The Divine Hunter

The winds of winter assailed Kaedwen’s countryside. Snow covered the branches of the woods around, draping it in a silver blanket. A monster the size of a hill was charging across the woods. It then crashed into a pine tree, breaking its trunk in two. The trunk fell with a thud, and the leaves stirred up a snowy storm.

The snow flew into two men’s faces. They were in oversized cloaks and armed with silver swords. They stood on both ends of the broken trunk and exchanged a look. One was icy, while the other was simpering. They crouched, holding their sword in a plough stance. Cautiously, they looked at the chort before them. It had antlers all over its head and fangs sharp as daggers. Pungent, viscous drool dripped down its maw. Its labored breathing was forming a sliver of white mist in the air.

“Do you have any idea of what you’re doing, Riss?” Arnaghad’s blade shone on his icy face and eyes. “The order’s rules. First come first served. No one can steal another witcher’s request. I got the request to kill this beast from Blackwater. Why are you interfering? Leave if you know what’s good for you.”

“Oh, calm down, Arnaghad. Calm down. We’re all brothers here. We can fight together, can’t we? Chorts are hard to handle. Fighting it alone is risky. You’re going to get hurt. You won’t be coming back to the castle for a warm winter if that’s the case.” Riss smiled. “If we work together, we can kill this monster easily. I’ll take thirty percent of the reward, while you can have the rest. Then we can get back to Morgraig and feast.”

Riss stared at the monster, raring to go. The chort was infuriated by Riss’ scornful attitude. It roared in rage and left circular hoof marks in the snow as it charged at Arnaghad. The air was filled with its stench. The chort’s antlers were pointing at Arnaghad, as if the chort wanted to pierce the witcher and hold it high up in the air like he was a trophy.

Arnaghad, however, moved with an agility his build shouldn’t have allowed. He leapt into the air and landed on the antler for a moment, then he somersaulted ahead, holding his blade close to his chest. The witcher spun along with the momentum, and a silver ring formed around him.

A bloody gash opened up on the chort’s dark, sturdy back. Blood splattered everywhere, drenching the white snow red. The monster howled as it lost control and crashed into a hundred-year-old pine tree. It fell, its head buried in the snow.

Riss curled and darted ahead like an arrow, slashing the left side of the monster’s back. He pulled his blade out, and blood trickled into the ground. The witcher stepped on the monster’s thigh and quickly leapt onto its back. Riss quickly thrust his blade and pierced the chort’s nape.

But then metal clashed, and someone flicked Riss’ sword away. That was an opening for the chort. It shook its body violently and made the witchers get off its back, then it charged toward a pine tree in the distance to catch its breath, staring at the witchers with caution. The cunning creature knew it crossed someone it shouldn’t.

“Are you deaf, or did you drink too much?” Arnaghad pointed his sword at his erstwhile comrade standing across the patch of blood, then he spat on the ground. “Last warning. The request is mine. I will not share the reward with anyone. Use your head. Because of your stupid valor and morality, the payment you demand isn’t even half of what I quoted. Whose standard are we going to follow when we take the money? And you want to split the earnings with me? Scram!”

Riss was red and green with fury. “Arnaghad, I’m your brother, not your enemy! Is your heartless creed all you care about?”

“Witchers who break the rules don’t get to call themselves my brother,” said Arnaghad loudly, staring at Riss.

“You bastard! You think you’re the leader just because Alzur and Cosimo left?”

“Don’t talk to me about the old gits who abandoned us!”

Riss ranted, “You’re a fool who only cares about your short-term profit! You’re nothing but a heartless executioner. You don’t care about valor or morals! You’d attack your own brother! Your mind is too narrow! Erland is ten times the man you are!”

Arnaghad stopped hunting the chort. He darted over to Riss instead, then the air around exploded. Sparks flew from the clashes of the blades. Faster and faster the witchers swung their weapons, until the swords became silver bolts. The witchers clashed, spun, and leapt across the battlefield.

Aard rumbled, blasting a hole in the snowy ground. Crimson Igni lit up the pine trees. The light of magic strobed, but it didn’t last too long.

Someone made a successful attack, and blood splattered through the air. Riss grunted and fell to the left. A gash spanned from his shoulder to waist. In fear, he rushed toward the chort.

Still uninjured, icy Arnaghad held his bloodstained blade. He leapt through the battlefield, intending to kill Riss, but then the chort screamed. The roar alone made the bushes in the woods bow. It ran past Riss and made its way toward Arnaghad.

The witcher saw a looming shadow coming toward him. He stopped in his tracks, his gaze icy. The witcher swung his weapon once more, and blood filled the ground.

Injured, Riss had escaped, disappearing in the snowy expanse.

***

Pale snow covered Castle Morgraig. Dummies and wooden stakes stood in the courtyard, and more than two hundred witchers were gathered around, though they were split into three factions led by Erland, Elgar, and Arnaghad and Ivar. For safety’s sake, a row of dummies stood between them.

