The Witcher: Serpent School Witcher's Otherworldly Journey

Meanwhile, Geralt, the Witcher master, was unconsciously rubbing his right knuckles against the wolf head carving on his chest; he was already getting a little tired of his bodyguard job.

In fact, his "connection" with Foltest has lasted much longer than he expected.

It started as a demon-hunting commission. Princess Artha, the king's daughter, was cursed and turned into a vampire bird. Geralt spent an entire night crouching in the cold stone coffin, sealing the lid with the Arden sign, listening to the grotesque scraping of the stone slabs by the twisted monster—the former princess—waiting for the first rays of dawn to dispel the curse. It was one of the longest nights he had ever endured. But he succeeded; the princess regained her human form. For this, Foltest owed him a favor, a favor the king would not easily acknowledge.

Then came the Salamanders. Vizima descended into chaos, the Scoia'tael gang and the Knights of the Flame Rose clashing in the streets. Yda's curse flared again, engulfing the city in bloodshed and madness. Geralt lifted the curse from the princess for the second time, and subsequently thwarted the Salamanders' plot. Just when everything seemed to be settling down, an assassin calling himself the Kingslayer infiltrated Foltest's audience chamber. The assassin was agile, his movements possessing the precision and lethality of a Witcher; had Geralt not been present, Foltest's throat would likely have been slit that very night.

The assassin was repelled, but not killed. He vanished into the night of Vizima like a venomous snake slipping into a dark ditch. Foltest, enraged, kept Geralt by his side—not as a mercenary, not as a Witcher, but as his bodyguard. "Until the plot of this assassination is thoroughly investigated," the king said threateningly. Triss also urged him to stay, saying that the matter was far more complex than a simple assassination. The assassin's fighting style was too much like a Witcher's, which made Geralt uneasy.

So he stayed. The Witcher's rule of not getting involved in politics was a doctrine Vesemir had instilled in them from childhood. But reality is always more complex than doctrine. When a king whose daughter you've twice saved asks for your protection, when an assassin suspected of being a Witcher is secretly plotting his regicide, this doctrine becomes like a rusty shield—still there, but actually offering little protection.

From lifting the curse of the vampire bird to stopping the dagger that would kill the king, and now standing in this military camp filled with the smell of rotting corpses and tar, listening to the king complain about the taste of the wine, this path has gone further and further, deeper and deeper, like stepping into the mud of a swamp, each step harder to pull one's feet out than the last.

If Foltest weren't king, and if this weren't a Temerian military camp, Geralt might have actually sat down, taken the drink, and talked to this man about monsters and war. But "if" is the most useless word in the world. Here, the blades lurking in the shadows are far more dangerous than the water ghosts. Throughout Geralt's long life, he has witnessed countless times a truth: the cruelty humans show towards their own kind, and the malice they display in power struggles, is no less than any of the monsters he has slain in the depths of the swamp.

Even worse.

"Your Majesty, shall we summon the new Witcher?"

The squire finally mustered the courage to speak. He lowered his head, his voice trembling, as if he wanted to press his forehead against the thick carpet on the ground. The pattern woven into the fabric formed the shape of a Temeria lily, exquisitely beautiful, but at this moment, the slightly wrinkled white petals reminded him of the Nilfgaardian spy who had been hanged on the castle wall the night before; that man's face was also just as pale, wrinkled by the wind.

He was unwilling to suffer the same fate for dereliction of duty.

Foltest did not answer immediately, but instead used his sword to cut open the wax seal of the newly delivered Toussaint wine. The creaking sound of the steel blade rubbing against the wax was particularly jarring in the hall, until the scarlet wine was refilled into the glass with a pleasant gurgling sound. Only then did the king slowly speak to the swaying reflection in the glass.

"My dear Geralt," Foltest's voice softened, but a sharp edge lurked beneath, "I've heard that you Witchers can hold your breath underwater for ten minutes? Is that true?"

Geralt remained silent, only nodding slightly.

“I’ve seen water ghosts,” the king continued, raising his goblet and peering through the red liquid at the candlelight atop the tent. “They’re nothing but foul-smelling creatures with claws and brains no bigger than walnuts. They’re nothing against the steel swords and spears of my soldiers. If I had the chance, I’d love to take my Blue-Clad Guards to the riverbank and chop off their heads to kick around like a ball. But I simply don’t have the time right now. I have to keep an eye on that damned castle across the river, on my children… and on that treacherous old man.”

His voice trembled almost imperceptibly when he said "children".

"But how about we make a bet?" Fortest's tone suddenly shifted, becoming light and cheerful, like a charlatan peddling fake medicine at a market. "If the new witcher can clear the river bend's water monster lair, I'll reward him with fifty orens. If he becomes the water monster's dinner, then forget it, but if he succeeds, and you keep putting it off..."

Foltest paused, leaned forward, and lowered his voice, as if a demon were whispering in my ear: "Then you'll have to take care of that swamp witch on the border of Aden for free. I've had enough of those incompetent lords writing to me all day complaining about missing babies. Each letter is longer and more miserable than the last, as if I were a miracle cure-all. What do you say, White Wolf?"

Geralt's facial muscles twitched slightly.

His sense of smell caught the mixed scents in Foltest's breath: expensive cherry brandy, aged tobacco, and... mandrake.

It was a potent herb, commonly used to treat gout or joint pain, but its side effects were also significant: it could make the user emotionally unstable and easily agitated, and it could make intoxication occur faster and more intensely. Geralt had seen it in Kaer Morhen's herb storehouse. Vesemir used it to make hot compresses, but would never allow anyone to take it orally.

The king was suffering. Not just physically, but also mentally. Geralt glanced at the pale-faced, nearly fainting squire beside him, and knew very well that the king was in a terrible mood lately. Madame de la Valedi's betrayal, the custody of the illegitimate child, the stalemate of the siege—all of this was tormenting the monarch.

Much of the anger was vented elsewhere, on the unfortunate merchant and the hanged spies. If the Witcher didn't want to become the new target of the capricious king's wrath, now was the time to voice his opinion.

Geralt pretended to think for a moment and pondered.