Chapter Text
Eadelmarr was exhausted.
The latest hunt had been grueling, and he’d had to argue quite a bit to get the pay he was promised, but he’d managed it eventually. He’d fled the village after, unwilling to stay in such an unwelcoming place when he could take to the woods and be left the hell alone.
At least, that had been the plan.
He’d barely made it six miles before he’d run into a small cohort of Nilfgaardians. They’d become far more common of late, as the Nilfgaardian king pushed his troops further and further into the surrounding kingdoms and claimed them for his own. Aside from the annoyance of having to share the roads or inns with the obnoxious arses, Eadelmarr ignored them for the most part as best he could. He was a witcher. That meant he stayed out of human politics if at all possible, did his job, and moved on as quickly as possible. For his own sake, and for the sake of his fellow witchers who would suffer if he brought trouble down on all of their heads.
The policy had always served him well.
So he’d been beyond shocked when the soldiers had immediately tried to take him captive! He’d done nothing to warrant it, and they were coming from the opposite direction, so clearly hadn’t been sent by angry townsfolk.
So why?
Trained soldiers they might have been, but they stood no chance against one who had hunted monsters for lifetimes longer than their grandparents had known.
The witcher gathered items from the corpses. Things that would be useful, or that he could sell for a bit of coin. Things that didn’t have the Nilfgaardian crest on it, preferably. It was too dangerous to be flashing that crest around. People would wonder where he got it, as it was well known they didn’t care for witchers and only hired them when they had no other choice. Once word got around about a downed contingent of soldiers, the answer would be self evident.
Better to stick to nondescript items that couldn’t be easily identified.
It bothered him a little, to loot the corpses of those who had never had a chance against his skills and experience. It scraped against his honor and set his teeth on edge. As a young novice witcher, he had often wondered why some of the oldest witchers had sometimes scoffed over their lessons on honor.
Surely they knew better than anyone how important honor was?
“Honor is a grand thing to have boy, but only to a point.” An old, hoary griffin had gruffed when he’d asked. “But your honor is no use to yourself or anyone else if you sacrifice your life on it’s altar. By all means, live your life as honorably as you can. But understand that at some point honor must bow before practicality. There is a reason our school doesn’t sport as many senior witchers as some others, and it is entirely because such is a lesson that we do not teach. And that few manage to learn on their own.”
It had been a hard lesson to swallow as a teen, but it had kept him alive.
Eadelmarr flipped another soldier over and paused. The man carried a pouch on his hip marked with the Nilfgaardian crest. A message courier then. The soldiers with him had probably been an escort. It made even less sense. If their job had been to deliver this messenger and his missive in one piece to his destination, then why had the soldiers thrown themselves at him? Why?
Had the Nilfgaardians declared war on the witchers? Were they hunting them for sport? Attempting to recruit them into their army? There were too many options, and no way of knowing which one was correct. Unless…
The witcher eyed the pouch.
He’d already killed the soldiers, he couldn’t be in any more trouble than he already was. And if there was any chance that the messenger’s papers might shed some light on the situation… Eadelmarr sighed, and opened the pouch. It was full to bursting with various documents, all of them neatly folded and individually sealed with wax and twine. More than he had time to read. Not if he wanted to be out of sight by the time someone happened across the carnage here. He would read them later.
Mind made up, he stuffed them inside his shirt and continued searching.
He was on the move again within’ ten minutes, the corpses behind him divested of anything useful and tossed into the ditch beside the road. Hopefully they wouldn’t be noticed for a while. A string of horses trailed after him, a couple divested of their tack lest the Nilfgaardian crest worked into the leather give them away as stolen.
Well. Not stolen per say. They had attacked first. Perhaps it was better to think of the horses and various other odds and sods as recompense for their misdeeds. Either way, they would more than make up for the trouble their owners had caused. He clicked his tongue, his own mare responding with a soft wicker as she picked up the pace a little. He guided her down a side road, one that cut across to a major highway if he remembered aright.
He would sell the horses as quickly as possible, and then be on his way.
It was the unexpected crinkle of paper beneath his clothes that reminded him about the documents.
Eadelmarr hummed, sitting back up in his bedroll and fishing the missives out of the inner pocket of his tunic. Thick as the packet was, it was a wonder he’d managed to forget it was there. He set the stack on the log he’d repurposed into a bench and set about poking the fire back to life enough to be able to read. Witcher eyes were sharp, but even they needed at least a bit of light without the help of a potion.
