The Divine Hunter - Chapter 566:

Chapter 566: Overwhelming Disadvantage

[TL: Asuka]

[PR: Ash]

It was a silent night. Within a campsite made of carriages and a bonfire, soldiers, dwarves, and children slept, snoring and swaddled in rugs. Beyond the campsite, witchers slept with one eye open upon boulders, moss, and tree branches, listening to the night.

A silver moon rose high into the skies, its light bathing upon the rustling lands. Insects scuttled across the ground, and nocturnal beasts prowled, hunting for food. Trees swayed, briars bristled, and icy dewdrops fell to the ground.

Verdant silhouettes flitted through the wilds under the moons, leaving whispers of icy breezes in their wake.

And then they struck metal. A bear trap hidden within the bushes snapped shut as something hit it. A grunt and stifled gasps of pain echoed in the air. The flitting silhouette stopped and fell ahead like a tree snapped in two by a howling gale.

The moonlight shone upon an elf, his face contorted in pain, his forehead drenched in sweat. He was flinching, foam frothing at his mouth. The great gash on his right leg, left by the bear trap, was gushing blood. His pants were drenched red, a stark contrast to his ivory bones.

His companions’ hearts sank. At the same time, the air was filled with ghostly pairs of eyes. The witchers had woken.

“Enemy attack!”

An earth-shattering roar made the silent night tremble, waking all sleeping members. They shivered and stared around, dazed.

“Look alive, lads! We got company! Scoia’tael bastards!” Yarpen leapt from the ground and pulled an axe from the tree. The edge glinted menacingly under the moonlight.

Reagan and Paulie snapped up their hand crossbows, while Xavier, Yannick, and Barney took up their hammers. All gathered around their leader.

Wenck’s men were prepared for this. They were in their armor even in their sleep. The moment the commotion broke out, they took their hand crossbow and loaded it. Some unsheathed their swords and held their shields high, then they jerked behind the carriages, searching the perimeter with the help of the moon’s and torches’ illumination.

In the other camp, the children calmly huddled around Lytta, covering themselves with blankets. Coral remained seated in the blankets, making a complex gesture with her hands. She had no time to deal with her messy makeup.

The simple magical circle around the carriage was activated. Chaos energy burst forth, its light shining upon her face. An invisible barrier spread from Coral, covering the caravan. Eventually, it turned into a great blue dome that looked like an egg.

A crimson bolt arced through the air and fell upon the carriages, but the magical barrier deflected it, and the arrowhead was crushed into pieces.

Fiery bolts burst forward from the bushes like a burning raven. They flew toward the carriages, but the shield Coral erected deflected them all. They fell to the ground, and sparks of flame lit the hay around.

Some of the bolts struck the carriages outside the barrier. They scorched the canvas and buried themselves within the wooden boards, and fires broke out. Smoke and flames littered the battlefield.

“For Aelirenn!”

“For Shaerrawedd!”

Shouts came from the darkness. The Scoia’tael members split into dozens of squads, charging the caravan from every direction.

The witchers uncorked their decoctions and gulped them all down. They leapt from their hiding places, faces filled with black veins. Their blades glinted dangerously, and they darted ahead like dark lightning.

Yarpen held his axe in one hand and his hand crossbow in another. He and his five dwarven companions followed the witcher in their assault. The remaining members stayed back to guard the caravan and put out the fires.

The fighters clashed, and metal hummed. Blood spurted, and limbs flew. It was but a moment, and more than ten enemies fell to the witchers’ weapons.

Roy tilted his head. A fiery arrow whizzed past his ear. He fired a shot, and the bolt hit the halfling crossbowman hiding behind a tree. He fell, a bloody hole boring through his chest.

Roy switched his crossbow out for Gwyhyr. He dodged the incoming steed and swung his blade down. The cloak of the elven knight was tinted with red, then his spine was broken in two. The elf fell from his steed, and the horse stomped on him. The black horse stampeded into the fighting crowd and separated it.

An elf leapt and held the horse by its head, but it did nothing to stop the steed’s advancement. The momentum from its charge dragged the elf underneath the horse’s hooves, and then sounds of cracking bones filled the air.

Roy charged at the Squirrels coming at him, dust billowing around him. His expression was as cold as ice, and he swung his blade across the attacking squad. A crimson energy beam hurtled across the air, hissing like a rattlesnake.

A sinewy elf held his blade up in an attempt to block it. And the beam sliced through him, metal and all. The elf was cut in two, but the beam did not stop. It charged ahead, the blood of its last victim spurting behind it.

