The Divine Hunter

Chapter 174: The Legend Appears

‘He comes from the north, a witcher with white hair and twin swords. He leads his horse through the door of the rope maker. At the behest of the king of Brugge, he ventures into Brokilon.’

The witcher came to a halt in the forest at noon. He bent down and rubbed the fresh blood that was staining the grass. The witcher decomposed the blood down to its components, and he searched for its source. It did not take him long to find the first body.

It belonged to a young man who was only in his twenties. The body was lying face up, its legs spread to the sides. His face was etched with horror, as if the last thing he saw disturbed his soul until that moment. But the witcher knew that the man died instantly. He did not even feel any pain before that. The arrow pierced his eye and destroyed his brain.

The witcher closed the dead man’s eyes and stood up. His taut muscles and callused hand was proof that he had undergone intense training before his death. The corpse had been no ordinary man in life. “A poacher? Or perhaps a bounty hunter who took Ervyll’s offer?” Ervyll of Verden had always thought of Brokilon as a thorn in his side. He had been offering a huge bounty on the head of the dryads’ leader in secret.

The humans wanted to cut down Brokilon’s trees to fund their business, but the dryads made their homes there.

The witcher came to a distance of six steps behind the corpse. An arrow was embedded in the ground. Judging from the depth and the angle of the arrow alone, the witcher could see from where the dryad shot the arrow. “This was a warning shot. Dryads almost never miss. This one isn’t experienced enough. Most dryads shoot to kill.”

The witcher was reminded of the days where dryads weren’t so cruel. They would give three or four warnings to the intruders before they killed them. Not now, though. He shook his head and followed the trail of the bloody footsteps. He could ignore the dead, but not the living. If I can catch up to them, I might be able to get them to leave. They do not have to die.

He might not admit it, but he had a sliver of kindness left within him. It was contrary to his cold and aloof look, but that was part of his charm.

His hopes of giving the survivors a warning were quickly dashed, however. It did not take long for him to find the second, third, and fourth body. The ground around the bodies was a mess. Ferns and sticks were deeply embedded in the soil. It was obvious that the victims struggled in agony for a long time before they died.

The witcher’s ears suddenly twitched, and he caught a weak moan. It was almost a whisper, but the witcher caught it. He swiftly shoved the sticks aside and saw a hidden hole beneath it. Through the sunlight, the witcher saw a muscular man lying in the hole. He was wearing a tight shirt made out of deer leather, and he sported an exquisite beard. But he wasn’t looking well. He was covered in soil, pieces of plants, and blood.

His face was as pale as a tombstone. When he noticed someone finding the hole, he opened his eyes, albeit with difficulty. “Geralt?” He moaned, his bloodshot eyes filled with questions. “Oh no. Have I returned to Melitele? Why am I seeing you here?”

“You are still alive, Frexinet, but only just.” Geralt shook his head. “I see getting turned into a bird did not teach you anything at all. Why did you step foot into Brokilon again?”

“You’re real? Oh gods!” Frexinet howled in agony, but he gained some color back. “Geralt, you must help me. Save her!”

“Who?”

“The…” Frexinet coughed up blood. “…princess.”

Geralt cursed, “No time to care about a fucking princess, Frexinet. You need to get that looked at.” He leaped out of the hole and tried to find a couple of poplar trees. Geralt was planning to make a stretcher and take Frexinet away.

But he did not make it too far. An arrow zipped past him and buried itself in a tree that was the same height as him. He rolled out of the way, and three more arrows were sent flying his way. They pierced the spot where he was standing earlier. If he had not dodged in time, he would have been shot.

“Four dryads?” Geralt’s heart skipped a beat. No matter how strong someone was, it was impossible for them to escape four dryad archers. When he heard them drawing their bows again, Geralt shouted, “Ceadmil! Va an Eithné meathe e Duén Canell! Essea Gwyn Bleidd!”

The dryads gave their reply, though it didn’t sound like any language used in this land. Geralt survived the attack, and he slowly raised his hands. He came on orders to broker peace, not war, and he repeated himself, “Meath Eithné! Essea Gwyn Bleidd!”

“Vort!” the dryads replied.

Geralt heaved a sigh of relief and took off his sword straps, allowing his weapons to fall down. He heard the sound of footsteps, then a dryad appeared from behind a tree. She was petite and slim, and she was in clothes made of tree bark and leaves. If he didn’t look closely, he would have thought she was another plant.

A black bandana covered her forehead, and she tied it up behind her olive green hair. Her face was smeared with tattoos made out of peach juice. Geralt couldn’t see the details of her face, though he could make an outline of it.

She was the only one who came out. The rest of them were still hiding among the trees, aiming their arrows at Geralt’s vitals.

“T’en these in meath aep Eithné llev?” She took six steps toward Geralt and asked him a question. Despite her aggressive behavior, she had a sweet voice.

“Ess Gwyn Bleidd,” Geralt started to stammer. “Ae… Can you speak Common Tongue? I’m not that fluent in Brokilon dialect.”

