The Divine Hunter - Chapter 460

Chapter 460: Reinforcements
[TL: Asuka]
[PR: Ash]
A river of stars hung high in the heavens, staring down at the bloody, death-soaked lands of Marnadal and the woods west of it. The woods where Jerome met his end.
Roy stared at his dead comrade’s battered body or what remained of it after the beasts were done feasting on it. And he sighed. A diamond-shaped crystal hung in the air, projecting a light blue screen upward. There, beyond the screen, stood his comrades. Silence swooped down on them all, gnawing away at their hearts.
“This is… unbelievable, and not in the good sense,” a voice laden with disbelief and grief said. “Jerome died from… from arrow wounds? Impossible. I thought we gave him an acorn. Why didn’t he use it?” Coen hung his head low, muttering to himself, stricken with sorrow.
“Never contacted me once.” Roy shook his head, sighing. “I had a feeling he did it on purpose. Maybe he didn’t want to drag me into whatever business he was dealing with.” Roy—and the whole brotherhood, for that matter—knew Jerome saw himself as an outsider. An outsider who loathed dragging unrelated people into his business.
“My condolences, lads,” Vesemir said, his eyes welling with sadness. “Death through battle is but one of a witcher’s many ends. And you might have noticed this, but Jerome was already prepared to meet his end. Destiny had tormented him for more than a century. He must’ve been exhausted.”
Another stretch of silence engulfed the witchers, the air hanging with bereavement. It hadn’t been too long since Jerome made his appearance, and their bond hadn’t deepened too much. Yet, this was still the first death experienced by the brotherhood. A bad start to a grim mission. Everyone had a foreboding feeling of what was to come.
“I shouldn’t have let him go.” Serrit shook his head. “But I have a question. Why is his corpse miles away from the battlefield?”
“Serrit, the cause of death is the crossbow bolts puncturing his organs. No sign of magic or any other type of wound. The killer was a random soldier. And Jerome died with a smile on his face.” Roy was observing Jerome’s pallid, lifeless face. Rigor mortis had kicked in, his facial muscles relaxing, and yet the smile on his lips remained.
“Then the answer is clear.” Letho said, “He saw Erland.”
Despite the tragedy, this conclusion served as some comfort for the witchers. Jerome spent all his life searching for Erland, and moments before his death, his wish was granted. It was, so to speak, the silver lining.
“He was a member of the brotherhood. I won’t let him die for nothing.” Lambert clenched his fists, his breathing labored.
“You expect us to kill off the whole Nilfgaardian army?” Auckes cocked his eyebrow.
“Lambert, he was in a warzone. It was possible a Cintran soldier killed him.” Serrit shook his head. “Once you get yourself involved in a war, there’s no turning back. Either you come out alive, or you don’t come out at all. That’s the price he was ready to pay the moment he broke his code of neutrality.”
“At least we gotta find out what happened to him before his death.” Icy fury glinted in Lambert’s eyes. He suggested, “Now that the battle at Marnadal is over, we can all go to Cintra and drag Erland out kicking and screaming. His student died, and that bastard left his corpse out in the wilds. I need to find out what he told Jerome before he died. Jerome could have saved himself, but he didn’t. I need to get an answer.”
“No!” Two members spoke at the same time. Roy… and Coral.
“I have a bad feeling about this. I’m doing this solo,” Roy said.
“And I’m surprised you know this is dangerous.” Coral peered at Roy, her eyes flaring with flames. “Go to Cintra, find Geralt, pick Ciri up, and get back to Novigrad on the double. Do not seek Erland out. This is your final warning.” There was an overtone of threat, and she snarled, her lips glistening dangerously. “Ignore it, and there will be hell to pay.”
“I’m fine, Coral. And Jerome’s case…” Roy’s voice trailed off.
“Oh, look in a mirror, will you?” Coral’s chest heaved, ice-cold fury tinging her face. For once, she roared, “I can barely recognize you! Your head’s almost double its usual size, and your clothes are tattered. You keep this up and you’re gonna end up dead like your friend!” Coral stared intently at her lover. “Take his corpse back and bury it in Kaer Seren. That’s it. That’s the end of this. We’ll seek Erland out, but only after the brotherhood grows stronger.”
“Lytta’s right.” Coen inhaled deeply. He would have wanted to seek the answers out as well, but they were in no condition to do that. With tears in his eyes, he said, “Jerome is dead. We cannot allow any more members to die.”
“Contact Geralt.” Letho added, “And take him and Ciri back.”
Roy stayed silent. A long while later, he heaved a sigh, his eyes glinting. “Understood.” Then he tucked Jerome’s remains into his inventory. “I’ll pick Ciri up.” And I’m taking a few more guys with me, he added silently.