The remaining Squirrels held up their blades, their sunken faces contorted. They snarled like beasts, but before they could even swing their swords, the energy beam cut through their torso. A crimson line appeared upon their skin, and then blood and guts spilled forth, drenching the soil.

The blooming rose of blood almost gleamed, and Roy’s visage was tinted in red.

Enraged elves came hurtling toward the witcher, but he easily leapt away and into the center of the Squirrels. His eyes went red.

Fear.

Bloody tentacles drowned the elves like they were trapped in a bottomless lake. The witcher put his weight into his left leg and pirouetted with his blade in hand. He was like a swan dancing within a pool of red, with white wings turning and gleaming under the moonlight.

Except the wings were his sword, and like a bolt of lightning, it lashed out at the enemy. Seven roses of blood bloomed as Gwyhyr sliced the throats and chests of its enemies open.

The tentacles disappeared. The elves fell into the ground head first. Their legs jerked for a moment, and then they went still.

‘(10) elves killed. 200 EXP gained. Level 13 Witcher (15700/14500).’

***

Roy wiped the blood off his blade and looked around. The campsite was plunged into battle, torn apart by flames and fighting. The burning fires were spreading through the bushes, woods, and grass. Eventually, the dark smoke blotted out the light of the moon.

The only sounds remained were the shouts of battle, the clash of metal, and the flurry of bolts hurtling through the air.

With Roy reminding them of this possible attack, everyone was prepared. The dwarves had switched the regular canvases out for special ones. It kept the fires from spreading, and the dwarves put them out easily.

Only a few carriages were unfortunate enough to fall to fire.

The young witchers stood around the caravan, casting Axii to calm the spooked horses that tried to break free of their reins. Even with Coral’s shield, there were a few stray bolts that zipped ahead unchecked, but the young witchers fended them off and kept everyone safe.

The other group of witchers were slaughtering the Squirrels like nothing, stopping their advancement dead in their tracks.

A trio of elves swung their blades at Letho, but the bald witcher held up both of his weapons and spun like a top. The elves’ attacks were nulled, and they were sliced up and turned into bags of blood.

Grimm leapt into the air and swung his blade down at a dwarven Squirrel. He cut the enemy in half, then he swung his flesh-covered greatsword around. The gust of gale it stirred up smacked a pair of incoming dwarves away.

Felix thrust his blade around him three times like a snake lashing out at its enemies with deadly precision. The elves that tried to charge him stopped in their tracks. They held their vitals, gurgling for a moment before their minds faded to black.

“Who else?” Felix licked the blood on his blade. His eyes flared with fury, and he roared, “Come and get it, Scoia’tael bastards!”

“Look out, Geralt!”

An arrow flew across the air, and Geralt’s magical barrier broke. His hair band was cut in two, and his white hair billowed in the wind. The White Wolf held his sword and bent down a little. Despite being under siege, the witcher started a deadly dance of blades. His sword spun again and again as its master took forward steps. His blade gleamed in delight as it drew the enemy’s blood, cutting their flesh.

The elves that tried to attack him fell, broken into pieces.

The veteran witchers were like a bloody boa slithering through the battlefield. The roars of their Signs and the flames of battle kept the night up.

***

One of Wenck’s soldiers swung his blade away at a dwarven Squirrel’s forehead. The dwarf gasped in pain, but he soldiered ahead and toppled the soldier. He sliced the soldier’s armor open, and his dagger buried itself deeply into the soldier’s belly. Guts and blood spilled onto the ground.

The dwarf and the soldier rolled around, holding each other, and they lost their lives at the same time, hateful eyes locked with each other.

An arrow found itself buried in a human soldier’s shoulder. The arrowhead fell off and broke into four hooked needles that buried itself in his flesh. The soldier grunted, his head covered in a film of sweat.

He wobbled. A petite halfling leapt across him. The soldier held his slashed artery, gurgling as he fell to his death.

The soldiers and Squirrels were in a stalemate. However, the dwarves who followed the witchers into battle were immersed in the fight.

Yarpen cursed as he crouched and evaded an elf’s incoming attack. He then swung his axe at the elf’s belly. The elf roared in pain, and Yarpen kicked him down to the ground.

Xavier and Yannick were doing their best to pull a horse spooked by the flames.

A dwarf with a battleaxe was charging straight at Barney, a hat with a bushy squirrel tail adorning his head. His beard was braided, and his eyes flared with hatred.

