System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 56
“Leshen.”
A spawn of the meeting of celestial spheres, it lived in the deep ancient woods. It commanded beasts that answered its call. It bent plants to its will. Its strange shape meant ignorant mountain folk often set it at the heart of their worship, offering it sacrifices.
“I remember the tales,” Roy said, eyes on his scrap of paper, voice full of curious hope. “In folk stories Leshen are kind. They guide lost travelers, they rescue the weak from bandits.” His knowledge came from pages, not from a Witcher’s mouth, and so he asked as many questions as he could.
“Kid, you believe such nonsense?” Letho’s voice cut him off. “In truth a Leshen slowly drains the life force gathered in its territory until it leaves only an empty husk.”
“But it usually does not attack ordinary people on its own?”
“There are as many faces as there are trees,” Letho replied, caution threaded through his words. “Some Leshen live at peace with humans; others bear us a mortal grudge. The one rife in Mahakam is old enough to be called ancient. It almost certainly has altars in the wood to raise its strength. Starting tomorrow I will find and tear down those altars, one by one, to weaken it.”
Roy felt a cold knot of worry. This creature sounded far stronger than he had supposed. “Are you sure? Ordinary steel does little to such things, does it not?”
“I have blade oils, bombs, elixirs all ready,” Letho said, his voice heavy with something like gravity. “Beyond that, it is a matter of fate.” He met Roy’s eyes. “If I do not return, leave Mahakam at once. Make for Cintra and find Orin and Kael. They will take up your training.”
Roy’s breath hitched. The tone was like a last will.
“Or we could skirt Mahakam, go by Rivia and Upper Sodden?” he offered, trying to sound casual.
“Do you think Mount Carbon is a tavern you can enter and leave as you please?” Letho shook his head. “The High Elder will not let us go until we have faced the Leshen.”
Evening. Servants brought a meal.
Mount Carbon’s grandeur did not mean home comforts in the human sense. Their rooms were spare. Two beds. An oil lamp. A battered clock. The cave-carved rooms kept winter out by design, but they were otherwise bare. The dinner was simple and true: two slabs of blackened roast, bread crusted with ice, fruit frozen into a lump, nuts and mead. It tasted like the valley.
Roy split a portion of the roasted meat from his plate and gave it to the Witcher.
“Eat up, Letho. For all you know, this might be your last bite.”
“Alright,” Roy said, half-serious and half-mocking, cutting off the other’s potential retort. “Just kidding. But if you don’t come back, why would I even go to Cintra? I might as well head straight to Novigrad and help Old Mole and Susan sell vegetables.” He paused, clenched his hands, and a flash of resolve passed through his eyes. “Since you’re the one who set me on this path, Letho, you have to see it through to the end.”
The Witcher’s chewing stopped abruptly for a moment, then resumed as if nothing had happened.
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