Chapter 17 : THE WITCHER IN THE SWAMP
The nekkers had cornered him at the collapsed tree.
Aldric heard the fight before he saw it—the wet shriek of small predators, the deeper grunt of a man fighting with controlled desperation, the particular ring of silver blade against creature-flesh that meant a professional was at work. He signaled Edvard to halt and listened, counting the sounds.
At least thirty nekkers. Swarm behavior, probing and retreating, wearing down prey through attrition. And one defender, still upright but losing the math with every exchange.
"Witcher," Edvard said quietly. "Has to be. No one else fights that long against a swarm."
Aldric had been tracking the Wolf School Witcher for weeks—two-source confirmation of his presence in the region, a contract posted in the village market that had gone unanswered, casual inquiries through the intelligence network that suggested a young man with wolf medallion working his way through the northeastern territories. Coën. The name matched the lore knowledge, though the timing didn't—he shouldn't be in this region for another two years, if the games were accurate.
The games aren't a map, he reminded himself. They're a rough sketch.
"Flanking attack," he said. "Split the swarm. Vek, take three men around the northern approach. Edvard, you're with me. We drive them off the defender, then hold position while he recovers."
The plan executed in thirty seconds. Aldric's group emerged from the eastern treeline while Vek's team hit from the north, and the nekker swarm—confused by the sudden appearance of organized resistance—scattered into smaller clusters that could be isolated and eliminated.
The Witcher was bleeding from three locations: forearm, thigh, and a deeper wound across his ribs that was still flowing despite pressure. He moved with the economy of someone who knew they were approaching their limits but hadn't reached them yet.
Two hours, Aldric estimated from the blood loss and exhaustion signs. He's been fighting alone for two hours.
"Flank secure," Edvard called. "Swarm breaking east."
The nekkers fled into the swamp, their pack coordination disrupted by the unexpected intervention. Aldric let them go—pursuit through swamp terrain would cost more than it gained.
He turned to the Witcher.
---
Coën was younger than Aldric had expected—early twenties, perhaps, with the cat-slit pupils and pale coloring that marked Witcher mutation. His wolf medallion hung against his chest, still vibrating faintly with residual magical detection. The sword in his hand was silver, well-maintained, and he hadn't lowered it despite the apparent rescue.
"Lord Varnhagen," he said. His voice was steady despite the blood loss—professional composure that probably came from surviving situations worse than this one. "Your reputation precedes you."
"You know me?"
"The border baron who reads contracts and keeps records." A faint smile that might have been irony. "Merchants talk. So do village headmen."
Aldric filed the information—his intelligence network was visible enough that a Witcher passing through the region had picked up on it. That meant others might notice too. He'd need to adjust the operational security.
But first: the wound.
He reached into his satchel and produced the sealed flask—water from the partially charged Healing Fountain basin, carried since the construction began. The fountain itself wasn't complete, wouldn't be for months yet. But the proto-water had shown some efficacy in limited testing, and this was exactly the kind of verification opportunity he'd been waiting for.
"Hold still," he said. "This will help with the bleeding."
He poured the water directly onto the rib wound, watching the Witcher's expression shift from skepticism to surprise as the flow slowed visibly. The proto-water wasn't true healing—it accelerated natural coagulation, reduced infection risk, eased the body's repair mechanisms by perhaps ten percent of what the completed fountain would achieve. But ten percent was the difference between a Witcher surviving the ride to proper care and bleeding out in the swamp.
"What is that?" Coën's voice had sharpened. "That's not standard healing potion. The resonance is wrong."
"It's from a spring I'm developing." The explanation was incomplete, and they both knew it. "The full version will be more effective."
Coën studied him with Witcher eyes—enhanced perception that could probably read his heartbeat, his skin temperature, the particular tells that indicated deception. Whatever the assessment concluded, he didn't share it.
"You're young for a lord with alchemical projects."
"I'm young for a lot of things."
"And you happened to be patrolling swamp territory at exactly the moment I needed assistance."
Aldric didn't insult Coën's intelligence by claiming coincidence. "I knew there was a Wolf School Witcher working contracts in this region. I knew the nekker swarm was active. I calculated the probability that you'd encounter them and positioned my patrol accordingly."
"You planned your gratitude in advance."
The words were flat, but something in Coën's posture had shifted—not hostility, exactly. Evaluation. The particular attention of someone reassessing a situation that had turned out to be more complex than expected.
"I plan everything in advance," Aldric said. "Including this: I'm building something that will eventually require the blood of a Witcher, willingly given. Not now. Not as payment for today. But if you find yourself in this territory again, and if you're curious about what a fifteen-year-old baron is constructing that requires Witcher blood—the offer will be open."
He stepped back, signaling Edvard to prepare for departure.
"The nearest healer is in the village, three hours west. Tell them Lord Varnhagen sent you. They'll provide care and lodging."
Coën didn't respond. His cat-slit eyes tracked Aldric's movement as the patrol reformed, calculating something that didn't show on his face.
"You plan your gratitude," he said finally. "And you plant seeds for future harvest." The faint smile returned. "I've met nobles before. They're not usually this honest about their manipulation."
"I'm not manipulating you. I'm offering a transaction that benefits both parties. The distinction matters."
"Does it?"
Aldric mounted his horse. The swamp air was thick with moisture and the copper-sweet smell of nekker blood, and his hand ached where a claw had caught him during the engagement—a shallow laceration he'd barely noticed until now.
"Come back when you're curious," he said. "Or don't. The choice is yours."
He rode away without looking back, already calculating the odds that a Witcher with a debt and a question would return to collect an answer.
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