"What the hell are those people at the damned fortress doing? They still haven't dealt with a few measly rats, and now they have the nerve to ask us for reinforcements. How many men have we already sent them?"
Faced with the displaced anger of Prosciutto, commander of the town gate, the messenger lowered his head and said nothing.
There was no need for him to speak. He had only come to deliver Loredo's orders, not explain them.
After glaring at the man for a moment, Prosciutto sighed silently.
When it came to nonhumans, he opposed discrimination. Nor did he believe yesterday's failed purge justified turning the matter into a wider conflict.
However, with the mob growing increasingly agitated and no orders from his superior, there was nothing he could do. He certainly could not order his soldiers to suppress them.
Looking at the scattered flames flaring up throughout the town after the rain began to weaken, he had no choice but to consider the greater situation. Suppressing his anger, he reassigned another two squads and ordered them to reinforce the fortress.
Several minutes later, the Scoia'tael launched their assault on the town.
They attacked with unprecedented speed and ferocity. Judging by their numbers, they had practically committed their entire force.
Strictly speaking, Flotsam's walls were not particularly high, standing only around ten yards tall. Grappling hooks and scaling ladders could carry attackers to the top very quickly.
The walls' defensive strength therefore depended primarily on the soldiers stationed atop them.
Their chain mail was far superior to the elves' leather armor, and their weapons were sharper. Under normal circumstances, the handful of elves who reached the battlements first would easily be driven back during close combat.
The Scoia'tael were not without advantages, however.
Their bows fired considerably faster than the heavy crossbows favored by the defenders, while their accuracy was even greater. During a large-scale assault, they could easily suppress the defenders' ranged fire.
Crossbow bolts and arrows tore through the air, crossing paths before raining down.
Prosciutto led his men in a desperate struggle upon the battlements.
He knew that if they failed to drive the elves back here and allowed them to establish a foothold on the walls, the gates would soon be opened. Once the great mass of Scoia'tael waiting outside poured into Flotsam, the town would be finished.
The elves, however, had also committed themselves to victory or death.
Fresh attackers continued surging up the ladders, replacing every elf who fell. The walls became a grinding mill of flesh and steel, constantly devouring lives.
The side with fewer warriors soon began to falter.
"What do we do, Prosciutto? We can't hold much longer!" a panicked guard beside him shouted.
"Keep fighting! Don't give up! Reinforcements will arrive soon!" Prosciutto replied calmly.
Despite his confident answer, he understood that their prospects tonight were grim.
He could only hope that the commotion on the walls would alert the troops who had recently departed and bring them rushing back to reinforce the gate. Perhaps the commandant would also send men once the rats inside the fortress had been exterminated.
At that desperate moment, Prosciutto suddenly spotted an opportunity to reverse the situation.
Not far away stood an elf whose eyes possessed a hawk's sharpness and a wolf's vigilance. His voice was thunderous, his strength ferocious, and the scar across his face clearly revealed his identity.
The elf leaped from a scaling ladder onto the wall, spun his curved blade, and began cutting down humans with passionate fury.
"Iorveth the Butcher! This is the perfect opportunity. If I kill him, the elves' morale will collapse immediately!"
Having made his decision, Prosciutto charged courageously toward Iorveth.
Prosciutto's Epitaph
Commander of Flotsam's gate and subordinate of Bernard Loredo, loyal, steadfast, and widely respected.
His year of birth remains unknown. In the spring of 1271, he fell valiantly while defending his post.
...
At the fortified residence, Roche and the Blue Stripes disguised themselves as reinforcements amid the confusion and deceived the guards into opening the outer gate.
They had already reached the front courtyard when their true identities were discovered, after which a fierce battle erupted between them and the defenders.
The fighting had reached its most intense point when Roche heard Bernard's ultimatum demanding that Victor reveal himself.
He could scarcely believe his ears.
So neither Ves nor the White Wolf had caused this chaos.
"What the hell is that bastard doing here? Does anyone know what's inside that building?"
None of the Blue Stripes could answer their commander's question.
Instead, a villain wielding an axe in each hand spun toward him like a whirlwind.
The King's Guardian deflected the attack, then its blade sliced into the man's ribs.
