"Igni!" Eskel roared. His lips were stained red with wine.
The magic in my body pulsed. In accordance with my will it flowed towards my oustretched hand. Magic was unruly. It's nature was chaos and it behaved like a willful child. Tremendous willpower was required to bend it to one's will.
The space in front of my palm began to shimmer. Tendrils of flame licked at my skin and distorted the air. I thrust my palm forwards. The magic heeded my will.
The adepts and I stood in a row. Four of us remained. With trembling hands all of us cast the igni sign. Bevald's flames extended two feet beyond mine. His talent in magic was the greatest among our group, Vessemir praised him often. I wasn't jealous. I had already recieved a gift from fate, I was happy to see Bevald excel.
The jets of flame began to falter. The magic in our bodies was limited. Sorcerers borrowed power from the world around them. We did not. We could only use the magic that accumulated naturally in our bodies. The trial of dreams had taken our fertility and given us this in exchange.
The other adepts gasped for breath. Sweat soaked their tunics. Our signs were crude. The finger movements provided a pathway for the magic to flow. It was a forceful and violent use of chaos.
The dangers of exhausting our magical reserves was not small. Signs were powerful. Without sufficient concentration to end it, our signs would continue to pour out magic into the world. When there was no more magic to draw upon, it drew from our lives and souls instead.
The other adepts were experiencing splitting headaches and nausea, consequences of pushing their bodies too far. Eskel's gaze didn't contain any pity. Against monsters who could shatter boulders and spit poison, witchers had to use everything at their disposal. We trained each day far past the point of exhaustion. When our magic was emptied, swords were thrown into our hands. The witchers advanced without mercy. Distraction was rewarded with a swift blow to the gut.
The trials gave our bodies incredible resistance. Poison and disease could no longer affect us as it did ordinary men. Tolerance to poison could be built over time. Tolerance to headaches and nausea were no different. We were taught to fight when our head was throbbing and our vision was blurred. Once our swords cleaved into the monster's heart we could collapse and sink into the darkness that encroached our vision. Only when the enemy was slaughtered could we rest. Until then we had to press on.
Bevald, though talented in magic, clutched his temples just the same as the other adepts. His eyes were bloodshot. The capillaries had burst under the strain.
Eskel looked at me. His expression was that of a hunter teasing its prey. He threw the bottle of wine carelessly to one side. Red liquid spilled out and stained the earth.
His sword was drawn in an instant. His heels kicked up dust as he raced towards me. The steel of my sword hummed against my scabbard. With two hands I grasped the blade's hilt.
Eskel struck with a slash, aimed ruthlessly at my neck. The face of my sword caught the blow. His strength was tremendous, the impact knocked my sword downwards. It didn't matter. The blow had been blocked.
I span on my heels. The rotation of my torso generated power. My blade cut upwards, the tip drawing a thin line on the earth. Eskel scowled. He cocked back his shoulder and threw a punch with his free hand. His coordination was unmatched. His fist struck the face of my blade as it was just inches from his face. The impact sent me stumbling backwards.
My boots dug into the ground. The force of his punch was dispersed through my muscles. Anger nourished my strength. I sprinted forwards. The blade whirled around me in a spin of steel and danger. I came at him with a leap, striking from above and leveraging my momentum to deal a stronger blow. This time he could not rely on his superior strength to repel my attack.
Eskel's scowl was almost murderous. His blade rose to meet mine. The edges collided. His blade was worth 300 orens. Mine at most a hundred. His sword cut into mine, sending chips of metal flying towards me like bullets.
Time slowed. The steel fragments would pierce my leather armour with ease. My flesh would suffer the same fate. If they embedded themselves deep enough I would need to reach into the wound to retrieve them or wait hours for my body to push them out. The latter option was excruciatingly painful for a much longer time.
The magic in my body didn't recover like my flesh did. There was barely a drop left. Since there was no magic to fuel my spell, I would use something else.
'Quen!'
The orange shield appeared instantly. Pain shot through me. This was the price I paid. The vitality in my blood was being burned away. Agony accompanied. My reflection was mirrored in Eskel's blade. The colour had vanished from my face and my cheeks were hollow. Magic was always eager to extract its price.
The metal fragments crashed into my shield. The orange light flickered violently. But it held. The final fragment was blocked and I immediately dispelled the sign. The pain went beyond my flesh. The magic scraped off part of my soul and devoured it hungrily. Once I stopped feeding the sign the pain began to recede.
Eskel's expression was solemn. He withdrew his sword and sheathed in on his back, "I am sorry Jack. I lost myself."
The world was blurry. The vitality I had burned was recovering rapidly, a few minutes would suffice. The damage to my soul would take a quarter of an hour longer to heal. Without a sufficiently strong soul to control them, my limbs moved jerkily. I knew every inch of my body. An ordinary man might not have noticed the discoordination, but to me it was glaringly obvious.
