The Witcher: The Alchemist Who Walked the Witcher’s Road

In the first-class cabin of the Black Pearl, the three distinguished passengers of this voyage were sitting on the floor playing cards, something like poker.

The mood drifting through the room held a thread of anxiety about an uncertain future, a kind of unspoken solidarity among fellow sufferers, and a streak of amused schadenfreude.

Aryan in particular had not lost the smile on his face since the negotiation on deck. It was so bright it was almost ridiculous.

He slapped down the joker. "Is it really that funny?" Victor shot the young nobleman a sidelong glance.

"Do you want the truth or a lie?" Aryan replied with a pleasant smile, his handsome face somehow managing to look both sly and honest at the same time, which made it even more irritating.

Without waiting for Victor's answer, he went on, "My friend, forgive me, but every time I remember how kindly you comforted me these past few days, how sincere you looked back then, the funnier it becomes now.

"Still, you should count yourself lucky. Your buyer is an important man, King Bran of Skellige personally put up the bounty. You'll surely be treated as an honored guest rather than a slave. I do wonder whether Clan Tuirseach has any daughters.

"Their shieldmaidens are famous across the world for how fierce they are. They might even marry one of them to you. And when you become a prince, don't forget the humble friends you knew back when you were still nobody."

The more Aryan talked, the more outrageous he became. Who said honest men couldn't hit where it hurt? At this moment he was every bit as punchable as Iorveth, though he still had nothing on Lambert or Dandelion.

The situation now was very simple. Sukrus had transported the Dragonborn Bard all the way from Novigrad to Skellige and planned to sell him to King Bran, ruler of the isles. That was why they were in Urialla Harbor on An Skellig, a place famous for its master shipbuilding.

And because the captain had never intended to harm the Phantom Troupe from start to finish, Angoulême's enemy detection had never reacted. Once everything was laid out, it really was not complicated.

Faced with Aryan's teasing, Victor remained calm and rational. Ever since learning that Dandelion had come to Skellige, he had already had a premonition that the island nobility would summon him. The Return of the Dragonborn was exactly the sort of thing they would love, and Dijkstra had mentioned it before too.

He just had not expected to be sold off the moment he arrived, which left him a little annoyed. Still, he had already experienced being "warmly invited" back in Novigrad, and everyone knew that in a situation like this there was not much real danger. That was why Aryan could joke about it as if it were a funny story.

A knock came at the cabin door. It was Sukrus's voice. "Mr. Victor, the envoy King Bran sent to receive you has arrived. Please come out."

Tossing aside the cards in his hand, the bard pinched the bridge of his nose and put on his sunglasses. Even if he was being sold, he ought to fetch a good price. A mysterious and dashing first impression was obviously far better than being utterly forgettable.

"Come on, Aryan, let's see who King Bran sent as his envoy. Help me estimate what kind of price I can be sold for."

The young nobleman threw down his cards and stood. "My friend, we part today, and who knows when we shall meet again. No matter what happens, I'll be waiting for you at La Valette Castle. When you regain your freedom, you must make time to come. Day and night, I'll be looking forward to it."

...

They stepped out of the room lined with sound-dampening paint and into the corridor, and all three exchanged a look at the same moment.

Using The Return of the Dragonborn as music to welcome the bard was not strange. What was strange was the way the prelude had been put together.

Instead of instruments, they were using human voices, roaring and chanting in place of music. And not just one or two voices either. It had to be dozens of men working together to create something this layered, bleak, and rough-hewn.

Aryan gave Victor a look that said it all: this was more than popularity, this was very, very popularity.

Victor had no answer for that. As they kept walking, the prelude gradually came to an end, right up until the instant they stepped onto the deck.

"Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin,

By his honor he is sworn, to keep evil from returning forever.

When the roar of his victory is heard, even the fiercest enemies flee in terror.

O Dragonborn, we pray for your blessing."

The mighty, desolate singing was grand beyond words.

All three of them drew in a sharp breath at the same time, because there were far more than a mere few dozen voices in front of them. There were hundreds singing in unison, every last one of them a carefully chosen hulking man of Clan Tuirseach.

From Victor's point of view, their singing technique was only so-so. But this style of chanting was absolutely one of a kind in this era, and he remembered the concept very well. He had only ever described it to one shameless bard.

That sky-splitting momentum could not shake Victor. But stunning Angoulême and Aryan was easy, and even Sukrus could not help turning around and giving the young man a careful bow.

Amid the rolling praise of the song, Victor strode proudly across the plank, stepped onto the land of Urialla Harbor, and walked toward the envoy of King Bran standing at the head of the welcoming party.

He wore the traditional garb of Clan Tuirseach, a bearskin mantle wrapped around a body as broad as a bear's. With brown hair and blue eyes, his first impression was one of slowness and dullness, calm and mild.

