Chapter Two
"Easy on that line!" Verin called. He strode over to his younger son, their little boat hardly moving beneath his experienced sea legs. "You'll snap it if you're too eager."
"I told you, Kol," came a remark from the other side of the boat.
"Shut up, Frami," Kol shot back angrily, turning to look at his brother.
"Hey, now." Verin gave both of his boys a stern glance, but his gaze lingered a second longer on his eldest, who was smart enough to drop his eyes and go back to his own line.
Verin turned back to focus on Kol's line once more, but unfortunately, Kol had not. Kol was still looking past Verin to his brother and hadn't noticed that the fish was making a dash for it. At that rate, the fish would end up taking the whole rod with it. "Kol!" Verin warned as he grabbed for the fishing rod. He snatched it out of Kol's hands before the fish could. Unfortunately, in doing so, he pulled even harder on the taut line and with a twang, the line snapped.
Verin tumbled backwards, clipped his head on the boom, and was left sprawling on the floorboards. He clutched at the back of his head and groaned.
Frami and Kol scurried over and stood sheepishly before him.
"You see what you've done?" Verin cringed.
"Sorry, da," came the simultaneous reply, though both boys were trying to hide their snickering.
Verin tried to hold a scowl on his face, then couldn't help but break out into a grin and start laughing as well. "It's alright." Frami reached a hand out and Verin accepted it, pulling himself to his feet. "But you two are cooking dinner tonight." Verin lowered his gaze to Kol's frayed fishing line. "And you'll have to fix that up if you want to catch anything for it."
"I'll help you," Frami offered to Kol, who smiled in return.
Frami ducked under the boom to fetch supplies at the front of the boat while Verin parked himself on the side rail, rubbing the small bump on the back of his head.
They didn't actually need to catch anything. They'd been fishing all summer, stocking up their larder for the stormy season that would be arriving any day now and would keep them land-bound. Today was just a day to get out of the house and enjoy one of the last calm, sunny days they had.
Of course, with two boys, a day was never fully calm.
Verin didn't begrudge them their antics. Gods knew he had gotten up to much worse when he was young. They certainly tried his patience, but Verin couldn't have asked for two better sons. Frami, now nearly a man, took after Verin himself, with vibrant red hair and a quick mouth that often got him into trouble. Kol, on the other hand, was the spitting image of their late mother. Not quite a teen, Kol had hair as black as midnight and, though he would never admit it, Verin knew Kol looked up to his brother.
Verin pulled in a long draught of salty sea air and sighed contentedly.
Kol approached somberly. "I really am sorry, da."
Giving a chuckle, Verin pulled Kol in to sit down beside him. "I know, my boy."
"Da! What is that?"
Verin looked up to the bow to see Frami pointing out toward the water. There was a dark mass a hundred yards out, floating on the surface.
Kol shot up to his brother and Verin followed behind. Shading his eyes, Verin tried to get a better look, though his eyes weren't what they used to be. "Just a bit of sea growth that's broken free," Verin guessed by the greenish color.
Frami turned to Verin, a grave look on his face. "I think there's a man on it."
Surprised by Frami's statement, Verin took another look, squinting in an effort to focus his eyes beyond their capacity. Sure enough, hiding in the mess of dark green was a flash of something pale. It was still too distant to make anything out, but the haunted look on Frami's face was enough for Verin.
He turned to his boys and ordered, "Run out the oars, boys. If there is a man over there, he needs our help." Verin motioned them to their places and took his own at the tiller.
As they drew nearer, Verin could tell that Frami was indeed correct. A pale man dressed in light armor was tangled in a jumble of seaweed. Though, as they pulled alongside the mass, Verin knew they were too late. The man was dead.
Frami and Kol had stored their oars and were both staring over the side, a little dumbstruck by their discovery. Verin, sensing their dismay, called them to action.
"Come now, boys. Let's get him out of there. We may be too late to help him, but we can at least give him a proper burial." Verin crouched down and reached over the side of the boat, effectively tying the mass to the boat by looping a tendril of seaweed over one of the wooden cleats on the edge of the boat. "A sailor never leaves a man adrift at sea."
To Verin's surprise, it was Kol who moved first, pulling out his small knife and cutting through some of the seaweed entangling the man. Frami was quick to follow, reaching out over the edge of the boat to grab the man's arm with Verin. The two of them hauled him closer, then Frami left Verin the one arm and went to reach for the other.
"Careful!" Verin shouted when Frami lurched a little too far out over the edge. "You'll catch your death in these waters." Frami recovered and managed to grab hold of the man's other arm.
Much like this poor soul has, Verin continued morbidly.
Kol finished cutting the man free and Verin and Frami hefted him over the side with a large slosh.
As soon as the man hit the deck, he gurgled out a cough and took in a great, shuddering breath.
Verin's heart jumped and he scurried backwards, Frami mirroring him on the other side. Kol actually screamed and nearly impaled himself with his own knife, so violent was his reaction.
They all stood in shock for a moment, until Verin finally broke the spell and crouched down to the man. It was faint, but now that he was looking for it, Verin could see the man's chest rising and falling ever so slightly. He put his ear to the man's chest. A heartbeat—weak, but there.
In an instant, it hit Verin how close to death this man was. There was no time to waste.
Swiveling around, Verin addressed his sons like a commanding officer would his troops. "Kol, bring some blankets. Frami, get the sail up. We need to get this man back to the house as soon as possible!"