Selling the horses had gone exceptionally well, and he’d gotten a good price for the lot of them. All but one anyway, though not for lack of trying on the buyer’s part. A beautiful, sturdy dark bay beast that Eadelmarr knew for a fact would serve him well on the path. His own dappled gray mare was getting older, and was due to be traded out soon. She wasn’t so old that her working days were done, but she was skirting the edge of being too old to run from monsters, let alone chase after them. He’d give her to the Wolves, they had a good sized herd up in the mountains. She might grant them a foal or three, before age came for her.
Point being, she’d be safe there to live out her fading years without worry, or so he’d heard.
Coen (and by the gods, he would always be grateful to the Wolves for putting him in contact with the only other living member of his school so far as any of them could tell) spoke highly of the wolves of Kaer Morhen in his letters. The master of the keep, Vesemir, Coen had explained, had already given his leave for the two Griffins to join them for the winter. Eadelmarr couldn’t wait to meet Coen in person. The other griffin was much younger, and so far as Eadelmarr knew they’d never set eyes on each other. But they were all that was left of their school, and he was inclined to befriend the man for that alone.
The fact that the man genuinely was likable was just a bonus.
He studied the packets curiously, making note of the various signets pressed into the wax seals. He didn’t know most of them, but the ones he did recognize were pretty high up the chain of command in the Nilfgaardian forces. At least one was part of the ruling elite, though not the royal family. Eadelmarr’s stomach sank. Ye gods and little fishes, what in the continent was he about to willfully get himself into?
Swallowing hard, Eadelmaar drew a dagger and popped the first seal.
The first few were relatively boring. Oh, if he cared at all for the war effort (of either side) he would most assuredly have found it interesting. And he did, in a distant, academic sort of way. But none of them really applied to him or his brothers… well. That one did tangentially.
It detailed their intended troop movements to the west, and Eadelmaar would be passing that information along to any other witcher he saw. No one wanted to be in an active war zone in general, but if the Nilfgaardians were attacking witchers on sight they would do well to steer doubly clear of large groups.
He popped a larger seal, an absurdly large crest imprinted into the wax. Must’ve been someone important, to have such a large hand stamp rather than a signet ring. Better quality paper too. Perhaps an important position, rather than an important person…
The name Pankratz seemed to jump off the page he was skimming, and Eadelmaar froze. He skimmed back up through the blocks of text to find it again.
….the identity of Jaskier the bard has been confirmed to be that of Professor Julien Alfred Pankratz, a professor of music and composition at the University of Oxenfurt during the off season. He is the son of a viscount in Redania. As the witcher Geralt of Rivia, ‘White wolf of Kaer Morhen’ and ‘Butcher of Blaviken’, has shown an unusual fondness for the man, his royal majesty has decreed that the bard and any and all associates are to be taken into custody at the first opportunity. Our sources indicate that Pankratz’s relationship with his parents is strained, if not completely estranged. They will prove no help to us in apprehending their son.
However, evidence suggests that he holds great affection towards his younger siblings. If such is the case, they would make excellent leverage. Should we capture them, there is little doubt that Pankratz would be willing to exchange himself, or perhaps even the Princess Cirilla, for the children. Given past demonstrations and declarations of affection towards his siblings and his predisposition for recklessness, the chance that he would attempt to do so even against Geralt of Rivia’s express wishes is exceptionally high. Whether he is successful or not, it will either gain us a pawn to be used against his pet witcher, or else reveal the location of the princess and deal a heavy toll on the witcher with such a betrayal.
A complement of soldiers have been dispatched to collect the children from Lettenhove, under the guise of hostages against the nobility’s good behavior. The parents wont object if they believe all the children are being gathered in a central location as insurance against their parents’ insurrection. By the time the Viscount realizes something is amiss the children will be well out of their reach.
Furthermore…
Eadelmaar made a disgusted noise.
He didn’t know who the Princess Cirilla was, or why the White Wolf was protecting her. But the fact that the powers that be were willing to threaten children to force the bard’s compliance in order to acquire her was sickening. It explained why the Nilfgaardians had been so quick to jump at him though. They were probably interrogating or outright capturing any witcher they came across in the hopes of finding some lead to the wolves.
Edelmaar tapped the folded sheets of paper against his knee.