Victor, meanwhile, wore a sturdy leather cuirass in a style close to Clan an Craite. Yoana had originally thought they would reach Kaer Trolde first, so she had made it specially. Blond hair, sunglasses, a lean but well-proportioned frame, at first glance he did not look especially imposing, which sat oddly beside his thunderous reputation.

Once they were within speaking distance, the envoy inclined his head first.

"Svanrige an Tuirseach, representing my father, Bran an Tuirseach, King of Ard Skellig, An Skellig, Spikeroog, Hindarsfjall, Undvik, and Faroe, welcomes Victor Corion, the Dragonborn, to Skellige."

Victor noticed that after Dragonborn there was no mention of bard, but he merely assumed the man's Common Speech was lacking.

With his left palm turned upward and his right hand resting against his chest, Victor introduced himself without servility and without arrogance, while also bringing in his companion.

"Victor of Bell Town, east of Zerrikania, and Angoulême of Cintra, are honored to accept King Bran's invitation."

Svanrige's expression did not change. He gave a stiff nod. "Welcome, both of you."

At that moment, if Victor had introduced Aryan as well, he could have been taken along too. But the young nobleman had no wish for that, because it would have violated the agreement he had originally reached with Sukrus. It would have been a breach of trust.

The envoy waved a hand, and several men dragged over an extraordinarily powerful stallion that was struggling violently, barely managing to tie it to a post by the dock before the guards quickly backed away to a safe distance.

Then Svanrige spoke in his slow, unhurried way.

"Please mount up. This is the steed prepared especially for you. His name is Black King. Be careful, this beast is extremely fierce. He has already thrown several warriors to their deaths."

Victor's expression instantly soured.

No matter how dense a man might be, anyone could tell now that something was definitely off. No matter how thick-skinned Skelligers were, they would never treat a poet like this. And the attitude of the king's eldest son, courteous but distant, made the horse feel less like a gift and more like a test.

And it was not just Svanrige watching. His guards were watching, the hundred-man chorus was watching, and even the townsfolk gathered nearby were all staring with varying expressions, following the development of the situation.

The look in their eyes, their eager expectation that the young man would tame the wild horse, was not the way they would look at a poet.

It was the way they would look at the Dragonborn.

The instant that thought crossed his mind, Victor went rigid as iron.

That bastard had gone way too far this time.

Anyone else facing this situation would have been completely helpless. They could only jump onto the horse and then suffer through a brutal high-speed bucking nightmare.

Luckily, that kind of thing was not enough to stump Victor of Bell Town.

As he walked toward Black King, he casually slipped a hand into his herbal satchel and took out a little sugar ball. He crushed it in his palm, and a sweet fragrance burst into the air.

Standing in front of the horse, he spread both hands.

Victor had no confidence that he could truly tame the wild stallion, but he was very confident that he could make it stop feeling hostile.

He looked at the horse. The horse looked at him.

It glanced at the hands giving off that temptingly sweet smell.

The standoff lasted only a few seconds before the stallion lowered its head and began licking Victor's hand.

Bless his grandmother's love, and the eighth birthday gift she had given her grandson, a Little Pony Sweet.

According to her, this sugar ball would release a sweetness no horse in the world could resist. After eating it, the horse would become docile and obedient for a short time, making sure her grandson could go riding safely, when he was eight years old.

Victor was absolutely certain she did not even understand that horses did not really like carrots that much, they liked sweetness. But that did not stop her from patching the whole idea together with carrots and miraculous alchemy.

As for the effect of the sugar ball, once Black King had finished licking his hand, the stallion gently rubbed its cheek against Victor's palm like a tame pet.

To the Skelligers, this was downright unbelievable. The boy had merely walked up to the savage horse, spread out his hands, and the stallion that had left so many men helpless had submitted just like that.

After smoothing down its mane, the Dragonborn Bard vaulted onto the horse's back and sat there steady as a rock.

Seeing this miracle unfold, the people present burst into applause and cheers almost in unison.

Even Aryan was stunned by Victor's performance. As a noble son raised in a great house, there was no way he did not understand horses, and that beast had looked dangerous at a glance.

Yet after that brief contact, it had meekly allowed the boy to sit astride it, as if they had known one another for years.

Svanrige finally smiled, and now the smile looked far more sincere than before. He swung onto his own mount and gave a light tug on the reins.

"A truly astonishing display. Come with me, King Bran is waiting for you."

Hoofbeats rang out. The envoy rode in front, and Victor's party headed for the royal residence.

The noise and excitement in Urialla Harbor gradually died down, but the story of the foreigner who had tamed a savage horse with a look began to spread.

...

After Black King had been led into the stables and the servants instructed to care for him well, the king's eldest son and the three members of the Phantom Troupe headed toward the banquet hall.

