System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 52
They finished at the scene and took their leave from Casili. The village head’s face was flushed with panic.
He had waited and waited for Witchers to arrive, and now they were simply walking away. What would become of the village then?
“Master Letho, we had an understanding. If this is too much, I will raise the price.” Casili pleaded, voice high with desperation.
Letho crossed his arms and cut him off without politeness. “Think again. I said we would decide after seeing the scene. I decide now, we refuse the contract.”
“It is not only money. You can earn coin only while you draw breath. Witchering is business, it follows basic rules, you may refuse as you please.” Casili flinched, then tried another tack. “Do you not have any pity? Tina and Jim, the widow, the families of the young men, how miserable they are. Could you not help them, catch the killer?”
He searched Letho’s face for mercy and found none. The pleading fell away like a rotten leaf. Hurt turned into anger, then came a bitter contempt. The chief’s tone snapped sharp. “So it is as the rumors say, Witchers are cold-blooded things without human feeling. Get out. Do not come to Spansol again, you are not welcome.”
Letho did not flinch. He had heard worse.
Roy had heard worse too. He remembered Kagen village, when folk, freed from a Grave Hag, only traded gossip and spite. He had seen a man blow up in fury and hurl abuse because he could. If a Witcher of the Cat school with a thinner temper had answered that insult, blood might have flowed.
Roy’s last pity drained away. He understood why so many Witchers wore poker faces. Repetition deadened the heart. Better to feel nothing than to be broken a thousand times.
They ignored Casili’s glare and turned back toward the Mahakam path.
“Letho,” Roy asked as they walked, “if I were as strong as you, would you have taken the contract?”
“Do not waste thoughts, Kid. You will have your chance to fight it. For now, prepare for the Trial of the Grasses.” Letho’s voice was blunt. “Also, you shot its messenger earlier. Pray it does not come hunting for revenge.”
They left Spansol without attack. The mountain trail narrowed; sheer rock walls rose on either side, the path a ladder of stone slabs. They walked an hour. The valley opened and the smell of men and iron drifted down.
Up ahead two rows of pointed logs blocked the road. Behind them a pair of dwarves in silver mail, each carrying a black warhammer, stood chatting with two armed companions. A crossbowman kept watch from a tall wooden tower. His crossbow dwarfed Roy’s Gabriel, it was a beast made to launch quarrels that could crack bone like brittle wood.
Roy’s mouth went dry. He was about to speak when the watchman spotted them.
“Strangers, Mahakam is not for you, turn away.”
The crossbow in the tower shifted and took aim. The hammer-guard laid a heavy hand on his weapon.
“Ma ... Mahakam does not ... welcome strangers. You must go to Ellander, take the south route through Rivia and Upper Sodden.” The stuttering dwarf’s words tumbled over each other, his grip on the hammer betraying a twitch of fear. He looked absurd, hammer longer than his torso, head larger than his skull. But a swing of such a hammer would pulverize bone and grind flesh into paste.
If they truly detoured by Rivia and Upper Sodden, the journey would double. Roy’s stomach tightened. He looked back at Letho. The Witcher gave him a look that said, negotiate. Letho knew his face and the manner of diplomacy did not suit him. He left it to Roy.
Roy drew a breath and stepped forward, voice measured. “Brothers, we are friends of Severin Hogg.”
The stutterer spat and jumped in front of him, voice thick with contempt, “Who ... who calls you brother? Back away.” He leaned forward and a wave of sweat and stale ale rolled off him. Roy moved back without thinking.
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