***
It was a quiet night in Cintra. Nary a soul prowled the streets. The people of this great city had retired for the night, or they would have, should this be a regular night. But nay. War was at hand, and the lights in every house were turned on.
Rows of torches hung from the towering city walls, shining upon the city and lighting it like a beacon. The city gates observed a hundred soldiers patrolling it, and guard posts stood everywhere. Security was tight.
Some of the more cowardly citizens had deserted Cintra in the face of the coming war, but most of them stayed back. The people of Cintra were born warriors. Proud warriors. Never would they allow any outsider to invade their homeland. Not on their lives.
A solitary castle stood on the cliffs north of the sentries. Within a room filled with dolls and bookshelves, a girl in a regal dress and long stockings was crouching in the corner of her room. She held her legs, her face buried between them, and she shivered like a scared little duckling.
“Your Highness, I thought you’d be looking forward to the Novigrad trip.” Coria was in her regular maid attire. A sycophantic smile hung from her lips, and carefully, she said, “Geralt’s going to give you the grand tour, and your grandparents have approved the trip. So why aren’t you going? Your Highness, you really need to give Geralt a reason. He’s been waiting for you. If Her Highness comes back and sees you still dawdling around, she’s going to whip you again.”
That threat used to work on the princess, but not that night. Ciri remained unconvinced. Her body was quaking in terror, sobs escaping through her nose.
Coria looked to Geralt for help, but the witcher shook his head. When he came to see Ciri earlier that afternoon, she gleefully accepted his invitation and promised to go with him after lunch. But then she changed her mind all of a sudden.
Since afternoon, the girl had been crouching in the corner, refusing to do anything. Geralt was about to take her by force, but he relented when he saw the look of sorrow on her face. And thus, our witcher found himself spending the whole afternoon trying to cheer a child up. The one thing he disliked the most. And the very same thing he had no idea how to handle.
“You keep crying, and you’re gonna hurt your voice, diva. Remember your promise to put on a show for the kids? There are fifty of them, all waiting for you. Waiting to play with you. Jump ropes, hide and seek, and even the more boyish games that you love so much,” Geralt goaded. “If you’d like, you can pick any witcher to teach you. They’ll assist you in your hunt for drowners, nekkers, and even a dragon. We also have a beautiful sorceress who can teach you magic. It’s a lot better than being cooped up in this little room learning all about etiquette. And Roy is there as well. You want to see him, don’t you?”
The mention of Roy triggered something within the princess, and she cried even more. “Roy’s… Roy’s going to die soon. And Grandpa too!”
“What do you mean?” Inexplicably, Geralt’s heart sank, but then he dismissed it with a smile. “Was that a nightmare you had?”
“That wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t. I saw it. I saw everything!” Finally, Ciri found someone she could vent to, and she leapt into the White Wolf’s embrace, crying out loud. Through her sniffles and sobs, she finally told Geralt of the dream she had. The girl raised her head, her eyes glistening with tears, her cheeks and nose rosy. “Roy and my grandpa… They’re gonna die. Both of them!”
“Calm down, Ciri. That was jut a nightmare.” Geralt patted the girl’s back. “And dreams are the opposite of what will happen in the real world, alright? Calm down.”
“Y-You’re not lying, are you?” The girl stared into Geralt’s eyes.
“I promise they will be fine. But tell me more about this dream you had. Every detail you can remember.”
***
Dark clouds hung over the seas between the isles and the Northern Kingdoms. Lightning crackled, and thunder boomed. A torrential downpour slammed into the seas only to be engulfed by gigantic waves.
Fifty battleships formed a circle, bravely sailing across the high seas. Their destination? The port of Cintra. Waves crashed against the hull, their sails billowing in the gale, their emblem glaring straight ahead.
A man as burly as a grizzly bear stood upon the deck, wearing a gleaming jacket made of seal hide. He issued commands to his crew and blew his whistle as loudly as he could. The sailors pulled down the sails and mast, then they scurried off into the cabins calmly.
Six burly, bearded men with antlered helms on their heads and ancient staves on their backs stood on the bows of the ships, unfazed by the storm, like their legs were rooted in the deck.
Despite the howling winds, these men did not move a single inch. Instead, they closed their eyes and chanted an ancient incantation. The magical incantation seeped into the winds, tangled with the lightning, and danced with the waves.
Nature’s magic burst forth from the druids and gathered over the battleships. A green dome sprang from the ball of energy, covering the ships in a protective shield, fending off the storm raging on outside.
The chant reached a crescendo, drowning out all other sounds. Drowning out even the roars of the storm. A surge of nature’s magic shot up into the air, into the dark clouds hanging ominously overhead. Nature’s magic caressed the dark clouds, soothing the anger and calming the storm.
And it worked. A little crack had formed within the stormy skies. Then, a sliver of silvery moonlight shone through, illuminating the dark, dark sea.
