Chapter Text
They had no fear and no anticipation of danger. Iorveth crouched in the shelter of the trees observing the oncoming figures from the boat that his scouts had been tracking along the riverbanks for days. It was a party of three strange humans: a spy in ridiculous hat, a red-haired sorceress, and the promised witcher, lean and silver, like an old dog. They varied, he knew. He had only met vipers: Serrit and Aukes who slipped about in the shadows, hooded and silent, and Letho who looked more bull than serpent, was but fast and deadly nonetheless.
This witcher, striding so casually up the road to Flotsam, wore a spiky pendant with the face of a wolf that bounced off his breastplate. But wolves hunted in packs; this scarred loner looked a weary beast and hardly an adequate enemy. Striding next to him, the ginger sorceress seemed out of place and far too young. Of course, all sorceresses created an illusion of youth and beauty through unnatural means, but they had a cruel hardness in their eyes that this one lacked.
Letho had told him the sorceress was the witcher’s weakness. He often fell under the spell of beautiful, powerful women, much to his own detriment. This went against all Iorveth knew of witchers. They were meant to be cold, emotionless monster slayers, only motivated by money and an urge to kill. The thought of this wiry old wolf being heart-bound to a slip of a girl with her red hair twisted in twin buns amused him.
He turned his gaze to the spy, that vexing hound Roche. He strolled along the river as though he owned it, not even searching for threats. It seemed almost too easy to scoop him up and pluck the lily badge off his striped doublet. The newcomers were another story. Their intentions and abilities were clouded for him--were they really only here to hunt Letho? Or did Loredo send for them to advance his machinations? It was time set a scene and establish the order of things, time to test their mettle. He turned his head and signaled to Mona and her squadron. She gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment. He eased on to a limb over the path and held the flute to his lips.
Although his mind at the time was focused more on finding Letho and escaping a barrage of arrows from the murderous Scoia’tael elves, Geralt couldn’t forget the woodland fox, the zealous commander taunting them with speeches and threats while perched on a tree branch and holding a flute.
Geralt expected that unimposing folk could be leaders if they had the necessary skills and charisma, but it helped to be striking, and Iorveth was very much so. Broader than the typical slender elf, he seemed even bigger when he spoke in that deep, rolling voice. His forearms were well muscled, his armor battered and strung with fallen commando badges, and his calves curved out of worn boots. But his face had a sleek, otherworldly beauty, only sharpened by the scarf that covered half of it and the scar that curved to the corner of his lips. It lingered in the back of Geralt’s mind, that scar, that voice. No wonder he had become the boogeyman and the folk hero, the wild killer and king of the forest. The flute song and the speech before the attack—only a mad narcissist would think it necessary. But in Geralt’s experience, beloved leaders were often mad narcissists.
In the days that followed—the thwarted execution and intrigue with Loredo, the fist fights, nekker caves, haunted hospitals, bridge trolls, and that awful fucking kayran battle—Geralt could easily have forgotten about Iorveth and his merry elves. But the crude sketch of his face glaring down from wanted posters on every gate served a constant reminder of his sinister presence. Also the fact that he was Geralt’s only link to Letho, the ambitious assassin, kept Iorveth simmering in Geralt’s mind.
When the arrogant elf Ele’yas sent Geralt and Zoltan to the arachas’ den to meet Iorveth, Geralt merely squared his shoulders and applied insectoid oil to his silver blade. The beast fell quickly, staggering under his barrage of blows. He rolled behind it and delivered the killing strike to the soft underside of its shell. Before he could even clean the slime off his weapon, the elves appeared with raised bows. Iorveth himself sprang neatly to the ground before Geralt, seemingly without any hesitation. Geralt let his sword rest on the soft forest floor.
“A worthy battle,” Iorveth declared haughtily, “Witchers deserve their reputation it seems.”
“What? You couldn’t take out this bastard yourself?”
“It served a purpose,” Iorveth said. “Not all of us cut down every forest creature we see.”
“Too bad you couldn’t feed it any witchers today.”
“And deny my warriors the satisfaction of filling you and your treacherous companion with arrows? Never.”
