The Witcher's Intelligence

Several days later, Erwin reported intelligence from trade channels to Ron in the manor courtyard.

"A witcher has arrived from the direction of Heatherton. White hair, two swords on his back, wearing the School of the Wolf witcher medallion. He's asking about a man named Hendrik."

No one else was around. Erwin tightened his grip on the writing board and continued.

"According to cross-checked intelligence, Hendrik is most likely a Nilfgaardian spy. The witcher may be looking for something in Velen if he came for Hendrik."

Ron swept several maps aside on the low table, his gaze passing over the marker for Heatherton. On the reconnaissance map, the village formed a triangle with Crow's Nest and the manor.

Ron was silent for a while, his fingers touching the signet ring engraved with a lion.

"Keep watching. Report again if anything happens."

Hendrik was alive. That was one of the chain reactions caused by Ron killing the Petrifying Lizard. Ciri had not used magic, and the Wild Hunt had not tracked her to Heatherton.

When Geralt left Heatherton, he had a notebook in his hand that had nearly been thumbed to pieces.

On the last page of the notebook was a line of hurried, heavily written scrawl: Rumors say there is a witch in Midcopse. She may know more.

Geralt spent an entire morning wandering the paths of Midcopse village, asking every villager willing to stop.

An old woman said the blonde witch had moved away, but no one knew where. A man chopping firewood at the village entrance said the witch had not returned to her hut for several weeks.

Geralt led his horse out of the village, his boots leaving heavy footprints in the mud. He did not know whether the witch had fled or been killed.

He only knew that lead had gone cold. All that remained was another name recorded in the notebook: Crow's Nest, the Bloody Baron.

Below it was a smaller line, added later: Crow's Nest sergeant major, according to reliable intelligence.

He had successfully hunted a Petrifying Chicken Snake with only two archers. While searching for missing subordinates, he had once slain a werewolf alone. The baron trusted him completely.

Geralt closed the notebook. A man whom a Nilfgaardian spy had specifically warned about in his notes, a mercenary leader who dared hunt a Petrifying Chicken Snake with only two men, a giant who had slain a werewolf alone.

In his mind, he pieced together a rough image of someone he had yet to meet: a desperado who had carved a bloody path through chaotic times with brute strength, the sharpest blade beneath the baron's command.

He had once encountered the baron's men at the inn at the crossroads. Those soldiers had drunk too much and started cursing before they had even swallowed their liquor.

When Geralt walked out of the inn, several mangled corpses lay sprawled across the floor, and shattered wine cups littered the tables.

Geralt arrived at Crow's Nest in the afternoon. The sun shone down from overhead, bleaching the wooden bridge at the village entrance white.

He stopped by the bridge. Across from him, soldiers in purple surcoats marched past in formation. They were not like the crooked, bandit-like men he had seen before.

Their ranks were neat, their steps uniform. The rings of their chainmail glinted with a dull iron sheen beneath the sunlight, without a trace of rust.

One soldier crouched beside the road and exchanged a few words with a man selling vegetables. The man pulled several radishes from beneath his stall and stuffed them into the soldier's hands. The soldier took out copper coins and placed them on the stall, moving with the ease of someone who did this every day.

Geralt did not move. He stood at the bridgehead and watched the soldier return to the formation.

Several children followed behind the patrol, imitating the soldiers' marching posture. They pumped their short legs, trying hard to keep their steps in rhythm. The chubby boy at the front was shoved by someone behind him and burst into giggles.

When Geralt judged an army's organization, he usually looked at the most straightforward things: formations and armor. Formation was the outward expression of military discipline, while armor reflected logistical strength.

Troops whose armor was polished spotless and whose every step fell on the same beat could never be supported through plunder alone.

The spy's information was correct. The sergeant major was no ordinary man, but the meaning of the word dangerous might need to be recalibrated here.

Geralt did not rush to any conclusions. He simply filed away his observations. When he reached the castle gate atop Crow's Nest, the guards recognized him.

The guard with an old knife scar on his face had been leaning against the wall and yawning. When he saw Geralt's white hair and catlike eyes, his yawn froze halfway. His mouth slowly closed, and his hand moved toward the sword hilt at his waist.

"It's you?" The guard took a step forward, his jaw tightening. "I saw you at the inn. You're the one who killed several of our brothers. You still dare come here?"

"I came to see the baron," Geralt said.

"The baron does not see witchers, especially witchers who killed the baron's men." The guard's fingers fully closed around his sword hilt, and the atmosphere before the castle gate suddenly tightened.

Footsteps sounded from behind the gate, heavy steps planted firmly one after another. Iron boots struck the stone floor, their dull echoes bouncing through the gateway.

Ron walked out from within the castle. The sunlight behind him was mostly blocked, casting a broad shadow. He stopped, his gaze sweeping over the guard's face before shifting to the white-haired witcher at the gate.

"Why are you blocking the castle gate in broad daylight?" His voice was calm, but the guard immediately released the sword hilt. It was not fear, but a conditioned reflex, obedience carved into his memory by long discipline.

Geralt looked up as the two-meter-tall giant emerged from the backlight of the castle gate.

The plates of his armor gleamed dully. A greatsword nearly as tall as an ordinary man hung across his back, its crossguard straight and entirely unadorned, radiating the most primal, irresistible violence.

The guard swallowed. "Sergeant major, this witcher is the one who killed our brothers at the inn. He says he wants to see the baron, so I stopped him..."

Ron did not respond to that. He merely tilted his head slightly. The movement was small, but its meaning was clear: follow.

Geralt followed the sergeant major, whose allegiance he still could not determine, into Crow's Nest's courtyard. The open space was fully illuminated by the midday sun. Several bundles of hay were piled in a corner against the stone walls, while horses snorted from the stable.

A few soldiers cleaning weapons in the courtyard looked up at them, then lowered their heads and continued working.

In the Crow's Nest garden, the Bloody Baron was being cornered by a Nilfgaardian officer. The officer's collar was buttoned impeccably, his armor polished bright. He held a parchment document in his hand, speaking in an official tone.

"The Third Army of the Central Army Group has had a reconnaissance squad disappear in Velen. Their last records indicate they were active in the southeast.

"As the lord of Velen, you are obligated to cooperate with the investigation. We need to know whether any unusual armed activity has appeared within your territory recently."

His Common Speech was rigid and precise, his pronunciation overly standard, as though he were reciting a prepared written report.

The baron slouched in his chair, his posture loose. He looked at the officer and blinked in confusion.

"Unusual armed activity? The most unusual armed activity in Velen is Nilfgaardian soldiers running around everywhere. Tell me, what were your soldiers doing in the southeast? Picking mushrooms?"

The officer's face twitched. "Baron, please do not change the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject. You asked whether there had been unusual armed activity, and I think you lot are pretty unusual. Ever since you came, even Velen's chickens have gotten thinner. Maybe you scared off all the bugs."