"Finish them quickly!" Roche roared. "We need to reach the central courtyard!"
...
"Fuck!"
Upon hearing Loredo's ultimatum, Geralt, like Vernon Roche, could not stop himself from swearing.
Only now did the White Wolf realize that the fellow witcher playing cat and mouse with the guards on the other side of the courtyard was, yet again, his junior companion, Victor of Kaer Trolde.
The man truly seemed to be everywhere.
The enemy of one's enemy was a friend.
Still cursing under his breath, Geralt hurried toward the central courtyard.
He might have been furious about certain things the alchemist had done, but the commandant's ultimatum clearly threatened innocent people. Compared with scum like Loredo, his junior companion seemed as pure as an angel.
Geralt did not know what Victor intended to do, but his instincts led him to the same conclusion as Ves.
Someone as shrewd as that young man would surely never expose himself recklessly. He must have prepared some corresponding plan.
That was why the White Wolf was deeply shaken when he saw Victor standing within layer upon layer of encirclement.
It was already too late.
Even if Geralt charged forward, he could not save him.
Sacrificing oneself for others was never easy. Victor's noble action was enough to make Geralt wonder whether all the resentment he had accumulated toward him yesterday had merely been an illusion.
Geralt's mutated pupils, enhanced by a Cat potion, clearly saw the deep violet markings covering Victor's face and the dim crimson light within his eyes.
Victor swayed slightly in the center of the courtyard, looking small, pitiful, and helpless.
Four or five heavily built men closed in, swinging their weapons at him.
Victor merely drew a deep breath.
Wait.
Geralt's heart suddenly lurched, and he immediately covered both ears with his hands.
The next instant, the clouds parted, and clear moonlight poured down like water.
That seemingly small, pitiful, and helpless figure faced the surrounding evil and released an unyielding roar.
"FUS, RO DAH!"
The Dragon Shout that had once shaken the Arena of Rage and stunned even a true dragon now echoed through the skies above Flotsam.
The power of that single roar left almost everyone in the courtyard dazed. Only Geralt, who had covered his ears in time, escaped its effects.
He was about to approach and help when the extraordinary scene before him left him staring in astonishment.
As the Dragon Shout thundered across the sky, the steel sword hanging loosely from Victor's hand seemed to come alive.
His wrist turned, and the blade twisted before him like a serpent. Then Victor spun forward and cleanly opened an enemy's chest.
Amid a fountain of blood, he continued sweeping, turning, and leaping without pause.
The elegant movements of that deadly dance looked exceedingly familiar to the White Wolf.
No, they were not merely familiar.
They were identical.
There could be no doubt.
It was the Pirouette Sword Dance, the sword technique that had made Geralt famous throughout the North.
Only then did Geralt understand that Victor's earlier swaying had not been caused by weakness.
He had been finding the rhythm.
How incredible!
When had he learned this technique?
It should have been impossible.
Victor's swordsmanship descended from the teachings of Vesemir and Eskel. It emphasized simple, efficient movements and rarely included such elaborate flourishes.
Yet Victor now performed the technique almost as well as Geralt himself.
Through his enhanced vision, Geralt watched Victor seize the opportunity created by the Dragon Shout and launch his second charge against hundreds of enemies.
His harmonious, weightless steps appeared graceful and unhurried. Yet with every rotation, he skillfully accumulated momentum and power within the weapon in his hands.
Blood filled the air like rain.
One step, one death.
The point of the witcher's sword remained fixed upon the commandant of Flotsam, Bernard Loredo.
His vow to kill the man burned plain for gods and mortals alike to witness.
Feeling that cold, unstoppable killing intent, the commandant panicked and shouted frantically, ordering the recovering soldiers to block Victor's path.
Unfortunately, without the protection of a tightly packed formation, their resistance was meaningless.
The Pirouette Sword Dance made the King's Guardian strike with the crushing weight of a war hammer. Combined with the effect of Dreadful King, even when the blade failed to split a shield, the impact still knocked its bearer to the ground.
(TN: Fixed, Dreadful King=Terrifying Overlord)
With the resolve to break the enemy line, Victor advanced through death toward life.
Wherever the Dovahkiin stepped, the garrison split before him like waves parting around a ship's prow.
