The Fire of Malice || The Witcher

Chapter Seven

It was a few hours after midnight. Geralt had been in place ever since dusk had fallen. His ambush point was carefully chosen—it wasn't his first time. There were only two routes from Oxenfurt to Novigrad that were wide enough to allow a wagon passage—one that took a direct path north and west; and one that wound through the countryside to the east. The eastern path would take almost twice as long as the western so Geralt didn't see any reason they would choose that one. He lay in wait a couple of hours outside of Oxenfurt, it would be too risky to try to take the transport too close to the walls. If the city guards heard what was happening, Geralt stood no chance.

So he had walked the path between towering trees, looking for a suitable vantage point. A particular bend in the road provided just that. The bend itself would slow the convoy down if they were traveling at speed and the ground banked up to one side giving Geralt not only the high ground, but a clear view of their approach while he remained hidden.

The trek hadn't been easy. After only a few miles, Geralt had been winded, legs burning. Not to mention the pain. He had donned his armor, knowing he would need it, but even the tiniest shift in his body caused it to rub and irritate his wounds, no matter how much padding Shani had tried to coat Geralt with. It was miserable, but bearable for the most part. And a far cry from how he had been the day before. He was just happy that he had recovered enough to walk. More importantly, to wield a sword.

He whiled away the hours meditating, preparing for the battle to come. He had no illusions that it would be easy, but he had no choice. For him, there was no option. To save a friend was not something that needed to be considered, deliberated. It was a given. And once decided, there was no turning back.

Roth wasn't going to win this time. Nor get away. No matter what. Geralt was going to end that blight upon the world once and for all. If not to stroke his own ego, then for Triss' sake. And Ciri's. Roth was a monster and the witcher profession had but one objective—to hunt down and kill monsters. In whatever form.

And so he waited.

But not for long.

A slow rumbling was building down the road—wagon wheels. Followed by footsteps and the clink of armor. It was definitely them.

Geralt slunk back into the shadows of the trees. Any minute now.

He was lucky. They didn't seem to be in any sort of rush, the horses were only walking. Then he realized it was because there were six guards surrounding the wagon, fully clad in armor. They wouldn't be able to keep up if they were moving any faster. Their armor wouldn't pose a problem for Geralt. It was impressive, but not well made, he noted. His sword would cut right through it. He slowly drew his steel sword from its sheath, its hiss echoing his own as a twinge across his chest told him several wounds had stretched and cracked.

Geralt waited until the front of the wagon pulled even with his hiding spot, the driver, oblivious to Geralt's presence, in full view.

Then he pounced.

In less than a second, the man's head squelched to the ground and chaos erupted. The horses spooked at Geralt's sudden appearance and ran ahead wildly, no longer guided by anyone, but stopped a short distance away when one of them became tangled in the trees and brambles.

Stunned, the guards took a moment to reorder themselves. In that span, Geralt felled two. The others came at him, shouting and swinging their swords crudely. They didn't seem too experienced. And Roth wasn't among them, Geralt noticed.

Strange.

There was no time to contemplate the circumstances. Geralt dodged and weaved amongst his foes, parrying, striking, thrusting, twirling. Dancing the deadly waltz that he knew so well. By the time the song had ended, severed limbs and heads were strewn about six corpses, Geralt alone left as a bloodied monolith to the spectacle.