An Acting Witcher

When they reached the cellar entrance and went down the stairs, Letho lit several torches, revealing the dwarf from head to toe in their glow.

"Roy, stay here with Mr. Sevir. I'm going in to kill that thing!"

Letho fixed the dwarf with a sharp gaze and gave him a solemn warning.

"Stay quiet and try not to be afraid. Otherwise, Hym will feed on your fear and grow stronger, which will make my job harder."

At the order, Sevir froze like a startled hedgehog, barely daring to breathe.

"Roy, make sure you help him stay calm!"

Roy nodded, looking just as wary.

"Seville Hogg really is a strange one. To have made it this far, most of the credit probably does go to his brothers, just as he said—the ones who ended up as corpses in barrels."

Only after the bald Witcher's mountainous silhouette disappeared behind a pile of barrels in the cellar's depths did the two turn to stare at each other. The silence was almost unbearable.

"Mr. Sevir, how about a game?"

Roy spread his lips in an honest, guileless grin.

"Let's do something good for the body and soul—a thrilling game of Gwent!"

The dwarf wine merchant wasn't short on money, but Roy was.

Sevir held an index finger to his thick lips, surrounded by dark brown whiskers, then glanced toward Letho, apparently uninterested in the idea.

"The more worried you are, the easier it'll be to draw Hym here. Besides, in a situation like this, can you think of a better way to pass the time than Gwent?"

At the mention of Hym, the dwarf instinctively pressed himself against the wall. His pupils contracted when he noticed that the harmless-looking young man across from him had somehow produced two decks of Gwent cards.

"Sorry, I don't play Gwent." Sevir shook his head, politely declining Roy's offer.

Roy didn't give up. He kept smiling as he tried to persuade him. "The rules are simple. I guarantee you'll pick them up in no time. Before long, you'll find there are things even better than drinking."

That line clearly caught Sevir's attention. He stopped craning his neck to keep an eye on Letho. "I didn't expect a young fellow like you to be a gambler. But you're wrong. Apart from ore, fine liquor is what Mahakaman dwarves love most. We only play Gwent now and then to pass the time."

"Take my advice. Help Master Letho with his work, save up some money, start a small business, and find yourself a wife to carry on the family line. Don't spend all your time thinking about Gwent. Otherwise, one day you'll lose everything—even the clothes on your back."

"Fine, suit yourself." Roy shrugged, not insisting. He muttered, "What a shame. I was hoping to see a Scoia'tael deck."

"What?!" Sevir suddenly roared, jumping to his feet like an angry little lion. His thick black eyebrows almost stood on end. "Where did you hear about the Scoia'tael?"

His voice was full of curiosity and urgency, momentarily overpowering his fear of Hym.

"Isn't the Scoia'tael an alliance of nonhuman races fighting against humans?" Roy's face stiffened as soon as he said it. Before the First Northern War, the Scoia'tael were still operating underground and hadn't openly revealed themselves. He'd let the secret slip.

Sevir's features scrunched up, his expression utterly strange. "A few years ago, an organization called the Scoia'tael lured many dwarves from Mahakam away with its extremist racial ideology. The neutral Mahakaman dwarves, led by Elder Borin Hog, were bitter enemies of theirs. But that secret is known only among the Elder Races."

"It's no surprise that I know. But how did you find out?"

"Bang!" A sudden, sharp impact cut off their confrontation. The sound had an indescribable force to it, making the dwarf think of a battering ram striking a city gate. The cellar floor seemed to shudder.

Both of them felt their blood surge.

"That's... the Aard Sign! Hym's in trouble!"

Roy shouted, seized his chance, and darted past Sevir to the nearest row of barrels. He leaned out to peer into the depths.

The unexpected interruption had broken Sevir's train of thought. He stopped pressing Roy about the Scoia'tael and stared anxiously toward the cellar's depths.

"Disgusting fiend! Your tricks are useless against me!"

A powerful roar rang out from the cellar's depths. At the same time, the bald Letho sprang out from behind the barrels with the agility of a great cat. Whether by chance or on purpose, he glanced at the two of them as he emerged.

Terrifying!

Black, twisted veins now covered Letho's smooth face.

"Ah!" Sevir cried out, his rough face creasing with worry and alarm. "Is Mr. Letho injured? Has Hym cursed him?"

Roy lowered his eyes, relieved. "Don't worry, Mr. Sevir. The changes to his face are just a side effect of the potions Witchers drink. This fiend is no match for Letho!"

The moment he finished speaking, a dazzling burst of sparks shot from behind the barrels concealing the Witcher and the fiend. Beautiful as shooting stars and fireworks, they radiated such intense heat that the nearby air began to ripple. Even the torches in the cellar's depths blurred.

"The Igni Sign! Letho's going all out!" Roy gave the dwarf a reassuring look. Sevir gazed toward the sparks, full of anticipation. Then he remembered something, and his bearded face filled with bitterness. His voice was faint, like that of a neglected wife.

"Mr. Letho... be careful of my wine... It's fifty-year-old Dwarven spirit!"

"Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh..." Letho's figure reappeared in their line of sight, but only as a shadow cast on the wall by the torchlight.

The Witcher's dark silhouette darted about like a startled hare, repeatedly lunging into the darkness. He swung the two long short swords in his hands, leaving countless afterimages. They were like a viper's fangs—nimble and deadly!

Then came a string of harsh, ferocious shrieks, each one pounding against Sevir's heart like a drumbeat and making his face twitch.

But soon the shrieks changed, growing sorrowful and pained. The dwarf couldn't help thinking of an injured stray dog with its tail between its legs.

"The fight's over!" Roy declared with certainty. Almost at the same time, a strange shadow fell across the wall.

It was a creature with limbs as long and thin as dead branches. It towered almost to the cellar ceiling, vaguely humanoid, but its head was shaped like a triangular cone, topped with countless twisted, spiraling antlers.

For the first time, Roy looked startled. He stared in that direction, his mind racing.

Neither Iginis Fatuus in the depths of the fog, the swamp witches' voodoo dolls, the Forest Spirit in the ancient woods, nor a leshen could describe its strangeness. It seemed almost immaterial. Even now, its body kept changing, twisting, and twitching, bringing to mind leaves and branches shivering in the wind.

The next few seconds stretched on like a century. The creature's bizarre shadow let out a long shriek toward the Witcher behind the barrels. Then its body gave one final shudder and slumped to the ground like a melting ice sculpture.

"Phew..." Sevir let out a long breath at the sight. His slightly hunched back straightened, as though a tremendous weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and his whole bearing changed.

"It's over, right?" He gave a foolish, relieved smile.

Sure enough, moments later, Witcher Letho emerged slowly from the shadows at the cellar's depths, his footsteps going, "Tap, tap, tap."