Barney hesitated, but the enemy dwarf did not. He held his weapon tight and swung it down at Barney’s shoulder.

Death was coming for him, and Barney held his breath.

A bolt zipped through the air. As if he were slammed by a siege weapon, the enemy dwarf flew into the air. His skull was blown apart, and his brains rained into the battlefield. The dwarf’s headless body fell a distance away. His fingers twitched for a moment, and he went still.

“Whatcha doin’, you idiot?” Yarpen stormed forth and slapped Barney. Barney’s cheeks swelled. Still, that wasn’t enough to teach him a lesson. Yarpen grabbed Barney’s collar and swung him. He roared, “Ya hesitate next time and I’ll lop yer head off!”

Barney snapped out of it and held his weapon with resolve.

***

The ground was drenched in blood. Barely five minutes had gone by since the battle had begun, and already there were a hundred bodies strewn across the battlefield. Most of them were Scoia’tael members. The shouts and roars were getting weaker too.

And then smoke billowed in the bushes. A bunch of Scoia’tael members went around the combatants and made their way to the carriage where the children were hiding. The elven knight in the lead was towing a burning carriage filled with hay, wood, and oil. He was charging into a suicide mission.

Roy’s eyes glinted coldly. Time to bring this to an end. Roy stared at the burning carriage and took a deep breath. A rune shaped like a fire popped in his mind, and he took a deep breath.

A war cry charged through the broken battlefield like a hurricane ravaging a city. The chaotic battlefield fell silent for a moment, the pressure hanging in the air turning everyone to lead for a moment.

The temperature went a hundred degrees higher. Everyone felt their skin getting scorched. Even their breath felt like flames. The air was getting drier as the humidity within it evaporated.

Sparks of flames burst from the ground beneath. Everything from the ground, the bushes, the air, even the weapons, were radiating impossible levels of heat.

And then, a split second later, the ground shook. The mantle rumbled, and cracks spread across the earth. Lights of fires shot through the gashes and roared into the night skies. Everyone stared.

A gush of crimson magma shot out at the charging carriage. It was scorching and burning like melted metal. The magma drowned those standing on top of it. The elven knight, its carriage, and steed were burned into a crisp before they could even let out a scream. And then they were vaporized.

Half of the horse’s head escaped the fate of being burned to cinders. It flew out of the magma and fell to the ground, charred and billowing with smoke.

A dragon made of liquid flames drowned the carriage, burning and illuminating the air around it. It almost felt like it would rain destruction onto this land. The dragon hurtled ahead, scorching the earth, leaving cracks and smoke in its wake.

The elves that failed to move away in time were swallowed by the dragon. There was but a moment of screaming, and then they were lit on fire, turned into elven torches. A moment later, they melted into the magma, with not a shred of them remaining.

It was only a moment, and more than twenty Scoia’tael members were killed off. Having had its fill, the dragon of fire stopped and fell into slumber within the woods’ crater, forming a lake made of pure fire.

Like a machine malfunctioning, the battlefield grinded to a halt. The dwarves, elves, humans, and even witchers stopped at the same time.

No! The Scoia’tael members around the battlefield could only watch as their brethren were swallowed up by that dragon. Some were on the verge of shedding blood tears. What a cruel way to die. The witchers are demons!

The Squirrels roared like madmen, their raspy cries echoing across the battlefield. Throwing their lives away, they launched their last, valiant attack.

The Squirrels were nothing but prey for the witchers. Their blades danced and fluttered faster than the Squirrels could see.

Flurries of bolts flew through the air, and magical barriers broke.

On the edge of the battlefield stood an elven sorceress in a bush. Varselie held her staff up, then she pushed her hand forward. Wind billowed her robes. A swordsman was pushed away by the force field, but even though he was in the air, the silhouette still managed to fire a bolt easily.

The sorceress held her pierced calf and fell screaming. A burly elf leapt out of the bush and swung his blade down at the witcher’s back, but he flew back faster than when he leapt, a gash of blood opening itself on his chest.

Roy deflected a bolt with his blade and hurled a bolt of lightning at the attacker. The petite elf with braids who just jumped out of her hiding spot found herself charred, and her weapon had fallen out of her hands. She fell to the ground, spasming like she was having an episode of fits.

Roy swung his weapon. He was about to kill these elves off, but then he heard footsteps coming from the bush behind him.

An elf with mahogany hair, a pair of slender legs covered with boots, and a curvaceous body donned in light armor closed in on Roy, holding her blade.

The witcher whirled and saw a familiar face. He froze.