“Let Zoltan go,” Geralt said. “He hasn’t betrayed you. I asked him to help us meet because I think we both need Letho dead.”
“Why is that?” Iorveth demanded, suddenly looking serious.
“You’ve been betrayed,” Geralt insisted. “I spoke to Ciaran on the prison barge shortly before his death. Letho slaughtered his unit and he’s coming for you next.”
Iorveth stared at him impassively. The leaves tattooed on his throat quivered with his harsh exhale.
“Very well, I’ll take you to him and we will find out the truth from his reaction. But do not forget my Scoia’tael are targeting you every step of the way.”
Geralt could parry arrows with his sword, but not twelve at once. He kept quiet and nodded. Iorveth allowed himself to be bound, powerful archer’s wrists trapped in rope. His feather kept brushing Geralt’s face as they walked. It was slow going up to the ruins. Iorveth’s fingers curled tight with frustration as they made halting progress up the path. Finally, Letho appeared, silent and contemplative among the roses. He seemed smaller here without his cloak, slumped low in the shadow of the huge statue.
“What do we have here?” he rumbled.
“Your quarry all tied up and ready for you,” Geralt said. “I know you wanted him dead. You killed Ciaran’s unit already.”
Letho studied him. “So, what’s in it for you, wolf? You want a piece of the pie? Or are you playing a different game?”
When Roche’s commandos arrived and the slaughter began, Geralt paused for just a second before giving Iorveth a sword. He couldn’t lead a willing, bound captive into a massacre. Roche thought differently of course. Iorveth was an enemy of Temeria, after all, aiding assassins who aimed to murder legitimate rulers. But if you hated humans, Geralt reasoned, why wouldn’t you want to kill their kings? And most elves he knew had good reason to hate humans. That didn’t mean that Geralt was going to stop hunting down Foltest’s killer.
The fight with Letho did not end well. When Geralt returned to the inn and found that Letho had made good on his threat to take Triss, a helpless rage mounted inside him. He tracked a trail of blood to the swampy part of the forest where Cedric lay dying in a shallow pool of water. The sight of the gentle elf bleeding out in wetlands tipped his fury into bitter resignation. This would be another long, violent road, a journey he knew well by now. He watched the deer wander away from the scene of Cedric’s cooling body as clouds covered the moon. It was time to pick a side.
In the glen by the waterfall, Iorveth stood alone, no weapons in hand. His face was covered in darkness. “We take the prison barge and flee to Vergen now,” he said. “Fight with us. Free the suffering.”
The only freedom from suffering was death, Geralt knew. But he had just emerged from the town where dwarves were beaten and elves burned, and walking away from it all to help Roche hunt down the enemies of Temeria seemed a cold and pointless task. Once again, he found himself leading a bound criminal in a charade of imprisonment.
When Iorveth followed his lead on the barge and covered his back in the fight, a fierce joy sprang up in Geralt. They moved fluidly cutting down Loredo’s men as though they had practiced combat together. Iorveth’s curved sword sang in his hand. His blind side barely seemed to hinder him at all—perhaps compensated by keen hearing and speed. They cleared the boat of humans and lifted the anchor.
The escape appeared surprisingly successful, up until Loredo started burning a tower full of bound elves. It was an impossible dilemma: let a monster escape or save the victims.
“Our women are prepared to die,” Iorveth said roughly, in the tone of someone resolved to sacrifices.
Geralt didn’t even think before he leaped to the dock. He gritted his teeth as he tore up the stairs, lungs burning with the caustic smoke. No sign of Loredo as he scrambled to untie the women’s coarse bonds. His mind went back to the people in the crypt of Vizima who he had rescued from the ghouls, allowing their Scoia’tael captors to flee. The irony of the situation did not escape him. Seigfried’s joyous assurances that he was the best of men had saved his ego then. He wasn’t sure Iorveth would be quite as effusive, especially since he hated Loredo even more than he hated Roche.
The freed women plummeted into the river and swam to waiting barge. Geralt followed them, grimacing at the weight of his soaked armor. Iorveth and another slighter elf strained to pull him aboard. The cadre of escaping elves and dwarves looked gaunt and tired instead of victorious. Iorveth left Geralt sitting in a puddle and immediately went to organize the wounded on the thin gray pallets, assign healers, set a watch rotation through the night, and order a summary of the supplies. The nonhumans obeyed him without question and seemed content to ignore Geralt and Dandelion. Zoltan was vibrating with excitement at the thought of traveling to Vergen.
