The Divine Hunter

"Roy, what is the purpose of this brotherhood? Why'd you gather these witchers, sorceresses, alchemists, and orphans in one place?" Yennefer leaned on the balustrade, staring at the endless seas far from the castle. Blustery gales from the wilds blew upon her, billowing her hair. Her curves were as perfect as an hourglass.

Behind her, a room stood. Calanthe was seated beside the fireplace, wearing an oversized cotton jacket. She was flipping through To You, My Child, immersed in the pages.

Ciri walked around with her rear held high like she was a hen, trotting around the room to search for convergence points, the light of magic strobing from her.

"Simple." Roy crossed his arms beneath his chest and leaned on the railing as well. He stared at Calanthe and Ciri, a smile curling his lips. "So witchers can survive and thrive in this world."

"You've done that, haven't you? You've raised a few new witchers among the children, and everyone's doing well." Yennefer scanned Roy. "What next? The number of monsters are dwindling, and so is the need for witchers, yet your numbers are increasing. Are you suggesting that new witchers take up jobs as mercenaries or form a racketeering gang?"

"I don't remember any rules restricting witchers to violent or deceptive vocations. We can always run a business. Or a smithy. Or a potions shop. Or offer swordplay classes." Roy shook his head. "We're a new organization. If we don't grow fast enough to fend for ourselves, we'll be crushed sooner or later. We need more allies. Worry not, however. We do not have any ambition to overthrow the current regime of the world. The expansion of our organization is all so we can survive. Novigrad is an exception, but the world at large is still prejudiced against witchers."

Yennefer nodded. She was reminded of the prejudice Geralt had to endure. "That is true. The House of Gawain is facing a crisis even as we speak."

"Hm?"

"I take it Letho didn't tell you? A sorcerer named Rience came to Novigrad, searching for Ciri. Lambert chased him away, but his employers will not stop until they find her."

***

Seven Cats Inn stood on the outskirts of Novigrad, open for business as usual. Sunlight shone through the window, watching the rundown lobby and a round table in the corner. Two mercenaries equipped with leather armor, swords, and dagger sat face to face.

"I got one of Cleaver's men drunk, and he spilled some info." A hook-nosed man with a sharp chin and bandana said in a whisper, "A few months ago, the Cleaver, King of Beggars, and the Eternal Fire received an anonymous report that witchers were setting up a human trafficking joint in the outskirts. They charged to the witchers' base of operations, screaming for blood. It's an orphanage called House of Gawain."

The half-elf, a creature over six foot tall, listened closer.

"That orphanage is in a patch of alder woods about six miles away from this inn. Them witchers are smart. Consummate survivor of the wilds too. Must've set up a ton of traps in the woods. Best stay out of it if I were you. That drunk bastard said there's about fifty kids in the orphanage, and it's home to about ten of them mutants."

"And that was more than six months ago. Bet my last crown there's more of them now." The hook-nosed mercenary spoke adamantly. "They wouldn't set up an orphanage for nothing. Must be something evil they're doing. Like training up more of their kind. For some reason, Cleaver, the King of Beggars, and even the Head of Security were fooled."

The half-elf's muscular shadow flickered on the peeled walls as he sat up straighter. "So what about the mutants' accomplice?"

The mercenary took a sip of his liquor to wet his throat, and umbrage filled his face. "Oy, you call this liquor? This is nothing but juice!" He whirled and glared at the hunched innkeeper, but the innkeeper ignored him and caressed his swaying cat.

"That's why your inn's closing down." The mercenary sucked in air and held his vexation down. "I lost a few brothers just to map out the witchers' connections and background. The bastards are smarter than any fox I've met. Noses sharper than a hunting dog's. Nothing gets by them. The moment my friend got close to their territory, they went missing. I bet they used their darn Signs on them for interrogation. And he wasn't the only one. A few more went missing. No news came back. But I never told them about you, so the witchers couldn't find anything useful. Still, losing three of my men is a huge blow, and we came all the way from Rinbe too."

The half-elf silently tossed a grey pouch the size of an adult's fist. "Here. Recompense for their deaths."

The mercenary's jowls shuddered, and he opened up the pouch, his eyes glinting with golden greed, and a smile scrunched up his face. "Thank you. I have one more piece of information for you. The biggest ganglords of Novigrad, namely the King of Beggars, the Collector, and the Cleaver have all signed a peace treaty with the witchers, with the Collector being their closest ally. Most of the coins needed to run the orphanage are covered by the Collector. Everyone in the city hall knows that. He's also hired two witchers to teach his men swordplay. I'm sure they're working together."

The half-elf started tapping his finger on the table.

The mercenary paused for a moment. "Their second accomplice, well, it might sound far-fetched, but they say it's the church of Eternal Fire. To be precise, it's their Head of Security, Chappelle. From what I know, the witchers have helped Chappelle run a city-wide anti-human-trafficking operation. Captured more than thirty human traffickers and got in the way of many people's moneymaking. Helped Chappelle’s reputation among the people, however. After the Battle of Sodden Hell, two witchers helped him take in the refugees who came from Cintra. One of my men lodged an anonymous report to the church, but it gained no response. This can only mean one thing: Chappelle and the witchers are in cahoots, and they are not just business partners."

***

"There's also the ballroom. Even a blind man can see that it's run by a witcher apologist. The damn bard writes odes to them like his life depends on it. Praise their 'selfless acts' in an attempt to brainwash the citizens to accept those mutants. They're close too. And the potion shop next door, Gorthur Gvaed, wholly belongs to them too. A Zerrikanian woman is running the show. They have a few bestsellers too. The spirit potion, for example. Men love it. It's an infinite supply of coins," said the mercenary, his voice dripping his envy.