This time, there was no chatting or feasting or sharing of stories like the witchers used to do, nor were things merry. Everyone had fury in their eyes, and tension filled the air.

“Arnaghad!” Erland clenched his fists tightly, glaring at deadpan Arnaghad. Standing beside him was Riss, his chest bandaged. He too was glaring at Arnaghad. “I know Riss shouldn’t have tried to take your request, but we’re members of the order. You could’ve talked things out. Why did you attack him? And you gave up killing a dangerous monster just to attack your own brother? Just to kill him? Did you forget that the order’s rules clearly state that we are not to kill each other?”

“Arnaghad’s a madman.” A young witcher behind Erland glared at the icy brethren of his. “They used the wrong Trial and lost their empathy. Their faces are stupid, and they don’t even know tact. It’s like they think the world owes them.”

“Yeah. They aren’t loyal to the order, responsibility, or the brothers. They only care about themselves.”

***

“Shut it! Arnaghad warned Riss, but he didn’t listen. He broke the rules first.” Another icy witcher came out from behind Arnaghad. “The prices we set would’ve been enough to feed everyone, but you lower your prices again and again because of your stupid valor and sometimes even work for free. Do you want everyone to starve? If Arnaghad had relented, should we be doing things your way and work without asking for anything in return? If we don’t make enough coins by winter, who’s going to keep the order running?”

***

“Have you forgotten why this order was made?” Erland retorted righteously, “We exist to clean this world of monsters. To make it a safer place for the people.”

“We have to see this goal through,” someone among the crowd said. “We have to see this creed through if we want to stay true to ourselves.”

“Creed? Ideals? Bah.” A burly witcher sneered. “That’s what Alzur and Cosimo shoved down our throats. It’s their ideals, but now…” He looked around and saw a lot of witchers looking dejected and furious because they were abandoned. “These selfless sorcerers abandoned us again because of their stupid ideals. They summoned a monster, destroyed half of Maribor, ruined our reputation, and they ran to hell themselves.”

“Alzur and Cosimo are no more!” More witchers spoke up. They exchanged looks. “Why should we follow the rules? They’re outdated, stupid, and make no sense!”

“It is time for the order to make some changes.” Ivar stepped up and looked around. Clearly, he said, “We shall no longer live for anyone else. No longer will we be bound to laughable creed and valor. We will live freely. There will be adventures and comrades waiting for us. There will be better days.”

A lot of witchers were tempted by that ideal.

“No. Cosimo and Alzur are still alive. No one has seen their bodies,” Elgar interrupted. He’d been neutral this whole time. “They are our teachers. Our leaders. They gave us strength to protect ourselves and bodies that will never fall to disease. They saved us from the fate of dying in the wilds like the other orphans. We should be grateful to them, not complain about it.”

“They’re already dead, and still you’re sucking up to them.” Arnaghad shook his head in disdain. “We gained this power by risking our lives. So many of us have paid the ultimate price, and so many are left with complications.”

“How long has it been? Ten years, and not even a single piece of news,” Ivar said.

“Stop changing the subject. Back to the meat of it. Arnaghad must apologize to Riss and gain his forgiveness before our brethren.” Erland’s eyes shone, and a terrifying amount of chaos energy swirled around him. He was the only Source among the witchers. The Signs were nothing but circus tricks to him. “Swear to everyone you will never attack your brethren again, and we’ll let this slide.”

Elgar agreed, “Don’t let this be a precedent to start something bad. If we keep fighting over requests, someday we’re going to die at our own brethren’s hands.”

***

Everyone looked at the burly Arnaghad. He was at the center of this fight. Erland and his supporters were giving him warning glares, while Elgar and his supporters were gently asking him to apologize. Arnaghad’s men held their breaths. Icy winds blew through the corridor, and Arnaghad’s cloak billowed in the air.

“There will be no apology,” he refused adamantly. If he bowed to these people, he would lose his supporters’ trust.

“I’m not accepting it anyway.” Riss narrowed his eyes. Venom dripped from his gaze. “I want an eye for an eye.”

***

The clash happened just like that. Riss attacked Arnaghad’s knees with Aard, trying to make him kneel, but Ivar used his Evil-Eye and predicted that, so he held Arnaghad up.

Arnaghad did not kneel, but his pride made him draw his blade, and he swung it at his brethren. The bad blood and grudge they had exploded into hatred, and the fights of the past bled into the present.

The battle began just like that. In the beginning, it was just the knightly witchers led by Erland and the revolutionists led by Arnaghad and Ivar. Elgar and the neutral witchers took up half the numbers, and they kept trying to stop the fight, but the violence was blind to everything. They were dragged into the mess by the people involved in the civil war.

***

The battle flared even further. The light of swinging swords, the illumination of magic, the sounds of battles, and screams of the fighters filled the courtyard. Four witchers, hidden in the mist and invisible to one another, stood on the walls, sighing as they watched the civil war unfold. The mist was unpredictable. They were but observers, and they couldn’t change anything.