They would not catch the assassins in time, Geralt expected, but he could do nothing more but follow their trail and hope it led him to Letho and Triss.
The witcher was leaning on the railing of the ship when Iorveth found him, stripped down to his undershirt and breeches which clung damply to his lean frame. He did not look any smaller out of armor, and Iorveth grudgingly admitted to himself that the witcher may have an inch or two of height on him, though they were of similar build.
“Thank you for rescuing our people and helping us take the ship,” Iorveth said. “We owe you a debt. Few humans would have done the same.”
“I’m not a human,” the witcher said, “Not anymore. They call me a freak and an abomination. And a few other less gentle terms.”
His face was scarred across his forehead, eye, and cheek. His slit pupils in yellow irises were unnerving: the eyes of a night predator. He exuded a chill of secrecy and violence. But he had jumped from the boat without hesitation and run into a burning tower at the sound of screams. He had rescued elves and dwarves from the riots in Flotsam, and he was intently pursuing his pretty little sorceress. Letho was right. The witcher was not a ruthless hunter, but a man of many weaknesses and ideals. Iorveth could use a man with ideals. Saskia could use a man with ideals.
“There will be a place for you in Vergen,” Iorveth promised him. The dragonslayer is no devouring king or noble living off the backs of the peasants. She promises a free land of equals and I am sworn to aid her.”
“So, co-existence is the key after all?” the witcher asked, a hint of mockery in his low voice. “Never worked very well for you before. I thought elves wanted their own valleys and noble cities free of dirty dh’oine.”
“Th’alla vse a’yere chylis sa. There is no freedom in the gutter,” Iorveth said, briefly changing to Elder Speech. “The old palaces will never rise again. The valley of flowers has withered. Do you know what the human warden did to the palace gardens at Dol Blathana before the emperor ordered him to return the valley to Francesca’s elves? He burned it to ashes and smashed every piece of art. Thousands of years of cultivation and beauty wiped out in a few days. Nothing will bring that back.”
The witcher stared silently out at the water. The wind swept his pale hair over his face. “So you’ll settle for a corner of the dragonslayer’s city and hope her inspiring speeches protect you from the torches of your neighbors?”
“Dwarves out-number humans in Vergen ten-to-one,” Iorveth countered. “They are slower to start massacres.”
“Ciel fian’as el shae’en. And slower to breed,” the witcher pointed out, using Elder Speech himself. “Within a few generations the human population will outnumber you all. It is the way of things.”
“Yes, they spawn like rats.” Iorveth scowled. “Perhaps the dream city will collapse in time. But do not underestimate Saskia. She is unlike anyone you have ever encountered. I believe she can bring together all races and classes. She is the last hope for my people to find peace.”
“Iorveth, is it possible you have fallen in love with a lowly human?” the witcher grinned at him.
Iorveth smirked knowingly. “You needn’t sound so jealous, witcher. Perhaps I simply share your predilection for strong women.”
“Ah, what have they told you about me?”
“That you are easily enchanted by sorceresses and keep them heartily entertained.” Iorveth shrugged. “I suppose we all have our talents.”
“Not just sorceresses.”
“Oh yes, barmaids and nurses and noblewomen and princesses…”
“And a vampire.”
“Really?” Iorveth was genuinely intrigued. “Did she try to feed off you?”
“He had given up blood, actually,” the witcher said casually. “He was a very kind man, or so Dandelion tells me. I can’t remember much about that time.”
“No wonder the dh’oine call you a freak,” Iorveth murmured. He met the witcher’s focused gaze. “You hardly follow the conventions of polite society.”
“Well, I’m glad I have you here to teach me.” The witcher turned and leaned back against the railing to face Iorveth. “Perhaps the woodland fox can enlighten me in more than a few ways.”
Iorveth sensed a challenge and felt the muscles in his back tense. Danger and uncertainty barred him from responding to the witcher’s arrogant posture and assessing eyes. He kept his face cool and disinterested.
