The Divine Hunter

It was a spacious hall. Torches stood between the pillars holding up the hall’s ceiling. The light of the torches shone upon the glimmering mural. A tree, or something resembling a tree, was depicted on the mural. Upon closer inspection, this tree was made of gold-colored numbers and addresses written in Elder Speech. There were at least hundreds of them.

Roy stared at the mural.

‘Mural (Use unknown)

?’

***

“1150, Dol, 20000…” Someone read the bottom line out loud. The witchers recognized the place as Dol Blathanna, but they had no idea what the numbers meant.

***

“1170, Vizima, 12000.”

“1186, Tretogor, 5000.”

“1198, Oxenfurt, 1000.”

“1220, Kingdom of Kovir and Poviss, 5000.”

***

A few lines later, the witchers finally figured out what the numbers meant.

“The first number must be the year,” Lambert said smugly. “The words in the middle must be locations. Locations of what, I’m not very sure. Third number must be the money they made in those locations. For example, in 1150, these people made 20000 ducats in Dol Blathanna.”

“Oh, shut it. Is money all you care about?” Letho asked. “You think they spent the whole day carving a mural just to keep their ledgers in check? Would’ve been easier if they just wrote it down on parchment. And there’s not even a currency mentioned. If this is a ledger, maybe it could’ve been crowns, or orens, or farthings.”

“Letho’s right. The third number couldn’t have been the record of how much money they made,” Aiden said. “A witcher who loves business so much he’d hide in Haern Caduch and write these numbers down just to show off his accomplishments? C’mon, that’s ridiculous.”

“So what do these numbers mean, then?”

“Not sure. Not for now.”

“Hey, look at this. It’s not just the north.” Geralt pointed at one particular line. It read, ‘1230, Nilfgaard, 3000.’

“Nilfgaard’s City of Golden Towers.”

“Maybe the businessman has friends all over the continent?” Lambert joked.

“Enough with the business talk already.” Roy shook his head. “If we wanna find out what these numbers mean, we have to seek out the one who carved them. Maybe it was the Bears, the people who robbed this place, or maybe it was Erland. Or perhaps it could’ve been the entity that’s controlling him.”

“The ink doesn’t feel too old.” Jerome wiped off the dust and kept quiet for a moment. “Feels a little wet too. Probably two… three years since it was created. Tops.”

“Good eye,” Coen praised.

“Back when I was in Kaer Seren, I’d ask Keldar everything about inks and quills. He was the expert in these things.”

The mention of his late mentor saddened Coen for a moment.

“So this could’ve been Erland’s work.” Roy held his hands together and circled the hall. “This can be a clue. A clue to the entity that’s controlling him.”

“No.” Letho argued again, “Making this mural is no easy job. If he had that much time, he could’ve contacted someone. Anyone. And this mural is a bit too conspicuous. The entity wouldn’t have let Erland leave any clues this obvious.”

“Then we can assume that the one who left this mural was that entity,” Geralt said. “The years, location, and numbers mean something to it.”

“So this is a diary of some sort? A diary that talks about its control over Erland and the reason it stayed in Haern Caduch.”

***

“I think we should give up, people.” Lambert stared at the mural, but he still gained nothing from it. “We’re not smart enough to figure out this diary. Not when it belongs to a godlike existence. C’mon, we’re not seers.”

The witchers had a stroke of inspiration, and they turned their attention to Roy.

“You’re the brotherhood’s seer, Roy.” Geralt could finally get back at Roy for threatening to expose his third wish to everyone. He teased, “You’ve used your power to look into everyone’s personal affairs up until now. So can you tell us what the lines on these walls mean?”

Roy gulped. He could see the anticipation in everyone’s eyes, especially Coen and Jerome. And he breathed a little faster. I’m not a seer. Roy shrugged. “Can’t do it. My clairvoyance comes and goes. It’s random.” Roy closed his eyes and touched the door. “Empty.” He shook his head.

“Your power fails at a moment like this? Oh, how disappointing.” Lambert winked. “Now you gotta ask Corinne to go out on a date with me.”

Geralt interrupted. “We’ve scoured the whole castle, but all the clues we have are cryptic at best. I’d rather try my luck at cracking the code of this mural than researching the dog tag and jar cap.”

“Why did it record this?” Geralt asked hoarsely.

“There’s no way it did it for posterity. Like we said, these records mean something to it.” Letho’s breathing labored. He then made a bold assumption. “Perhaps the entity had played a hand in these calamities.”

Just the possibility of it made the witchers shudder. What is it trying to do?

“And it might be a seer as well. And perhaps even more powerful than Roy.” Coen turned his eyes to the latest line on the mural. The wars that had yet to happen. “Can you predict the number of casualties down to the nearest thousand should a calamity happen?”

Roy shook his head. He wasn’t a seer, but only he knew that at the moment.

