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TWL Chapter 353: To Fan the Flames
🕑 Added 2025-04-07 06:15:21 +0000 UTCThe little farce came to an end, and with it, everything for tonight was finally wrapped up.
After exchanging a few words with Lann, the others quietly excused themselves and left the room—everyone, that is, except one person who remained where he was. Lann looked over. It was Geralt.
“Kolgrim.” Before Geralt could speak, Lann called out to the viper school witcher. Seeing the puzzled look in his eyes, Lann continued, “Geralt seems to have something to say, and I think it’s better if you hear it too.”
Geralt didn’t mind the interruption. In fact, he stepped forward and pulled the unsure Kolgrim inside, shutting the door behind them. Now only three witchers remained in the room.
“I think what Rayla said wasn’t completely wrong,” Geralt began, catching Lann’s amused glance. “Young dwarves from those clans are easy recruits for the Scoia’tael. Captain Rayla’s approach may have been too aggressive, but it was a wake-up call. Maybe we do need to prepare for some potential trouble ahead.”
Lann stood up and poured a drink for Geralt, then another for Kolgrim. “Are you sure that thought didn’t come from the fact that Rayla’s your fan?”
Expressionless, Geralt downed the ale in one go—then snatched Lann’s own cup and finished that too.
Lann shook his head with a chuckle. “Alright, alright, I’m just teasing. But tell me, Geralt—why do we need to stop the Scoia’tael?”
Geralt had run through countless possible responses Lann might give, but that was not one of them. The question caught him completely off guard, leaving him momentarily speechless.
Kolgrim’s eyes, on the other hand, began to light up.
“You mean to say...?”
“Mahakam’s been neutral for centuries,” Lann said, shaking his head. “And they want to stay that way. But they live on Northern land, claim to be Northern citizens, profit off the Northern economy... and still try to play both sides? Doesn’t that seem a bit too convenient?”
He continued, “Sure, they agreed to supply us with troops through trade negotiations, but that level of support is still too soft. I want to fan the flames a little—push them fully onto the North’s side.”
“Of course, technically speaking, we have enough resources as it stands. But this batch of Scoia’tael is a surprise bonus. Since they’re already here... why not make use of them?”
Perhaps anticipating Geralt’s objections, Lann quickly cut him off: “Don’t worry about things getting out of control. Brouver Hoog has ruled Mahakam with an iron grip for centuries. I don’t like the guy after meeting him, but I have to admit—he’s more competent than most Northern kings. The Scoia’tael won’t be able to stir up much trouble here. What will happen is that Brouver’s fury will turn toward Nilfgaard.”
“And that’s exactly what we want.”
Taking advantage of Geralt’s dazed silence, Lann snatched back his cup, refilled it, and began sipping slowly, waiting for the other two witchers to absorb his words.
“So... we’re not going to do anything?” Geralt asked after a pause.
“We’re not going to do anything,” Lann confirmed.
“But... this is Mahakam. It’s Yarpen’s homeland. And Gabor and Petrit are headed to Cintra soon too,” Geralt hesitated. “Are we really going to let the Scoia’tael go ahead with their plans? Sure, Brouver will put it down eventually, but there’ll still be damage in the meantime.”
“They are who they are. Mahakam is Mahakam.” Lann shook his head. After a moment of silence, he asked Geralt, “Tell me, how do you think we’ve been treated here in Mahakam?”
Geralt thought for a bit. “Seems... decent?”
“That’s only in comparison to your usual life as a witcher,” Lann gave a dry chuckle. “For me, it feels like nothing but layers of schemes and manipulation.”
“Brouver wants everything but gives nothing unless pressured. He only compromised under threats and bribes—and even then, he considered killing us. The Zigrin clan used you to weaken monsters and tried to control them. Frankly, I think if they’d managed to wipe out the Fuchs clan, they would’ve declared us their accomplices. The Ferenc clan is slightly better, but they only admitted the truth about the dragon rampage after we forced it out of them. And you, as a witcher, must hate when clients give you a contract while hiding crucial information.”
Geralt and Kolgrim both nodded slightly at that last remark.
“I don’t like scheming against my allies,” Lann said quietly. “I want our partners to cooperate with sincerity—like Queen Meve. But here in Mahakam? If it weren’t for sheer luck, we’d probably be licking our wounds and crawling back home by now.”
