System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 180
“Who are you people? Where’ve you come from, and where’re you headed?” a bald, squat man bellowed at them with crude impatience. He stood with his legs spread wide, a bow on his back and a quiver of white-fletched arrows slung at his side.
“We’re coming from Bodrog,” Geralt said, stepping forward. His gaze swept across the soldiers’ faces. Apparently none of them had recognized a Witcher, so he lied without hesitation. “We’re on our way back to Brugge. What happened here?”
At the same time, Roy quietly caught Ciri by the hand and pulled her behind him.
“We serve the king!” Another man stepped out, clearly the leader, his face dark and weathered. He glanced at the two longswords on Geralt’s back, then shifted to a more civil tone. “There’s been an unfortunate incident here. We’ve no choice but to inspect all travelers passing through.”
As he spoke, he cast a glance over his shoulder.
Roy’s nose twitched. Blood. The stench of blood, human and horse mingled together, drifted from somewhere behind the dark-faced man.
“Come and have a look, the two of you.” The man gestured, and the soldiers parted to open a path.
Geralt exchanged a glance with Roy, then strode ahead first.
Roy, meanwhile, scooped Ciri up and turned her face away, pressing her head against his shoulder.
“Be good. Close your eyes.”
The little girl was obedient now, almost limp as if asleep. Only the quick, shallow breaths spilling against the back of the Witcher’s neck betrayed how far from calm she truly was.
Not far ahead, a broad, leafy tree lay across the road, blocking a wagon covered in oilcloth. Several shaggy little ponies had collapsed in front of it, tangled in shafts and reins, their bodies bristling with arrows, yellow teeth bared.
One of them was not quite dead yet. Its dark eyes bulged wide as it snorted heavily, its legs scraping and kicking weakly against the ground.
The sand was soaked through with blood. Human corpses lay scattered every which way, some jammed against the wagon, some dragged beneath the wheels.
Not a single survivor.
“A wagon train was attacked?” Geralt asked.
One soldier stood there rubbing a bloodstained dagger between his hands, eyeing the three of them sidelong through triangular eyes.
“A shameless ambush...” he rasped in a voice rough as a file. “Dryads from Brokilon attacked a passing merchant caravan and slaughtered everyone. We’re investigating.”
“Dryads attack caravans?”
“Use your own eyes!” the soldier snapped, waving an arm impatiently. “Those poor merchants got shot full of holes like hedgehogs, right on the king’s road! The monsters in that forest are getting crueler by the day. Mark my words, it won’t be long before they leave the woods and start preying on the folk nearby!”
“And you gentlemen are?” Geralt blinked, asking with measured caution.
“Men of King Ervyll, soldiers of Nastrog. We were waiting on the road to receive Vicegerent Fisstech, and then word came that the vicegerent had led men into the forest.”
“He’s been gone three days. Him and that distinguished personage with him, they’ve surely fallen prey to the Dryads by now. First them, and now these merchants.”
A vicious gleam flashed in the teeth-grinding soldier’s eyes. “There’ll be blood for blood!”
“Aye, blood for blood.”
“What kind of man leaves vengeance undone?”
“Kill the Dryads!”
“That damned Druid still isn’t here, so why are we waiting?”
A roar of heated agreement rose from the soldiers.
A Druid. Someone else still hadn’t arrived?
This place was bad ground. Geralt lowered his head and considered for a moment. “Very well, then. Best of luck to you.” He turned and beckoned to Roy. “If there’s nothing else, we’ll be on our way.”
“Hold a moment, brother,” the dark-faced man said, darting after him. “That young fellow behind you, and the child he’s carrying, what are they to you? Brugge folk too?”
“That’s right ... my two nephews.” The Witcher paused a beat, then deliberately passed Ciri off as a boy. With the way she was dressed, it truly was hard to tell.
“Two nephews, both so healthy. Melitele’s blessed you well, brother. Lucky enough to make a man jealous.” He smiled. “Take your two little treasures and go. Don’t come back. The danger of Dryads is not something you can deal with just because you’ve got two swords on your back. Next time the ones who die ... might be your whole family...”
With that, he turned away and had his men open a path.
“Farewell, then!”
The dark-faced man waved. As Roy passed by carrying Ciri, he even reached out and stroked the girl’s head. She trembled and shrank back at once.
“What a delicate little thing. Grow up and you’ll break hearts everywhere. By the way, child, what’re you mumbling about?”
“There’s blood on your hand,” Ciri said in a trembling voice.
“Oh, that. Merchant blood. Got some on me by accident while checking the bodies.” The dark-faced man shrugged lightly, smiling as if nothing were amiss.
“But the Dryads didn’t do this!” Ciri ignored the warning pressure tightening at her waist from the Witcher’s hand. “It’s obvious!”
“Say that again?” The man’s smile vanished entirely. His voice turned cold enough to raise the hair at the nape.
“This tree ... look at all the wood chips on the ground. It was chopped down ... with an axe. Dryads would never cut a tree. They use magic to make trees grow on their own, don’t they, Geralt?”
Ciri even turned to ask the white-haired Witcher.
“Well said.” The dark-faced man shot a look at the squinting soldier and quietly moved his hand behind his back to grip the weapon at his waist. “A very clever child. Very clever...”
“That’s enough!” Roy, ignored until now, suddenly shouted.
“Enough of what?”
“You take us for blind fools, do you? Still trying to pin this on someone else!”
The moment Roy finished, Geralt moved in perfect accord.
The iron-studded cuff of his sleeve smashed into the brow of the squinting man at arm’s length. Before the man even hit the ground, Geralt’s longsword was already out, and he had leapt between two other soldiers.
To a Witcher, ordinary men moved like something trapped in slow time.
By the time the two soldiers realized what was happening, it was already too late. Geralt’s blade swung once through the air, tracing a beautiful arc, and in the blink of an eye both carotid arteries were opened.
The men clutched at their necks in horror.
No sound came out.
By then, the ring of soldiers around them had already snatched up bows and crossbows, arrows and bolts half-drawn. Geralt dropped to one knee, stretched out his fingers, and traced the Aard Sign, but he aimed not at the distant archers.
He aimed at the sand.
A dull boom followed. Aard whipped the sand into a twisting storm, yellow grit billowing wide enough to shroud the three of them from sight for a moment. Then Geralt shoved forward one of the soldiers he had just cut down, using the corpse as a shield of flesh as he charged straight at the bowmen.
“So it can be used like that?”
Roy swept the field with a glance and immediately stuffed Ciri into a hollow log.
“Stay hidden. Don’t come out!”
Then Quen flashed over his body, and his eyes locked onto the dark-faced man closing fast, longsword held low in both hands.
“A Witcher. So, a Witcher after all.” The man’s grin twisted with belated realization. “Come on then, mutant brat. Let uncle show you some real affection.”
Roy had no intention of engaging him at close range. His fingers shifted into another Sign in midair, and a flood of dazzling flame burst forth at once. A cone of fire rolled over the dark-faced man where he stood gaping.
The next instant, a scream tore out of him. Burning from head to toe, he bolted madly in every direction, and by some comic cruelty, straight back into his own men, throwing their formation into chaos.
Roy stared a moment despite himself.
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