"I understand. It was good practice." I responded. My voice was slightly slurred.
Casting magic with my blood and soul was perhaps the most dangerous card I had. Signs cast with blood were far more potent than those cast with magic. Tales of sorcerers crumbling to ashes after unleashing god like magic perhaps held significant truth.
Eskel rubbed his temples and sighed. He turned and walked away without waiting for a reply, "We are done here. Return to your rooms."
The interior of Kaer Morhen was grey as it always was. The other adepts offered half-smiles and polite goodbyes. I heard them fall heavily into bed the second their doors shut.
I seated myself on the window ledge. Outside it was springtime. The evening light was soft and warm. My heightened senses allowed me to hear birdsong from hundreds of meters away. It was beautiful.
I had no memories from the first 3 years of my life. I suspected that my frail body had been too weak to bear the burden of my developed soul. On days where the sunset shone orange or purple I wondered whether it might have been the day I was born.
On the table in my room a pinecone rested. It smelled of wood and earth. I picked it up and held it in my palm.
'Ard.'
The air thrummed with invisible power. A flash of white light accompanied the sign. The pinecone lifted a few inches into the air before falling back into my palm. Its ridges would break with a small exertion of force.
I practiced the ard sign over and over. The white light glinted off my sword hung on the wall next to my bed. It was always wise to keep a weapon close. Vessemir had drilled this lesson into us.
In a few months my training at Kaer Morhen would be complete. The trial of the mountains was the last barrier to overcome. There was no suspense to it, I knew that I would pass. I was nearly a man. The next winter would mark my eighteenth year of this life. Then it would be time to accompany Radkin out into the world.
I picked up my bow. Long enough had passed that my soul was whole once more. The turns and stairs to the training ground had heard my footsteps thousands of times.
The targets were two hundred meters away. At this distance and in the dim light no human archer could do anything more then draw his bow and pray. The amber of my eyes was striking in the darkness.
The bow's edges bent easily. The combination of my inhuman healing factor and the mutagenic concoctions I had consumed brought my strength to an impressive level.
The arrow soared through the air. It drew a perfect parabola as it flew. The tip sank into the target. The bullseye was a few inches away.
I notched a second arrow on my bow. Again the arrow leapt forwards. This time striking an inch closer to the bullseye. When I had emptied my quiver I went forwards to retrieve my arrows. Then the process began again. The darkness could not hinder my aim.
I placed great importance on my archery. Highly trained mercanaries had slain witchers before. The trials granted us extraordinary lifespans and inhuman resistance to disease and fatigue. The enhancement of physical strength was limited in comparison.
Individuals such as Geralt, who had undergone secondary mutations were more physically imposing. Nonetheless, if cornered into a small space, a group of three or more elite soldiers could slay the butcher of Blavekin.
Hostility towards witchers was common. Extremely common. Kings and queens feared our viper eyes. They feared the ease with which a witcher could creep into their castles and slit their throats while they slept.
Unless a fatal blow was dealt to me, I could continue to fight. This advantage allowed me to act fearlessly in combat. Fighting for dozens of days and nights was no issue for me. An army of a hundred men would struggle to kill me on open ground. The danger came if they managed to encircle me.
The wolf school taught its adepts to be fast. A dragon was as strong as a hundred men. Any attempt to engage it directly or block its attacks would lead to death. Therefore a witcher had to be nimble. The beast had to be blinded by alchemical bombs. Then it's wings had to be punctured to prevent it from flying away. Throughout the battle the witcher could not allow the dragon's claws or tail to touch him once.
On the battlefield archers were invaluable. Hundreds of enemies could be killed by volleys of arrows without losing a single soldier. The advantage of ranged attacks was tremendous. I saw no reason why I should draw my sword and slaughter my way through an army when I could leisurely pick them off with arrows from a safe distance.
The arrow's shaft shook. The tip was embedded deep into the target. The innermost red circle could no longer be seen. Talent was useful. Where talent lacked hard work could be used instead. Behind my accuracy was thousands of hours of practice.
'Perhaps I should hope that it never comes to this.' I considered.
The school of the wolf's code prohibited the killing of ordinary humans. As well as intelligent species who did not show malice towards humankind. I did not think myself a saint. I would spare an ignorant farmer who sought to spear me with his pitchfork. I would not show mercy towards soldiers sent to kill me. They did not deserve my kindness.
The sound of arrows sinking into wood continued. In the observatory at the top of Kaer Morhen I saw the flickering of candelight. Vessemir's beard was unmistakeable. His eyes met mine.
He nodded slightly. I returned the gesture. He turned his back. His figure retreated from the window. I had become accustomed to his watching.