Iorveth winked at Victor before following Saskia away. Philippa then opened a portal, while Prince Stennis was helped away by his men. In the blink of an eye, only the witcher and Vergen's alderman, who was overseeing the closing of the city gates, remained outside.
Victor had not recognized Yarpen Zigrin earlier, but he had known the learned alderman, Cecil Burdon, for several years through their business dealings in virility potions.
Cecil possessed the luxuriant beard common among dwarves and wore a beret upon his head.
Reunited after so long, the witcher embraced him and clapped him on the shoulder.
"It's been a long time, Cecil."
"Welcome back, Victor. Is there anything I can do for you? Will you be staying at Angoulême's place again, or should I arrange a room at the inn? It won't be as comfortable as a home, of course, but at least you'll have a roof over your head and a bed to rest in."
"There's no need to arrange anything. I'll stay at Angoulême's place as before."
"No problem. So, are you truly a witcher now? I've never heard of pupils like yours."
"I'm pleased that you've retained your curiosity about the world. It keeps a person energetic and passionate and prevents the changing times from leaving him behind."
"Ha! Thank you for the marvelous blessing. There's always sense in what you say. You probably don't need anyone to guide you, but still... Skalen, come here and accompany our witcher master to Angoulême's house. Tell him about everything that's changed over the past two years along the way. I'm sure you haven't forgotten the Phantom Troupe."
Victor also recognized the fellow in the beret whom the alderman had summoned.
His name was Skalen Burdon, and he was a young dwarf not yet fifty years old.
There was nothing strange about that. To a dwarf, anyone under fifty truly was young. A dwarf was not generally considered an adult until the age of fifty-five, when his beard had grown down to his waist.
Skalen had not even received a dwarven cloak of his own yet, a short, hooded cloak irregularly mottled with gray and brown patches.
The advantage of a dwarven cloak was that it was completely waterproof. This exceptional quality came from the tar and dust of the trade roads, along with the greasy remnants of countless meals, accumulated over more than a decade.
Simply put, the wearer never washed it.
Such a practical garment was the finest coming-of-age gift a father could pass down to his eldest son.
After watching Cecil depart, Victor and Skalen walked side by side toward Angoulême's cave dwelling in Vergen's upper district.
Vergen had been constructed by hollowing out most of a mountain. Property in the lower levels was extremely expensive, while homes in the upper district were cheaper.
Angoulême had been poor when she first purchased her home, so she had bought it there. Later, even after Victor became wealthy, he had never felt any desire to move underground.
At first glance, the mountain city had not changed much.
From the moment Victor entered through the gates, everything, from the sturdy stone-paved streets to the vendors lining both sides of the road, stirred fragment after fragment of memory.
He had once run along this mountain road every day to train his body.
Victor stopped beside a roadside stall, carefully selected his fruit, haggled over the price, and purchased a bag of peaches and figs.
Carrying it in his arms, he chatted casually with Skalen as they walked.
He soon discovered that the young dwarf was filled with hope about the coming war. Whenever Saskia was mentioned, Skalen's eyes shone.
Some forms of beauty truly could transcend the boundaries between races.
According to the dwarves, if Saskia had only possessed a beard, the entire avenue would have been packed with dwarven suitors proposing to the saint.
They continued past the Cauldron, one of Vergen's most famous taverns.
The witcher could hear the uproar of gamblers inside, along with the meaty thuds of fists striking flesh. Both were familiar traditions of the mountain city.
He could also faintly hear Angoulême and Dandelion drinking and chatting with several unfamiliar dwarves. They were probably old friends of hers.
Victor had other matters to attend to, however, so he did not hurry to join them.
Besides, by long-standing custom, even if they did not play bridge, they would continue drinking until well past midnight.
The mountain path twisted and wound upward.
Victor suddenly slowed and pointed toward a closed smithy.
"Hey, what happened to old Baltimore? Is he not open today?"
The Mahakaman piercing sword Victor had favored when he was just beginning his career had been commissioned from this very smithy. Baltimore, its owner, had been an exceptionally skilled craftsman.
Skalen removed his beret, scratched his hair, and spat into the drainage ditch.
"The old fellow's gone missing. We searched for him for several days but couldn't find him. If you need anything, his apprentice Thorak can make some decent weapons too. He'll probably inherit this place soon."
