bookbashuk Chapter 8 Geralt
Chapter 8 Geralt
The stench of rotting reeds and tar wafted along the banks of the Pontal River, where military banners embroidered with white lilies fluttered in the muddy riverbed, torn apart by the evening wind. Foltest, King of Temuria, Lord of the Pontal Valley, Conqueror of Soden, was now carelessly stepping his gilded riding boots, stained with dried mud, onto the base of a toppled catapult.
The massive siege engine had its main beam shattered by the defenders' ballistae during last night's battle, the broken pieces of wood shooting skyward like the broken bones of a giant. The king paid no heed, treating it merely as a temporary viewing platform.
He stood before the luxurious tent, gazing at the opposite bank and the flickering firelight atop the main tower of the Château de la Valéry. His eyes held both the patience of a hunter watching a trapped beast and a childlike yearning for destruction.
"Damn it, this wine tastes like a dead rat soaked in an oak barrel."
The king grumbled, but his hands didn't falter. He poured the crimson Toussaint wine into a strangely shaped glass—a rhinoceros horn goblet inlaid with a single piece of jade. The wine struck the glass with a dull thud, like a sound from some ancient sacrificial ritual.
Geralt remembered the cup. It was one of Foltest's most prized possessions, said to have been personally ripped from the man-in-black commander's body, trampled to pieces by horses, at Soden Fortress during the Second Nilfgaardian War.
The rhinoceros horn's originally rough surface had been polished by craftsmen to a smooth, obsidian-like finish, and the jade on it shimmered with an eerie green light under the camp's torches, as dangerous as the light in its new owner's eyes. Geralt, however, also remembered another version: Dandelion had hinted in a forbidden song that the cup had actually been "purchased" by Foltest from a Cintra merchant through intimidation. Of course, no one dared sing that song in front of the king.
This is the King of the North. In this turbulent era, the people of the southern Nilfgaardian Empire call him "the Bandit King," while his subjects respectfully refer to him as "The Iron Fist." But to Geralt, there is no essential difference between the two titles.
They are extremely territorial, aggressive, and habitually consider everything around them as their own. They are not much different from male deer in the forest, except that their antlers have been replaced with crowns.
"Those traitors actually raised water ghosts in the moat. I knew that old bastard La Valéty had been plotting this for a long time."
Foltest turned and entered the tent, grumbling, the movement so abrupt he nearly spilled his wine. He irritably ripped off the heavy velvet cloak from his shoulders and tossed it to the waiting servant behind him. The cloak slipped down, revealing a chainmail that seemed overly practical, even somewhat ordinary, for a king.
That wasn't decorative armor for ceremonial purposes, but heavy chainmail actually used to protect against swords and blades. Each plate was treated with black oil to prevent rusting, and thick leather was added at the joints.
However, he deliberately did not wear a helmet, but instead wore a heavy crown made of metal, believing that this would make the soldiers realize that their king was always by their side.
Geralt offered no comment, but he knew what Vesemir would say. The old Witcher would shake his head and say that anyone who sticks their head out as a target on the battlefield is either foolishly brave or so tough that even Death doesn't bother to claim them.
"Three more scouts were dragged into the mud yesterday. Damn it, the whole ferry crossing reeks of rotting entrails, even this damn Toussaint wine can't mask it!" Foltest roughly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, red wine stains like blood remaining on his slightly stern lips. "Geralt! Don't stand in the shadows like a pillar. You have to come over and have a drink with me. That's an order."
A faint rustling sound of armor plates scraping came from the shadows, and the squire saw the statue-like figure beside the king take a half-step forward. The flickering candlelight finally illuminated the Witcher's face, covered in tiny scars. Geralt's silver hair was tied back in a battle ponytail, and a long scar ran across his left eye, making his already angular face appear even more hardened.
His dark golden pupils narrowed into two long, thin vertical lines in the dim light—the eternal mark left by the Trial of the Grasses. A bright wolf's head emblem hung outside his black leather armor, and the crisscrossing indentations on his breastplate silently testified to his battles with monsters. Two swords were crossed behind him: the hilt of a steel sword pointed to his right shoulder, and the hilt of a silver sword to his left. The black scabbards gleamed with a somber luster in the dim firelight.
Geralt did not accept the wine cup that the valet tremblingly offered. He simply stood there, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, seemingly relaxed, but any expert could see that it was a posture ready to draw his sword at any moment.
