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It took just a few well-aimed punches. Roche had thought the Witcher invincible, but in that moment, he landed on the ground, dazed and nigh unconscious. The guards gathered over him, one of them grabbed Geralt, flipped him onto his stomach and bound his wrists behind his back.
“What do we do with him?” another asked. His voice wavered, probably a new recruit. “Take him to Loredo?”
“Nah,” the former grunted. He dragged Geralt towards the stairs to the gallows. “Won't bother him with scum like this. He'll hang too.”
Roche's blood ran cold. Here he was, having risked his neck to free the accused kingslayer, and now the only hope he had was in danger of being snuffed out for starting a fight.
“Merigold, do something,” he hissed to the sorceress next to him. She was still pale from what had seemed like a simple protection spell, and Roche briefly wondered how much faith could even be put in mages. “Your magic. Surely you have a spell for this?”
“I— I don't—” she stammered. “There's so many people, I'd put them in danger…”
Roche huffed and shook his head while the guards struggled to put a noose around Geralt's neck as he started to regain his senses.
“Some lover you are,” he mumbled and took a running start at the gallows. Without another thought or even the semblance of a strategy, he pulled himself up. The guards noticed him almost immediately, but it was too late for them to pull the lever that would send Geralt to his doom, as Roche’s sword whirred from its scabbard and cut the Witcher free.
Geralt stumbled as the noose slackened around his neck, but regained his footing right away. Roche severed the rope around Geralt’s wrists and turned to face the guards. His back was towards Geralt, but he could hear him fumbling to free the dwarf and poet still strung up.
He had no idea what to do now. Killing the guards would mean the end of their stay in Flotsam, unless Loredo cared about them especially little – or rather the trouble of replacing them. Roche felt Geralt's shoulder graze his as the Witcher drew his steel sword. They stood side by side, weapons drawn, with not a plan between the two of them, and surprisingly, Roche found he cared rather little.
But just then, on the cusp of a bloodbath, the crowd was forcefully parted to reveal not guard reinforcements, but Loredo himself.
“What the hell is going on here?” he shouted, livid.
“You have no right to hang them,” Geralt said as Loredo approached the scaffold and climbed the steps.
“Interesting… Because I’m the law in Flotsam.” Smug, Loredo rested a hand on his hip.
And just like that, Roche was in his element. He straightened up and lowered his sword.
“I take issue with that,” Roche said, taking a step forward. “Vernon Roche, officer of the King.”
Loredo’s eyes fell on Roche for the first time then. He sneered. “Well, well… Blue Stripes. The non-human hunters.”
“Precisely. Anyone suspected of collaboration with the Scoia’tael falls under my jurisdiction. As does anyone obstructing the work towards finding Foltest’s true murderer. Your guards were in the process of just that when they attempted to hang the key figure in this process.” Roche gestured to Geralt behind him. “This man is the only one who saw the kingslayer, and therefore he is under my personal protection until the killer is found and brought to justice.”
For a few moments, Loredo stayed quiet, pacing the scaffold. The wood creaked underneath him to the tune of murmuring from the crowd below. His eyes darted up to Geralt and Roche each time he turned back towards them. He looked a long way from happy, but the crowd grew restless. Suddenly, Loredo whipped around, facing the people. “Good folk, it’s true. King Foltest is dead. As Commandant of this town, I, Bernard Loredo, will serve our country by lending my aid to these two men in order to solve the mystery surrounding his murder. Until then, the two accused will await further trial, and perhaps they might earn their lives in cooperation.” Concerns became loud, and Loredo waved a hand at them aggressively. “Now disperse. Go to your homes and prepare yourselves. The Scoia’tael are still out there.”
Reluctantly, the people followed his order, and Loredo turned to Geralt and Roche. “We’ll talk at my home. Come after dusk,” he said, but then paused in turning away. There was a nasty grin on his lips. “And one more thing… welcome to Flotsam.”
Geralt found Roche at the local tavern nursing a mug of ale. He sat down on the chair beside him and considered him. Roche's expression was pinched, and after a few seconds of silence, his eyes fastened on Geralt, deep brown and cold.
“Laid it on thick back there,” Geralt said for lack of a better conversation starter.
“It was necessary. The crowd had to be swayed.”
Geralt nodded. “Thanks for saving my ass,” he said. He tried to make the words sound light-hearted, even though they did not come easy to him. In fact, he felt embarrassed by his poor performance. “Seems you're my knight in shining armour after all.”
“You should work on your fist fighting skills,” Roche said, ignoring the insinuation, and though the comment hit a sore spot, Geralt's lips split in a grin.
“Yeah? You offering lessons?”
Roche's expression turned into a grimace, and there was a spark of interest in his eyes. “Perhaps. But you could never afford them – you're a fugitive.”
“You don't know. Witchers have their ways. And besides, you're the one who confiscated all my money when you threw me into the dungeons, so technically, you owe me.”
Roche hummed into his tankard before putting it down audibly. “The way I see it, I paid you back when I allowed you to escape La Valette castle. And again today. So technically, you owe me,” he parroted.
Geralt rolled his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Alright, what do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
Silence fell for a second. Geralt knew, of course, that Roche was referring to the kingslayer, but somehow it seemed like a statement loaded with more implications than one.
“Might do to remind me.”