The Divine Hunter - Chapter 562
Chapter 562: Long Lost
[TL: Asuka]
[PR: Ash]
It was early spring of 1265. The skies had taken on the shade of maple leaves as evening descended upon the land. The air was cool and comfortably humid. Dewdrops hung from the greenery beside the path. A carriage was traveling down this path. More than fifty lads and young ladies were within the group. They were all sporting clean, simple clothes and fur jackets. Every one of them had a blue rucksack, their eyes twinkling with excitement, curiosity, and exhaustion from their travels.
The carriage towed blankets and utensils. All necessities for the travelers. The wheels creaked as it plowed through the freshly drenched soil. Some of the children were resting on the cart.
More than a dozen witchers—burly with eyes of beasts and draped in cloaks—flanked the group. A golden-haired knight trailed behind the group, leading a horse ahead.
The red-haired sorceress riding Wilt would cast spells from time to time, directing her magic hawk to look around for any possible hazards.
Everyone came on this trip. Only Moore, Susie, Mino, Pashia, and Gryphon stayed at the fortress. Roy was seated on a slow-moving carriage, thinking about the events that had taken place over the last year or so.
After the christening of Eileni, the witcher made his return to Kaer Morhen and, with Coral’s assistance, began his third Trial. This time, he went with the Wolf School’s recipe. The Trial took longer than he’d expected. Despite his absurdly high Constitution, the clash between three witcher schools’ Trials almost killed him. The witcher fought for dear life in Kaer Morhen’s lab for fourteen months before the torment came to an end.
The witcher turned his attention to the character sheet.
‘Roy
Age: 18 years old
Status: Viper School Witcher, Manticore School Witcher, Wolf School Witcher, Knight of Lake Vizima, Member of Witcher Brotherhood
HP: 380 → 400
Mana: 310 → 340 (+80 from Trial)
Strength: 16 → 20
Dexterity: 16 → 20
Constitution: 30 → 32
Perception: 12 → 17
Will: 32 → 34
Charisma: 9 → 10
Spirit: 23 → 26
…
Class:
Level 13 Witcher
Rank: Intermediate Witcher
Requirement(s) for rank advancement:
1. Consume the remaining Trials.
2. Slay magical creatures with at least one stat at Rank 2 or above (10/10). You have slain: Gruffyd, Lady of the Woods, Draugr Overlord, Mirmulnir, (2) Ice Trolls… and Vilgefortz.
3. Acquire greater mutagens (7/10).
You have (1) stat point remaining.
***
The third Trial didn’t yield as many stat increments as the second Trial did, but Roy saw an increase of 21 stat points in total. His combat stats had finally gone up to Rank 2, save for Perception. His Will, Spirit, and Constitution were higher than most of the brotherhood’s members, and that was before his second mutation. No longer was he dead last. Power coursed through his veins.
With the Elder Blood flowing in his veins, his elven heritage made sure he was perfectly lean. The witcher was about six feet tall, and his muscles were taut. No longer did he look like a child. He looked more like a lad in his twenties now. His golden and silver eyes had turned into a pair of perfectly silver eyes, lending him an air of regality.
Roy had a feeling this would be his eyes’ final color change.
Roy was not the only one who underwent great change. Carl was at the head of the group, cloaked in black. He had the air of a reliable man after his training in Kaer Morhen. Standing behind him were the first apprentice witchers and the newbies who went through their Trials, thanks to everyone’s help.
The Trial they took was the watered down version developed by Kalkstein, Coral, Triss, and Lydia, who had joined them, but not officially just yet. They didn’t gain as much strength as the witchers of old, but they didn’t suffer any complications either.
The witchers’ colorful eyes gleamed under the evening light. With the addition of these new witchers, the group now had a staggering twenty-four monster hunters in their ranks. They stayed in Kaer Morhen for more than one year, coming up with a meticulous plan before they made their way to Ellander.
The temple, however, was not the destination Roy had in mind.
***
“Are we there yet, Roy?” Acamuthorm took a seat beside Roy and swayed his legs back and forth, his fringe brushing across his freckles.
“It’s been more than two weeks since we left Kaer Morhen. We passed Gwenllech, a few villages in Upper Buina, and Ard Carraigh. We’ll be entering Ellander in a month at most.”
“Is Nenneke as kind as you say she is?” Carl leaned in closer from atop his horse. “And are there really more than a hundred girls in the temple?”
“I see you’ve grown. Finally at that age, huh?” Felix smirked at his protege. “Does Vicki know you’re interested in other girls, though?”
Auckes teased, “You just had to be a casanova like Lambert.”
Carl glanced at Vicki, who was chatting quietly with the other girls. He smiled sheepishly and moved back a little.