Just when the storm seemed to have calmed, a great arc of lightning darted across the skies, blinding the seas for just a moment. And then, booms of thunder bellowed in the firmament. Cloaked silhouettes appeared behind the black clouds, chanting a bizarre incantation. It sounded as if men and women were chanting together, clashing with the druid’s magic.
The storm resumed, the moonlight covered. Once again, dark clouds formed overhead. Winds howled, and lightning streaked through the heavens. Thunder bellowed, and the storm raged. The druids stopped chanting for a moment only to resume at an even greater intensity.
Their magic charged into the skies once more, forming the silhouette of a monumental oak tree that connected the seas to the skies. A canopy of leaves hung from its many branches and a green, soothing light shone upon its bark, its energy calming the souls of those who bore witness to it.
Even the fury of nature was assuaged by its power. Then, grunts of pain came from within the clouds, and the cloaked silhouettes disappeared. Gone with them was the storm that had raged over the seas. As if by some sort of miracle, the skies cleared up, giving way to the silvery moon hiding behind the dark clouds. Orion shone upon the seas, smiling at the reflection of the moon.
Thus, the battleships could travel in safety.
“Glory to Mousesack!”
“To Egill!”
Folan of Skellige emerged from the cabins. The man held up a mug of liquor with his hairy hand and took a big swig, and he burped.
“To Tarjik!”
“To the druids!”
The army of sailors gave their hurrahs to the druids, who were standing on the bows of their ships. These allies of nature exchanged a look and took their helms off to pour the seawater out. They then bowed at the cheering sailors, and five of them slowly disappeared into thin air.
Mousesack was the only remaining druid. He stood atop the bow, gazing far into the distance, where Cintra’s port stood.
Crach an Craite, a burly man with unkempt red hair, swung his arm down, his eyes flaring with fighting spirit. “Sails up, ye scurvy dogs! We be passin’ around Sedna! Ter Cintra we go! Tha’ storm ain’t gunna stop us! Off with the Nilfgaardian dogs’ heads!”
The sailors put up the mast, unfurled the sails, and pulled the anchor back up. And then, once more, they returned to their journey. And the sailors started singing a sea shanty.
“Beneath the raging storm we row, into the tidal waves she goes.
Through the winds and the seas we brave, heave her up and away we’ll go.
The rich and blue blood fear us wherever we may go, yo ho ho.
Along danger’s coast we ride sure, in the seas we find our peace.”
The sailor’s singing was carried by the wind, and onto the lands it traveled.
***
“Bad news. A group of six druids were present on the Skellige battleships. All powerful manipulators of weather. They destroyed the storm easily. Our men’s mana backfired on them, and they sustained heavy injuries.” A woman in a fox mask appeared on the xenovox’s screen, speaking in a voice filled with dejection. “And the battleships are going around Sedna. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought we had a spy among us.”
On the other side of the xenovox was a man in a wolf mask. He looked at the tank and metal cap behind him. That didn’t work? His face fell. “Will they meddle with the war? The druids, I mean.”
“I don’t think so. Storms are a force of nature, but wars aren’t,” the woman said. “But once Skellige’s men enter Cintra, His Majesty’s victory will undoubtedly be delayed. It’ll be a problem if he still wants to take Upper Sodden after this failure.”
The woman’s complaints didn’t stop just yet. “And bad news from Marnadal too. The empire’s warriors came out triumphant, but they paid a heavy toll. More than ten thousand dead. That’s about all of Cintra’s warriors. Every single one of them took down one of our warriors before they met their end. And to think they did it when we had the numbers advantage. Unthinkable.”
The woman paused for a moment. “And a mysterious phantom made his appearance on the battlefield. He has a unique teleportation skill and killed five of our mages in one fell swoop. The only sorceress who survived is still in shock even as we speak.”
The man stared into his correspondent’s eyes. Grimly, he asked, “Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“No. But if you need details, that’ll have to wait. The sorceress needs to be assuaged before we can extract any more details out of her. It’s possible that she’s traumatized. First war for her, after all. The point is, this war is proving to be more of a challenge than we expected. Sir, you might need to come down to the field once more.”
“I’ve already put myself at enough risk and paid a heavy price as it is,” the man snapped. “And yet you still disappointed me. But no use dwelling on what has happened. I shall call you after the war in Cintra has come to an end.” He snapped his fingers and cut off the call. “Lydia!”
“Yes, sir. Anything you might need assistance with?” A woman in a red dress and a dreamy mask appeared.
“Establish contact with Riens. Make sure our quarry is safe and sound even after Cintra has fallen.” The wolven mask disappeared into thin air. Behind that mask was the face of Vilgefortz.
Even if Nilfgaard’s plan went awry, even if he were to fail in his attempts to gather the brotherhood’s strength and ascend to absolute power, he would not let that one particular prey of his go.
***
 

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