Both boys hesitated for a second, then rushed to their tasks. In the momentary lull that followed, Verin took his first good look at the man.
It was only then that Verin realized it was a witcher lying before him. Though there was only one sword in its sheath on his back, there was a second, empty sheath beside it. Verin had met a witcher once and he was the only one he'd ever known to have carried two swords like that. School of the Bear, Verin recalled, thinking back. He remembered that man wearing a medallion in the shape of a snarling bear on a chain around his neck. This man's looked different. Was it a wolf? Was there a School of the Wolf? That sounded right, but Verin couldn't remember much about witcher history. What little he had learned in the first place.
Pulling Verin back from his silent contemplation was Kol, scampering over with two large blankets bundled under his arms. They tucked them around the man and partially under his head to give him a cushion. Then they all took their places on the boat—Frami and Kol manning the sails and Verin at the tiller. It would be half a day's journey back to their home in these winds.
"Hold on, lad," Verin whispered under his breath, the winds taking hold of the boat, "hold on just a bit longer."
The witcher held steady all the way back to their home, Kol periodically checking on him to make sure he was still breathing. Once they reached the dock leading up to their little seaside cottage, they quickly moored their boat and Verin and Frami carried the man inside.
Though not altogether comfortable, the warmest place for the man was on the floor in front of the fireplace and Verin figured warmth was the most important thing he needed at the moment. That and tending to his numerous wounds. It hadn't quite dawned on Verin how serious the man's wounds were until they set him down. He had been too focused on getting the man back home first. Now that they had made sure the man wouldn't freeze to death, Verin inspected his various injuries more closely.
The most obvious was his leg. The witcher's left leg was broken above the ankle, his foot cocked at an awkward angle. As they set about stripping the wet clothes off of the man, the heavy bruising around his chest betrayed the broken ribs underneath. There were other bruises as well, scattered around his body, though none indicated serious harm. There were even what looked like burns to the man's left hand and face. The final major injury was a dislocated shoulder. Luckily, Verin had dealt with a few of those in his life and was able to easily pop it back into place.
They treated him as best they could, wrapping his ribs and splinting his leg. All the while Verin wandered what could possibly have happened to the man. Had he been on a ship that was attacked? It wouldn't have been the first time in these waters. Or was he the victim of some horrible beast?
Either way, there was nothing more Verin and his family could do for the witcher now. They would just have to wait and see if he woke up.
When they had eaten and the evening chores were done, Verin settled on a cushion against the wall next to the fireplace. While the witcher hadn't shown any signs of deteriorating, he hadn't shown any improvement either and Verin couldn't help but feeling like he needed to keep watch over the man. Frami and Kol came and joined Verin to either side, vowing that they, too, would keep watch.
Despite their best efforts, Kol drifted off within a few hours and, as the hours ticked past midnight, even Frami couldn't keep his eyes open. Clutching his boys to him, Verin smiled, resting his head on Frami's, whose own was leaned on his shoulder. Pride at the willingness the boys had shown to help this stranger swelled within Verin.
The next thing he knew, seagulls were calling outside, the sun blazing through the windows. Verin started, not realizing he had even fallen asleep. Gathering his wits, he glanced around the room.
Frami and Kol were nowhere to be found.
Judging by the sun, it was nearly midday. They had probably gone outside to see to their chores.
Verin turned his attention to the witcher. Even though he was still unconscious, it seemed like his breathing had deepened, some color returned to his cheeks. Satisfied, and curious as to where his boys had gone, Verin pushed himself off the floor.
I'm not as young as I used to be, he chuckled to himself as he creaked to his feet. His joints stretched groggily as he rubbed life back into his backside, his body unhappy that he had spent the night on the floor. He grunted when his back popped particularly loudly. I'm definitely not as young as I used to be.
As his legs decided to start working properly again, Verin heard arguing coming from outside, a sound that he was used to hearing on a daily, sometimes hourly basis.
Some things never changed.
Shaking his head, Verin headed out the front door.
Geralt opened his eyes dazedly, the world swimming into focus. The smell of wood smoke hit him first. Then came the pain from his battered body. He groaned as he threw back the blankets covering him and pushed himself up onto his elbows, his right shoulder barking at him.
His eyes eventually brought the room around him into focus.
He was in a house, roomy enough, but cozy at the same time. There was a small kitchen behind Geralt that held a dining table with two benches lining it. A smoldering fire was burning in the fireplace immediately to Geralt's left and two doorways led to fair-sized bedrooms past the main thoroughfare to Geralt's right. Folded neatly next to the fireplace were Geralt's clothes, his boots, and his sword placed alongside.
Looking down, Geralt realized he was bare-chested save for some bandaging around his torso. The trousers he wore were several inches too short—a borrowed pair. There was also a splint on his lower leg. It was crude, but sturdy.
And then it hit him.
His mind finally caught up with what had happened—Undvik, Hjalmar, Ralen, the escape. Geralt couldn't remember much past hitting the water. There were flashes of pain and cold and struggling to keep afloat. He vaguely remembered clambering onto something wet and slimy, but that was the last thing he could recall.
He certainly didn't know where he was now or how he had gotten here.
Regardless, he needed to get to Crach. Needed to tell him what happened to his son and warn him about Ralen. Geralt still didn't know what Ralen was up to. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. Not with such a force amassed in secret a stone's throw from Ard Skellig.