“Ah, shut it.” Lambert sidled up to Auckes and smacked his horse’s rear. He grumbled, “So what about casanovas? At least I never hurt anyone’s heart. It’s always carnal.”
“You’re no different from a beast.” Aiden scoffed.
Letho smacked his fists. Once everyone’s attention turned to him, he shot them an icy look and sternly said, “Alright, shut it. Kids, the temple is a sacred place. Don’t do anything stupid there. Follow their rules and do not disturb the priestesses.”
“But we’re full-fledged witchers now, Letho,” Charname grumbled, “so can you stop treating us like we’re kids?”
“Quiet!” Lytta tugged on her steed’s reins. Everyone looked in the direction she was staring at. There was an old stone bridge near the exit of the woods. It was a path they had to take on their way to the south. There was a bridgehead standing near the bridge. Kaedwen’s design. It was shimmering red under the setting sun.
***
Regular bridgeheads usually had three soldiers, a toll keeper, a coach, and a dozen travelers around, but this one was packed with people. Roy’s eyes roved over it, and he saw at least thirty soldiers clad in Kaedwen attire patroling the place. There were also fifty peltasts around the fence. Most were resting around campfires, ready to deal with any emergencies.
The gates were open. Flocks of people thronged around there. There was also a big group of soldiers resting within the fortress. Oxcarts and carriages were parked within the courtyard. Within the leaning watchtowers were two crossbowmen on high alert. When they saw the witcher’s group coming out of the woods, they gasped.
“By the gods, where are you going, witchers?” The sergeant ran up to them, staring at the witchers. Their eyes alone struck fear into his heart, and he took on a more reverent attitude without even noticing it. “You have children with you. Are they your protégés?”
The witchers exchanged a knowing look, and the young witchers looked proud. On their way here, they met a lot of people, and everyone afforded them respect. The battle of Novigrad had spread far and wide over the previous year. Eventually, the stories took on a more mystical version. Some said they took down a thousand guards with just a troop of ten. Either way, the witchers found themselves to be feared and respected. No one dared curse or mock them anymore. It was a good sign, and the witchers were more than happy to take the gift.
***
“We’re going to Ellander.” Roy stepped forth, his eyes roving over the ground around the fortress. There were not only footprints there; Roy saw signs of battle, albeit they were covered up. He also tasted a faint scent of blood hanging in the air. Not even the downpour the night before could clear the air up.
The sergeant heaved a sigh of relief. He too had noticed the look on Roy’s face, and he managed to guess what Roy wanted to ask. “You’ve noticed it as well, haven’t you? Someone ambushed the fortress last night. If my troops had arrived one moment later, this place would’ve been razed to the ground,” answered the sergeant.
He’d rather not cross these witchers. There were only about two hundred soldiers in this fortress. Strong they might be, the Eternal Fire guards were stronger, and yet they were decimated. The sergeant would rather let the witchers pass peacefully.
“Who would dare attack a Kaedwen stronghold?” Grimm stepped forth. Staying in Kaer Morhen had robbed him of the latest news. “I thought Nilfgaard signed a peace treaty.”
“And it wasn’t Nilfgaard that attacked us. It’s the blasted bandits, and the South’s supporting them.” The sergeant spat. He was also perplexed as to why a knight was with the witchers. “Soiatael!” he hissed venomously, though that was not the correct pronunciation.
The Kaedwen soldiers behind him were riled up as well at the mention of that name.
Roy exchanged a look with his companions. “The Squirrels, you mean?”
“Yes. That’s what they call themselves. Some say it’s because they have squirrel tails tied to their hats or belts. Some say it’s because they take the woods as their abode and only sustain themselves on a diet of nuts. ‘Course, elves aren’t their only members; they have half-elves, part-elves, halflings, dwarves, and every living being that despises humanity. Rumors had it that you slaughtered these extremists in Novigrad.”
The sergeant was impressed. “Job well done. Only thing is you should’ve killed more.”
Serrit crossed his arms. “Sounds like they’re up to something again.”
“Yes. The terrorists have expanded their area of operations to Kaedwen. No, the whole Northern Realms, to be exact. Attacks have been sighted in Brugge, Kerack, Verden’s vicinity, the edges of Brokilon, Aedirn, Kaedwen, Temeria, and Redania. Those madmen would lay their hands on any passing traveler as long as they’re humans. Merchants, soldiers, and even tramps. It’s even worse in Kaedwen. They spread around like wildfire. Everywhere they go, everything dies. Guerilla warfare’s their strategy, and they’re more bloodthirsty than the bandits. They’re not out for coin; they’re out for blood. Human blood. Says gibberish like ‘Human rule is over! Time for the old order to return. We’re kicking you back to the sea!’ See this bridgehead? They destroyed it.”
