The Divine Hunter

We turn our gaze to a resplendently decorated and warmly lit lounge. An enigmatic man in a knightly shirt was standing within the living quarters, and beside him was a woman as gorgeous as a field of flowers. She was draped in a celadon green dress that clung loosely to her perfect curves. Her hair was long and a lustrous gold, and a ruby necklace hung before her chest. Her eyes were innocently blue, and alluring elven makeup covered her face.

The woman was, at the same time, the image of innocence and seduction.

"Thank you for inducting us into the grace of Emhyr var Emreis, Vilgefortz. Now we stand a chance to revive our kingdom. We are in your debt. Of course, we shall lend you our assistance. I shall send in a vanguard team of ten elves to Novigrad. Should you require more, I shall also dispatch five of our sorcerers to serve you."

Vilgefortz stared at the flickering sparks in the fireplace, his face glistening red. This deal he struck was a win-win-win situation. Now that Nilfgaard had signed a peace treaty with the North, none could go back on their word easily, giving the Southern troops a chance to establish themselves in the North.

Following that stunt, Vilgefortz inducted Francesca, who wished to revive her elven kingdom, to Emhyr var Emreis, installing members of Scoia'tael into Nilfgaard's army. They would be the empire's secret vanguard, harassing and taking down the northern kingdoms' defenses, planting the seeds for future warfare.

In this case, Nilfgaard would be able to tear down the North's defenses while keeping their word. The treaty would not be binding to them. Once they took over the North, Nilfgaard would grant the elves the land of Dol Blathanna, where Francesca could revive her kingdom.

Francesca's army of Scoia'tael members detested humans, including the witchers. And in their years of battling humanity, Scoia'tael's members had grown into formidable fighters, and given their spy identity, they wouldn't tell anyone about Ciri's news.

Vilgefortz smiled at the elven sorceress. With the Scoia'tael vanguard working with Rience and Schirru, he knew he could take down the witchers easily.

***

An unnamed inn stood in the southeast of Novigrad, neighboring Tretogor. White sunlight shone upon Schirru's dried, shriveled ponytail that extended down to his waist. He tapped his finger on the rickety table, asking, "Why do you detest witchers, Tarika?"

"I used to live in a village in the west of Novigrad. It was in the outskirts of Tretogor." A gaunt middle-aged woman in a crude dress spoke, but she had a craven look in her eyes. "Five years ago, the local graveyard was ravaged by a monster. 'Twas like a human but with its skin peeled. It had claws like scythes and teeth as sharp as iron. Messed up our graveyard. Defiled the dead and munched on them. Attacked my neighbors too. Vulcan and Oliver died."

"That sounds like a ghoul."

"Aye, maybe that's its name. Chief slapped a request on the bulletin board. Two weeks later, a black-haired, green-eyed mutant came to us because of that request." The woman clasped her rough hands together, and she was tremulous. "Called himself Brun. Had two strange swords strapped to his back. Some silver medallion hung around his neck. Shape of a cat's head. Said he'd help us with our monster problem, but he wanted 200 crowns in return."

The woman sighed. "That's two years worth of coins for our village, but safety's important, so we agreed to his term. That guy went to the graveyard alone and came back with the monster's head not even hours later. Chief gave him the payment."

"All two hundred crowns of it?" Schirru stared at the woman, crossing his arms, a powerful air surrounding him.

The woman froze up and licked her lips. "No. Twenty crowns short, but that was all the coins we had. That guy tucked everything away in his pockets without even counting. Didn't leave right away, though. Came to my inn and drank away the night. Wiped us outta our reserves. And his eyes were red as blood. Everyone held their kids close that night in case the mutant stole them. Then the mutant flipped his table over and cursed. Left the place looking like he wanted someone dead. Didn't pay me either."

"And… and…" The woman hung her head low, her voice cracking. "Blood. That's all I remember. He barged into one of the houses and killed everyone inside. Quick as a phantom wolf and deadly as a monster. The men tried to fight him, but they just died."

The woman screamed, shivering in fear. "No one escaped. Not when his shot was perfect as a deadeye. I only got away because I played dead. 'Twas terrifying. Mind was in chaos. Only got back up when the sun rose the next day."

