Chapter 67

In truth, Phillip’s cavalry didn’t need to lend a hand—White ran himself.

Everyone knew this was the slaver camp. Here, adults might pose a threat, but children were merely cargo. So when White scurried through the chaos, searching frantically for Lannor, the soldiers carving heads from bodies paid him no mind. Seasoned veterans, sly, brutal, and grimy though they were, had official standing. Slavery and child murder were beyond their remit. Even as he stepped carefully over corpses, his legs trembling, nearly sick with fear, he reached the harbor safely.

Phillip’s torch marked their position, and the boy dashed across.

“Hey! Lannor!” he cried, excitement spilling from him. Before, he had only urged the witcher to escape, unable to imagine one man cutting through an entire camp. Now he had seen it all with his own eyes. The fear born of confinement and corpses had vanished, replaced by pure exhilaration.

Lannor was quietly grateful it was a boy—he wouldn’t launch into a clinging embrace. The boy simply hopped excitedly beside him.

A droplet of blood trickled from Lannor’s nose, hitting the sand with a faint hiss of corrosion. Even a single drop now was toxic to a normal man.

White bounded to Lannor’s side, bouncing with astonishment. “You did it, Lannor! You really beat the whole camp of bad men! I bet there were a hundred in there! No, two hundred!”

Lannor smiled faintly, though his legs were starting to weaken. After the furious battle, the temporary strength granted by the Thunderbolt Elixir was already failing against the toxin’s assault on his body. In full armor, he slumped to the sand, startling both Phillip and White.

The boy’s astonished chatter ceased as both he and Phillip moved to help, only to be halted by Lannor’s raised hand. He could not risk contact. Wiping his nose, his studded leather gauntlet left a dark streak across itself. Every bone screamed, every muscle threatened to tear, the toxin’s damage relentless.