System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 135
“Clop, clop...”
Crisp hoofbeats kicked up flying dust as a black horse and a brown one thundered along a narrow forest path.
The leading knight was clearly the better rider. His arms held the reins neither tight nor slack. Long, solid thighs clamped firmly against the horse’s barrel. His lithe body curved slightly forward, moving in rhythm with the gallop.
Man and mount seemed fused into one. He handled the horse with effortless ease, still with enough presence of mind to glance back at the knight falling behind.
The second knight fared much worse, pressed low to the saddle, posture stiff and awkward.
Moments later, they burst out of the forest into open ground.
It was midday. Most of the hungry folk had gone home to eat, and the streets lay nearly empty.
Rows of straw-thatched roofs sent thin curls of cooking smoke into the air. Among them stood a spacious brick-and-tile building, its courtyard marked by a hanging inn sign.
“Whoa.”
Roy, cloaked and armored in leather, hauled hard on the reins and leapt down without waiting.
After the hard ride, cold sweat covered his face.
Yet he treated the culprit, Vyrt, with remarkable gentleness, softly patting the mane at the horse’s neck and murmuring into its ear while leading it forward.
“Vyrt, Vyrt. Next time, hold back a little. Every time I ride you, I lose half my life...”
Up ahead, Letho led his own horse on foot and shook his head at the words. His broad cloak concealed powerful muscles. The battered leather jacket beneath was strapped and buckled at chest and waist, holding a row of throwing knives and a small potion pouch.
Everything about him screamed do not provoke me.
Lately, seeing this fellow talk to horses so often, the Witcher had begun to doubt his mental state.
Could horses understand?
...
The two led their mounts along the street to the inn. A stablehand hurried out and eagerly took the reins from them.
“Feed them yellow beans, peas, and corn. And fresh water.”
Roy added, “Don’t skimp on the cost. Good horses need good feed. Don’t try to fool us with moldy scraps. Understood?”
“Rest easy, sir. Please, come inside...” The stablehand spoke while eyeing the travel-worn yet young and handsome face beneath the hood.
“Strange ... what’s wrong with this one’s eyes?”
He glanced again at the mountain-like bald man. Both faces were unfamiliar, and their accents marked them as outsiders.
Vizima was not a friendly city.
“Please don’t let there be another brawl,” the stablehand prayed silently. “The place was just renovated last month. If it happens again, the boss won’t have money to keep me on.”
As Roy watched his back, he suddenly felt a faint, prickling gaze on his skin. Turning, he saw a filthy, ragged beggar standing at the mouth of the alley to the right of the inn, staring at them in a daze.
“These days even beggars dare to look down on Witchers?”
...
The innkeeper raised his head to size up the newcomers. The strangers remained cloaked, stiffly standing at the bar, faces blank, not a word spoken.
“What’ll it be?”
“Beer. Vizima’s black ale.”
At the mention of drink, some feeling finally crept into bald Letho’s voice.
“Mm. Two cups.”
The innkeeper wiped his hands on his canvas apron and filled two chipped clay mugs with rich, golden ale.
The pair sat at the bar and removed their cloaks.
Others in the inn noticed at once. Both carried swords.
Carrying a weapon was nothing unusual. Nearly every adult man in Vizima bore one. But no one wore a sword on the back like a bow or crossbow.
The two strangers did not take a table like the other patrons. They remained at the counter. The young man with the sword on his back stared at the innkeeper, who returned the look with equal hostility.
So Roy took a sip of the cloyingly sweet ale and said, “We need two rooms. For the night.”
“Sorry. None here.” The innkeeper replied curtly, eyes sweeping over their boots, caked in dirt and filth. “Try the Temple District in the city. The followers of Lebioda will take you in.”
“But we want to stay here.” Roy insisted. He felt the Witcher tug lightly at his hand.
“No need to lodge. Eat something, rest for the noon hour, then we’re back on the road.”
“Even if we pay more?” Roy pressed on, determined to see where their bottom line lay.
“We’re full.” The innkeeper met his dark-gold pupils without yielding an inch.
The standoff hung.
Then a short, stocky man with a face full of pockmarks and scars approached them, two odd-looking lackeys trailing behind.
“Are you deaf,” the pockmarked man rasped, his harsh voice scraping out, “Vizima is the heart of Temeria. A great city. We don’t welcome freaks like you. Mutants.”
“If I remember correctly, this is the outskirts.”