Using the mantelpiece, Geralt pulled himself to his feet, wincing as his broken leg took some of his weight. Geralt hobbled to the front door, his hand on the wall steadying him along the way. Clean, sea air wafted through Geralt's hair when he opened the door. A bright, sunny day greeted him, though he could sense a storm brewing.
Taking a step further, Geralt came out onto a small porch and he leaned against the waist-high railing.
A path from the cabin led down to a sandy beach a few hundred feet further, the cabin itself set back in the treeline where the sand turned to more solid ground. Down on the beach was a small dock with a boat moored there perhaps twice the size of the one Geralt had taken to reach Undvik.
On the dock and the beach were what looked like a man and his two sons, all tending to nets and various other fishing paraphernalia. They appeared happy, laughing and smiling as they were.
It took Geralt aback for a second, their gaiety, so frantic was he himself. He quickly recovered, knowing they couldn't have known what had transpired on Undvik. What danger was lurking there.
These people must have found him and taken him in, cared for him. Now he would have to ask them one more favor.
He had to get back to Crach. As soon as possible.
Geralt started down the few steps to the ground, but his leg gave out beneath him and Geralt barely caught himself on the banister before he tumbled the rest of the way. Still, his foot caught on the floorboards and tweaked his bad leg causing Geralt to shout out in pain.
At that, the man on the beach looked up. The shock on his face was swiftly followed by concern and he motioned to his sons before trotting up the path to the cabin.
The man was only a few steps away when Geralt tried to right himself. However, Geralt was much weaker than he realized. His arms were already shaking when he had caught himself. Now, he lost his grip and fell forward.
"Easy, lad!" the man said as he caught Geralt under the arm.
"I need to get to Kaer Trolde," Geralt stated simply, panting a bit from the pain and exhaustion. The man propped him up, his older son coming to help Geralt on the other side at a gesture from his father. Geralt met the man's eyes. "Please, it's urgent."
The man answered in a kind, but stern voice. "You'll not be going anywhere like this, urgent business or no." He shook his head toward the door. "Come on, let's get you back inside. Kol, here, can fetch us some food and we can talk."
It wasn't a question so Geralt was led reluctantly back inside, the younger boy running ahead to the kitchen where he rummaged up some provisions. They set Geralt down on one of the benches at the table and joined him around it. Despite his urgency, Geralt sighed at the release of pressure on his leg and his stomach ached at the thought of food.
They passed the better part of the afternoon there, introducing themselves and recounting what had happened. When the man had explained how they had found Geralt and brought him back here, Geralt expressed his gratitude at all the man had done for him. Then Geralt told his story. The two sons—Frami and Kol, Geralt learned—were particularly thrilled by what Geralt had to share, the older man—Verin—seeming much more dismayed by the news.
Geralt leaned across the table toward Verin. "Now you know why I have to get back to Crach. I have to warn him."
Verin stared back with concern. "I agree, but it won't be possible. Not right now."
"Don't worry about my leg, I'll figure something out."
"That's not what I meant."
Geralt cast him a questioning look.
Verin stood, strode around the table, and headed into the nearest bedroom. There were sounds of rustling paper, then Verin reappeared with a weathered piece of parchment which he flattened out on the table in front of Geralt.
It was a map of the Skellige Isles.
Verin pointed at a location south of Undvik. "This is our island here."
Geralt looked. The island was so small that it was barely a speck on the map.
Verin then indicated the sea to the east of their island. "It's the stormy season now. The worst of it blows through this stretch of sea. We don't go to the mainland much as it is, but to try right now would be suicide. Certainly in our little skiff. We're lucky if we can go out on the sea at all this time of year."
As if on cue, a trickle of rain started tinkling against the house.
Distressed by the information, Geralt's mind reeled for options. "Is there no other way off the island? Are there other people here? With ships that could survive the storms?"
Verin was already shaking his head. "No. I'm sorry, there isn't. This island is very small. There are only a few of us here and our boat is the largest."
"How long will the storms last?"
"A few weeks, at least. A month on a bad year."
A few weeks! This was bad. This was very bad. Geralt hated to think what Ralen was getting up to right now let alone what he could accomplish in a few weeks.
Geralt ground his teeth, frustrated at the helplessness of the situation.
Verin seemed to read the horror on Geralt's face. Even Frami and Kol were casting sidelong glances at each other, sensing the tension in the air.
"I'm sorry. I really am," Verin offered.
"You don't know what he's capable of." Geralt locked eyes with Verin. "And if his men have a fraction of his power? He could take on an army."
As much as he hated having to wait, Geralt trusted Verin when he said there was no way to make the crossing. Geralt didn't have any right to ask it of Verin to take the chance either. And the boat was too much for Geralt to manage on his own were Verin even willing to let Geralt take it. Taking a deep breath, Geralt sighed out his frustration, resigning himself to the unavoidable.
Verin placed a comforting hand on Geralt's shoulder. "I promise to get you out as soon as I can. Until then, the best thing you can do is rest. And judging by the condition we found you in—" Verin cast a sympathetic glance at Geralt's broken form. "—you need it."
Geralt looked up at Verin once more. The compassion there quelled the panic that had risen up inside Geralt. He sighed again and nodded in agreement.