"What do you mean, he went missing?"
"I don't know much about it either. That's all the notice said. If you want the details, you'll have to ask Cecil."
"All right. I will."
As they chatted, they finally reached Angoulême's home.
Victor pushed open the red plank door.
Although the cave dwelling was carved directly into the mountainside, its high ceiling kept the interior from feeling cramped or stuffy.
Victor gave Skalen a few crowns for beer and sent him on his way.
He collapsed onto the familiar sofa, took out his music box, and set it playing.
As a graceful melody filled the room, Victor relaxed and alternated between bites of fruit and mouthfuls of milk.
...
Some time later, a round-table council was convened within a stately and magnificent hall.
Dwarven architecture did not feature many elaborate tapestries or ornaments, but the stone pillars supporting the ceiling were carved with scenes from history, and even the bright oil lamps had been ingeniously constructed.
At the central stone table, the sorceress Philippa Eilhart sat on Saskia's left, symbolizing her left hand.
On her right sat Yarpen Zigrin, commander of the dwarven forces, followed by Zoltan Chivay and Alderman Cecil Burdon, symbolizing her right hand.
Directly opposite Saskia sat Shit-ennis, or rather, Stennis.
It was terribly disrespectful to remember his name that way, but after hearing Yarpen use that unforgettable nickname, Victor had been unable to drive it from his mind.
The prince's guards, Broghan and Reverend Olcan, stood behind him.
On either side sat richly dressed human nobles. Every one of them possessed the forgettable air of a background figure and was completely unworthy of attention.
Viscount Victor Corion, being a titled gentleman, naturally had a place at the round table as well.
His seat lay between the two sides, subtly symbolizing his neutrality.
Philippa Eilhart sat to his right, while on his left was a man who looked like both a noble and a warrior. His clothing was luxurious, but a powerful physique was clearly concealed beneath it.
The witcher observed the people attending with his eyes while listening to Saskia's pleasant voice.
She was recounting what had happened earlier upon the ancient battlefield.
"Gentlemen, you missed quite a spectacle, along with an excellent opportunity to kill a monarch. After some fighting, the prince was wounded... we were attacked from both sides... Fortunately, the witcher arrived in time... and finally Philippa..."
The turbulent account stirred a wave of discussion that continued until the round table gradually quieted.
Wearing a high lace collar and a silver hairpin, Philippa spoke in a firm, resonant voice.
"I trust all of you witnessed the extraordinary phenomenon that covered the entire battlefield.
"I must warn anyone who still harbors doubts that this was no ordinary fog, nor was it some illusion performed at a fairground.
"We are most likely facing a blood curse, an ancient and exceptionally powerful spell.
"We do not yet know who cast it or why, but for now, I have one piece of good news and one piece of bad news.
"The good news is that Henselt and his army have been temporarily obstructed. Against a spectral disturbance of this magnitude, no number of soldiers will be useful.
"The bad news is that the mist is growing thicker and continuing to expand. If this continues, it may engulf Vergen, and wraiths will appear wherever the fog spreads."
"These wraiths look like the men who died in the last war," Yarpen said. "Are they waiting to be redeemed, or have they come looking for revenge with axes in their hands?"
Victor crossed his arms and offered his professional opinion.
"Their nature is similar to that of earthbound spirits. In theory, they seek redemption rather than vengeance. In practice, however, I still recommend placing your faith in a silver weapon.
"Fortunately, these immortal ghosts grow weaker the farther they move from the mist."
Yarpen asked another question.
"Is there some way to disperse them? Should we perform an exorcism?"
"You would not understand even if I explained it," Philippa replied indifferently. "In any case, the witcher Victor of Kaer Trolde and I will resolve this problem."
The nobleman sitting to the prince's right had previously known only that Victor was a witcher. Upon hearing his full name, he exclaimed in astonishment.
"What? You're the murderous Dovahkiin who has slaughtered countless people?"
"The claim that he slaughters people indiscriminately is nothing more than a rumor," Philippa said in Victor's defense. "I never expected an honorable lord such as yourself to believe groundless gossip like an old woman beside a village well."
Zoltan also rapped his knuckles against the table when he heard his friend being attacked.
"Sir, don't let the two swords on his back mislead you. In truth, he would neither harm a fly nor possess the heart to do so. Look into his eyes, and you'll discover that he's actually gentle and sensitive."
