Chapter 174

Later, the chronicles recorded it this way: he came from a weed-choked fortress in the north, white-haired, twin swords on his back, leading a burdened horse. Bearing the sealed command of the King of Brugge, he passed through the Ropemakers’ Gate and entered the Forest of Brokilon.

By midday, the Witcher halted somewhere within the forest. He crouched and rubbed the fresh blood on the grass between his callused thumb and forefinger. His nose sorted the blood’s scent, and his dark cat-like eyes followed the trail. Soon, he found the first corpse.

The dead man looked young, no more than twenty-something. He lay on his back, legs spread apart, the rigid terror on his face fixed there even in death.

The Witcher knew at once that the man had died where he fell, without time even to feel pain. A crude arrow had passed through his eye socket and driven into his brain.

The Witcher gently closed the man’s bulging eyes and rose. The dead man’s developed muscles and the calluses on his hands showed he had undergone formal weapons training. He was no commoner.

“A poacher, or rather a hunter after Evel’s bounty?” King Evel of Verden had long regarded the dryads of Brokilon as thorns in his flesh. For a very long time, he had secretly placed bounties on dryad heads.

Because humans wished to steal Brokilon’s timber, and the forest was the dryads’ home, the means by which they lived.

He moved roughly six paces behind the corpse. An arrow was lodged in the ground at an angle. From the depth at which it had sunk into the earth and the slant of its shaft, he could almost tell on which tree the dryad had hidden when she loosed that warning shot.

“With dryad marksmanship, that arrow missed on purpose, a warning.”

“The dryad who fired it was not seasoned enough. She actually warned them in advance.”

The Witcher recalled that decades ago, the dryads had not been quite so ruthless. Back then, when humans trespassed into the forest, they would issue three warnings, perhaps four.

But times had changed.

He shook his head and continued along the chaotic footprints stained with blood. He could ignore corpses, but he could not quite ignore the living. Perhaps, he thought, he might catch up with the survivors and drive them out of the forest. If they ran fast enough, they might still save their skins.

Though he would never admit it, that was the kind of man he was. His heart did not quite match his cold exterior. There was softness in him, indecision too, and a kind of contradictory charisma.

Soon enough, he learned he was too late. He found a second corpse, then a third, then a fourth. Around those three, the ground had been churned into ruin, moss and dead branches ground deep into the mud. They had struggled for a long time before dying. It had not been quick.

Then his ears twitched. He heard the faintest moan.

He swiftly pulled aside a heap of juniper branches and found a hidden pit beneath them.

In the shaft of sunlight, he saw a powerfully built man lying inside. He wore a tight deerskin jerkin and leather trousers, and sported a neat little moustache, though now he was caked in mud, plant debris, and blood. His face was pale, and he looked close to death.