Chapter 189

In the bright morning sun, the two Witchers from Vizima crossed the Bridge of Sorrows and stepped into the lands of White Orchard.

The Ismena ran across this little village, winding through its scattered orchards and nourishing a wealth of fine fruit, along with the highest-quality timber from Cunning Fox Woods, wood fit for furniture.

Once past the Bridge of Sorrows, there were not yet herds of cattle and protector chorts roaming the land. The Witchers advanced at an easy pace, and the beauty before them was enough to intoxicate a man.

At first glance, it was a scene almost pastoral in its peace. The sky was clear as far as the eye could see. Rows of fruit trees stood shoulder to shoulder, laden with white blossoms and heavy fruit gleaming with tempting luster, apples, peaches, pomegranates. Sweet fragrance drifted along both sides of the path, while magpies and larks sang at the tops of the branches.

Not far away, a cheerful stream curved around the village. Faint cooking smoke rose from several simple thatched roofs. Bare-chested farmers worked the fields by the village entrance, while sniffling children chased after roosters and mongrel dogs...

“Beautiful...” Roy sighed in praise. This White Orchard, so full of life and vigor, still preserved its plain, simple loveliness even ten years later, after three Northern Wars.

It seemed that even Nilfgaard’s black-clad soldiers could not bear to destroy it.

“Brother ... this is the kind of place a Viper School stronghold ought to be built.”

Letho snorted in disdain. “Putting a Witcher stronghold in a flat place open on all sides is no different from begging to die. You want enemies surrounding us from every direction?”

“It was only a figure of speech. There’s nothing wrong with wanting somewhere with good scenery.”

“Come on. Stay sharp. The people here aren’t easy.”

They truly did need to be careful. According to Roy’s memory, the man they had come for, Kolgrim, merely stayed one night in White Orchard village and soon afterward lost his life.

Only now, whether that had already happened, was still uncertain.

Out of prejudice, country farmers had all heard foul rumors about Witchers and so looked upon them with instinctive malice.

Worse still, they begged Witchers to clear the monsters around their homes, then secretly despised their mutated appearance, the oldest sort of ingratitude. It was common enough that the two had long since grown used to it and were ready for an unfriendly reception from the villagers.

But once they entered the village, they realized they had been wrong, terribly wrong.

The village was pitifully small, barely twenty households in all. Several houses were draped in cobwebs, their doors and windows furred with dust, and some even had holes gaping in the roof that no one had bothered to repair.

Beyond that, there were very few grown men in the village. Apart from the few laboring in the fields by the entrance and in the orchards, the two of them saw little except the old, the weak, women, and children.

These people were strange. Most sat in the sun on the thresholds of their own little yards, yet took no notice at all of the two strangers bundled up from head to foot. There was not even a glimmer of curiosity.

When the Witchers asked them for directions, the villagers responded with indifference at best.

Only that little boy peering out from behind the haystack showed any sign of life.