Witchers didn’t get involved in politics. Neutrality was the core of their practices, to ensure that they could travel freely from one kingdom to another without hindrance in pursuit of their prey. Eadelmaar could think of precious little that would tempt a witcher to get involved. Witchers didn’t generally do bodyguard work, at least not wolves, so far as he knew. The princess must’ve offered an absolutely outrageous sum for the white wolf to’ve agreed to the risk.
Ordinarily, Eadelmaar would’ve let it be. It wasn’t his business. The most he might’ve done was spread the word that the Nilfgaardians currently had an axe to grind and should be avoided. Which really ought to be common sense, honestly. But…
…but he owed Pankratz.
He’d owed the man a debt from the moment one of his students had taken it upon herself to see him fed after a grueling hunt. Let alone how much he owed him now for having established the use of lute marks, and for putting him in touch with coen. But could he take the risk? If he went after the children, he would very decidedly be casting his lot with one side over the other.
Honor versus practicality.
Eadelmaar scoffed. “To hell with practicality, it’s the right thing to do and you know it. Your honor’s not so cheap as that. Not yet at any rate… Okay Eadelmaar… Okay. You’ve uncovered a plot against children , so what do you need to do to foil it? By the numbers now…”
He settled back, considering. He’d always been one to talk through his problems, and the loss of his brothers had only made that habit turn inward until he was quite prone to talking to himself. It made him seem odd in the eyes of the people around him, but it wasn’t like there were many who were willing to speak to him outside the terms of a service, contract, or profanity. Trouble was more likely to leave him alone if they thought him slightly mad, and it helped him sort out his thoughts, so what was the harm?
“Okay… better read the rest of the papers, make sure there’s nothing else important or damning in there. Never know when documentation might come in handy. But best hide it well later…” His eye settled on the one horse he hadn’t sold, and his lips twitched up. “Good thing you kept the stallion. You’ll need an extra animal to move fast with multiple children in hand… damn, did those papers say how many?”
They did not, in point of fact, specify how many children needed rescuing.
“Hmph… hope it’s no more than three. You’ll be hard pressed to carry more with just the two horses… Maybe you can send word, get more witchers on the lookout for the children.” His mare snorted, stamping a hoof. Eadelmaar chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Won’t be much good to anyone if I drop out of your saddle in exhaustion… Okay. Sleep now. Race for Redania tomorrow.” The stallion gave a rumble, likely out of contentment, but it sure sounded like agreement to him.
The Gryphon banked the fire and settled down in his bedroll.
He had a lot of ground to cover in the coming days.
The creation of the lute marks were a godsend.
They were a newer concept, having only been created within the last year or two. The brainchild of Professor Pankratz, they had become invaluable. Inns, shops, magic users, and homes that were witcher friendly were now marked with the lute mark. Eadelmarr’s purse kept a good deal more of his coin since the advent of the Lute marks.
They also served as good hubs to pass messages between witchers.
Eadelmarr trudged into the inn with a sigh, the tension bleeding out of his muscles as the inn’s warmth curled around him. It’d been nothing but rain and bitingly cold wind out of the north for the past three days and he needed a break from it. He wouldn’t be staying, but it would be nice to warm up and grab a hot meal before moving on.
“Ah! Master Witcher! What can I do for you?” The innkeeper bustled up to him, hands wringing through a towel to get the worst of the kitchen mess off them. He had more salt and pepper in his temples then the last time Eadelmarr had passed through.
“I would appreciate a meal.”
“Of course! Will you be wanting a room as well?”
Eadelmarr shook his head. “No. I’m just here for a hot meal, to give myself and my horse a chance to warm up, and to check for any messages. We’ll be on our way again before you lock up for the night.”
“Certainly! There’s another witcher ‘as stopped by for a bite and a minute by the fire. He’s over there, sir, if’n you’d like t’ talk while you wait.”
Eadelmarr followed the innkeeper’s pointing finger across the crowded inn towards the fireplace on the back wall. Sure enough, seated at the table closest to the fire was another witcher. Gold eyes flicked up to meet his own, and eyebrows rose in surprise. Eadelmarr cocked his head, a silent question. The other’s mouth quirked up, and he nodded back.
“I’ll sit with him.” Eadelmarr confirmed.
The innkeeper beamed. “Very good, I’ll have your meal out to ya shortly!”
He trundled off back towards the kitchen, hand towel draped over his shoulder and large serving platter tucked under his arm. His younger brother leaned across the bar to tug at his sleeve as he passed, calling out a couple more orders from those seated on the stools by the bar. The two had been running the inn together for the past three years since their father died, and the inn was flourishing under their care. The stubborn old bastard would’ve done well to let them see to the running long before instead of clinging on to the bitter end as he had.