A dryad with hair the color of red-brick came out and asked Geralt, “Gwyn Bleidd. White Wolf. Witcher?”

“Yes. I have lived in Brokilon for a time before. At Duéen Canell. Lady Eithné knows me. I come on orders of the king of Brugge. There is something I wish to discuss with Lady Eithné.” Geralt tried his best to look and sound gentle, though his deadpan face proved to be difficult to look gentle.

The dryad with the green hair looked at the one with red hair, and she nodded. Thanks to that, the dryad’s enmity toward Geralt subsided a little.

As things were starting to calm down, Geralt said, “There is an injured man in the hole. If he’s not treated, he will die.”

“Thaess aep!”

The third and fourth dryad came out and pointed their arrows at Geralt.

“Do you want him to die from choking on his own blood?” Geralt raised his eyes and gazed at the red-haired dryad with as little hostility as possible. He knew she was the one in charge. “I promise the one in the hole and the ones you killed are no bounty hunters or poachers. They entered the forest to search for someone!”

“Silence!” the oldest dryad shouted in Common Tongue. She pointed at the dryad with honey-colored hair. “She will take you to Lady Eithné.”

“What about the man in the hole?” Geralt asked. He could not just sit by as his friend was dying.

“That is none of your business,” she answered. She looked at the green-haired dryad and the hole. “Go. She will take you to Lady Eithné.”

***

Geralt followed the yellow-haired dryad to the center of Brokilon—Duéen Canell. He noticed the look in the red-haired dryad’s eyes, though he wasn’t sure if she would save Frexinet. All he could do was pray for his friend.

They went past a clearing, a fog-covered valley, and a wilted forest. The dryad stopped for another check of the surroundings, while Geralt took the chance to rest on a fallen log and thought about the princess Frexinet was searching for.

Suddenly, he heard a weird scream piercing the air. It was short, irritating, but also terrifying at the same time. The dryad immediately went on her knee and pulled out two arrows from her quiver. She held one between her teeth and docked the other on her bow, aiming it at the bush.

Geralt made a Quen sign and leaped across the bushes, landing at a clearing beneath a tree. A strange creature was curled up under the tree, letting out cries that resembled a baby’s voice. It was brown in color, its body as thick as an arm, and yellow legs with hooks filled its sides. That is one big centipede.

The creature scuttled around the tree and curled itself up as it prepared itself for a hunt.

“A yghern!” Geralt said. The dryad came up to Geralt quietly. “Something on the tree has caught its attention,” he told her.

“Hunt… ignore… leave,” the dryad whispered. She couldn’t speak Common Tongue well, but she told him, “Don’t fight…yghern…”

Geralt hesitated. He had a strong feeling that if he were to leave, he would miss out on something crucial in his life. When he gazed at the tree once more, the look on his face froze. “Wait. There’s a hole in the tree. And… And there’s someone inside!”

While Geralt and the dryad were deciding to observe for a little longer, the yghern suddenly sustained injuries that seemingly came out of nowhere.

A silhouette in a cape shot out from a bush, and he darted to the yghern, circling the creature. The sun shone upon a crimson blade held by the silhouette, and as it leaped across the clearing again, the combatant swung his sword a few times, breaking the hard shell on the creature’s body and drawing green blood.

The yghern let out an ear-piercing screech, and it leaped at its attacker like a cannonball. The impact from the charge broke its attacker’s shield, but before the monster could sink its teeth into the witcher, he rolled away from the attack, and the moment he stood up, the witcher slashed his blade upward, cutting a gash in its stomach.

As the monster’s blood started spurting everywhere, it became enraged. It gave up on its prey and decided to pounce at his attacker. It flew through the air, and every attack made a sound that was akin to someone swinging a whip. The yghern’s attacker had no choice but to evade its attacks.

But when it attacked for the fourth time, the yghern let out a screech. Scorching flames attacked it from behind, and blisters popped up on its dark shell. It swiveled around in anger, and the wind blew the second witcher’s white hair, ruffling it. The witcher was not fazed, however. He made out a blue triangle with his left hand and pushed it forward. An explosion was heard, and it tipped the monster off balance.

The first witcher took the chance to bury his crimson blade in the midsection of the monster, where the gaps between its shell was, while the white-haired witcher stabbed the monster in its maw.

Suddenly, the monster could not move anymore, for to its horror, it saw countless bloody tentacles attacking it. Roy took the chance to slice upward, decapitating the monster. Its head flew up high in the air before it fell with a thud.

‘Yghern killed. EXP +120. Level 5 Witcher (3080/2500).’

Even though it was dead, the centipede was still moving its maw, and its legs were still flailing around. Yikes. This is horrifying.

A gentle breeze blew past them and took away the stench of the blood that was lingering in the air.

Geralt flicked the blood off his sword, and he looked at the mysterious man who appeared out of nowhere.

The caped man took his hoodie off and beamed at Geralt. He had dark gold eyes, but he seemed too young to be a witcher. “Hello, Geralt. I’ll be counting on you from now on.”

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