“Given the circumstances, I think resorting to a few unorthodox methods—so long as they’re harmless—is entirely reasonable.” Lann fixed his gaze on the two before him. “This is something I want to emphasize once we establish the Witcher Order in the future: when taking on a contract, if the client is sincere and truly in need of help, then we fulfill our duty and mission as witchers. But if the client is evasive or driven by personal agendas, then I don’t think we should be shackled by dogma. Don’t you agree?”
The White Wolf lowered his head. This went against how he’d always operated. In situations like the one Lann described, his usual approach was to walk away, not to exact some kind of ‘every debt must be repaid’ retaliation.
But things were different now. If they really were going to revive the School of the Wolf and establish the Order, maybe it was time to start adapting his ways to align more with what Lann was suggesting.
“I think I’ve heard something like that before. Isn’t it ‘A Lannister always pays his debts’?” Kolgrim chuckled, clearly excited. He wholeheartedly agreed with Lann’s perspective. Still, his excitement quickly faded into uncertainty.
“You know how the Vipers had to change our ways for… a variety of reasons. I’m just not sure we can shift gears so easily. What I mean is—at the end of the day, who exactly are we pointing the daggers at? Or... do we even need to draw them anymore?”
Lann let out a soft laugh. “Don’t worry, Kolgrim. Your Viper School will always be a crucial part of the plan.”
...
The night was dark and the wind fierce.
The Cintran guards stationed to watch over the Scoia'tael had been reduced by a third, but their numbers were still enough to get the job done.
A sudden noise came from the darkness not far away. The Cintran soldiers, already on edge after Rayla’s recent 'visit', tensed up immediately, drawing their weapons in unison.
“Who goes there?!”
The rustling halted abruptly, likely startled by the shout. A few stout, steady silhouettes emerged from the shadows—short and broad. When the Cintrans focused their gaze, they realized these were young dwarves from the Ferenc clan, recently returned.
“Uh… sirs?” One of the dwarves addressed them hesitantly, clearly using a respectful title he’d picked up during his time in human lands.
“We’re not knights,” the leader of the Cintran guards replied, shaking his head. “What brings you here?”
The guards exchanged odd glances. They knew these dwarves were easily two or three times their age, but the young ones still carried themselves with the nervous energy of youth.
“We… brought them a late-night meal.” One of the dwarves raised a small wooden basket in his hands.
He gestured toward the building behind the Cintrans, where the Scoia'tael members were imprisoned. “They were once our brothers of the clan. I even know some of them personally. Now they’re being sent to Mount Carbon... and who knows what fate awaits them. Just like us, they’ve suffered out there. Maybe even more.”
The young dwarf looked down. “So, at the very least… I want them to have one last taste of home. If the Elder’s punishment means they can never return, then I hope their last memory of Ferenc isn’t just a cage.”
The words were moving. But the Cintran guards narrowed their eyes.
Dwarves delivering midnight snacks without even carrying a lantern? Sure, they could claim they didn’t want the clan chief to find out. But some of these Cintran guards used to serve in the royal palace. Their instincts were sharp—they knew when something felt off.
And yet, the captain of the guard simply gave the dwarf youth a few long, unreadable glances—then stepped aside. The young dwarf’s eyes lit up in surprise.
“Don’t worry,” the guard added. “We won’t tell your clan chief.”
The young dwarves thanked them profusely, loudly praising the Cintrans for their kindness and understanding.
But the moment they stepped into the building behind the guards, the young dwarf’s expression changed.
For just a second, a flicker of guilt passed across his face—quickly buried under more complicated emotions.
“Humans…”
Inside, the imprisoned Scoia'tael members had already heard the commotion. Upon seeing their visitors, they erupted into chatter, laughter, and the clinking of bowls. They devoured the clan delicacies, praising their flavor and reminiscing about the warmth of home.
In the middle of the clamor, a dwarf with his beard braided into three distinct plaits leaned in close and whispered in the young dwarf’s ear.
“Have you made up your mind?”
The young dwarf kept his voice low, ensuring the noise around them masked the conversation.
“I want to join the Scoia'tael… We were beaten down out there. I thought that coming home would bring peace. But…”
He closed his eyes. Flames danced in his memory—red dragons, charred homes, kinsmen wailing over lost loved ones.
“Mahakam isn’t the dream we remembered. We need something new—something more open, something that gives us dignity.” He wiped at his eyes, then asked the three-braided dwarf, “Everything you promised us… was it true?”
“It wasn’t a promise,” the older dwarf replied, firmly. “It’s something we’ll fight for—together.”
“Alright then.” The young dwarf took a deep breath. “You’re stuck in here for now. I’ll carry out the plan.”
“What do you need me to do?”
