stop there. He continued, "Their flesh is coarse and unfit to eat. Their blood, claws, and eyes can all be used as alchemical materials—and an albino nekker heart is an especially valuable catalyst for certain special potions.
"A silver sword—and ogroid oil, brewed by drying and crushing moon rose petals, then simmering them with bear fat—will significantly increase lethality."
"Impressive," the witcher master said with a satisfied nod.
…
In real combat, a single nekker's fighting power really isn't worth mentioning. Pouncing, tearing, biting—fast and forceful, sure, but their size puts a hard ceiling on what they can do. The real danger usually comes when you're caught by their numbers, hit from front and back, and they manage to slip damage into something vulnerable.
Fortunately for the crew, the leather armor reinforced with iron plates they'd bought in Vergen wasn't just for show. Quality varies in everything—even "leather" comes in grades—and back then, plain and practical as Victor was, he'd chosen the toughest hide, properly tanned.
Good armor. Sharp weapons. Fine blade oil. Potions taken to the brim.
It began when the first nekker sprinted in from a distance and launched itself at them—only for the silver sword to split it from skull down the spine, cleaving it clean in two.
The air suddenly filled from all sides with the nekker pack's harsh, chattering cries. The two of them were swallowed by a ring of small monsters, and the irreconcilable contradiction between hunter and prey detonated into violence.
With the boost from the potions, Victor's enhanced reflexes and strength handled the encirclement without much trouble. Even the one or two nekkers that tried to burrow in for an ambush were noticed in advance and pinned to the ground before they could surface. You could say that, before his silver blade, there simply was no opponent.
And Angoulême was already strong to begin with. With the potion's reinforcement on top of that, even though her Mahakam steel sword didn't have the silver sword's special edge against monsters, the ogroid oil was more than enough to let her carve through the pack again and again.
Under the moonlight, her "performance" was a masterclass in footwork—constant shifts of position, uninterrupted downward chop, upward slash, then another downward chop. Three swings in a breath, and three nekkers became six pieces.
Honestly, with blood spraying like a crimson storm, the whole scene was strangely beautiful.
After Victor used a feint to bait a nekker into a pounce, twisted aside to let it sail past, then stepped in and drew his blade upward across its chest, the remaining five or six let out a ragged howl. Leaving behind roughly twice their number in corpses, they scattered and fled.
They'd come in a rush and left just as fast. In the blink of an eye, the forest fell quiet again, leaving only a mess on the ground to prove that a struggle for survival had taken place.
In the cool night breeze, Victor and Angoulême met each other's eyes, let out a long breath, and then—without even meaning to—burst into loud laughter. It was what spilled out after the tension of facing an unknown number of threats finally snapped.
Then the laughter faded. Angoulême walked back to the campfire, dropped down hard, and stared into the flames as if she'd forgotten what she was even thinking.
Victor stepped closer. "You hurt?"
She shook her head.
Victor took out a small tin of salve, dabbed it beneath his own nose, then handed it to her. "Put it under your nose. You won't smell it for a while."
Then, without another word, he drew his short knife and wandered—very deliberately—toward a field of treasure.
Very stinky treasure.
…
"Seriously," Angoulême asked as they walked in the first gray light of dawn, "just how bad do you stink right now, Captain?"
After gathering up their "treasure," the boy was a little disappointed not to find an albino nekker heart. Seeing the sky starting to brighten, the crew simply packed up and moved on. Catherine refused, no matter what, to perch on the girl's shoulder again—because Victor was walking right beside Angoulême.
"If you really want to know, I can give you an antidote to the nose-salve. I don't want to know myself," Victor said flatly.
Angoulême thought about it, spat to the side of the road, and decided, "Forget it… Catherine said it's horrific."
A thin band of golden sunlight lit up on the far horizon.
With no Catherine beside her to chat, Angoulême fell back into her habit of chattering at Victor. "Captain, what were those three potions we just drank? After I swallowed them, I felt full of strength—like I could do anything!"
"Witcher enhancement potions. A normal person would be poisoned by them. What we drank were improved, non-toxic versions, and the boost is pretty modest."
When Victor put it like that, Angoulême immediately protested, "Modest?! If I can get a set like that every fight, I'd feel invincible!"
"Oh?" the boy shot back calmly. "Confident you could beat Iorveth?"
That grand declaration jammed in her throat. Her voice shrank. "…Probably… still no."
"And at your level you want a full set every time? Dream on. Do you have any idea how many crowns the raw ingredients alone are worth? How many crowns the finished potions are worth?
"And do you know that oil has to be simmered with bear fat? Back then I spent an entire morning hopping around like an idiot to deal with one bear, and how much bear fat did I scrape out of it in total?
"Yesterday was an unavoidable extravagance because we didn't know what we were walking into. Ugh… the more I talk, the more it feels like my wallet is bleeding… and I haven't even counted the wear on the steel sword and the silver sword. I'm telling you—" Victor launched into a full Scrooge-worthy lecture, absolutely merciless toward Angoulême's innocent ignorance of just how expensive things were.
Real life isn't a game. There aren't convenient herbs lying everywhere for you to scoop up—and some herbs can't be bought even if you have the money. On top of that, carrying and storing potions is a major problem: give it a bit of time, and with this era's preservation methods they spoil and rot easily. Victor could only keep building up a diligent stockpile of mixtures because his herb pouch helped keep ingredients fresh.
Swap him out for a different witcher, and in a sudden situation like last night, most would have had to grit their teeth and rely on swordplay alone. And if they got wounded, their "self-rescue" would come down to harsh, unreliable drugs.
Victor's miserly sermon hammered Angoulême into wordless defeat. All she could do was trudge along with her head down. It went on until after midday—only stopping when the walls of Ellander finally came into view.
…
When they paid the entry fee at the gate, Victor noticed the guard's undisguised disgust at the stench. He just smiled, lifted a long string of nekker ears in greeting, and scared the man so badly he stumbled backward, nearly slipping.
Angoulême kept her hood up and maintained a not-too-close, not-too-far distance behind Victor as they entered. Not long after, she stopped before the inn called The Limping Anton, tapped the pommel of her sword three times, and went inside.
Hearing the taps, Victor glanced back once at the signboard and the girl—then kept walking.
This was his first attempt at traveling under a witcher's identity. In theory, that string of nekker ears could be exchanged for a bounty at the town hall. And out of caution—avoiding unnecessary trouble—he'd told Angoulême to keep some distance on the way in, choose her own lodging, and settle in separately.
Especially since he still needed to go pay a visit to the Temple of Melitele. If all went well, he would be staying there—and Angoulême despised all temples, even those dedicated to the oldest goddess of love and peace, Melitele.