System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 248: The True Faces of Velen
Under the warm morning light, a breeze swept across Ard Cerbin, Crookback Bog, and the green fields beyond, then passed over the muddy village road of Downwarren, stirring the Witcher’s heart.
“Bald Mountain, the old hags’ lair, that mysterious golden oak...” Orin trudged along with a blood-soaked bundle of Offering in one hand and a horse’s rein in the other, gloomily muttering, “Damn it all. Why couldn’t I be the one going with Roy?” He shook the bundle in irritation. “Downwarren again, this godforsaken hole. Running errands in a place like this is dull as death.”
“Keep your voice down, idiot.” Kael, walking behind him, swept a wary look over the roadside fields and grass. Finding nothing unusual, he lowered his voice. “Don’t let the old hags’ eyes and ears hear you grumbling and ruin the whole plan.”
“I know that well enough. I’m just sore that every time, it’s Letho who gets the most important part.”
“Isn’t that obvious? Because that loose mouth of yours would spoil it.” Kael gave the final word, then curved his lips at Orin. “Though, looked at another way, this trip may not be so dull after all. We’re offering a Sacrifice to the Ladies of the Wood. We may even get to behold them in person.” There was no small measure of anticipation in his voice. “If they’re as beautiful as they looked in that painting, then the trip won’t have been wasted.”
“You’re dreaming in broad daylight.” Orin snorted and shook his head. “The Heart of the Tree explained it well enough. The three sisters are all old crones with faces like plucked chickens. Though if that’s your sort of beauty, call them great beauties if you like.”
“You trust the Heart of the Tree that much? You’re sure she wasn’t lying?” Kael looked profound. “Let me put it this way, Orin. In swordsmanship I may not match you, but when it comes to understanding women, this observer sees more clearly than you. Women are never stingy with their most vicious curses where enemies are concerned. So I think the truth is probably the exact opposite of what the Heart of the Tree said.” Kael analyzed the matter in earnest. “The old hags, the three sisters, they wield powerful magic. Preserving their youth the way ordinary sorceresses do should not be difficult.”
Seeing his brother wear such a certain expression, Orin rubbed his chin and could not help wavering a little. “If they really kept their beauty ... well, there’d be no harm in having a look.”
“Now you understand.” Kael added at last. “If they’re beautiful enough, and built well enough, then what does it matter if they’re old hags?”
Walking ahead of them, the Cat School Witcher shook his head as he listened to the brothers talk. At a time like this, they still had the mind to banter. Was it that they were thick in the skull, or simply unshakable when danger loomed?
“A uniquely Viper School way of easing pressure?” Flavius shook his head, then looked toward Downwarren not far off and clenched his fist.
...
“Witchers, have you brought the Offering?”
At the village entrance, Kayson took a draw on his pipe and blew a white ring of smoke straight into the Witchers’ faces.
“Old father, you should trust in a Witcher’s reputation. We do as we say.” Orin flung the bundle to the village elder. Kayson caught it, opened it, and his expression at once became very complicated.
Inside the wrappings lay a great, hideous werewolf head. Its two eyeballs had been gouged out, leaving only bloody hollows, and the tongue had been severed at the root and still seeped blood.
Under the sun, the long wolf muzzle showed a row of jagged fangs flashing coldly, enough to make any man’s heart tighten.
Kayson swallowed, then cast the Witchers a long look. “Now carry it to the open ground behind the village. There is an altar there. You must offer the Offering to the Ladies of the Wood with your own hands. Only then will the Sacrifice be complete.” As he spoke, Kayson pointed out the way for them.
“You’re not coming with us, old father?”
“I have not received the Ladies’ summons...” A trace of fear passed through Kayson’s eyes. “I cannot go disturbing them rashly.”
Having said that, Kayson turned and barked at the villagers watching the spectacle, glaring especially viciously at one big fellow standing there like a post, black chest hair showing. “I mean you. What are you standing there gaping for? Who do you think you’re killing holding a hayfork like that? Put it down. Or do you want to go see the Ladies with the Witchers?”
The big fellow instantly cried out in terror and ran. The other villagers scattered in a rush as well, like frightened children, all scrambling back into their thatched huts and then peering from the windows to watch the Witchers go.
Their expressions were complicated, fear, hatred, and a hint of schadenfreude, as though some calamity were about to descend upon the Witchers’ heads.
“You first?” The fierce-looking Orin suddenly wavered and stopped advancing.
“My brother, after you. You’ve always liked being the first to charge in.” Kael courteously yielded.
But before the two of them could keep on bickering, Flavius took up the blood-soaked bundle and strode off.
...
In the open ground behind the village stood a stone altar waist-high, primitive and rough. Countless blood sacrifices and flesh offerings had stained it over the years. Its whole surface was covered in dried blood and crimson handprints, turning it entirely brown-red.
Griffin laid the werewolf’s head upon it. Fresh blood seeped into the altar, and suddenly a strange wind sprang up on the spot, laced with invisible magic, making the medallions at the throats of the three Witchers vibrate lightly.
All three stepped back by instinct, hands going to their hilts, Signs forming at once.
With that motion, a noisy murmur suddenly rose in the air, a bizarre, shifting sound that held the long sighs of women, the roars of lions, wolves, and bears, and also the crisp voices of countless children, all woven together into whispering in the shadows.
Then came the sound of footsteps striking the ground, from behind the Witchers.
Each step boomed heavily, shaking the ground beneath them. It brought to mind giants, and something else immense.
The Witchers turned at once, Viper silver swords leveled at their backs, and three figures had abruptly appeared within their sight. The moment they got a clear look at them, all three Witchers cursed in their hearts.
“Shit, bloody hell, by all the dogs of the world.”
“Father of the Sky, Melitele, the Eternal Fire, whatever gods there are, open your eyes and look upon this.”
“How can anything so ugly exist?”
In an instant, the beautiful fantasy in the Orin brothers’ heads was smashed to pieces. The vast gulf between hope and reality was so brutal that both men had to press their lips hard together to stop themselves from retching.
For Witchers, who were used to dealing with Rotfiends, Nekkers, and other revolting creatures, such a bodily reaction was almost unimaginable.
“Boys, put your swords down.” An old woman’s voice rasped out, hideous and grating, sounding exactly as one would imagine some ugly and wicked hag hidden in a forest hollow or ditch to sound.
As though afraid her ugliness alone might burn his eyes, Orin squinted at her.
The first to speak was Weavess, one of the three sisters.