Gentle and sensitive?
Victor nearly burst out laughing.
He forced himself to maintain a solemn expression and continued performing the promising role of observer.
As an old acquaintance, Philippa naturally knew precisely what sort of person the Dovahkiin was.
Gentle and sensitive?
She almost rolled her eyes at the dwarf's shameless lie.
Fortunately, she maintained perfect control of her expression and continued speaking with imposing dignity.
"Whatever you may see in his eyes, I trust most of you are more concerned with lifting the curse. Mr. Victor will undoubtedly be a powerful asset.
"Gentlemen, I do not need you to understand this spectral phenomenon, but there are several rules that I insist you obey..."
Prince Stennis spread his hands.
"We are listening attentively."
His tone was gentle, but his eyes were cold.
His control over his expression still needed work.
The little bald Shit-ennis of Aedirn had apparently grown older without growing wiser. He could not compare to that other bald young man with a heart of iron, Radovid V.
Meanwhile, the sorceress to Victor's right continued speaking. As she gestured, her collar parted slightly, confirming that she possessed a remarkably impressive figure.
"No one is permitted to approach the mist," Philippa said. "It is extremely dangerous.
"In addition, we must investigate many events connected to the war three years ago, the Siege of Vergen, before we can lift this dreadful blood curse.
"For that purpose, I must request the full assistance of Mr. Cecil Burdon."
"At your service, my lady," Cecil replied, lowering his head.
"Thank you for your cooperation. To lift the curse, we will need to collect several objects symbolizing the war, objects that belonged to those who died here three years ago."
Yarpen rudely interrupted again.
"Pah! There's more worthless scrap left over from that massacre than there are lice in Cecil's beard. Hopefully the curse can be lifted just by..."
"Mr. Zigrin, please close your mouth and leave all matters of magic to me. I am also delighted to announce that, from this moment onward, I will refuse to acknowledge any further remarks you make.
"In short, the mementos must carry magical power and possess a close connection to the ghosts of the fallen. That is all."
When Philippa finished speaking, Saskia the Dragonslayer drew a deep breath.
Strangely enough, the entire council chamber immediately became much quieter.
She turned her face toward the dwarf.
"Let me make this absolutely clear. When it comes to lifting the curse, every one of you must cooperate with Philippa and the witcher.
"So, Yarpen, what are you complaining about?"
The dwarf clenched a fist and thumped his chest.
"Ahem... Nothing. Something must've gotten stuck in my throat."
Even Saskia's scolding sounded pleasant.
"If something's stuck, take a drink of wine and wash it down!
"Now let us discuss practical matters. How many people do we have in total? I need an exact figure.
"Henselt claimed that he brought five thousand soldiers and two hundred knights, not including auxiliaries."
The cruelty of numbers revealed itself at that moment.
Yarpen's expression became somewhat awkward.
"Saskia, you know how it is... Ah... We have about two hundred dwarves, but don't judge our strength by our numbers."
The unknown human noble who received Saskia's questioning gaze coughed twice.
"Approximately five hundred militiamen will come, though the count is not entirely reliable."
Saskia nodded and turned toward Stennis.
"Your Highness, how much support can the kingdom provide?"
The golden-armored prince felt a surge of anger when he recalled the humiliating ultimatum Saskia had issued to Henselt, but he knew this was not the time to vent his frustration.
He waved a hand behind him.
Broghan stepped forward and answered on the prince's behalf.
"Approximately two hundred armed men and fifty-three knights."
"Henselt has brought more than five thousand men," Saskia said. "In other words, each of us must defeat five of them. What do you gentlemen think of our situation?"
Her clear statement of the overwhelming disparity caused an uneasy murmur to spread through the council chamber.
After a moment, one human noble finally spoke with some courage.
"Perhaps we are heavily outnumbered, but we have walls, low though they may be. If we had archers, only the gods know how matters might develop..."
"Oh, perhaps an entire regiment of heavy arbalists from Lyria?" Yarpen said, delivering his prepared line after receiving a glance from the saint.
"Heavy arbalists would certainly be useful," Saskia replied crisply, "but we have something better. The elves led by Iorveth, the Scoia'tael."