She wept into her hands. "But everyone's dead. Even the kids. They were slaughtered. That monster turned my home into a slaughterhouse! And he went missing!" She sobbed. "He ain't human! Mutants ain't human. Nothing but devils! They should all burn in hell!" the woman hissed, poking the air angrily with her grubby hands.

***

"I am so, so sorry about this, Tarika. I too had been persecuted by those mutants before. They killed my family. We're all victims of their brutality, and we must stand up against them." Schirru's eyes were filled with warm concern, and he held the woman's hands. He then stuffed a pouch of coins into her hand and gave the mercenary beside him a look. "Take these coins. You'll need it. And we'll give you a place to stay. The witchers destroyed countless families, and yet they're running a roaring business in Novigrad, lining their pockets with mountains of coins. They do not deserve this life."

The woman gritted her teeth and nodded.

"Then it's settled. Once we launch our revenge against the witchers, you must stand up and expose them for their crimes. By the gods, I swear I shall keep you safe."

"Y-Yes."

Schirru nodded and gave the mercenary beside him a look. The mercenary took the woman away from the inn.

***

It was Schirru's lucky day. Following his gaining of a powerful witness, another surprise fell into his lap.

A silhouette ambled through the inn's entrance, the light behind him projecting a slender shadow upon the ground. The man was more than seven feet tall, covered in grime, sweat, and oil. His grubby leather jacket clung closely to the man's ghoulishly gaunt figure, and a steel sword glinted by his waist.

The man's eyes roved around carefully, then he set his sights on the equally towering half-elf in the corner. The man sauntered up to Schirru and took his seat, the spurs on his boots clanging against the ground. He took his suede gloves off and clasped his hands together, holding his chin up. His beard cascaded down his chin, grey and almost catfish-like.

The man had a skeletal face, and his eyes, much like a fish's, were glassy and dead, yet there was unbridled arrogance within. The man had no eyelashes or eyebrows. His sunken sockets had nothing but a pair of eyes within.

Schirru tensed up quietly. Only one kind of creature had this man's eyes. Serial killers. And those who had a grisly amount of victims as well.

"I saw your request in Vidoff. Searching for skilled, and experienced warriors, bounty hunters, and mercenaries? Preferably those who have a grudge against witchers?"

The man slurred as he spoke, and he had no northern accent at all. The language he employed was closer to Elder Speech. Schirru realized he must be a Nilfgaardian.

The treaty promised at least two years without war, and some citizens were already roving around the North and South for work.

"Yes. Name's Schirru. How may I address you? You've taken the request, I assume? We're comrades now. Comrades in punishing the evil witchers. You despise them too, don't you?" Schirru extended his hand.

A sneer curled the man's lips, but he didn't shake Schirru's hand. "Leo Bonhart. That's the name," said Leo slowly, his eyes flickering with excitement. "To answer your last question, no, I do not despise witchers, though I do enjoy snuffing the life out of powerful enemies, especially in duels. Witchers make for the perfect duel partners. They're stronger, faster, and deadlier than any warrior. Great dancers and wielders of the blade as well. I always have more fun with them, given that they do not die as easily as anyone else."

The scorn did not escape Leo. He chortled, his grin as wide as his beard. He then rummaged through his chest pocket and took out three silver necklaces. The bounty hunter placed them on the table, revealing three different pendants. Three gleaming animal heads.

One was a wolf, its eyes glinting like phantom flames. One was a cat, its fangs bared. One was a bear, its maw wide open.

"But these are witcher medallions!" A long rush of air escaped Schirru's lips, and he froze for a moment. "Where did you get these?"

Leo snatched the liquor from Schirru and took a swig, and he stared into the half-elf's eyes. "Found them lying on the ground. Somehow the witchers, who value their medallions as much as their lives, left them behind for me to find."

"Oh yes, witchers are inhumanly powerful, I admit, but that does not mean they are undefeatable. It doesn't mean humans stand no chance against them. I was born to be their curse. Their killer. Their executioner."

Leo spread his hands and took a deep breath, reminiscence glimmering in his eyes. It was as though he was reliving a great feast. A perfect orchestra. A wonderful performance. "The screams they produce before their deaths are riveting. These mutants have more piercing screams, and their eyes and tongues are more durable than any human's. Even when they're an inch away from death, they can still fight on for a long time. That's what makes them fun."

The bounty hunter slowly unsheathed his blade and spat on the edge. He spun it around. "But seeing is believing. Care to put me to the test?"