“You can start by improving your Elder Speech, for one,” he drawled. “You speak like a rock troll with a wart-ridden tongue. It offends my ears. Perhaps one of the women you saved would be grateful enough to endure it and help you practice.” He offered a mockingly trite bow. “Good night, vatt’ghern.”
“Goodnight, elf,” he heard at his back.
Geralt was cold and sore. His throat hurt, rasped by the smoke of the burning tower. He smelled of river scum and his hair dried stiffly against his skull. Yet he kept drifting back to the wide gape of Iorveth’s collar, his gleaming skin and the leaf tattoo trailing down his throat and over his collar bone, disappearing beneath his tunic, begging to be followed down and down. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed it, but every glance seemed to reveal a little more: the edges of branches, a pointed shape. He wanted to trace it with his tongue. Geralt shook his head, bemused. It had been a long time since such an impulse had seized him, and a vicious elven guerrilla was an unlikely object for his wandering eye. Then again, according to Triss and Dandelion, his great love Yennefer was certainly no gentle flower. Perhaps he was just drawn to cruel, dark-haired beauties.
For a moment he had thought Iorveth might actually be persuaded, when banter verged on flirtation. But no matter. The only thing he needed right now was a rug to rest on and meditate until it was his turn to take watch.
He climbed below deck and found Dandelion curled up near Zoltan, his wispy sighs drowned out by the dwarf’s snoring. The elves were sitting in miserable huddles while some drew together to sleep. At the head of the hold, Iorveth sat surrounded by his commandos, smoking a pipe silently as they spoke. When rain began to spatter through the ladder hole in the deck, he tilted his head to Ele’yas, who stood and closed it, sending the hold into darkness. Still, Iorveth glowed in Geralt’s widened pupils. The witcher knelt on a dusty scrap of canvas and closed his eyes.
Saskia never stood, but her presence commanded attention. Fine boned and fair-haired, she might have been a princess if you put her in a blue velvet gown. Wearing silver armor that revealed the dip of her cleavage, hair tied messily back with a headband, she gestured with her heavy gauntlets, neither maid nor warrior but both. Her control of the table was obvious, as was the fear reeking off her war council.
Only Philippa Eilhart, that old scheming sorceress, seemed calm. She peered out at the witcher from hooded eyes, two sleek, dark braids drawing a path to her own plunging neckline. Her deep rich voice sounded to support Saskia, assure the nobles that they could win.
When Saskia announced her secret weapon, Geralt was not surprised. Iorveth could hardly skulk in the shadows for long. He had a flair for drama and his entrance to the council certainly created it.
“You bring a war criminal to our assembly?”
“I’d die before I fight alongside a murdering Scoia’tael!”
“He’s slaughtered dozens of my horde!”
Iorveth stared them in the eyes. “They would have killed me if I hadn’t.” He had the fierce, unyielding stance of a victor, even when under attack.
In the end, Saskia placated them somehow. Perhaps they all knew it was inevitable. Skilled elven archers could mow down hundreds before Henselt’s forces even reached the walls. It would be folly to turn down their bows for the sake of grudges.
As glasses lifted in the circle for a toast, Geralt felt a faint glow of hope for this rag-tag infant nation state. Perhaps they could stand against the armies of the north and maintain their freedom. Perhaps Iorveth’s dream wouldn’t wither away.
But then Saskia’s goblet clanged hard against the table and she toppled like an axed sapling.
The night air stole the breath from Iorveth’s lungs. He found himself arranging a guard for Saskia, creating a roster for his commando unit to protect the comatose dragon. Cold settled in his limbs and stomach. Another dying future for his people.
The witcher was speaking to a dwarf about a route through the mines. Iorveth could hear scraps of their conversation but nothing more. Then the witcher turned and strode to Iorveth, eyes dark in the hollows of his face.
“We’ll leave for the mines tomorrow to get the immortalle.”
“Tomorrow,” Iorveth growled, “Why not now?”
“The dwarves insist on assembling a team. No one has used those shafts in many years. They don’t really know the way or what they might find. It’s better to be safe.”