At that moment, time itself seemed to slow, reducing everyone to languid motion.
Roche and his men charged into the courtyard.
Geralt silently witnessed the spectacle.
On the second floor, Angoulême clenched both fists in excitement.
On the third floor, Ves pressed her thighs tightly together.
The bald Loredo released a shrill scream of disbelief.
Victor's sword flashed.
It could have cleaved through a waterfall.
Loredo's severed head soared into the sky before falling directly onto the point of the King's Guardian.
Bernard Loredo's headless remains slowly dropped to their knees and collapsed onto the ground.
The soldiers standing closest to him panicked upon seeing their commandant killed.
Those farther away had only just recovered from the Dragon Shout and did not yet understand what had happened.
Victor picked up the enchanted amplifier and raised the King's Guardian high, with Loredo's head still impaled upon it.
His voice thundered across Flotsam.
"ENEMY COMMANDER LOREDO HAS FALLEN!"
With Victor's proclamation echoing like thunder, time seemed to resume its normal flow.
"Enemy commander Loredo has fallen!"
Unless someone was deaf, there was no place in Flotsam where they could not hear that victorious cry rising from the depths of Victor's soul.
Iorveth, who was running through the streets of Flotsam, could not help slowing for a moment.
"Well, well. Our Dovahkiin is even more ferocious than I thought. He dealt with Loredo before we could even reinforce him."
After hearing their commander confirm the news, the elves following him released a unified cheer.
Loredo's cunning and oppressive rule had cast a predatory shadow over them for years.
"Regardless, we should hurry over there," Lansi said with a delighted smile. "There may still be some diehards who need to be cleared out. I would be happy to kill a few more bastards."
Among the crowd, Seherim bit his lower lip and looked expectantly toward the elven commander.
Iorveth smiled and gestured for the troops to continue advancing.
Behind them, flames were rising throughout half of Flotsam.
The Scoia'tael who had broken into the town were joining forces with its nonhuman residents and beginning their violent retaliation against the humans.
"Commandant! The town has fallen! The town has fallen! The Scoia'tael have broken in! You must take the men and stop them immediately!"
Pesci rushed into the courtyard, weeping and covered in snot as he shouted his warning.
He had heard the proclamation of Loredo's death while on his way, but he refused to believe it.
Since Prosciutto had sent him to report the bad news, the commandant had to still be alive.
Yet the moment Pesci stepped into the courtyard, the sight before him left him stunned.
Cold moonlight covered the square.
Everyone present looked fearfully toward its center, where a man held up a sword with a severed head impaled upon it.
Illuminated by the firelight, the face was clearly recognizable.
It was Commandant Loredo.
For the soldiers in the courtyard, Victor's earlier proclamation had left them frightened and confused.
Pesci's report, however, sounded like the tolling of a doomsday bell.
Having lost the man who held them together, the guards erupted into chaos before breaking ranks and fleeing in every direction.
The outcome had been decided.
Ignoring the petrified Pesci, the witcher shook Loredo's head from his sword and allowed it to roll into a muddy puddle.
Killing the man had been important.
Now that he was dead, however, he was nothing more than refuse.
With their leader fallen, the guards scattered.
Geralt and the Blue Stripes, who remained in the courtyard, were both conspicuous and impossible to overlook.
Roche made no attempt to stop the soldiers from escaping.
He knew that once morale had completely collapsed, invoking the authority of the Blue Stripes would be meaningless.
He ignored Pesci as well. Leading his men directly around the messenger, he approached Victor, only to find himself momentarily uncertain what to say.
Strictly speaking, their mission that night had been completed successfully.
Malliger lay nearby, securely bound from head to toe. Loredo had also been beheaded, even though Roche and his men had not killed him personally.
Yet against the backdrop of Flotsam's fall, their accomplishment suddenly seemed insignificant.
As one of the Blue Stripes passed the dazed messenger, he casually shoved him aside.
The push awakened Pesci from his stupor.
He released a long, miserable howl like a beaten cur before suffering a complete breakdown and fleeing.
His wretched appearance gave Roche the inspiration he needed to break the silence.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Are you hard of hearing? I only just announced it. I killed the villain Loredo!"