A breeze danced across the inn. Schirru knew something was off, and he touched his chest. His leather armor cracked, revealing the blue shirt within, but the shirt was not cut at all.

"Good. So how much are you offering? Which school is the witcher from? What's his name? You want him dead or alive? If you want him alive, you'll have to pay me a lot more."

"Ah, I apologize for not telling you this earlier, but we're not just dealing with one witcher." Schirru's eyes roved across Leo's face. "We're dealing with a group."

"What?"

"We're dealing with a group of witchers. More than a dozen of them. Do you still dare to face them? We'll be working as a team, of course. You are not alone, but you have to listen to our orders."

Leo grinned toothily. For a moment, he almost looked like a ghoul. "This is interesting." He stood up and spun around with his blade held to his chest. The bounty hunter danced a little, but he was moving like an infected tree that was about to die at any moment.

And he was frothing at his mouth. "Give me enough coins, and I'll join you. Oh, I can't wait. I get to fight a bunch of witchers? This is magnificent. I can hear the music!"

***

***

Not long after Schirru left, a pair of bizarre men came into the empty inn. The one in the lead had golden hair and brown eyes. His looks were dashing, and his air had a grizzled feel to it. He was donned in dark gold knight armor, and in his hands was a greatsword.

The man behind him had black hair that billowed in the air. His eyes were blue and lively, his features were beautiful, and a short beard grew around his chin. Determination was plastered all over his face, and an olive green cloak cascaded down his back. His cloak was paired with a tight-fitting jacket and a pair of breeches.

The men were intimidating and powerfully-built.

"Are you sure we can find her in Novigrad, Grimm?" The man with black hair pulled a chair out and took his seat. He stared at the golden knight before him, a conflicting look flaring in his eyes. There was a hint of fear within his gaze, and it was mixed with a hint of respect.

Grimm placed his greatsword at the edge of the table, and a cloud of dust leapt into the air. The ground rumbled, and the wooden table creaked under the weight of the weapon. Grimm sat on the longbench and summoned the innkeeper. He asked for a mug of beer, and the knight took a swig.

"By my honor as a knight, Novigrad is the likeliest place she'll be in. Calanthe and Eist are no more, and Skellige is more than a few nautical miles away from the Continent. The only person she can latch onto is Geralt, the witcher bound to her by the Law of Surprise. Didn't you hear the stories on the way? There's a ballroom in Novigrad that plays shows about witchers. You don't see that anywhere else. If you want news about Geralt, that's the place to be."

Grimm took another swig of his beer, and he looked at the black-haired knight, his eyes glimmering with earnestness. "Remember what you promised. An apology from your heart and your greatest effort at patching up the damage you made. Return a regular life to her."

"Of course. On the name of my family, I, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, son of Ceallach, swear I will do anything to find Ciri." Cahir placed his right hand before his chest. "And I shall protect and save her as atonement for my sins. Should I renege on my promise, then I shall be plunged into darkness forevermore, where the light of the sun forsakes."

Cahir looked at the golden knight. Gratitude flickered in his eyes, and a sliver of lamentation swam in his gaze.

After Ciri stole his steed and ran away the second time that night, Cahir went after her, but Grimm emerged from the bushes and knocked him out easily. Cahir thought Grimm would take his life, but the knight showed mercy and took him along on his journey, teaching him as though he were training a fledgling knight.

It was an arduous and bizarre period for Cahir. Many times Cahir tried to escape the humiliation, but Grimm managed to take him back every single time. It was then he realized how Ciri must've felt about her kidnappings, and Cahir realized that he felt something special for the princess.

Over the last few months, Cahir followed Grimm and crossed Riverdell, passed Yaruga, and trekked north to Tretogor. Cahir accepted his fate as a prisoner of war, and he started thinking that Grimm's knightly lectures had a lot of merit to them. The lectures were changing his mind, and Cahir was slowly becoming something like a friend to Grimm.

He should've gone back to the South and faced Emhyr, repenting for him being unable to bring back Ciri, but he did not. He chose to desert his duties and travel to Novigrad. His father, the royal steward, Ceallach Dyffryn aep Gruffyd, would be immensely disappointed in him, but all Cahir wanted was to see that grey-haired girl again. Once would be enough.

***

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