The Divine Hunter

Roaring sea winds rampaged through the coast and stampeded up the snow-capped hills of Poviss. The skies burned red, shining upon long lines of hoof marks on the snowy ground. The clops stopped right outside the pine woods. A brown stallion, its fur gleaming, brayed and whinnied in excitement.

On the horse was a knight with the beauty of a young lady. He patted the horse’s neck, then looked at the building in the woods before him. These woods were nearly 100 miles away from Lan Exeter. The people who made a living from harvesting in these woods had set up villages in the wilderness. Some of those villages were settlements, while others were just small camps. Some villages were self-sustaining, while others were just little plots of wooden houses and obscenely big barns.

Before the knight was a rickety temple in the wilds, the center of this place’s believers. It was a good place to rest. The rider turned to the part-elf on a black horse. The part-elf had pointy ears and some stubble. He was chewing on a foxtail. “It’s getting late, Acamuthorm. We’ll stop here. Don’t want to tire Wilt out, or we’ll have a lot of explaining to do to Roy.”

The part-elf looked at the skies and smirked. “You’re complaining about exhaustion? You’re the one who asked Lydia to open up a portal to Kerack and told her we’d go back on horseback while training our swordplay on the way back. It’s been two weeks. Aside from one boring drowner, we’ve done no training at all.”

Acamuthorm took out a piece of carrot from the saddlebag and stuffed it into his black horse’s mouth, then he watched the steed munch on the food. “So tell me, genius, how are we supposed to tell them we created a record? ‘We killed a drowner’? Please, just thinking about it is a joke. We should’ve been going into a city and having fun in the new ballroom Dandelion opened up. Or we could’ve gone to apothecary number two and caught up with Vicki, but all we did was waste time and ruin our plans. And then we’ll have to go back to Ellander to train.”

The mention of training almost made Carl jump. Acamuthorm jolted, and he snarled. “That Ivar’s a madman. His torture methods know no end. Bladed, spinning dummies; enhanced killer’s path; sparrowhawk slope. I haven’t healed from the fall last time. You think that’s ever going heal up without complication?”

“Shut it. This is the fourteenth time you’ve complained in as many days. It’s more annoying than your snoring.” Carl rolled his eyes and tucked his Cat medallion underneath his leather armor. He led Wilt by the reins into the woods, where an icy building stood. “If you have time to complain, you should come up with a plan to convince the priestess. Or do you want to keep sleeping on stones?”

***

The young witchers led their horses into the temple standing between the trees. It wasn’t majestic. Even a corner of Novigrad’s Eternal Fire temple was bigger than this place. The temple here was just a small building made up of a fence, a few walls made of bricks, and a roof made of wood. Much to the witchers’ confusion, however, the old house beside the left barn was sealed shut with wooden boards. Daytime was coming to an end. In the courtyard, the dappled light of the setting sun shone down upon a marble statue. It was a sagely old man with a bushy beard wearing a short-sleeved shirt that cinched around his waist and extended down to his knees. The statue was holding the excess fabric with its left hand, while its right hand was stretched before it, as if sharing wisdom with its believers.

The witchers were lucky. This was Lebioda, a figure known for his generosity and friendliness. Perhaps the figure would take them in for the night. Before the niche and altar of the statue was a group of boys and girls. The youngest were about seven or eight, while the oldest was about fifteen or sixteen. They were in simple, patched clothes and stood around dumbly, their eyes vacant. Their grayed, cotton jackets had snow hanging on them, and mist came fluttering out of their mouths and noses. Cheeks red from the cold, the group looked dazed, as though they had troubles on their minds.

The witchers were reminded of the House of Gawain, though this place was far more depressing. As if it was a pool of water that was absent of life. A young lady in a simple white robe and leather cap came hurrying out with a pair of burly men accompanying her. She looked at the witchers sharply. “Hi. You’re not residents of this area, are you? What brings you here?”

The woman was about twenty-three or twenty-four years old. She looked at the young witchers, her maroon hair swaying around her shoulders. Her skin was almost transparently pale, and a thin layer of hair was visible on her neck. She was tense, however, and her eyes were bloodshot. Obviously, she hadn’t been sleeping well lately.

