23 Vergen's fate

After the intense clash and its eventual peaceful resolution, Iorveth took charge, guiding the group further into the heart of the cave. Their footsteps reverberated against the tunnel walls, gradually drowning out the distant patter of rain and immersing them in the unsettling silence of the underground realm.

Venturing deeper into the cavernous expanse, they stumbled upon a tranquil pond. From the cracks in the walls, a steady trickle of water dripped into the pool, adding to its serene allure. The gentle sound of droplets meeting the surface created a soothing atmosphere amidst the otherwise gloomy surroundings. Above, stalactites hung like ancient guardians, casting an ethereal glow that danced upon the water's still surface.

Before the pond stood a pair of dwarven guards, their sturdy frames a testament to their race's resilience even in the subdued cave light. Armed and alert, their torches blazed radiantly upon the moist walls, painting them in hues of amber and gold, while shadows danced in the flickering illumination.

As Iorveth led the group closer, the dwarves tensed, their gazes sharp with suspicion. Yet, upon recognizing the elven leader, their posture relaxed, and they greeted him with a collective exhale of relief. Iorveth quickly explained the situation, gesturing towards Geralt, whose presence they welcomed with genuine warmth, acknowledging his valor during the siege of Vergen. With a nod of understanding, the guards resumed their vigilant watch, reassured by the explanation, and allowed them to proceed unhindered.

Following a short trek through winding paths, they finally emerged into the heart of the cave. Above them, a vast circular dome displayed the remnants of past excavations, while torches dotted the cavern, illuminating the various passageways that branched off into the depths.

The main area buzzed with activity as dwarves, elves, and even a few halflings labored side by side. Some, meticulously inventoried provisions and supplies, ensuring readiness for the days ahead. Others, diligently inspected their equipment, applying makeshift repairs to weathered gear that bore the marks of past battles. But most, simply stood watch, their eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings, vigilant against any potential threats lurking in the shadows.

Iorveth pointed at a long table located in the far corner of the room, the wood still bearing burn marks and erosion from alchemical substances.

Taking a seat, Geralt and Iorveth immediately started discussing the months that had passed.

"So, where did your travels take you after we parted ways at Loc Muinne?" Iorveth asked, resting his elbows on the table.

Geralt draped his cloak over the backrest and turned around. "When Letho told me about my travels with him and the rest of the witchers from the Viper School, my memories came back, fully." He paused, exhaling a sigh. "After you left for Vergen, Triss and I… we had an argument that led to us splitting up."

Iorveth nodded, thinking back to the witcher's expression as he came out of the city's plaza: anger, disappointment, and confusion.

Angry because Triss manipulated him in order to further the Lodge's agenda. Disappointed by the revelation that a woman he had trusted and loved had taken advantage of his amnesia to fabricate such a love in the first place. Lost and uncertain about his next steps without knowledge of Ciri's fate or Yennefer's exact whereabouts.

"I lingered about in Kaedwen," Geralt added, his gaze distant as he reminisced, "hunting down a monster here and there until winter, where I traveled to Kaer Morthen to weather the season."

"I see…"

Geralt waved his hand dismissively. "Enough about me. What happened at Vergen?"

Iorveth reclined back into his chair and tilted his head up, sealing his eyes shut. "At first, everything was in complete disarray: feuding clans, political unrest, and chaos in the streets. But all changed when Saskia arrived. She brought order to the unruly mashes, fully displaying what a capable leader she was."

His lips curled into a gentle smile. "You should've seen it, Geralt. Humans, dwarves, elfs, and halflings all working together, united under one cause."

"It must have been a sight to behold."

Iorveth hummed in agreement. "Indeed… Humans tending to the land with tools and ingenious renovations crafted by dwarves and halflings alike. All hands available assisting in the town's reconstruction. Elves prowling the wilds and ensuring the safety of the surrounding areas."

Hunching over the table, Iorveth ran a weary hand across his forehead, fingertips tracing the jagged path of a fresh scar etched into his brow. His gaze fell, weighed down by a profound sense of sadness. "And then Nilfgaard arrived," he murmured. "As you had warned me, Geralt."

He looked at the witcher, eyes clouded with anguish. "We were ill-prepared, caught off guard by the swiftness of their assault. Vergen, with its high walls and solid fortifications, crumbled within a week." Iorveth's voice trembled with emotion. "A week, Geralt!" he growled through gritted teeth.

"And to add insult to injury," Iorveth continued, "they didn't even afford us the dignity of a fair fight for our hard-earned land." He clenched his fists, his anger palpable. "They encircled and trapped us from all sides."