***

The civil war lasted for a day and a night. When dawn came, blood had drenched the icy ground. More than half the witchers in the order would not wake up again. Erland’s group and Elgar’s team won in the end.

Arnaghad led twenty supporters and two sorcerers and fled the castle, bringing with them two sets of Trial recipes. They went all the way south, arriving at the steep and dangerous Amell. To be precise, they came to a sculpted and almost obelisk-like mountain called Gorgon.

A Z-shaped wall stood in this place. Four towers and a few beautiful turrets were installed on the walls. Snow covered the fortress’ walls.

“Haern Caduch.” Arnaghad turned around to face his supporters, whose eyes were glinting brightly. Adamantly, he said, “From today onward, this is our home. We might have left the order, but we have to thrive as well. We will take requests and accept new blood, and we need a name to call ourselves. We are straightforward. We only take requests to survive. We will not be bound to any moral code. We are the most powerful warriors in the land of the snow. Our iron will is our most powerful armor. Nothing can harm or shake us. Henceforth, we shall be called the School of the Bear!”

The witchers raised their hands and roared. Only Ivar was looking around, hesitant. He once again saw the phantom knights on skeletal horses spreading war everywhere they went. Will the Bears fight those guys for us?

Felix was in the mist, and he cocked his eyebrow. Letho couldn’t believe this. He had no idea the Viper School originated from the Bear School. Then they will split eventually. Ivar and Arnaghad do not share the same ideals.

***

The witchers in Morgraig, while victorious, were left with only a few members. Half died in the civil war, and Arnaghad took a batch away. Their faith in saving the people was hit hard. Erland shrewdly noticed that even though the ones who stayed behind said nothing, they still blamed him for fighting Arnaghad.

Things in Morgraig took a turn for the worse, and glory among the witchers soon faded. Erland knew that the land of dreams could never go back to its former state. Because of Alzur’s destruction of Maribor and the slander and libel spread by the temples and sorcerers, the whole world despised witchers, making their lives harder than ever.

And then, one night, Erland led thirteen friends who shared his ideals and a sorcerer away from the castle. As Arnaghad went south, he went northwest, eventually entering the bay of Kovir and Poviss. He found Kaer Seren, a castle standing on the cliff overlooking the coast. It was another place Alzur and Cosimo used to conduct experiments in. They cleared the magical land of its skeletons and declared that they owned the place.

“Knights, do you remember the training we went through when we first became witchers?”

“Whenever you swing your sword or cast a Sign, think about the glory of witchers and our creed!” thirteen witchers, noble and proud, answered.

This was the teaching of Llewelyn, a wandering knight and their old swordplay teacher. The man who called himself Griffin had unwavering will, and he was a perfect example of the spirit Alzur talked about. He influenced the lives of many young witchers, but alas, the knight was only a regular human, and he’d passed a long time ago.

“No matter how times change, we shall hold on to the ideals of saving the people. One day, they will throw away their fear and rumors and thank us for our services.”

Griffins were noble, loyal animals. Also, to commemorate the Griffin who taught them so long ago, Erland set up a school before his friends. “From here on out, this fortress, our home, shall be named School of the Griffin.”

Someone in the mist got excited. Coen’s heart soared, and he sang the school’s song of battle, though only he could hear it.

***

After Erland’s departure, another group of witchers embarked on a journey without a destination. In the end, only Elgar and his twenty companions who chose the path of neutrality stayed behind in Morgraig. They stayed in the castle for years and searched for their brethren everywhere as they waited for Alzur and Cosimo’s return. They hoped to see their brethren gather once more, but alas, their passion cooled down and was turned into disappointment.

On one certain day five years later, Elgar and his twenty brothers who’d stuck through thick and thin with him, marched into the northeastern part of the land, where Kaedwen’s Blue Mountains stood. They found the abandoned fortress standing within the wilderness of the mountains—Kaer Seren.

“Brothers, we maintain a code of neutrality. We will not partake in any politics or wars between kingdoms. We only accept requests and slay the monsters that harm humans. We shall band together forever.” Elgar looked at his brethren, tearing up. “Every time we turn our heads and call for our brothers, there will always be people walking with you. Like wolves, we will never walk alone. Thus, we are the School of the Wolf.”

Vesemir watched his younger self swinging his fists around with Elgar. Tears spilled from his eyes, and guilt filled his heart. I’m sorry, Elgar. I let you down. The school went into a decline in the end.

In a place no one noticed, a half-elf that had gone through a mutation led a group of second-rate products on a mutiny against the sorcerers in Stygga, then they joined the faction of Aen Seidhe, serving the elves faithfully. They walked silently and with grace. Like cats, they were temperamental, and they called themselves the School of the Cat.

***

The golden age of witchers thus began. The mist blinked, and Roy followed Alzur, who’d destroyed half of Maribor, and Cosimo. They came to the ever unfurling Dragon Mountains and stopped in a hidden valley.

***

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