"Seen the orphans working there in their spare time too. And before his disappearance, one of my men noticed the witchers keeping an eye on a veggie kiosk in the market. The owners, Moore and Susie, must be more than meets the eye too. I am not sure how you plan to bring the mutants down, but these are the people you have to look out for. You can ignore the ballroom, the potion shop, and the veggie kiosk. Nothing to worry about. Chappelle and the Collector, however, are prominent figures in Novigrad. You have to be very careful if you wish to deal with them."

"I can see why they call you Rinbe's best sleuth. The intelligence you've gathered is crucial for our operation." The half-elf nodded and whipped out another pouch of crowns, his eyes glinting coldly. "Now I have another request for you. Will you work with me to get rid of these evil, human-trafficking mutant scum? I'll give you ten times the reward once the operation is done."

"Good. Now keep going around Novigrad to gather more intel on the witchers. I want a report every two days. And try your best not to die." The half-elf patted his shoulder. "I don't want to lose an important comrade before the fight even begins."

***

Five minutes after the mercenary went on his merry way, the old man behind the bar counter perked up, his eyes glinting. His rough, wrinkly face was starting to change and contort. Moments later, the innkeeper transfigured himself into a man with thin lips, gleaming eyes, and cropped hair.

The half-elf approached the counter and poured a glass of cherry cider for himself. "You can't brew alcohol to save your own skin, Rience. So what now? We've gotten all the information we need on the witchers. Should we start?"

"Did you forget what he said, Schirru?" Rience shook his head and snapped his fingers. The inn's doors snapped shut, and the curtains closed, blotting out the sunlight. "We wait for his orders. It has been three days since the conference in Sodden. The kings should have arrived at a decision."

A magical music box appeared in Rience's hand out of nowhere. He spun the ring, and the knight in the music box slowly spun. From the tip of the knight's lance, a beam of colorful light shot ahead, weaving a blue screen of light in the air.

Moments later, a devilishly handsome man with ear-length brown hair appeared on the screen. He scanned his underlings imperiously. "Rience, Schirru."

Rience and Schirru tensed up like soldiers who were called upon by their superior.

"This is sudden. I take it that you've found all the information you need about those witchers?"

"Yes, sire, and it is more complex than we thought." Rience took a deep breath and told Vilgefortz what the mercenary had relayed to Schirru earlier. "The witchers are deeply involved with the Collector and the Eternal Fire, two of the most powerful entities in the city. They have also signed a peace treaty with the remaining gang lords. Should we try to mount an attack on the orphanage, the church and the Collector will join hands, and we're talking about a large-scale battle here."

A hint of surprise flickered in Vilgefortz's eyes. He rubbed a finger on the emerald ring on his index finger. "If my memory does not betray me, witchers are lone wolves who abide by the code of neutrality. They would never work with any organizations. However, you're telling me that these witchers, all from different schools, have come together and made allies out of local organizations. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought they were thugs, not witchers."

Vilgefortz muttered to himself, "But to what end? Are they helping the princess to regain her— No. That's absurd." He shook his head, a chortle escaping his lips. "The fact they allied themselves with the witchers makes them our enemies. First, we'll deal with them. We'll deal with the witchers' allies and pile on the pressure against them. Rience, the witchers must've been on high alert after your previous failure. It is too much of a risk to try attacking the bard again. The potion shop and kiosk might seem unprotected, but they're the hardest to tackle of them all. You're going to go for someone else this time."

Vilgefortz said coldly, "You will be abducting the Collector. Lydia will be working with you on this one. The Collector is a highly vaunted man in Novigrad. Heavily guarded, which is both an advantage and a chink in his armor. He hasn’t been plunged into danger for far too long. A pair of sorcerers should be able to abduct him easily. As for you, Schirru, continue your recruitment efforts around Novigrad. Find those who've been persecuted by mutants or non-humans. Recruit powerful ones who have a grudge against all non-humans, or anyone who can go toe-to-toe with a witcher. Better yet, find those who had their homes slaughtered by witchers. Fatten them up. We have a use for them."

Rience nodded. With reverence, he asked, "What about the church, then, sire?"

"Chappelle is but a head of security. Him ruling over Novigrad along with the witchers is an affront to the hieronymus. The conference ended yesterday, and the hieronymus has yet to make his return."

Vilgefortz walked around, his eyes glinting with wisdom. Confidently, he said, "I will convince him to get rid of the pest called Chappelle. The witchers will no doubt be seized with panic once news gets to them. When that happens, you and Lydia will go in and abduct the Collector. Your next order will come once chaos is well underway."

***

The xenovox sputtered and flickered out. Vilgefortz left the bedroom and gave the masked assistant outside some orders. He ambled across the meandering corridor and came to a stop before a metal-rimmed oak door. He knocked on it. "Hieronymus Cyrus Engelkind Hemmelfart? It's me, Vilgefortz."

The door creaked open, revealing a wise, elderly face. He was in a white top with red sleeves, and red stripes adorned his collar. A long robe that resembled the colors of a burning sun was draped over his shirt. "Ah, Vilgefortz. Come in. I have you to thank for the peaceful conclusion of the conference. What brings you here, however?"

"Oh, long story. A comrade of mine ran into something rather bizarre during his travels in Novigrad. It is about Chappelle and the witchers. I am no believer of the Eternal Fire, but I have only respect for it. I do not wish to see the fire tainted by the filth of the mutants."

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