The next few weeks saw Geralt well on his way to recovery, his witcher healing speeding the process along. After a week, Geralt was able to almost walk without a limp as long as he kept the splint on. His arm was back to normal already and his ribs mostly so, though they would twinge if Geralt twisted the wrong way. The burned skin on Geralt's hand and arm had peeled and healed over, leaving a soft layer of new skin. Geralt was quick to replace the calluses that had hitherto resided there, helping Verin and his family with the daily chores and practicing with his remaining sword whenever he got the chance. He even gave a quick lesson to the boys about swordplay a few times, which they relished.
"What will you do about your other sword?" Verin asked one night at dinner after Geralt had finished his daily sword exercises. "Will you replace it?"
"Eventually, yes," Geralt replied, tucking in to the smoked fish in front of him. "But I won't have the time or money to get one on the way to Kaer Trolde. Assuming I could even find a blacksmith capable of forging witcher steel."
Verin shook his head. "It's a shame."
Geralt grumbled his assent. "It is. I liked that sword."
A curious light lit up Verin's eyes. "And what about those medallions you wear?"
"What about them?"
"What happens if you lose one of those?"
Huffing a laugh, Geralt answered, "Then you're out of luck. We learn early on to keep track of our medallions."
Whenever boys in training were old enough to receive their medallions, Geralt explained, they were told that that was the only one they would ever receive. Period.
Naturally, this meant that it was every boy's goal to steal the medallion off of someone else. Vesemir, of course, was against the practice, but it was practically a standing tradition to somehow take another boy's medallion and hide it.
Geralt himself had stolen Eskel's and thrown it on the roof of their dormitory. Eskel looked for days and couldn't find it. It wasn't until Vesemir threatened to flog them all if the perpetrator didn't come forth with the medallion that Geralt relented. He spent a week cleaning out the latrines for that.
Lambert had ended up with a chip in his from a similar incident with one of the other boys. Lambert had said he liked the way it looked, that little chip in the wolf's eye. Like it was winking. But Geralt had known he was only saying that to save face.
Geralt was the only one who managed not to have his stolen. It had cost several bloody noses on both sides of the equation and Geralt had almost lost a tooth.
In any case, the constant pranking taught them all to guard their medallions closely.
"And what of this Ralen?" Verin pressed. "What school did he hail from?"
Geralt lowered his eyes in thought. "I don't know. I didn't get a good look at him. Or, at least, I wasn't looking at his medallion."
There had certainly been too much going on for Geralt to have paid attention to such a detail. Though he did wonder about Ralen's past. Where had he come from? What had led him down this path? And, most importantly, what was he planning next?
Geralt hoped he would never find out the answer.
"Patience, Geralt," Verin started, pulling Geralt from his thoughts. "The storms will pass soon enough."
Looking up at Verin's words, Geralt's eyes quickly fell back to his food. He couldn't bring himself to agree, but Verin let the matter drop.
Geralt's silence was answer enough.
All told, it took three weeks for the storms to lift. And that was only just. It was still drizzling when all four of them set out in the boat for the southern edge of Ard Skellig. The weather was still too unpredictable to sail all the way to Kaer Trolde, but Geralt assured them he could make the rest of the journey on foot. He was indeed fully healed by this point, so long had his forced respite been.
At least it had been good for something.
It was a rough, but uneventful ride to the mainland, all of them soaked with rain and sea water alike by the end of it.
They arrived at dusk to a small port town. Verin had decided to stay the night with his sons, reprovision at the market in the morning, and head back the next day. Geralt had graciously declined Verin's offer to stay the night with them. He needed to get going.
As they walked to the end of the dock together, they said their goodbyes, Geralt expressing, once again, his heartfelt gratitude. "Thank you," he said as they stepped off of the wooden planks onto the muddy thoroughfare. "I don't know how I can ever repay you and your family, but I promise you I will."
Verin dipped his head and clasped forearms with Geralt. "Just don't go and get yourself killed, you hear?"
It was Geralt's turn to nod and, with a final glance, he turned and strode off into the night.
The first few days were slow going. Skellige terrain was unforgiving, even for a witcher. Then Geralt met with a stroke of luck on the second night. He stumbled across a traveling merchant beset by a pack of wolves. Geralt made short work of the beasts and, in so doing, earned the gratitude of the merchant. A merchant who so happened to be heading to Kaer Trolde.
By horse and cart, it took a little less than a week to make it to the An Craite stronghold, time that ate away at Geralt. It had taken too long to get here. Much too long. With every passing moment, the anxiety within Geralt clawed its way up his throat.
But he had heard nothing on the way there. No whispers of a roving band of marauders. No rumors of rogue witchers scourging the land. Nothing.
With the numbers Ralen had, surely Geralt would have heard something.
It was little comfort, but Geralt held onto that thought as they crested the hill that brought Kaer Trolde and its bustling harbor into sight at last, the sun just setting over the sea. He felt like he could breathe again.
Once in the city, Geralt bade the merchant farewell and headed up the path toward the castle itself.
Now that he was here, Geralt didn't know what he was going to say to Crach. How was he going to tell him that he had failed and Hjalmar was dead? That he would never see his son again. Not to mention that there was an overly powerful witcher and his small army poised to strike at the heart of Skellige. It was not going to be an easy conversation.
Passing over the stone bridge and through the open portcullis, Geralt headed straight for the main hall, where he knew Crach spent much of his time.