Eadelmarr turned away, weaving between the various tables and patrons to make it to the witcher by the fire.
The other was broad shouldered, as most of them tended to be. Not the solid burly mountain of muscle that bears tended to be. He didn’t look like a crane, nor did he have the effortless grace of a cat or the unnatural stillness of a viper. That left gryphons, wolves, and manticores. Wolves were damn scarce on the ground these days, gryphons even scarcer. Which left…
He leaned across the table to offer a calloused hand. “Manticore?”
The other met him gladly, offering a warm little smile. “Mikolaj, of the Manticores.” He confirmed easily. “Good guess. Your armor’s pretty distinct. Don’t think I’ve ever met a Gryphon before.”
Eadelmarr clasped the other’s hand warmly. “Not surprised. There’s only two of us left. Eadelmarr, at your service.”
The maticore winced. “I’m sorry. That can’t be easy.”
“Easier than it might’ve been. I was recently put in touch with a surviving brother, who also thought himself the last. He's younger than I by several years, not one I knew before. We've plans to meet up in the fall and get to know each other. And to travel together in the coming years, lest one of us become the last once more.”
“Then I’m happy for you.” Mikolaj asserted, smile genuine and far to understanding as he sat back in his seat. There were far too few witchers for any of them not to understand the grief of brothers lost.
Eadelmarr settled into the seat across from him, studying his fellow witcher. In addition to his swords, he wore a bandoleer across the opposite shoulder, the plethora of little pouches holding gods only knew what. Anyone who had a shred of self preservation would leave those alone. Manticores were well known for their love of explosives, and tended to carry the makings on their person at all times.
His skin was a dark tan, that honestly could’ve been born of heritage or sun, not that Eadelmarr much cared which. He had thick black hair that hung down to his jaw on the right side, the left shorn short.
Eadelmarr gestured along the left side of his own head. “Interesting choice of hair cut.”
“Not my first choice. Had to cut it to get a sticky gods awful mess out of it. But I generally winter in the north these days, and I’ll take the judgmental looks if I have more hair for warmth come winter. The hair doesn’t grow back near as fast as the beard will, so I’ll keep shaving until the first frost.” He tossed back a swig from his mug, a barley beer, if Eadelmarr’s nose served him right. “Where are you bound from here?”
“Redania. I… ” Eadelmarr quieted, accepting a plate and a mug from the inn keep. Once the man was well out of earshot, he picked up the conversation again. “You’d do well to avoid Nilfgaurd, as well as any of its soldiers. They are currently targeting witchers.”
Mikolaj paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. He set it down again and leaned forward, expression shifting to something more serious as his voice dropped to a pitch only another witcher could hear. “Oh? Why? What’s set them on our asses?”
“The princess Cirilla. Seems she hired the White Wolf to hide her, or escort her, I am not certain. But he seems to have performed his duties well. And they are angry enough to take it out on all of us.” He enjoyed a few bites of his meal, giving Mikolaj a moment to digest that. “What’s more... You’ve heard of Professor Pankratz and his students?”
“I’d be dead if it wasn’t for one of his students.” Mikolaj answered immediately. “Bit off more than I could chew. The Ekimmara nest was the biggest I’ve ever heard tell of, and I didn’t realize until I was in the thick of it. Got gutted for my trouble. The idiot in charge saw an opportunity and whipped what was left of the town into a frenzy to finish me off. A teenager managed to get me out and drove all night in a fucking donkey cart to get to a sorceress nearby. Zuzanna was a former student of his. She patched me up and spent the rest of the winter nursing me back to health afterwards… They didn’t take the professor prisoner did they?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Eadelmarr grimaced. “It is far less palatable than that. It seems that the bard Jaskier, and Professor Pankratz are one in the same. And the Nilfgaurdians intend to capitalize on that. They have discerned where his family lives, and have dispatched troops. The professor is not close to his parents, but his younger siblings are another matter. The troops are to take the children hostage, and Nilfgaurd will hold their lives over his head and demand that he betray the White Wolf.”
The manticore’s lip curled in a snarl. “Bastards. Have the whore’s sons taken the children yet?”