Although many people had already heard the news in advance, hearing Saskia announce it herself still stirred a wave of discussion around the table.
The human nobles were particularly disturbed.
In their minds, the names of Iorveth and the Scoia'tael inspired more terror than the most malevolent demons.
Footsteps sounded.
Wearing a red bandanna, Iorveth entered with an intimidating presence and came to a proud stop behind Saskia.
Everyone seated around the round table drew a sharp breath. Several people immediately rose to their feet with a bang.
As Victor looked around, he noticed that even Yarpen and Zoltan, despite belonging to nonhuman races themselves, wore conflicted expressions and merely accepted Iorveth's presence in silence.
It showed just how much outrage the Scoia'tael had provoked throughout the North over the years.
Ignoring the rigid atmosphere, the Dragonslayer rose.
Her beautiful eyes shone with determination.
"Honorable gentlemen... and lady, allow me to introduce Iorveth."
An unknown noble immediately shouted, "Saskia, look at the sort of man you've brought here! He's a murderer!"
"Dragonslayer, two hundred of the finest archers in the North await your command," Iorveth said confidently.
Cold numbers always encouraged careful thought.
After considering them, Zoltan spoke in support.
"You wanted archers. Here they are."
"I'm not especially pleased about embracing elves either," Yarpen muttered, "but even a stick covered in shit can still be used as a weapon."
The unknown noble complained, "But he burned down many villages on my lands."
Prince Stennis rose to speak.
"Freeing the serfs is one matter, but recruiting a criminal whose head carries a bounty in half the kingdoms of the North? Saskia, this truly goes too far."
The prince's words provoked another wave of objections around the table.
Iorveth gave a cold, mocking laugh.
"Lady Saskia, say the word and the Scoia'tael will leave immediately."
Saskia stood proudly and spread her arms.
Her armored hands struck the table with a bang.
As her beautiful eyes moved from left to right, the meeting chamber instantly became silent.
"Please hear me out.
"Iorveth has come here to fight for me. I trust him, and I know that he is completely reliable, just as reliable as every one of you seated here."
"How can you be so certain?" the noble demanded. "He is an elf! Betrayal flows naturally through his blood, and he has been fighting humanity for a century!"
"You should all remember how Iorveth and the Vrihedd Brigade fought loyally for Nilfgaard and Dol Blathanna during the Second Northern War.
"Unfortunately, their sacrifices were repaid with heartless deception and betrayal.
"Now they have a new purpose.
"The Pontar Valley will become the first country where people can venture beyond the protection of the city walls without fearing Scoia'tael arrows, and where elves and dwarves will not be forced to live in ghettos or reservations.
"To achieve that ideal, we must first win the war before us.
"All of you know what sort of enemy we face. Henselt commands an excellent army. His soldiers are brave and well trained. They will not be frightened, and they will not break and flee. We must destroy them if we wish to claim victory.
"Listen carefully. I want Iorveth on our side. I want him to help us eliminate the Kaedwenians.
"I assure you that if you accept him, he will carry out that task with a smile upon his face."
The Dragonslayer's impassioned speech shook everyone present.
Even Victor was moved by the overwhelming force of her presence.
He could not help wondering whether such extraordinary oratorical skill was a natural talent... or perhaps magic.
Yarpen was the first to respond.
"If it makes that bastard Henselt cry, then I'm in. Iorveth and his army can stay."
The unknown noble sighed.
"Damn it! This whole business is a fucking nightmare, but if it's necessary, then it's necessary. Fine, I agree."
"I object," Stennis insisted.
His guard Broghan also stepped forward.
"You killed countless men under my command, elf. Do you remember them?"
"I have nothing to apologize for," Iorveth replied with a sharp stare. "If I hadn't killed them, they would have killed me."
At that moment, another noble summarized the matter.
"Think of the two hundred archers! Very well, for a better future and for the destruction of Kaedwen, I agree!"
"Down with the sons of bitches! Let's drink!" Zoltan shouted.
The overwhelming chorus of approval drowned out the few remaining objections.
With that, the matter was settled.
Saskia raised her wine cup, and everyone joined her toast.
At that moment, Victor noticed Prince Stennis's livid expression.
When it came to commanding the loyalty of others, the prince and the Dragonslayer were clearly not in the same league.
After everyone drained their cups, the meeting came to an end.
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