It didn't matter what he said to him, Geralt supposed. One way or another Crach had to know the truth. Had to be prepared for what could be coming.
"Geralt?"
Snapped out of his thoughts, Geralt whipped his head around to one of the guards stationed outside the main hall.
It was Gudrik, staring at Geralt like he was a ghost. "Geralt, where have you been?" he queried, horrified.
"Gudrik," Geralt greeted when his brain finally caught up with who was speaking to him. He turned to his friend distractedly, not fully breaking stride. "It's a long story and it's going to have to wait. I need to see Crach." Pushing open the large wooden doors, Geralt stepped past Gudrik, who was still calling after him.
"Wait! Geralt! What happened out there? We thought you were dead."
But his voice faded away into the background. There, sitting blessedly before Geralt, was Crach an Craite, the dregs of a freshly eaten meal evident on the plate in front of him. He was alone and nursed a large tankard of ale. There were large bags under his unseeing eyes and he seemed not to notice Geralt's approach. In fact, it wasn't until Geralt stepped up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder that Crach reacted, swiveling his head to see who had disrupted him.
"Geralt," he breathed incredulously.
"Crach, we need to talk," Geralt answered seriously. "Ard Skellig is in danger."
"Geralt, what happened? Where have you been?"
It was as if Crach hadn't heard him. Geralt pulled out the chair next to Crach and sat down, facing him. "I… I have bad news." Geralt hesitated. "It's about your son."
Tears glistened in Crach's eyes. "I know."
Relief and surprise poured into Geralt. "You know?" As soon as he asked the question, Geralt was kicking himself for thinking that Crach wouldn't have sent someone to look for his son. But if they had found Hjalmar, then what of Ralen?
Crach turned back to his ale. "I know the giant proved too much for my poor boy."
Geralt actually recoiled a bit at the statement, so profound was his confusion. He leaned toward Crach. "No. No, Crach, that's not what happened. The giant didn't kill Hjalmar."
"Did you kill the giant, Geralt? Did you avenge my son?" Crach continued on, speaking over Geralt.
Taken aback at Crach's behavior, Geralt squinted at his old friend. What was wrong with him? Was his grief clouding his mind?
Searching Crach's eyes with his own, Geralt spoke as clearly as he could. "No, no, no. Listen to me Crach. Hjalmar and the giant were already dead when I got there. I found someone living there. A witcher. He calls himself Ralen. He's the one who killed them and he—"
Crach nodded his head sagely. "Ah, that's right, Ralen killed the giant. Such a good lad."
Geralt's heart dropped, his voice even more so. "You… you know him?" he stammered.
"Geralt. We meet again."
In an instant, Geralt was on his feet, his sword drawn, the chair sent flying with the speed with which he arose.
Past Crach, entering from a side doorway, was Ralen, his head cocked with a wry smirk on his face.
Geralt did nothing short of snarl. He held his sword up at the ready.
Crach seemed shocked at Geralt's reaction. Angry, even. He swatted at Geralt's arm from his seated position. "Put that thing away."
Geralt ignored him, his eyes fixed on Ralen. Ralen stared back calmly, making no move to attack or even defend himself. He merely strode over to the throne and rested a hand on the back of it, that smug smile still in place. If he felt any surprise at Geralt's appearance, he hid it well.
Crach pushed himself up from his chair and placed himself between Geralt and Ralen. "I said put that down this instant!" Now Geralt had no choice but to look at him. "Ralen is a guest in this household and I'll not have you raise arms against him."
"Ralen killed your son, Crach," Geralt ground out. He nearly killed me, he added mentally, not wanting to give Ralen the satisfaction of admitting it out loud.
There was a flash of blankness in Crach's eyes, so sudden and so brief that Geralt would have missed it were he not looking.
"Nonsense. Ralen avenged Hjalmar and then was good enough to bring me the news of his death." Puffing himself up and dropping his tone, Crach took a step toward Geralt. "Now drop your sword or I'll have you removed."
Geralt clenched his jaw, eyes darting between Crach and Ralen.
It all made sense now, why Crach had been acting so strangely. Axii. He was under Ralen's control.
Fighting would get Geralt nowhere. And trying to talk to Crach in this state would achieve even less. Reluctantly, Geralt lowered his sword and slowly stowed it on his back.
"I think we've all had a long day," Crach went on. "We could all use some rest and then we can straighten out this confusion in the morning." He gave Geralt a pointed look and then called out past him. "Guards!" Gudrik and the other man that had been outside the door appeared momentarily, halberds held aloft. "Lead Geralt to the guest chambers. He'll be staying the night."
Gudrik gave Geralt a questioning look at the obvious tension in the room, but both men nodded and moved toward Geralt, then turned and waited for him to follow.
It was a short walk to the upper floors where Geralt was to spend the night. The guards opened the door for Geralt then waited for him to proceed inside without them.
The room was comfortable and spacious. A large bed took up one corner of the room, a fireplace along the wall beside it. On the other end was a rustic, ornate armoire, an elaborately carved chair, and a wall-length mirror standing in the corner. All of these things were situated on top of a crimson rug with gold filigree.
In any other circumstance, Geralt would have been grateful for the lavish room. All it felt like right now was a prison. A trap. He felt the walls closing in on him and Geralt wanted nothing more than to be free of the castle. But running would solve nothing.
