System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 2025 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 15
“Here, chew it and rub it on.” Letho tossed a sprig with orange-red petals to Roy, his face impassive. Watching the boy fidget with a sore thigh, the Witcher allowed the corner of his mouth to lift, just a little.
Since leaving Kagen the big bald man had ridden hard for leagues. Only as dusk settled did they stop in a lonely stretch of country. Roy’s inner thigh hurt so badly he pulled down his trousers; the skin was raw and beaded with bright red drops, a wide patch rubbed through by the coarse fabric.
His HUD showed five HP lost, down to thirty-seven. He was still physically weaker than an adult; it would take days to heal and he could not ride for a while.
“I’m the one who can’t ride, and yet I have to share a mount with a Witcher,” he muttered. “I must really be tired of living.”
“What did you give me, Master Letho?” Roy ground his teeth and chewed the herb the Witcher had handed him. It tasted pleasant enough, not the usual bitter mash; there was a cool, clean note to it.
“Celandine, ever heard of it?” Letho tossed a dry twig into the fire and explained patiently, “It dulls the pain and helps prevent infection. Grows outside most towns.”
Roy turned the information over in his head and stored it. One reason he had chosen this road was exactly this kind of practical knowledge. Witchers had lived long lives; their memory and experience were a treasure chest he intended to pry open, bit by bit, to feed his own growing strength.
Letho tossed him some hard, dry jerky. With a wineskin at hand he chewed in silence, then loosened the sword at his back, propped his arms behind his head, and lay back on the grass. He used the sky for a blanket and the earth for a seat, calm and untroubled as though this wilderness were his home. To a Witcher, sleeping rough was ordinary.
The wine’s faint scent brushed Roy’s nose and he swallowed. “Can I try some?” he asked. The salve made his thigh sticky and uncomfortable, so he took the wineskin and sipped. The liquid hit him with a sharp, sour-spicy note that made his eyes bulge and his tongue loll.
“What a taste,” he blurted, spraying a little.
Letho’s face hardened. “Kid, if you can’t drink, don’t waste it. That Est Est was hard to get from Beauclair. Ordinary folk never get to try wine of that quality. Learn to appreciate it.”
“It’s not great,” Roy answered honestly. “Give me The Old Captain Inn’s fruit wine any day. Even dwarven spirits beat this.” He changed tack, curious, “You mentioned Beauclair. If I remember right, that’s in the Duchy of Toussaint. Have you been? Met Duchess Anna Henrietta? Is she really as beautiful as they say?”
Toussaint was the setting of later tales Roy had read, a place of fairyland scenery, terrible higher vampires, and indulgent pleasures. He had a childish curiosity about the duchess.
“She’s not someone I’ve met,” Letho said, glancing at him in surprise, “but I once met her husband, Duke Raymond.” He watched Roy with new wariness. Toussaint lay under Nilfgaard; it was strange for an Aedirn country boy to know its names. The Witcher thought the child odd, as if hiding something.
“I already told you the answer,” Roy said lightly. Witchers, of course, did not credit prophetic dreams.
Roy drew his coat tighter and rubbed his palms together. “Master Letho, do all Witchers live as long as you do?”
“Most die on contracts and in battle,” Letho replied. “Fewer than half reach fifty.”
Roy smiled. He knew old legends about a wolf-school Witcher older than two centuries; exceptions existed.
“Do you regret it?” Letho turned suddenly and looked straight at him. “This way of life may kill you sooner than a farmer’s life.”
“A little, to be honest,” Roy admitted at once.
Letho’s body gave the faintest, lethal shimmer. Roy hurried to backtrack, straightening his face. “Sorry, I was drunk. Of course I don’t regret it.”
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