“What is going on? Seers are popping out left and right. They used to be rare, dammit,” Lambert said. “Is this a sign of the end days?”

“Wait. It’s possible this isn’t the entity’s prediction. Remember the magic jar?” Roy waved his hand and produced the cap once more. “Djinns can probably see the future too.”

***

The witchers paused for a moment. They factored that into their equation, and then another more plausible guess popped up. “So the entity released the djinn and used its wishes to see the future? The wars that will happen?”

“If that’s true…” Lambert took a deep breath, his eyes filled with trepidation and excitement. “Then this is big. Very big. For more than a hundred years, an entity has been hiding in the dark, observing all the wars and calamities that have happened or will happen on this continent. And it has a Griffin grandmaster under its control.”

“Speculation,” Geralt said.

“That aside, this record of the coming war must mean something else for it. It didn’t just do it for mere observation.” Roy announced, “Think about it. We’re in a remote area in Mount Gorgon, while Nilfgaard’s troops are gathered in Mag Turga not too far away. And Marnadal lies past the ridge and Erlenwald in the north. And yet in the dream Corinne made for Jerome, he saw Erland in this fortress and not anywhere else. I have a feeling he was…”

“Scouting,” Jerome said. “Look at these records. Time and location are understandable, but why the number of casualties? Why not the number of participants? Why did it write that down? Does the number of casualties mean anything to it?”

“Perhaps Erland, or to be precise, that entity controlling him, wishes to play a part in this war.” Even Coen was shocked by the possibility, though he was the one who brought it up.

But the witchers nodded.

“We didn’t find anything in this fortress.” Coen shouted, “But we know where Erland will go next.” With a trembling finger, he pointed at the wall once more. To be precise, at the word Marnadal. “No matter where he is right now, he will appear in Marnadal on the day of the war. Or in its vicinity, at least. We find him, we’ll find the entity that’s controlling him. And we’ll know if Elgar and Ivar are with him.”

***

The witchers’ breathing labored.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, fellas. Calm down.” Lambert said, “This is a war. Not a monster hunt, and certainly not a sparring session either. Even golems will be crushed easily in a war, let alone us. Even if we assume your hypothesis to be true, searching for someone on a battlefield is a deathwish.”

And just like that, Roy and Letho’s passion was doused. Jerome, however, laughed. Resolve showed on his face as he accepted his fate. He would seek Erland out, even if that meant his death.

“You’ve done enough for me, brothers.” He bowed to everyone. “Once we return to Novigrad, I shall join the brotherhood. If you need anything, just tell me. But do not stop me from going to Marnadal. That is my only wish.” He looked at everyone. With resolve in his voice, he said, “And I am going alone.”

“No. Griffins leave no men behind.” Coen shook his head.

“You do that this time and that’ll be the end of our school.” Jerome stared at Coen, plea filling his eyes. “And you’ll be leaving Igsena behind. Alone.”

Coen paled. He was struggling with himself. This was a hard decision to make.

“You talk like you’re going to die in this mission.” Roy shook his head. “Things aren’t so glum. We still have some time before the war,” Roy said, though his voice was tinged with hesitance and doubt. He made no promises to the Griffin. Even if he wanted to join the war, he still needed the brotherhood’s approval. This wasn’t a one-man show.

“He’s right,” Letho said. “You’re a part of us now, so you’re bound by the rules. This calls for a meeting. We’ll talk about this after we return to the orphanage. We’ll take your wishes into account, of course.”

***

“I…” Jerome stammered.

“Leave this to us, mate.” Lambert wrapped his arms around his shoulders. “Trust us. We’ll come up with the best arrangement we can.”

***

They stayed at the fortress for two more weeks and made sure they scoured every inch of it. Regrettably, everything had been taken. Everything but the lab equipment. The witchers didn’t manage to find the Bear Trial’s recipe. And Erland didn’t show up either.

Before they made their return, Roy cast another Transfiguration spell on Gryphon. This time, it was turned into a beautiful laughingthrush with feathers the color of olives. It flew across Mount Gorgon by itself, patrolling the ridges and zipping past the heads of Nilfgaard’s soldiers. None noticed the little bird who was keeping an eye on them.

Gryphon then flew to the south of Amell and shared its sight with Roy. The sun was slowly setting into the horizon, and darkness started to drape the snow-capped woods. Winds blew through the ridges, and Nilfgaardian’s flags billowed like swimming fish.

A great and terrifying creature lay atop Mag Turga, covering the whole highland. Countless tents formed its body. Twelve thousand soldiers, clearly in formation, became its limbs, while the group of mages was its eyes, ever so sharply looking out at its surroundings. And the sea of knights became its fur, eager waiting to pierce its enemies.

The monster that was Nilfgaard sat atop the highland, waiting for its enemy to appear.

***

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