Crach had let Geralt live, had been friendly to him at least until the point that Geralt threatened Ralen. That meant that Ralen's control wasn't absolute. Surely he would have had Crach have Geralt killed if it were. Maybe there was still a chance Geralt could convince Crach of Ralen's true nature. If nothing else, Geralt needed to get Crach out of Kaer Trolde, away from Ralen.
He would find him tonight. Sneak into his quarters and attempt to sort everything out.
Geralt turned back to the guards and dismissed them, calling out to Gudrik before he left and beckoning him over.
"I'll catch up with you in a minute," Gudrik told his colleague. The man merely shrugged and left. Leaning his halberd against the wall, Gudrik pivoted back to Geralt. "What happened in there? What is going on, Geralt?"
Frustration was evident in Geralt's voice. "It's Ralen."
"The witcher?"
Geralt nodded. "He killed Hjalmar, Gudrik. He almost killed me when I figured it out. I had to jump off of a damn cliff to escape him and if I hadn't been found by a fisherman, I would be dead. I came as soon as I could, but I've been stuck on an island for weeks."
"What?" Gudrik breathed in disbelief. He moved to step toward the door. "Well, what are we standing here for? Didn't you tell Crach?"
Reaching out to Gudrik, Geralt stopped him before he could reach the handle. "I tried." He growled in frustration. "Ralen has him under his spell. All witchers have the ability to influence the minds of others, but Ralen has found a way to amplify his powers beyond anything I've ever seen. I couldn't get through to him."
Gudrik's eyes fell, a haunted look creeping over his face. He looked like Geralt had just given him the last piece of a puzzle. "Oh, gods."
"What?" Geralt queried, unease filling him at the look on Gudrik's face. "What is it?"
"Do you know the name Lugos Drummond?"
"Vaguely. I've heard people talk about 'Madman Lugos.'"
"He's the jarl of Clan Drummond that hails from the southern portion of Ard Skellig," Gudrik explained. His face twisted with disdain. "He's a brash and loud-mouthed man who's only interested in obtaining power."
Impatiently, Geralt asked, "Where are you going with this, Gudrik?"
Gudrik lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Crach signed over his interim rulership to Lugos last night. We didn't think anything of it. Ralen had brought news of Hjalmar's death and we all thought that was why Crach has been acting so strangely, so… out of it ever since. I thought he signed over the title because he was grieving, but what if it wasn't his idea at all?"
Geralt lowered his voice as well. "You think Ralen and Lugos are working together?"
"I, I don't know. Lugos did arrive the day before Ralen did." He shook his head. "All of these circumstances are adding up too quickly. I don't like it. None of it feels right."
"I'm going to try to speak to Crach tonight. I don't know how much of a hold Ralen has over him, but maybe I can reason with him if I get him alone for long enough."
"I'll come with you. Even though I may not have any sway with Crach, I can at least get you past the guards."
Geralt nodded in assent. "Meet me here an hour past midnight."
"I will." Retrieving his halberd, Gudrik opened the door to leave.
Geralt grasped his arm to stop him. "Watch yourself, Gudrik. Ralen is extremely dangerous and we still don't know what his plan is here. He has to have a reason for allying with Lugos and I doubt it's to play sidekick to a king."
The gravity of the situation seemed to hit Gudrik in that moment. He sighed and nodded. "Right."
Keeping eye contact with him, Geralt let go of his arm and straightened.
Looking fearful for the first time since they started talking, Gudrik said, "I'll see you tonight," and then trotted off.
The hours of waiting were excruciating. Geralt did his best to meditate, but he couldn't calm his frantic mind. Finally, he gave up on the endeavor and paced his room instead.
It wasn't even the fact that it had taken Geralt so long to get here, that Crach was under Ralen's control, or that Ralen had apparently teamed up with Lugos to stage some sort of coup that bothered Geralt the most. What bothered Geralt the most was that he had no idea what Ralen's endgame was. Geralt meant what he had said to Gudrik. Ralen was not the type to take a back seat to power. At the moment, he was the most powerful man on the island. Whatever deal Lugos thought he was making, Geralt doubted Ralen had the same in mind.
But why Skellige? Why now? And to what end?
The first two questions Geralt supposed he could answer. Everyone knew King Bran wasn't going to live much longer. With Skellige in between rulers and everyone too preoccupied bickering over the crown, Skellige was ripe for the picking for a cunning enough mind and the power to back it.
As for the final question, Geralt was none the wiser. And he hoped to stop Ralen before it would become clear.
It was just past midnight when Geralt heard it. All had been silent for hours now except for the soft thudding of Geralt's own feet on the plush rug. Now there was a distant noise coming from a few floors above Geralt—swords clashing. And they were moving further down the hallway.
They were heading for Crach's chambers.
Geralt tore open his door and dashed down the hallway. He took the stairs three at a time, heart pounding out of his chest at what he would find. When he reached the top, the tang of blood hung heavy in the air. Drawing his sword, Geralt moved swiftly down the hallway, albeit with a bit more caution.
Silence had fallen once more.
Peering around the first corner, Geralt saw nothing. Only a distant weathered window leading out to the moonlit night. He trotted to the end and turned right, where he had heard the commotion coming from.
A fresco of blood and viscera painted the walls. Four guards were dead. Eviscerated. Against Ralen, they had stood no chance.
Throwing caution to the wind, Geralt sprinted past the mess and bashed through the blood soaked doors at the end of the hall. What he beheld stopped him in his tracks.