From afar, they could already see a noblewoman striding out of the hall with an impatient look on her face.

They crossed paths in the corridor.

She wore a pale blue queen's dress. Her bearing was proud, self-assured, and forceful, and that arrogance was not directed only at Victor. She treated Svanrige the same way.

The king's eldest son bowed to her. "Mother, Victor Corion, the legendary Dragonborn."

Then he turned to the young man. "Birna, Queen of the Isles, my mother."

The woman gave Victor a faint smile. "I trust you were pleased with Black King. It was not for nothing that I specially provided that fine horse."

Then she turned to her son. "Don't drink too much. Go to bed early."

It was an order, not a suggestion.

The three of them stepped aside and inclined their heads, watching the queen leave.

...

When they entered the grand and lively hall, Clan Tuirseach was in the middle of a feast, huge slabs of roasted meat and great bowls of strong liquor everywhere.

One young clansman spotted the eldest son of the king leading the three newcomers and shouted loudly, "Svan, did your mother allow you to come in and drink?"

The whole hall roared with laughter.

Svanrige looked at him in silence, then walked straight to the seat of honor and bowed to the white-haired giant of a man, his father, Bran an Tuirseach.

Victor and Angoulême followed suit.

Everyone in the hall immediately sensed that something was unusual.

The two strangers following behind the king's son were dressed in clothing similar to that of Clan an Craite, but their bearing was completely different. At a glance it was obvious they were outsiders.

And if foreign guests had been brought into this occasion, into this hall, then could these be the very visitors everyone had been fervently discussing lately, the peerless hero sung of in the Dragonborn songs, Dovahkiin?

Could he really exist?

Many people were asking themselves exactly that, and the noisy banquet hall suddenly quieted by a noticeable degree as all eyes turned toward the seat of honor.

Victor, however, paid no attention to the curious, friendly, hostile, or doubtful looks directed his way.

From the moment he stepped into the hall, there was only one person he cared about.

That man was sitting not far from King Bran. More handsome than an elf, he was chatting merrily with a young Skellige wife. Victor sincerely hoped the woman's husband was not at this banquet, otherwise the bard might get hacked to death by a furious man before Victor ever had the chance to personally discipline him.

"Your Majesty King Bran, Victor of Bell Town offers you his respects."

His etiquette was impeccable.

King Bran, known as the Conqueror, had white hair, a white beard, blue eyes, and an enormous frame, a perfect example that the apple did not fall far from the tree.

He rose from his seat, snatched up a great cup of mead from the table, shoved it into Victor's hand, and spoke in a generous, booming voice.

"Dovahkiin, Dragonborn, legendary warrior, Victor Corion, you don't look quite as mighty as the songs make you out to be."

Victor raised the cup in salute to the king, tipped back his head, and emptied the mead in one long pull.

"Your Majesty, I have the same question. So before I answer it, I ask that I first have a private conversation with the bard Dandelion."

King Bran planted his hands on his hips with a hearty laugh. "Ha! With a drinking capacity like that, you've earned it. Dandelion's right there. Svanrige will take you to a quiet room."

...

The moment the door closed, Dandelion, the greatest bard in the North, was seized by the collar and hauled high into the air, his feet leaving the ground as he struggled to breathe.

"You bastard, are you trying to get me killed?" Victor ground out through clenched teeth.

"Ugh... hhk... ngh..."

The bard looked miserable, but Angoulême showed no intention of stopping Victor in the slightest. Dandelion had taken her Amber without asking, so he deserved to suffer a little.

"You've been spreading my fame all over the place. Fine, being known as a poet has its pros and cons. But then you went and promoted me straight into the Dragonborn. Are you tired of me staying alive? You know the lyrics yourself. Don't tell me you don't realize not just anyone can be Dovahkiin."

Angoulême could not help covering her mouth and laughing.

Victor spent all day enjoying himself by acting like some dark figure who walked the night in bizarre clothes, Batman or Van Helsing, yet the moment he had to play a proper heroic legend, he flew into a rage.

"Mm... ah... hnng..."

"Talk! Why aren't you answering me? Why are you trying to ruin me? Say something!"

Victor shook him violently with both hands.

"Hrk... hkk..."

Looks like it was about time to intervene.

Arms folded, Angoulême leaned against a decorative suit of armor. "I don't think he can answer your question right now, and he's on the verge of suffocating. Vic, are you sure you want him to be your first kill?"

After confirming that the troupe would follow him, their leader had naturally told them he was looking for worthy opponents on whom to test his blade. A valuable slot like that should not be wasted.

Thud.

The bard landed on the ground safely enough.

After venting his anger, Victor let out a helpless sigh, hauled Dandelion back to his feet, set him in a chair, patted down his trousers, and straightened his clothes.

"All right, you bastard. Now sit there and tell me properly, what the hell is going on here?"

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