System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 200
In the afternoon, White Orchard lay bathed in golden sunlight. Clear streams rang out on every side, while green fields and fruit trees heavy on the bough spread birdsong and the scent of blossoms through the air.
Yet the little village set within it showed another face entirely. The narrow, filthy lanes stood empty. Sparse thatched cottages were scattered without order, giving the place a shabby, broken look. A great many houses had stood empty so long that they had fallen into ruin under drifts of cobwebs.
Ignatius stared in astonishment, lips parting slightly. “How did White Orchard, seat of House Verrieres, come to this? Where have all the people gone?”
“My lord, a year ago ... have you forgotten?” Grant reminded him in a low voice.
“A year ago? Ah ... yes...” Only then did Ignatius remember that grotesque, merciless night, when deep in his cups, he had committed one atrocity after another in the village.
The people of White Orchard had been terrified out of their wits. Those who fled, and those who died, together accounted for most of the village.
He lowered his head and stared at his own hands. In his mind he could almost still see the blood of the innocent upon them, while faintly, at the edge of hearing, the screams of the dying seemed to echo once more.
“My lord, do not torment yourself. Those people truly did insult you in coarse and filthy language back then. What befell them was their own doing. And afterward, you did ease the taxes for those who stayed.”
“My lord, isn’t repentance a little late now?” Letho’s expression remained cold, his tone calm.
Had he happened to cross paths with that massacre when it occurred, he might have chosen to interfere. But the thing was long past now, and there was no meaning in denouncing Baron Ignatius after the fact.
How many nobles of this age did not have common blood on their hands? The Witchers were no magistrates. To go about punishing each and every one would wear a man to death.
Roy, on the other side, had reached the same conclusion. Witchers were neither saints nor monsters, at most, they upheld a narrow measure of justice.
...
The group made their way toward a house on the eastern side of the village. Now and then they saw middle-aged peasant women sitting in their yards, listlessly basking in the sun, scratching at their feet. The last time the Witchers had passed through, these same women had worn dead faces from start to finish and paid them no heed at all.
But with the baron among them, the mood changed entirely. The moment the village women noticed him, they lost all composure. Like mice glimpsing a cat, they let out shrill, unbroken screams grand enough to rival an opera singer, then fled in panic into their homes and barred the doors behind them, as if the baron were some plague-beast come to devour them.
Ignatius let out a heavy sigh, his expression growing grave.
Not long after, they came across the same snot-nosed little boy they had seen before. He had been happily tormenting a mangy yellow dog by the granary, but when he happened to look up and saw the lord of White Orchard, it was as if lightning had struck him. His whole body shook like a sieve, his chest heaving violently, then his eyes rolled back and, with a thud, he dropped straight down like a felled post.
Ignatius’s face darkened, and a thread of embarrassment entered it too.
“My lord baron, you seem to be remembered poorly in the hearts of your villagers...”
Roy abruptly stopped and glanced back over his shoulder with something close to nervousness, then whipped his head about again, sweeping his gaze over every side.
The young Witcher was acting strangely, like a man whose mind had been shaken by some violent stimulus. Along the road he kept glancing back again and again, and when they passed the White Orchard tavern, he even stole a look through the window. But apart from the broad-hipped landlady, there was no sign of any ragged peddler with saddlebags.
“Kid, what are you wound up for? Haven’t we already untangled the whole affair?” Bald Letho could not make sense of the state Roy was in.
“I’ve got a bad feeling.” Roy’s face was tight, his expression severe.
“An Elder Blood warning? Danger?”
“Hard to say yet. I hope it’s only a false alarm.”
The young Witcher’s heart was full of unease.
As the investigation neared its end, he had come to suspect that the true power behind it all, the one who had traded the Tome of Bones to Jennifer Verrieres a century ago and taught her the forbidden sorcery by which she prolonged youth and life, was very likely a figure out of legend, Master Mirror, Gaunter O’Dimm.
Master Mirror, in outward appearance, was no more than a ragged drifter who sold mirrors, glass trinkets, and other small wares. But his true identity was something else entirely, a Demon from another world, wearing flesh.
He could adopt any guise at will, peasant, painter, butcher, drunkard, endlessly changing names and faces as he wandered between worlds, seeking clients worthy of his interest and binding them with contracts.
His methods were subtle and practiced. Most often he would appear when his chosen client was in desperate need, or even on the brink of death, and offer a bargain no mortal could refuse.