Crach, axe in hand, arms thrown wide, was pinned to his bed by a sword skewering his heart.
The sight of his friend killed in such a manor punched Geralt in his own heart. He took a quick survey of the room and, finding no one, rushed forward to Crach's side. He had died only moments ago.
With a cry of rage, Geralt grabbed the small table next to him and hurled it into the wall. It shattered as Geralt's chest seized with grief, frustration, and anger. He was too late. Again.
It was only as the flood of emotions was draining from Geralt that he realized Ralen's sword was still in Crach. He wouldn't get away with this. Not this time. He must have heard Geralt coming and fled. But still, why would he have left his sword? It wouldn't have taken any time to—
Oh no.
The sword wasn't Ralen's.
It was Geralt's. Taken from Undvik.
Suddenly, there were heavy footsteps running down the hallway. Ralen had sprung his trap. Geralt was the perfect scapegoat to remove an obstacle from Ralen's path.
It was too late now to get away and there would be no talking his way out of this. "Screw it," Geralt muttered to himself as he wrenched his sword from Crach's body. He would get blamed either way. He may as well have his sword back.
He wiped it clean with the blanket on the bed and turned to face whoever was coming, hoping it wasn't going to be Ralen or his men. They flung open the doors and Geralt was almost relieved to find that it was a contingent of Kaer Trolde guards. Not wanting to kill them, Geralt blasted them with Aard which sent them flying against the walls to either side. Two were knocked unconscious. The remaining man was so winded that he struggled to rise.
Taking his opportunity, Geralt rushed past them, heading for the stairs.
He had to get out of here. Out of the castle. Out of Kaer Trolde. Where he would go, Geralt didn't know. But he would figure that out once he was clear. If they caught him and tried him for killing Crach, a noose would be the most merciful outcome.
Geralt ducked into an alcove as another squad ran past, then he hastily descended the stairs. Just as he reached the bottom, a hand reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him into an open storeroom. The door swung closed behind them and Geralt thrust up his hand, ready to cast Aard.
Gudrik's face flashed into focus and Geralt pulled back.
"Geralt, what is going on?!" Gudrik hissed. "They're saying you killed Crach."
No one who saw Geralt up there could have communicated that so soon which meant that Ralen was already spreading his lies.
"It was Ralen, Gudrik. You have to believe me."
At Geralt's response, Gudrik's face grew somber. "So he really is dead?"
"Yes," Geralt answered miserably. He shook his head. "I couldn't get there in time. And Ralen was savvy enough to do it with my own sword, too." He showed Gudrik the sword in his hand. "I lost it on Undvik."
Gudrik thought for a moment, then spoke, muttering quietly as if he were speaking more to himself than Geralt. "You only had one when you arrived earlier."
They both fell silent as a party of men passed by, shouting that Crach had been killed.
Once their footsteps had receded, Geralt turned to Gudrik. "I need to get out of here," he stated urgently. "No one will believe I'm innocent. Not with Ralen controlling the story."
Gudrik dipped his head in agreement. "There are secret passages through the castle. I can get you out. Get you to a boat."
Truly grateful, Geralt responded, "Thank you."
When the coast was clear, they snuck out of the closet and wended their way downward through the castle. Down on the lower floors, there was a hidden tunnel, Gudrik explained along the way. The tunnel led all the way to a cave at the base of Kaer Trolde. There, was moored a boat which was always kept provisioned in case of an emergency.
The trip was slow going. It was getting harder and harder to avoid the guards buzzing around Kaer Trolde like angry drones in a kicked beehive. They'd had so many close calls that Geralt didn't know how they had even made it this far. They were deep in the bowels of the castle now, the air thick and musty.
Gudrik waved Geralt onward. "This way!" he whispered.
Three guards had been unknowingly following them downward for a couple minutes now. Geralt could hear them behind them, out of eyesight, but close enough that they had to hurry along. Blessedly, the noise of the guards running masked that of the two of them.
They rounded a corner. "We're almost there—"
Geralt skidded to a halt next to Gudrik who had stopped suddenly when two more guards appeared at the end of the corridor ahead of them.
"Shit."
"Here! He's here!" The guards called as they drew their swords and started running for Geralt and Gudrik. Geralt didn't need to turn to know the others were coming up behind them. Another few seconds and they would spot them. In fact, Geralt could hear their footsteps speeding up in response to the yelling.
While Gudrik stood frozen, Geralt darted past him and cast Aard at the approaching pair. The blast hit one full-on, who was unconscious before he even hit the ground. The second man was clipped by the energy and flew into the wall. He was stunned momentarily, but recovered quickly and charged. No match for a witcher, Geralt disarmed the man, then bashed the pommel of his sword into the man's head, knocking him out.
He swiveled back to Gudrik, who was still immobilized with indecision. "Come o—look out!" Geralt pointed past Gudrik toward the guards who had come sprinting around the corner. Gudrik reacted in time to turn and backpedal toward Geralt, the only thing saving him being that the guards didn't immediately attack, thinking him on their side. They caught on quickly enough, though. Gudrik had drawn his axe out of reflex and backed toward Geralt, making it very clear who his true ally was.
All three guards swung at Gudrik, his only defense a single axe held aloft.