The witchers were grim as well. The scoia’tael were nothing but weaklings before, yet now even the Northern Realms had to be wary of them. This was less-than-good news. Scoia’tael and witchers were now nemeses, all thanks to the battle at Novigrad.
“So you’re trying to say that it’ll be a dangerous journey to Kaedwen?” Vesemir looked at the covered corpses in the courtyard. They were starting to reek.
“Shouldn’t be much of a problem for you guys. Scoia’tael members are nothing to witchers,” said the sergeant unctuously. He then looked at the children. “But you have to be careful, especially when you have kids with you.”
He moved away and gave his men a look. The soldiers quickly cleared the path for the witchers. The youngest of them were raring to go, despite the dangers of Scoia’tael. They had had enough of the endless training and sparring in Kaer Morhen. True battle was what they desired, and Scoia’tael was the perfect target.
“Oh, another caravan just went by as well. To the south too. You should run into them eventually. It’s getting dark soon.” The sergeant bade the guests goodbye. “They would be stopping to rest for the night. You should rendezvous with them. It’ll be safer.”
There’s a fortress ransacked by the Squirrels on the way to Ellander. A certain memory surfaced in Roy’s mind, and he got a little excited. “We shouldn’t be wasting time, then.”
Roy waved at the caravan behind him, and they quickly left the bridge. Only after the witcher caravan was out of sight did the soldiers and travelers heave a collective sigh of relief. “Chin up, men. Double the patrol efforts tonight.”
They respected the witchers for their culling of Scoia’tael and their remarkable fighting prowess, but they’d rather not share a room with the mutants. They were dangerous. There were only a little more than ten of them a year ago, but their numbers had almost doubled. They didn’t want to risk the witchers slaughtering this whole place.
With the bards’ efforts at overturning the stigma on witchers and Cyrus’ new book that was Witchers: Misunderstood Community, the Northern Realms had a new policy toward witchers: leave them alone, and show them respect.
***
Dusk fell upon the land once more. In the wilderness a short distance away from the south of the bridge, a group of carriages formed a circle beside the stone path. In its center was a bonfire, its fire illuminating the white canvas on the carriage.
A group of people were gathered around the bonfire, engaged in a conversation.
And then the braying of a horse broke the idyllic silence of the night. The people around the bonfire jumped, swinging their battle axes and warhammers away. Crossbowmen took aim and hid behind the carriages, taking cover.
The crowd exploded, ready to battle, though some were smart enough to find out who the newcomers were before they went hostile.
“Who goes there?” a dwarf bellowed, standing behind a carriage.
“Calm down, dwarf. We’re friends.” A witcher appeared from the darkness, leading a horse. He had hair white as snow and face pale as a ghost.
“Ya look like a ghost to me, mate. Have you ever looked into a mirror?” The dwarf put his axe away, muttering under his breath. He flung his absurdly long beard over his shoulder. “Unless my eyes are deceiving me, yer Geralt of Rivia. Ain’t no one else looking more like a ghost than you.”
“Evening, Yarpen Zigrin.” Geralt tossed a bottle of spirit at the dwarf, and he smiled. “Must’ve been ten years since I left Kestrel Mountains.”
Yarpen hastily uncorked the bottle of spirit. The air was filled with the aroma of alcohol, and the swarf took a big swig. He grinned, his teeth yellow, and his beard swayed. “That’s some true Mahakaman spirit. Alright, people, false alarm. It’s a friend.”
The dwarves heaved a collective sigh of relief. A few dozen armed dwarves appeared from behind the carriages, and then the bonfire roared higher. With the light now brighter, they could see even more horses standing behind Geralt. The dozen or so pairs of beastly eyes did not escape them either. Nor did the big group of children.
“By Maha- Mahakam, a-are my eyes de- deceivin’ me?” A stuttering dwarf put his hammer down. He looked at a certain black-haired, grey-eyed witcher in the group, and his eyes went wide. He roared, “Oy, Reagan, I ai-ain’t seeing things, am I? H-He looks like h-him, b-but…”
“No, yer right.” The crossbowman strapped his weapon to his back. He stepped forth and approached Roy, then he clasped his hand and gave him a hug. The dwarf could only reach Roy’s chest, however. It almost seemed like a child was hugging his father. “Roy, my friend. It’s good to see you here. What happened? Yer grown so much! And that baldy must be Letho!”
Letho put on a smile and waved his hand.
“Hello, Reagan. Hello, Barney.” Roy looked at the familiar faces. He couldn’t hold back his excitement. It almost felt like he was back in Mahakam, adventuring through treacherous caves. “It’s been four years. How are you doing?”