“And save our own skins while Saskia dies,” Iorveth spat.
“She’s resting,” the witcher said, soothing. “A day won’t make a difference.”
“Very well. And the other ingredients for the cure? Maybe I can bleed Stennis for you.”
The witcher grinned. “Don’t be rash. We’ll get it in time.”
“What do you humans know of time?” Iorveth scoffed. “I’ve waited my whole life--more years that you can fathom--for this place and now I’m on the verge of losing it.”
“I’m not a human,” the witcher reminded him. “And nothing is lost yet. Come to the inn with me. Bring your people and come for a drink.”
Iorveth cocked his head. “Is drinking your usual coping method?”
“It generally makes life a bit warmer, temporarily.” The witcher shrugged. “Do as you like.”
Iorveth snorted and turned back to look at the two Scoia’tael barring the way to Saskia’s chamber. The thought of returning to the dark, empty house where they had stored their belongings to stew in his own thoughts was not appealing.
It shouldn’t have surprised Geralt to see the elves at the inn drinking with the dwarves, but the sight of Iorveth among them made him look twice. The low light of the lamps and fire burnished his face bronze. He met Geralt’s eyes and raised a mug with a wry smile. The elves were drinking cautiously, but a few had begun to relax and speak more animatedly, one was even playing dice with some dwarves. When the elf across from Iorveth got up to leave, Geralt took her place at the crowded table. His appearance received more than a few uncertain stares, but Iorveth nodded at him.
“It’s not bad beer for edge of civilization,” he said.
“More civilized than Flotsam,” Geralt countered. “But I thought elves only drank delicate herbal wines.”
“We’ve learned to adapt.” Iorveth watched a pair of elves approach arm-wrestling dwarves. “There aren’t many opportunities to cultivate vineyards, press grapes, and sweetly age them when your entire civilization is being destroyed and you are fleeing to the hills to freeze in caves and dig roots for sustenance. Somehow we just didn’t have time for wine.”
One of the elves had sat to challenge the winning arm-wrestler and was currently sweating and straining against his grip. The dwarves cheered loudly and heartily. When the elf finally surrendered and his arm hit the table, the room burst into a cacophony. Geralt watched Iorveth tense and draw his feet in to rise, but the dwarves began clapping the losing elf on the back and smiles and laughter seemed to be winning the hour. Other elves sidled in to talk and dice and drink. Iorveth’s shoulders gradually relaxed, but he continued to watch. Geralt wondered if he was always on edge, always waiting for peril to strike.
“Perhaps co-existence will work after all,” Geralt said.
“With the dwarves, certainly,” Iorveth replied. “But where are the humans on this merry night?”
“They have their own conclave near the main gates.” Geralt shrugged. “Perhaps we need to invite them.”
“The inherent cruelties of dh’oine are only enhanced when they are drunk,” Iorveth asserted darkly. “By all means, do not let us lead them to the beer.”
Across the room came a shout, “Geralt! Drink with us!” It was Zoltan, Dandelion, and Yarpin among a cluster of dwarves, already rosy-faced and jovial.
Iorveth leaned back as Geralt stood. “Thank you for your suggestion, vatt’ghern. It is good for us to let go of fear for a night. But we will retire before the revelry ends poorly.”
Geralt nodded. “As you like. I’ll speak with you as soon as I get the immortalle to Phillipa.”
“Thank you, witcher.” Iorveth’s attention was back on the elves dicing by the fire.
When Geralt got to Zoltan’s table, a frothing mug of beer was pushed in his face. It was bitter, but strong and hearty, a pleasant break from the rancid piss served too often in Vizima.
Dandelion soon launched into a bawdy ballad that had the dwarves roaring. He sang the tale of the mermaid and the prince and their struggles with love and copulation. Geralt had to admit that he knew how to please his audience. Even the elves looked amused.
“Geralt,” Zoltan crowed, after the song finally finished, “We’ve made a bet with the squirrels that you can take down any one of them in the time it takes a pig to fart. They’ve issued a challenge, my boy! You must defend our honor!”
Geralt squinted at him. “What have you roped me into, Zoltan? I’m not going to start a fight with Iorveth’s commandos.”