Racing back to his friend, Geralt threw up a shield of Quen, only just catching the attacks in time. Relief flooded Gudrik's face as the three recoiled. Gudrik then made up for his lapse in concentration, kicking one of the guards in the groin and following up with a left hook to his head when the man doubled over. Though not unconscious, the man was incapacitated for the time being.
At the same time, Geralt had cast Axii on the guard to the left, who was closer. "We're not your enemy," he cajoled, making the sign with his hand. The man's face calmed and then became questioning. He looked down at his axe confusedly.
The third guard, seeing that he was outnumbered and outmatched, fled back the way they had come before Geralt could do anything about it. They could hear his shouts for help echoing down the corridor.
Breathless, Geralt turned to Gudrik. "We need to hurry." That man was going to bring a swarm of guards to their location in a minute and Geralt didn't want them to know where they were headed. He didn't fancy fighting off a dozen men while they were trying to launch a boat nor did he fancy a fleet of ships chasing after them. Some measure of secrecy was their only chance of escape.
And Gudrik would have to come with him now. They knew he was helping Geralt and anyone associated with him would likely be put to death if Ralen had anything to say about it.
Gudrik composed himself and locked eyes with Geralt. "Right. Let's go."
They sped around the last few corners to an unassuming broom cupboard that housed a clever switch which opened a secret panel in the wall. Grabbing and lighting the torch that was placed inside the entryway, they closed the panel behind them and hurried down the narrow staircase before them.
After descending what seemed like several more floors, the narrow corrider opened up into a large flooded cavern, the staircase now zigzagging its way down to the cave floor. Like Gudrik had said, a decent sized boat was there and waiting. It looked old, but well kept, and packed into the front of it were boxes of provisions.
There wasn't much preparation to do, seeing as how the boat was there for emergencies. Geralt leapt aboard and grabbed the oars, ready to push off. Gudrik hesitated.
Geralt waved him over. "Come on, Gudrik. You can't stay here."
Waiting only a moment longer, Gudrik heaved a sigh, undid the rope from the small dock, and climbed in. "I know," he commented and settled himself toward the bow.
There was a large cave mouth ahead of them. Geralt steered them toward it, wondering how no one had never noticed such a huge cave at the base of Kaer Trolde.
The answer was simple enough.
As soon as they passed through, Geralt could feel his medallion humming softly. There was magic at play. When Geralt turned around to look, there was a solid rock wall behind them. No trace of the cave remained from the outside.
Very clever.
Gudrik had doused the torch before they had reached the opening, so now they floated along in moonlit silence. It didn't take long for Geralt to row them out until they were far enough away from the cliff to catch the winds. They had a favorable tailwind so they stowed the oars and set the sail, the boat lurching forward in response. The sail was a charcoal color, meaning they would be harder to spot in the darkness. Yet another countermeasure put in place by whoever had overseen the boat preparations. Geralt made a mental note to thank them one day. He suspected the only person who might be able to see their boat leaving in this darkness would be Ralen. And it was doubtful he was looking out to sea right now.
With his enhanced hearing, Geralt could just make out the raucous shouting that was stirring the castle. But even that faded in a few minutes. Soon enough the castle disappeared over the horizon and Geralt felt like he could breathe again.
It was all so quiet now.
No shouts of discovery. No boats giving chase. Nothing but the gentle sluice of the boat cutting through the water and the creaking of the ropes.
Both of them shared a sigh of relief, then Gudrik buried his face in his hands.
"I'm sorry for dragging you into this," Geralt tendered.
For a long time, Geralt thought Gudrik wouldn't answer, the silence stretching on between them. Then Gudrik took a deep breath and raised his head.
"It's not your fault. And if I wasn't willing to get involved, I wouldn't have led you out of the castle." He dropped his gaze once more, his tone somber. "I just can't believe Crach's dead. It all happened so fast. How could we not have seen it coming?"
"Ralen is more dangerous than you could know, Gudrik. And I think this is only the beginning. Whatever he's planning, it goes far beyond Kaer Trolde."
"You think he's trying to take all of Skellige?"
"Why else stage a coup? How many men does Lugos have?"
"He controls one of the larger clans. And he's made no secret of the fact that he's wanted his clan to rule Skellige."
"Then, if we're right about Ralen's alliance with Lugos, he already has a small army at his disposal. Add to that the power of the An Craites and the control of Kaer Trolde, and they could be unstoppable already."
"Many of the An Craites won't fight for him," Gudrik interjected defiantly, "whether Crach transferred power or no."
"They may not have a choice," Geralt countered. "You saw how Ralen affected Crach's mind. I don't know if he can do that in large numbers, but I'm willing to assume he can."
"Then we need an army of our own."
Geralt huffed. "And how do you propose we find one? No offense, but I doubt anyone is going to follow you into battle because you knocked on their door and told them a tale about Lugos and his witcher friend taking over Ard Skellig. And I'm a wanted man. By tomorrow morning, Ralen will have spread the word about my 'crimes.'"
Gudrik grew serious. "We need to find Cerys."
Cerys! Geralt had honestly forgotten about her in all the tumult. With Crach dead, she was in line to be the next jarl of the An Craite clan. Plus, she was in the running to become High Queen of Skellige. As such, not only was she the perfect person to rally the rest of Skellige behind, but she was also in danger. Ralen would not overlook such a threat.
All of these revelations played out on Geralt's face, that uneasy feeling returning to the pit of his stomach.
They had no time to lose.
"Where is she?"
