Chapter 96

“Kid, you’ll likely be the target of taunts soon,” the Witcher warned suddenly, “whatever happens, keep your head low and stay calm. This is their ground.”

“You think I’m that hot-headed?” Roy shot back. “I know how to keep my head down on someone else’s turf.”

“Good, then you understand,” the Witcher nodded and offered an odd metaphor, “if you can’t stand it, treat them like mad dogs; every bit of your modesty, self-deprecation, and flattery is a bone, they bark and you toss it to them once ... when they’re full, they’ll wag their tails and be friendly ... works especially well on proud Knights.”

“Uh...” The youth glanced, startled, at the other’s blunt, wooden face; he had not expected the Witcher to have concocted such a strange theory.

They waited on the open ground by the gate a while longer. Soon two strangers, one tall and one short, approached; Letho bowed lightly with Roy and sized up the two Knights before them.

The Knight on the left wore white-steel plate and a crimson cloak; the Sigil of the White Rose marked his left shoulder, and his armor clanked as he walked.

Across his young face ran an old scar, as thick as a forefinger, slanting down from forehead to bridge of the nose; what had once been a fair face was ruined, made ugly and savage. He came forward, his eyes like knives fixed on Letho, as if facing an implacable enemy.

At his side stood a short, stocky, bearded Dwarf. He folded his arms, wearing a fox-fur trimmed coat over mail of ring-links, his expression grave as he watched the pair.

“Blast,” Roy muttered under his breath, “just what we feared.”

He guessed the scarred man was the same rogue Knight Geralt had bested in the past; now, all huff and menace, he clearly meant trouble.

“Witcher, give me your names!” the Scarred Knight snarled.

“Your Graces, we are nobody of note; to speak our lowly names would only soil the noble ears of Knights. Better left unsaid.”

The Witcher inclined his body slightly, keeping his posture low, yet the edge of his gaze swept the surroundings, covertly searching for advantageous ground.

Spearmen by the gate watched them closely.

The Scarred Knight’s face darkened; he stepped closer, stopping less than ten feet away. He lifted his chin, arrogant as a swan, and proclaimed loudly,

“I serve under Sigeval of Cidaris, I am a Knight of the Fourth Legion of the Order of the White Rose of Ellander, eldest son of the Tailles family, Arthur Tailles.”