The things he sold lay beyond human imagination, endless wealth, deathless life, a horse swift as the wind, a blade that cut through iron, a wineskin that never emptied, relief from some particular trouble, anything at all.
And he accepted only one kind of payment, the soul.
“You shall have what you desire, and once you have tasted it, your soul is mine.”
In Roy’s estimation, his danger ranked second only to the gods.
...
Was the ragged drinker they had seen in the White Orchard tavern one of Gaunter O’Dimm’s forms?
Had he already fixed his gaze on Roy, even tampered with his memory?
Roy could not say.
Still, Gaunter O’Dimm was said to keep perfect watch over any “client” he selected, day and night, from every angle and without a single blind spot. Yet all the way here, Roy had sensed nothing.
“If it really was him, let it have been no more than a chance passing.”
If that thing had truly taken an interest in him, then with the strength he had now, he could not resist in the slightest.
...
Farmer Bram’s hut was a simple little house built of thatch and timber. In the yard at midday there was no one, only a few chickens and ducks quacking in their pen.
Baron Ignatius was not a courteous guest. Desperate to see what he believed was his only child, he gave a signal to the soldiers at his side. One of them strode forward and smashed the door open with a savage kick.
“Gods, who are you? Don’t come closer!” A woman’s frightened scream rang out. The baron shoved past the armed soldiers and rushed inside, with the Witchers close behind him.
The interior was divided in two by a wooden partition. In the outer space stood neatly arranged cooking utensils, shelves holding vegetables and goods, and a black iron pot steaming over the fire, the smoke curling out through a wooden window behind it.
Inside, a gaunt woman stood upon a pallet in the inner corner, pressing herself against the wall to shield something behind her. Her young face had gone white as linen, and her features, once likely comely, were twisted with terror.
The baron?
“It’s me, Ignatius Verrieres, lord of White Orchard. Your name is Rena?” The baron bared his teeth in a strained attempt at a smile, trying to make his voice gentle. “Do not be afraid. I mean you no harm. I only want to see you and the child.”
“Please, don’t come closer!” The woman began to shake. Some old agony had plainly risen in her mind again. “My lord baron, I have no need of your concern. You are not welcome here...” She glanced back in panic at whatever she was shielding. “Leave at once!”
Ignatius spread both hands and continued moving toward her regardless.
“That’s enough, my lord.” Roy stepped in and blocked the space between them. “Were you planning to bully a defenseless woman in front of us? Is that the promise you made?”
“Very well, forgive me, madam. I was in too much of a hurry and frightened you.” The baron spread his hands again, apology written all over him, and retreated with his thick, soft body swaying. “You have a daughter, do you not? Let me look at her. I’m willing to give anything to...” His neck craned forward, and his voice deepened. “To make amends for the wrong I once did you.”
He had noticed the way the woman stood, like a hen shielding her chick. “There’s something behind you, isn’t there? It’s her, isn’t it?”
“Please. Let me see her.”
He actually bowed his head to the woman as he spoke.
Ever since he had knelt before Kolgrim’s bones, it seemed he had cast away the pride and dignity of his house entirely.
“That poor little girl needs a father.”
“I swear on my honor as baron of White Orchard, I will give her the best care.”
“Wait ... you ... you just said you were willing to give anything to make amends?” The woman seemed to realize something. The terror on her face vanished. A flash of something close to frenzy passed through it, followed by bewilderment.
“So long as you forgive the sins I once committed in my folly, and let me take the child away.” Seeing her attitude soften, Ignatius felt hope surge in his chest. “My recompense will satisfy you.”
The woman called Rena flushed faintly. Her hands, broad-jointed and rough from housework and labor in the fields, clenched together with all their strength.
Then she said something that made all of them stare.
“My lord Ignatius, then will you marry me?”
“Take me into the castle too, with the child.”
Ignatius went still.
The Witchers also stared, half-convinced they had misheard. A woman who had been violated was asking to marry the man who had wronged her, as though not a trace of bitterness remained in her heart.
“You would marry me?” The baron’s muddy eyes passed over her from head to toe. Her face was still comely, her figure full.
Though she wore the cheapest linen and looked altogether like a peasant woman, in the countryside she would still count as a fine-looking woman.
“After Bram died, I raised the child alone. Every day I rise before dawn, work the fields, keep the house, nurse the little one ... in only a year it’s left me aching through every limb, and I am only one woman.” Rena spoke in a tone thick with self-pity, her eyes glistening with tears.