“How about Iorveth himself?” Zoltan countered. “They’ve said he’s quick as a cat and you’ll stand no chance.”
“He would never agree to it.”
“Hey lads!” Zoltan shouted at the nearby Scoia’tael, “He’ll wrestle ‘im if your one-eyed fox isn’t too scared to have his hide pinned to the floor.”
The elves around Iorveth turned and spoke intently to him. Geralt couldn’t read his expression, but then Iorveth laughed and looked right at him. In a fluid motion he stood and pulled the bow off his shoulder.
Geralt set his swords aside, unbuckled his jerkin and stripped to the waist. The display of scars across his chest and abdomen never failed to intimidate. Iorveth looked him up and down with twisted smile.
“Make the elf take off his leathers too!” a dwarf demanded. The room was growing increasingly louder. Several dwarves pushed tables aside to make room in the center.
“Our witcher against the woodland scourge!” Yarpin trumpeted. “How will a squirrel fare out of the trees?”
A few elves were chanting something in Elder Speech that Geralt couldn’t discern over the other voices in the room. Iorveth unfastened the long line of his tunic and pulled it off his shoulders. Then he yanked his undershirt over his head and stood in his belted leggings and boots. His arms and chest showed lean, defined muscle. The tattooed leaves led down to the branches and trunk of a tree swirling with symbols that disappeared below his waistline.
Geralt met him in the center. His blood had started running hot with desire and the expectation of a fight, but he tried to keep a cool head. “We can just shake hands and they’ll have to deal with it. I don’t want any riots breaking out here.”
“Are you afraid?” Iorveth asked, a gleam in his eye, mouth curved to one side.
Geralt wanted him with a hunger like pain. He growled, “Only afraid of hurting your pretty ass when I throw you to the ground.”
“Worry more about your own,” Iorveth said, sinking into a crouch. “I don’t submit so easily.”
Geralt matched his position, flexing his arms to ready them. He felt like a wolf hunting a powerful elk, knowing it could kill him if he didn’t take it down immediately.
“It’s just a friendly match!” Dandelion was shouting, “Let’s all settle down…” The dwarves were standing on tables now, jostling for the best view.
Zoltan had appointed himself the round master and had a sausage raised like a baton. “Ready, lads? Three…two…one.”
Geralt sprang left to Iorveth’s blind side, tried to grab him low across the waist but Iorveth caught his arm and wrenched it up and back, fast as a thought, but not strong enough to unbalance Geralt who merely twisted to the side and wrenched free. Iorveth wisely backed away, bringing space between them again. He was smiling now, a mad-eyed smirk of anticipation. Geralt flexed his shoulders and smiled back. His arm ached and his blood was singing. Iorveth made the next move lowering his shoulder as he rushed, as though to flip Geralt over, but he hooked one leg around Geralt’s knee and pulled him off balance. He couldn’t quite force him down, so they staggered together, trapped in a hold as the room roared, Geralt pushing back into Iorveth to avoid toppling. Iorveth’s skin was smooth and hard to grip. Then the pressure on Geralt was suddenly gone as Iorveth dropped to his knees and used Geralt’s own momentum to flip him over his head.
Geralt had the control to roll to the side and evade Iorveth’s pounce. Now they were on the floor together where Iorveth’s strength couldn’t match his own. Still, Iorveth too was slippery and fast; it was maddeningly difficult to pin him down. They grappled and twisted, grunting with the effort. Every time Geralt caught him, Iorveth writhed free and immediately launched a counterattack which Geralt stopped by pulling him down again.
As it went on, Geralt found himself wondering how sore and tired he would be in the morning when it came time for the long trek through the mines. So when Iorveth wrenched out of his hold again, Geralt pretended to slip on the floorboards and cursed loudly, holding his wrist. He let Iorveth trap him on the floor with both knees, heard the groans of the dwarves.
Iorveth leaned over him, glaring, and hissed in his ear, “Next time you submit to me, it will be for real. None of this play-acting, vatt’ghern.” He stood quickly and let Geralt up. They shook hands. It was a diplomatic move, Geralt told himself. The elves needed something to lift their spirits and morale in the new place. Iorveth probably hated it, but he knew what was best.