Chapter 6: Teeth In The Marsh Grass

“Quen!”

Bordon’s Sign was far more masterful than his apprentice’s. He might not have grasped the strange tricks a Sign could play, limited by his own experience and imagination, but the solid fundamentals of his technique ensured tangible results in the Sign’s intended function.

In a blink, an orange-yellow shield of power flared into being. Stronger than Lannor’s, it could endure far more physical force. Had the three Nekkers leapt into it moments ago, they would have become little more than wall decorations.

Yet Bordon’s bloodshot cat eyes tracked two arrows in quick succession. The first, a longbow bolt, struck the shield with a sharp crack. The Quen shield overloaded and exploded.

Longbows in the field were no fragile movie prop; even a standard war longbow, modest in draw weight but built for sustained force, could pierce iron plates within mere dozen paces. Human or witcher flesh was utterly helpless against steel.

Bordon’s fully flared Quen Sign blocked only one arrow, yet his eyes betrayed no hint of frustration. The outcome was both rational and lucky: the longbowman’s aim had been true, aimed straight for Bordon’s throat. Bear School armor offered no throat protection; a direct hit would have been fatal, as to any peasant. The sharp steel would slice through skin, muscle, cartilage, vessels, windpipe, and scrape bone on the way through. Witcher flesh was tough, but steel against flesh made “tough” meaningless.

The longbow bolt deflected, buying Bordon precious milliseconds. Another bolt, faster and more forceful, was already on its way. He raised his arm just in time.

Clang!

Metal struck metal as the bolt collided with his vambrace, bouncing aside. The robust forearm trembled. Bolts were far deadlier than arrows, capable of piercing layered plate, and even with the vambrace absorbing some impact, the force left a deep bruise on his wrist. Lesser armor would have let it pierce the flesh outright. Pain, however, was irrelevant to a witcher in combat.