Chapter 51 - Interlude: Pawns
Aevinne stood before an unmarked grave under a forest’s canopy, some ways from the burgeoning fortress. She was breathing in and out, mind blank.
A sudden grip on her shoulder startled her. Whipping her head around, she spotted Isengrim’s scarred face.
“You’ve done well,” he spoke, eyeing the grave, then their surroundings, “But do not venture out here alone.”
“Degurechaff doesn’t think there is anyone else,” Aevinne responded after a few seconds.
Isengrim shrugged, “For now. Tomorrow, who knows?”
Aevinne didn’t respond, and the gravesite descended into silence.
“How do you do it?” She eventually spoke up.
“Hm?” Isengrim tilted his head questioningly.
“Deal with death. I thought I was ready…” Aevinne explained.
The Iron Wolf smiled, the expression anything but reassuring on his scarred face, “The first friend you lose hurts the most. The second and third ones aren’t much better. From the fourth to the tenth, you start getting used to it. By the hundredth, you will feel nothing,” he turned away from her, before finishing softly, “That is real war, Aevinne. The losers pay with their blood, the winners with their souls.”
Aevinne stood by the entrance of Degurechaff’s tent, watching as the sorceress trained with her staff. The two were the only people present. The other four guards on duty were outside, while Aevinne’s job was to help the sorceress should an enemy somehow sneak through.
Eventually, her composure broke, and she cringed.
Her face returned to her customary neutrality soon enough, but the change did not escape Degurechaff’s notice, “Is there something wrong?”
“You are atrocious,” Aevinne spoke immediately.
The sorceress blinked, “Pardon?”
“Your legs. You move like a fish that grew legs but hasn’t quite grasped their purpose. Who taught you to move like that?”
Tanya’s eye twitched, “I am mostly self-taught.”
“That’d explain it,” Aevinne spoke, nodding her head, before resuming her duty of guarding near the entrance.
Degurechaff stayed still, staring at the elf, before sighing, “Please elaborate.”
Aevinne tilted her head, “Neglecting footwork is a common mistake amongst those without proper training.”
“No, please elaborate upon my mistakes,” Degurechaff reiterated.
“Oh,” Aevinne responded, finally understanding, “There are three main aspects of footwork: stability, reach, and mobility,” she took out her sword, reaching as far as she could manage as she was, before continuing, “The purpose of any decent stance,” Aevinne moved one leg in front, bending the knee slightly, while the other stayed straight, foot pointing slightly to the side, her sword suddenly reaching much farther, “is to maximize all three.”
She then demonstrated foot movement to the front, back, and sides, her stance never wavering.
“There are many stances, but the philosophy stays the same, even if they can prioritise different aspects. While your handling of the staff is decent, your footwork is patchwork at best. No intent. ” Aevinne finished, ending back up at her previous spot.
“What about power?” The sorceress asked curiously.
“Power is largely tied with stability,” the elf explained.
Degurechaff looked at her curiously, “I’ll add an hour-long lesson to my daily schedule in the evenings. Please think upon this matter further with my weapon’s capabilities in mind.”
Aevinne’s eyes widened in surprise.
Coen played with his medallion as he sat with Cyril, the soldier eying him distrustfully while he shook the two dice in his hand.
“Victory at all costs,” the soldier whispered to his hand, before releasing the dice on the stump they were sitting at.
Cyril stared at the dice hopefully, his face dropping when they both settled on ones.
The witcher’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t comment.
“There is always next time,” Cyril muttered, handing the dice to Coen, “Another round?”
Coen shook his head, “I’ll be heading out.”
Cyril’s eyes sharpened, hearing something in the witcher’s voice, “Out,” he parroted.
The monster hunter grimaced, “I am leaving. A border skirmish is one thing, but everyone has heard the rumours about Nazair now, let alone the other… things. ”
“Hm,” the soldier responded eloquently, “Your code?” At Coen’s nod, he continued, “If you are heading to Cintra, mind delivering something to my daughter?”
“You have a daughter?” Coen exclaimed.
“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Cyril responded drily.
The witcher scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, “You just didn't seem the type to, you know…”
“Oy! Will you or won’t you?”
Coen put his hands up placatingly, “Of course, I planned to stop by anyway. What is it?”
“A letter, and some money. She got married a few years ago to an apprentice smith, and they’ve been scrounging to open up a shop for a while. Lady Degurechaff’s pay might be enough…”
The witcher looked around. Spotting no one, he leaned close, “Are you sure you want to stay? I wasn’t there, but the first time could have been a fluke.”
Cyril shook his head, “A fluke? She might not be the most… standard, but I trust her to lead us to victory. That day, she and the elves took on most of the risk. You should have seen her, Coen,” his eyes took on a faraway look, “She rode with just a handful of knights, that hellbeast of a serpent on her tail. I swear to the gods she broke the enemy formation on her own.”
The witcher examined him curiously, “Well, I wish you luck. I still have to read over the contract to make sure I understand it properly before I bring this to Degurechaff, but I expect I’ll be gone tomorrow morning…” He trailed off, spotting a certain elven woman.
The elf moved towards their stump with her long strides, plopping down unceremoniously.
“How did your shift go?” Cyril asked, happy to move on to lighter topics. Degurechaff’s guards only worked for four hours at a time, before she insisted on having them rest.
“I told Lady Degurechaff that her footwork was horrible, and now she wants me to teach her?” She said in a slightly confused tone.