His words painted a grim picture of the siege. "By day, the streets echoed with the deadly spring of scorpions, their bolts piercing our walls like daggers. And as night fell, the sky became a canvas of destruction, illuminated by the fiery arcs of trebuchets hurling their massive stones that crashed down upon the town and its inhabitants."

Iorveth paused, a heavy sigh escaping him as he struggled to compose himself. "Saskia," he spoke softly, reverence lacing his tone, "unable to bear the sight of her people's suffering, made a desperate decision." He shook his head, the sorrow evident in his eyes.

"She reverted to her dragon form, soaring into the skies with a ferocious roar, raining down flames upon the Black Ones and their war machines, unleashing her fury upon them.: A pained expression crossed his face. "Yet our leader succumbed as well. A scorpion bolt found its mark and pierced her wing. She struggled... She fell... No one knows what happened to her after that."

Iorveth's voice faltered slightly as he recounted the final moments of the siege. "In the chaos that followed, most of the town's defenders, shocked by Saskia's transformation and subsequent fall, chose to surrender," he concluded, motioning towards the survivors clustered in the cave. "I rallied the few that did not and fled to the north through Vergen's underground tunnels."

Geralt listened intently, his hands clasped together, his expression inscrutable. "I'm sorry," he said softly. His words hung in the air, laden with a sense of sorrow and understanding.

The one-eyed elf shook his head, a humorless smile on his lips. "Ah, Gwynbleidd, deep down I knew the outcome was inevitable. Sometimes, no matter how hard we fight, fate has already woven its threads," he murmured.

Geralt let out a sharp exhale through his nose. "If you had uttered those words to me a decade ago, I would've dismissed them with a scoff, perhaps even with scorn," he reflected, his thoughts drifting back to what he had said at Queen Calanthe's court. "But now, I cannot reject the undeniable truth they hold." Memories flooded his mind, of a phrase steeped in witcher tradition that had unexpectedly bound his destiny to that of a young girl he had come to love as his own daughter.

A weighty silence descended upon them, burdened by the gravity of realization and acceptance. It hung in the air, palpable and thick, until Iorveth's gaze landed on Atram.

"You've been quiet so far, Herdin(Bear)," he remarked, studying the mountain of a man with genuine curiosity.

Atram had been silently observing their conversation, his attention occasionally drifting towards Elsa, who sat by the campfire, seeking warmth to chase away the chill in her bones.

Shifting his gaze to Iorveth, he offered a polite smile. "I just thought it proper to let old friends reminisce and catch up," Atram responded, his voice deep and resonant. Leaning forward, the chair creaking slightly under his weight, he extended his hand in a gesture of friendship. "Atram Visoren, witcher from the School of the Bear."

With a nod of acknowledgment, Iorveth shook his hand firmly, taking note of the man's vice like grip and the scars that adorned his skin. "Iorveth, former Commander of the Scoia'tael and now temporary leader of this motley group."

"Pleasure."

"Likewise," Iorveth replied, a touch of intrigue coloring his words. "I must admit, you're a walking contradiction if I've ever seen one." He paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Your eyes, though peculiar, lack the characteristic slitted pupils of a witcher. And while your back bears no sword, you possess the physique of a seasoned warrior, with scars that speak of battles fought and won."

He arched an eyebrow. "Am I missing something here?"

Atram chuckled softly, a glint of amusement shining in his eyes. "Perhaps," he said cryptically, "but some mysteries are best left unsolved. My only comment is that in a fight, I'm as competent as our mutual friend here, if not more so."

Geralt couldn't resist the opportunity to interject, a rare competitive streak emerging. "That's not true!" he insisted.

Atram nudged Geralt with an elbow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Last time I checked, I had a double-digit lead on our bouts," he teased, earning an exaggerated eye-roll from Geralt in response.

"Perhaps you've taken one too many blows to the head, because if you consider our last sparring sessions, it's clear who the superior fighter is," Geralt retorted with a grin, making a snipping motion with his hand and pointed at Atram's fingers.

Atram crossed his arms. "Those don't count," he grumbled. "I was trying to implement new techniques, you ass."

Iorveth shook his head in amusement and disbelief at their childish bickering, surprised to see Geralt, whose demeanor was as stoic as they come, to act like this.

They continued their conversation for a while, their banter echoing through the cavern, until a female elf approached them.

Her attire was a blend of practicality and elegance, tailored to suit her evident profession as a healer. She donned a simple, yet finely crafted tunic and pants made of soft, earth-toned linen. A belt snugly cinched at the waist, adorned with pouches and small pockets, held essential healing supplies. Her sleeves were rolled up for ease of movement.

She offered a respectful bow to Iorveth, her long dark-auburn hair tied neatly into a ponytail swayed gently with her movement, accentuating her graceful demeanor.

