The Resistance

Tawa Aegbraje stood in the shadows of the quartermaster's warehouse, facing a row of empty storage racks.

Those racks had once held enough equipment to arm half a company: chainmail, breastplates, iron helmets, longswords, crossbows. Every item had been labeled "scrap," every item recorded in the books.

Every item should have been earning him money in the hands of slave-catching parties in Velen. Now, they had vanished along with the contact ship and the scout squad he had sent out.

Seven scouts, lightly equipped, sent out for a quick round trip. Their mission had only been to confirm intelligence on the camp: observe, do not make contact.

Three days had passed without a single one returning. Their simultaneous disappearance meant the other side had not only discovered his scouts, but had also been capable of ensuring that none of the seven escaped. That kind of control was not the work of bandits. No bandit gang could wipe out that many military elites at once.

He was hesitating over whether to send his own men. That company of heavily armored infantry had taken him three years to cultivate. The company commander was a man he had personally promoted. Equipment and supplies had always been his highest priority. More than a hundred men, every one of them a reliable force he could deploy in private.

But bypassing the commander to mobilize a full company carried risks. The risk was not the approval process. In a place like Velen, he had a hundred ways to make a deployment order look legitimate. The risk lay with the men.

Once they moved out, everyone involved would know the target. That camp contained evidence of his involvement in the slave trade, as well as records of military supplies being diverted. The former was not much of a problem, but the supplies could never be exposed. He could not guarantee that every man in the company was one of his own. Every additional person who knew what was hidden in that camp meant another measure of risk.

After all his years operating within the military, the most important thing he had learned was this: if something could be done through another's hand, never dirty his own.

He pulled out a fresh sheet of stationery from a drawer, dipped a quill in ink, and carefully considered the wording several times before folding the letter, sealing it with wax, and stamping it with his own seal.

"Send this to Crow's Nest. Deliver it to the Baron." Someone outside the tent flap took the letter, and footsteps receded into the distance.

In the great hall of Crow's Nest, the Bloody Baron slapped the letter onto the table.

Before him stood a long oak table, its surface carved with a lily pattern that had nearly been worn smooth.

"Haha, a resistance force?" The Baron could not help laughing, his voice grinding out from his chest and sending ripples through the wine cups on the table. "In Velen?"

He stood, the chair legs scraping sharply across the stone floor. The adjutant remained where he was, unmoving.

"I've spent all these years in this mudhole where even dogs wouldn't linger." His fingers tapped the letter. "And now a Nilfgaardian quartermaster tells me that a resistance force has appeared to the southeast, robbed an entire shipload of his equipment, killed his scout squad. An organized armed force, on my territory, and I haven't even heard a whisper of it."

The Baron slowly sat back down. He held his cup and turned it twice in his hand without drinking.

"An organized armed gang." He set the cup back on the table. "Is he keeping his own heavy infantry company around to breed? He thinks of coming to me when something like this happens?"

"The quartermaster cannot mobilize troops without going through his commander," the adjutant said. "The commander would not sign a deployment order over a private trade route, and..."

"And what?"

"The scouts belonged to the quartermaster's own establishment. Seven of them died, yet he has not reported it to his commander. That means the destination of that equipment cannot withstand scrutiny."

The corner of the Baron's mouth pulled to one side. It was his instinctive reaction whenever he caught a familiar scent.

He had spent many years in the Temerian army. He knew the quartermaster corps' tricks better than anyone. Scrapped supplies, private recyclers—those words formed a complete picture in his mind.

"That old bastard got his smuggling route robbed. He's heartbroken over the equipment and wants to use me as his blade."

"How should we reply?"

The Baron pushed his chair back and braced both hands against the table's edge.

"Reply? Of course we reply. Something happened on our territory. If we do not reply, that means dereliction of duty. Dereliction means divided loyalties. Divided loyalties earn you 'attention.'"

"But how we reply is up to me."

His fingers tapped twice on the worn lily carved into the tabletop.

"A cleanup operation? Fine. But we lack the manpower and can only send a small squad to investigate. The squad is small, unfamiliar with the roads, and moves slowly.

"And the weather has been poor lately. There's always fog, so they went the wrong way and failed to find that resistance camp. They had no choice but to return empty-handed."

The adjutant nodded and was about to turn away when the Baron raised a hand.

"Wait."

He walked to the window. The setting sun shone in from that direction, drawing the wrinkles on his face into deep ravines.

"That shipment of equipment... any route worth feeding that much gear into is no small business. Now the route is gone, the equipment is gone, and his men are gone. Someone capable of doing this in Velen..."

He did not finish. After waiting a moment, the adjutant cautiously asked, "Do you think that armed force truly exists?"

"I'm not sure." The Baron shut the window and turned around.

"But if someone can swallow an entire shipload of equipment and a full scout squad on my territory without me knowing a thing, then the next time that person wants to do something, I won't know about that either."

He went to the long table, drew a quill from the penholder, and wrote several lines on a blank sheet of paper. The handwriting was rough but forceful. Once he finished, he folded the letter and handed it to the adjutant.

"Send that squad out. Have them make a circuit to the south, then come back.

"Then tell our watchers in the southeast to keep an eye out for anything unusual: strangers, new faces, things that should not be there but are. Once they find something, deliver this letter."

The adjutant accepted it without opening it, simply slipping it into his coat.

"Send the reconnaissance report to the Nilfgaardian camp. Make the wording suitably proper: after investigation, no resistance force of significant size has been found within Velen.

"The attack is presumed to have been the work of bandits. The Crow's Nest garrison will continue pursuing leads and make every effort to apprehend suspicious targets. Request resupply for materials expended during the operation."

The Baron picked up the ale on the table, tipped back his head for a gulp, then thumped the cup down.

"What the quartermaster thinks when he sees that report is the quartermaster's business."

The manor, evening.

Ron sat down at a table in the courtyard as Erwin came down the steps, clutching a letter in his hand.

He walked faster than usual. Reaching Ron, he laid the letter on the table.

"Ron, you'll never guess who sent this letter," Erwin said with a mysterious look.

The letter was unfolded. There were only a few lines.

"Something interesting has happened in the southeast, and I'm rather curious. The gates of Crow's Nest—would you like to enter through the front gate, or climb over the wall?"

Erwin propped one hand against the table's edge and pointed at the letter with the other.

"Crow's Nest. The largest armed power in Velen. It occupies Crow's Nest Castle and controls most of the region north of central Velen.

"The leader is known as the Bloody Baron. No one knows exactly how many men he has, but intelligence suggests he has at least a core force made up of Temerian veterans. The quartermaster's messenger went to Crow's Nest two days ago, and today this letter reached us."

Ron raised his eyes. "The quartermaster sought him out."

"And then he came looking for us." Erwin adjusted his glasses.

"The quartermaster cannot send troops himself. We just slaughtered seven of his scouts. He needs a blade, and the Baron is the sharpest blade in Velen. But judging by this letter, that blade does not want to be held in someone else's hand."

Erwin nodded and sat opposite Ron, crossing his hands over his knees as he leaned forward slightly.

"I made some preparations regarding this Baron before coming to Velen. During the early days of the Third Northern War, he was a Temerian officer. After Temeria retreated, he brought his own troops and occupied Crow's Nest.

"Nilfgaard's ground forces could not operate effectively in the marshes, and they had no desire to waste effort on a poor place like Velen, so they tacitly accepted the Baron's rule."

He paused. "As for his personality, we can only make inferences from rumors. We will have to judge that after reaching Crow's Nest."

"What else do we know?"