Coen burst out laughing, while Cyril looked largely puzzled, “I never saw anything wrong with her footwork?”
The resulting look of disgust caused Cyril to lean away from the elf.
Coen got his laughter under control, “You wouldn’t have, which is not a slight against you Cyril - Degurechaff was never bad. Just very rote, from what I’ve seen.”
Aevinne opened her mouth, then closed it with a thoughtful expression, “I suppose yours is quite bad as well.”
“Thanks,” Cyril responded drily.
“What about mine?” Coen asked.
“I haven’t seen you fight or train,” Aevinne replied.
“Well, that is an easy fix,” Coen said, standing up.
Both Aevinne and Cyril looked on in interest as he unsheathed one of the swords on his back and demonstrated his footwork, along with a few slashes and pirouettes, moving with great speed all the while.
“What do you think?” He asked after a minute or so, no exertion at all visible in his demeanor.
The elf tilted her head, “How are you alive?”
Coen put a hand over his heart, “You wound me.”
Aevinne stood up, a slight frown marring her face as she circled Coen, examining him like an exotic specimen.
Suddenly she stopped, a strange expression on her face, “Were you… going slow? To let us see better?”
The witcher smiled, nodding.
Aevinne stared for a moment, “Let’s fight,” she spoke suddenly, unsheathing her own sword in one swift motion.
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Coen was taken aback, “Is now the best time?”
“If not now, then when?” Aevinne retorted, already moving to a bit of empty ground nearby.
Settling into a ready stance, she looked at the witcher, “Well?”
Cyril and Coen exchanged a look, then the witcher approached her, his own sword in hand.
As he neared, Aevinne’s sword flashed, a diagonal slash from the right.
Metal met metal with a clang as her sword met the witcher’s parry, and Aevinne stepped back, eyes measuring. The witcher’s speed was extraordinary.
She slashed again, transitioning into a thrust at the last moment, but found no success again, the witcher parrying her attack without much effort. This time, he did not let it slide.
Coen stepped back, freeing his sword, before performing an under cut, slashing from below towards Aevinne’s torso.
The elf moved, barely managing to parry and deflect. She grit her teeth as the force proved to be much larger than she anticipated.
The next seconds passed in a blur as the two exchanged a flurry of strikes, metal ringing.
Parrying another attack, Aevinne stepped back, breathing loudly. The witcher didn’t even look winded.
Aevinne lowered her head, then sheathed her sword.
Coen nodded to her.
“No pirouettes,” Aevinne pointed out.
The witcher chuckled, “As you’ve probably surmised, they are not meant for evading a singular, skilled opponent. Their real purpose is for fighting larger beasts, but they look impressive. ”
Cyril clapped.
“Your Majesty,” Ortagor bowed, as he arrived at the earthen ramparts of the outer wall, where the King stood, staring to the south.
“Dalibor! Just the man I was waiting to see,” the King, Roegnar of Ebbing, turned to him, “Magnificent, is it not? I cannot believe it has just been a few months since this endeavour began.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Ortagor replied.
Roegnar’s eyes roved from Ortagor’s feet to his face, “You are wondering why it is me here, and not the Queen?”
The baron’s eyes turned downward, which did not help much, as he was easily half a meter taller than the King, “I would not dare question a royal decision, Your Majesty.”
Roegnar rolled his eyes, “My darling wife thought it prudent not to put all our baskets in one egg, since someone might just get lucky enough to kill two birds with one lost battle.”
“Ah, yes, Your Majesty.”
“She is quite smart, and very pretty, so I tend to listen to her. HA!” The King chuckled, slapping Ortagor’s back a few times. The baron didn’t budge an inch.
“Ehm, anyway,” the King continued, “Do you know where the sorceress hides her monsters, Dalibor?”
“Ah, that is actually what I wanted to talk to you about, Your Majesty.”
“Really? How fortunate!”
“Yes,” Ortagor responded, voice clipped, “Your Majesty, what Degurechaff is doing is-”
“Incredible, isn’t it?” Roegnar jumped in, “A serpent that size…” he shook his head in disbelief.
“Your Majesty does not find it dishonorable?” Ortagor asked carefully.
“Dishonorable? HAH! Dalibor, you lack imagination. The enemy gets to fight beasts straight out of legends, instead of killing their fellow human beings. And the glory should they win! The glory! I almost envy them. I can already imagine my lance sinking into the flesh of such a beast,” Roegnar finished with a wistful voice.
As the King spoke, he turned towards the south again, staring from the wall, and so he did not see Ortagor grimace at his words.
“She has been executing prisoners,” Ortagor tried again, “She takes them out of the fort, and spells them to death, burying them in unmarked graves.”
At this, the King turned back towards the Baron, his eyes sharp, “Baron Ortagor,” he spoke seriously, “I did not take you for such a wuss!”
Roegnar slapped Ortagor’s back again, to no effect.
“If they want to masquerade as bandits, then Degurechaff is only following their wishes by treating them as such. Are you, perhaps, jealous of her success, Baron?”
“No, of course not!” Ortagor denied, “It is just, Your Majesty, the beast… It was an unholy abomination. An affront to nature itself, and Degurechaff did not even blink before unleashing it.”
“Abomination shmabomination,” Roegnar replied, “The important part is that she unleashed it upon our enemies, wouldn’t you agree?”
Author's note: This chapter came out on April fools, and was originally hidden in a spoiler tag, with a joke chapter preceding it - this has now been reversed, and the joke chapter is hidden in this spoiler.