"Dismiss the pleasantries and courtesies, Ilivara," Iorveth said firmly. "Tell me, how do our people fare?"

"I've done all I can for their wounds," Ilivara said, straightening her posture. "Most will make it through, but I lack the tools and facilities to help Rona. And I'm ashamed to confess my inability to discern Variel's ailment," she reported, clenching her fists in frustration.

"What are their symptoms?" Iorveth inquired.

"Rona has had a deep cut in her left thigh since our escape from Vergen, which has festered over time due to neglect on her part," Ilivara explained gravely. "The flesh has rotted, causing infection and a high fever. At this stage, we've no alternative but to amputate the leg and cauterize the area."

Iorveth frowned and nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of the situation. "What about Variel?"

Ilivara hesitated before responding, her voice tinged with concern. "Variel sustained a puncture wound from a crossbow bolt to the chest," she began. "Luckily, his gambeson absorbed most of the force, enabling me to remove the bolt and treat the injury without issues. However, he's been experiencing persistent chest pain when breathing for the past few days. And it's getting worse."

"Have you checked the tip of the bolt?" Atram interjected.

Ilivara snorted at him, her annoyance palpable and unapologetic. "And who might you be? Certainly not someone well-versed in medical treatment," she replied sharply.

This bitch!

Atram's anger flared as he rose from his chair, closing the distance between them with purpose. "I may not fit your image of a traditional healer, but I assure you, I am one of the best this world has ever seen," he declared with absolute confidence. With each word, he closed the distance between them until he stood mere inches away, causing Ilivara to shriek and instinctively take a step back.

"So how about you stop flapping your gums like a cackling hen and give me an answer," he continued, his tone cutting. "Because your fragile pride won't save that man's life."

Ilivara trembled with fear, feeling as though her legs might give out under the weight of Atram's piercing stare. She knew her response wouldn't earn her any favors.

"I-"

"That's enough." Iorveth interjected firmly, stepping forward to defuse the escalating tension. "You're welcome here, and I've no quarrel with you. But show Ilivara the respect she deserves, or you'll find yourself unwelcome sooner than you think."

The people around them watched in silence, ready to assist their leader if the need arose.

Atram paid Iorveth no mind, his gaze still fixed on Ilivara, waiting for her answer.

Ilivara took a deep breath, gathering her courage before admitting, "I didn't. In my haste to treat the wound, I discarded the bolt without inspecting its tip." She cast her eyes downward in shame.

Atram let out an almost imperceptible sigh, his expression softening as he offered Ilivara a genuine smile. "There, that wasn't so difficult, was it? I apologize for my behavior, but a healer's foremost duty is to ensure the well-being of their patients, not to indulge their ego."

Ilivara hummed in agreement and nodded. "You're correct. I'd like to apologize as well. I allowed my human prejudice to cloud my judgment," she confessed.

"Water under the bridge," Atram replied, turning to address Iorveth. "With your permission, I'd like to examine your wounded, especially those two she mentioned."

Seeing the old elf's hesitation, Geralt decided to add to his friend's credibility. "I'd let him if I were you. In all my years as a witcher, I've never met a healer as skilled as Atram. You'll be in good hands. Trust me."

Iorveth regarded Atram for a moment, weighing his options. He could sense the sincerity in both Atram's demeanor and Geralt's endorsement. Ultimately, he nodded, albeit reluctantly.

"Very well," he conceded. "But tread carefully. These are my people, and their lives hang in the balance." 

Atram inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Don't you worry. When I'm done with them, they'll be as spry as spring lambs, or you'll get your coin back,' he said in jest.

Iorveth raised an eyebrow at that. "You are charging for your services?" he inquired, curious about Atram's intentions.

Atram wiggled his finger at him and chuckled, "Not this time." With a sly grin, he added, "But… if a few coins or other valuables found their way into my wailing pouch, who am I to disagree."

Iorveth couldn't help but smirk at Atram's playful response, appreciating the man's lightheartedness in such dire circumstances. "I'll keep that in mind," he replied with a chuckle of his own.

"Good." Atram turned to Ilivara, ready to ply his second, more peaceful trade . "Lead the way," he said, his tone authoritative yet reassuring.

"En twe(At once)," she replied, eager to see what Atram was capable of. 

They passed by Elsa, who by now was sitting in a fetal position, the gentle warmth of the fire having lulled her to sleep. Deciding not to disturb her, they made their way towards one of the many tunnels snaking through the underground cavern.

A short trek along the torch-lit corridor led them to a moderately sized chamber completely isolated from the rest of the cave, its entrance obscured by a hanging canvas.

Atram parted the canvas and immediately wrinkled his nose at the heavy scent of herbs and antiseptics, intermingled with the metallic tang of blood.

Let's get to work.