After speaking, the witcher threw back his head and began laughing wildly.
"Hahahahahahaha!"
Neither the White Wolf nor the Blue Stripes knew how to react to that attitude.
Victor did not look remotely normal. He seemed to have fallen into madness.
In truth, he had not.
Anyone from a more modern age could have summarized the phenomenon quite easily.
He had simply succumbed to a fit of theatrical heroics.
"You killed the commandant and then publicly announced it," Roche said. "Flotsam's defenses will completely collapse. There will be no one left capable of organizing resistance against the Scoia'tael!"
"So what? I'm not taking responsibility for that. I wasn't the one who discriminated against the nonhumans, and I wasn't the one who tortured the elves. Cutting down that bastard Loredo was nothing more than righteous justice. What, do you have a problem with it? Come at me!"
Victor even raised his hand and beckoned provocatively.
Inwardly, he knew the situation was becoming dangerous.
A few diplomatic words would have allowed both sides to withdraw with their dignity intact.
Unfortunately, drawing his sword against a hundred men and cutting down a villain like some legendary champion had left him on an overwhelming, adrenaline-fueled high. Provocative nonsense poured uncontrollably from his mouth.
Although he looked eager to fight Roche, what he truly wanted was for the man to praise him.
"You lunatic! Do you even understand the current situation?"
Roche waved his hand.
The Blue Stripes immediately loaded their bows and drew their swords.
"Well, well. Do you want me to teach you the final lesson too? Let me tell you, never draw a sword against a witcher, and..."
"Wait! All of you, stop!"
The person shouting was Ves, with Angoulême standing beside her.
Seeing her emerge from the pleasure house, Roche needed no explanation to roughly determine what had happened.
He lowered his hand, signaling the Blue Stripes to sheathe their weapons.
The lieutenant walked briskly toward her commander.
When she passed Victor, she noticed his displeased expression after having his speech interrupted.
Ves suddenly leaned close, kissed his cheek, and whispered a provocative invitation into his ear.
"Hey, let's find an opportunity for the two of us to have a go sometime."
Roche folded his arms, visibly displeased.
Geralt pretended not to notice anything.
The Blue Stripes behind them reacted very differently. Some whistled, while others clapped and shouted.
Their lieutenant regularly beat them senseless, so opportunities to tease her were exceedingly rare.
After returning to her comrades, Ves explained the cause and sequence of events to the White Wolf and her commander in a few concise sentences.
Roche no longer knew what to say.
As one of Bernard Loredo's fellow servants of the kingdom, even he felt ashamed by the commandant's atrocities.
The darkness before dawn quietly faded.
The horizon turned gray-white as the first traces of light appeared, and the elves' noisy battle cries gradually became clearer.
Some of the guards who had fled earlier had been too slow and were intercepted by the elves at the entrance.
No superhuman senses were necessary for everyone in the courtyard to know that the fighting was approaching.
They could hear the elves shouting, "Are dhoe!" as they attacked the humans, and "Aear avienn!" as they called for the apes to be killed.
Having calmed down slightly, Victor rubbed his nose.
He shared at least some friendship with the people before him, so he ought to show them a little consideration.
"Since no one wants to fight, you should leave quickly."
Victor returned his sword to its sheath and pointed toward the southeastern corner.
"The steepest section of the wall is over there. Angoulême and I entered from that direction, and we left two ropes in place that you can use to escape.
"Iorveth will arrive soon. I'm sure he'll be delighted to see all of you, but should he capture you, I suspect you'll experience something unprecedentedly unpleasant."
Geralt had several matters he wanted to discuss with his junior companion, but this was clearly not the proper time.
He placed a hand over his chest in farewell, then patted Roche to remind him that they needed to leave.
The stubble-covered Roche shook his head.
"Vic, you may be a complete bastard, but this time, I owe you my thanks."
After speaking, he gestured for his men to follow and departed.
Ves waved goodbye to Angoulême, then blew Victor a kiss.
"Remember our agreement!"
Faced with that absurdly confident challenge between friends, Victor merely shrugged, silently accepting it.
//Check out my P@tre0n for 30 extra chapters //[email protected]/Razeil0810