His weight was slightly shifted to his left foot, and the fingers of his right hand remained slightly bent, precisely at the angle needed to grip the sword hilt. This wasn't intentional; it was an instinct honed through decades of training and combat. Just as a cat arches its back not out of fear, but because its body was born to spring forward in the next instant.
"The breeding cycle of water ghosts is highly correlated with water temperature and the density of decaying corpses."
The Witcher's voice was like sandpaper rubbing against rusty armor, each syllable carrying the weariness of years spent traversing the wilderness. It was the voice of someone accustomed to talking alone with horses in the open, neither too high nor too low, neither too fast nor too slow, compressing each word to the most economical degree.
"When the duckweed in the shady corners of the river bend begins to produce purple spores, that's their mating season. I just smelled those spores on the riverbank—pungent, with a hint of musty sweetness. Now is the perfect time." Geralt's calloused fingers traced an arc in the air, a gesture that drew the squire's attention to the powerful muscles that bulged in his clothes; the squire had no doubt that the Witcher could easily lift his neck and snap it.
"And for those who aren't sorcerers, the risks of raising water ghosts far outweigh the rewards," Geralt's tone remained unchanged, still as calm as stating a fact, as if he were commenting on the weather. "Water ghosts aren't livestock. They have no concept of loyalty, and they can hardly even develop basic conditioned reflexes. They only recognize two things: food, and things that aren't food. And in the eyes of a hungry water ghost, there's no clear difference between its tamer and a piece of carrion. I've traveled the continent for almost a hundred years, and I haven't heard of a single sorcerer, not even the most insane kind, who has truly succeeded in taming a water ghost—at least not yet."
Forrest paused for a moment, then burst into loud laughter.
"Ha! Hahahaha!"
The laughter shook the wine in his horn-shaped cup, causing it to ripple violently and spill onto the oak table covered with intricate nautical charts. The king leaned forward, laughing so hard he could barely breathe, the twelve gold-engraved badges on his belt, representing the provinces of Temuria, clinking together with a clear, melodious sound.
"Listen! Listen to all of you!" The king looked around, though there was no one else in the tent except for the attendant who was practically wetting himself with fear and a few expressionless royal guards. "Our esteemed, ruthless Master White Wolf is actually lecturing me! By Metalia, the last time I heard so much academic vocabulary was at the graduation ceremony of Oxenforth Academy, where I almost fell asleep!"
Foltest turned his head and winked at the squire who wished he could bury his head in the ground. The gesture instantly turned the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes into several cunning furrows. For a moment, he didn't look like a king, but rather like an old rogue telling dirty jokes in a tavern.
"He probably still thinks I'm like those superstitious farmers with muddy feet who believe that pouring milk on their doorsteps will ward off evil spirits, believing that water ghosts are the vengeful corpses of those who unfortunately drowned!"
Geralt didn't respond to the mockery, not even blinking. He was used to it. In his long life, he had been ridiculed by kings, driven away by farmers with pitchforks, overcharged by merchants, exploited by sorcerers, and written into the songs of bards only to be consumed by the image within those songs. These were simply part of the job, like inevitably getting covered in the stench when cleaning a carrion cannibal's lair.
You won't get angry about it; you'll just wash the clothes afterwards.
But Foltest clearly hadn't said enough.
"The last time I remembered who was such a serious scholar... oh right, it was that Kodlinger who kept talking about 'chaotic energy.' That old guy was always spouting nonsense about the balance of elements. And what happened? His wig was blown off by one of his pet salamanders in his lab! I saw it with my own eyes, hanging from the chandelier, still smoking!"
The king laughed again, but this time, there was less joy and more rage in his laughter. The laughter bounced through the thick canvas of the tent, like the roar of a trapped wild beast.
The attendant felt a fine layer of cold sweat trickle down the back of his neck, the chill running down his spine. He had served this king for two years, and he knew that laugh all too well. The king seemed somewhat angry, or rather, his patience was wearing thin. And this renowned master witcher seemed a little out of line.
Three weeks earlier, at Vijma's palace, a courtier witnessed Foltest, with the same mocking tone and the same "humor," send a small merchant who had failed to pay his wine tax on time to the gallows. The king had laughed then, saying the merchant's neck was too thin and perhaps two ropes would be needed for him to "swing to his heart's content."
Now, the king's sword was casually tapping across the table, each strike carving a new indentation into the oak surface. These indentations were slowly forming a pattern, but the attendants dared not look to see what it was.
He could only pray silently, hoping the Witcher would say something the king wanted to hear.