The witchers shrewdly noticed the stiff look on this lady’s face. “Hello, sirs. Lady. I’m Carl, and this is Acamuthorm. We were just passing by. As you can see, it’s going to be dark soon, and the night’s chill is deadly. We’d like to ask for a place to stay for the night and Lebioda’s protection, if possible.”

“I’m Daisy, the administrator and priestess of this temple. They’re the guards, Dino and Rumachi.”

One of the guards had a wide, protruding chin. The other sported shaved cheeks paired with a mustache and goatee as well as a brooding look. The guards smiled at the witchers, but they looked uneasy and alarmed. Their eyes were locked on the swords behind the witchers’ backs and the silver bottles in the pouches around their waists.

“Lebioda is merciful. He is more than happy to provide a warm resting place for weary travelers, but you are armed. And you have swords. Swords can kill and hurt, and the temple has a lot of frail children.”

“Hoes, pitchforks, and scythes kill too. It all depends on who uses them. We make a living swinging our swords around, and our vocation demands that we keep our weapons close to us at all times. Do not worry, however. We will only point our blades at monsters.”

Acamuthorm smiled, showing off the medallion before his chest. “We’re Griffin School witchers. We came from Kerack in the south, planning to seek out old friends in Lan Exeter. There are more job opportunities in big cities, you see.”

It was no secret that witchers had to travel the land to look for requests. Even after they made a name for themselves in Novigrad, that tradition would not be broken. The difference was that requests would now be nothing but zest to spice up the lives of witchers rather than their livelihood. The wealth left by Vilgefortz and Alzur was enough for the brotherhood to run for ten years.

“It’s rare to see witchers your age now. Do you have any other evidence?” Even though the Trial made the boys look a few years older, sixteen-year-olds were still young. They were a far cry from bloodthirsty, scary mutants. The priestess was musing.action

“Then check this sword out. It’s not a regular sword.” Carl grinned with excitement and put his hand over his back. He held his sword’s hilt, covered by leather. Silver light flashed through the air.

The priestess and her guards saw a bolt of white lightning flying ahead. Carl swung his sword, and the blade bloomed like a white flower. Beneath the cross-shaped crossguard, a rune glimmered. Six bursts of blue light flowed in waves around it. A line of beautiful, stylistic Elder Speech inscription was inscribed underneath the rune.

The sword was beautiful—almost like a piece of art. Carl brushed his finger across the blade, which buzzed and glimmered. It was beautiful, and yet deadly. For some reason, the guards took a step back in fear.

“The sword’s core is meteoric iron, the blade silver, and it’s imbibed with layers of magic. Only witchers can swing them. Do not worry, you two. It is only deadly to monsters, not humans.” Carl sheathed his blade and grinned. The look of shock on the temple staff’s faces made him swell with pride.

Acamuthom grunted. Dammit. That should’ve been me showing off, not Carl the narcissist.

The guard with unkempt hair looked in fear, asking, “Carl, was there something inscribed on the blade?”

“You have a good eye. That’s a message from my mentor, Roy the legendary witcher. And then another grandmaster inscribed it during the high noon of Midaete. I’ll explain when we have time.”

“Beastly eyes, Griffin medallion, and a legendary silver sword. You’re witchers, alright. Please, come in.” Daisy’s eyes shone, and her attitude turned in a completely new direction. She waved in the young witchers without hesitation and dragged them inside.

The vacant kids in the courtyard looked at them, and a hint of life flickered in their eyes. Acamuthorm waved at them, smiling, but they ran into their houses like scared little foals, leaving messy footprints on the ground.

Acamuthorm frowned. A weird feeling flared in his heart, and he exchanged a look with Carl.

“Lebioda, have mercy. He sent you two to our rescue. To end this temple’s disaster,” said Daisy happily.

“What disaster?” The witchers were interested.

“Do you see the kids? Oh, sorry, they’re scared of strangers, and they get shy easily. There’s a reason why they look gloomy. Because something corrupted is haunting this temple, plunging our lives into chaos. A skilled monster slayer is just what we need.”

***

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