Eadelmarr shook his head, turning back to his meal. “I do not know. The only reason I am aware of any of this is because a satchel of marked dispatches fell into my lap. I am making my way to Lettenhove in Redania as quickly as I can, in hopes that I intercepted the only dispatch. Or to collect the children if they have already been taken. I have never had any dealings with Kaer Morhen’s wolves, but I owe the White Wolf and his Bard for putting me in touch with my brother, and a great many other kindnesses besides. I cannot turn away, knowing what I do.”
“Nor I.” Mikolaj pulled a pack out from under the table and rooted out a small journal. “Were you going to bunk here tonight?”
“No, I intended to go on.”
“Good.” He flipped through several pages, nodding to himself when he found what he was looking for, then dug out a map to spread on the table. “I had the good fortune to encounter one of my brothers a couple weeks back. Updated our lists of lute marks. There’s a few along the route we’d need to take. We can leave messages to spread word to any other witchers that stop by.”
Eadelmarr drew up short. “We? You’ll help?”
The grin leveled his way across the table was fierce, and a touch wicked. “I owe the professor. And I’ll not abide anyone that lays hand on a child. I’ll help. My mare’s no sprinter, but she’s solid. We can alternate riding and walking if you’re on foot.”
“I am not.” Eadelmarr’s lips twitched up in a matching mischief. He lightly scratched at his short, neatly trimmed beard. “In fact, I’ve a spare at the moment. Some soldiers were kind enough to offer me one in apology after they quite rudely accosted me on the road. He can carry the children, once we find them.”
“It’s a plan then. If you’ve your book of marks on you, we can compare while we eat.”
Made sense. They’d plan their route more effectively if they pooled information. And it was swiftly becoming common to compare lists when one encountered another witcher. So that even in unfamiliar territory, a witcher would have some general idea of where he might find safe spaces, unbiased healers, and honest merchants.
Eadelmarr passed over his notebook without complaint. He’d edit his once he was done eating. He didn’t often travel up north. It would be nice to have more lute marks should he ever have to head up that way.
Given that that was wolf territory, it seemed more likely by the day.
“Well? Any notice on the boards?” A heavily scarred blond called.
A dark haired Cat witcher flopped down beside the other two Cats beneath the tree they had chosen at the edge of town. The three had each individually heard about a hunt in town, and had run into each other on the road. Given the reputation of Cats, they had agreed to send just Sebastian in to check the boards.
The brunette witcher, Alan, stretched out a leg to nudge Sebastian with a toe. “Well? Don’t keep us in suspense, Seb. Answer Bart’s question. We’re a quiver with anticipation.”
Seb swatted Alan’s foot away. “No contract. Seems someone else beat us to it.” He waited while the other two got their grumbling out of their systems, then added, “ However . There was a message left at the Lute in town.”
The other two perked up.
“The Lute here is the apothecary, right?”
Seb shook his head. “Lute’s the book binder. Decent sort. He’s got a room to let that he’s more’n happy to rent to witchers when the innkeeper’s feeling particularly bigoted.”
Bart made a rolling gesture. “Well? Get on with it, Seb. What’s the message?”
Seb scowled, the stick he’d been toying with snapping in his grasp with a sharp little crack . The other two stilled, sharp eyes narrowing. Cat’s weren’t exactly the most stable witchers on the best of days. It paid to be observant when your brothers were pissed.
“Seems the Nilfgaardians have it out for witchers at the moment. And they’re targeting Jaskier the bard. Which is apparently the stage name of Professor Pankratze.”
Alan flat out growled at the notion.
“Oh are they?” Bart’s voice was cold and flat, scars pulling as he scowled. He slowly pulled himself upright and fished his notebook out of his pack. “Well, we can’t have that , now can we?”
Seb cocked an eyebrow at him. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well…” Bart flashed an innocent smirk at the pair of them, acting as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Well, if I was the wolves, I’d get the bard safely sequestered away at Kaer Morhen. Humans might not remember where the old keep is, but those of us old enough to remember know that the passes up to the castle are nigh on impassible once the snows set in. The wolves will all be heading north. So . If we were to spread the word and, perhaps, suggest that everyone else should spread rumors that the White Wolf and his Bard are headed elsewhere…?”
Alan visibly started to calm.
Seb grinned and fetched out his notebook and a map. “You know, that’s a thought. If we split up and went in opposite directions. Left messages at as many Lutes as possible…”
“ Precisely… ” Bart finished. He scooted closer and laid his book beside Seb’s. “Come on now, Alan. Get your notebook and get over here. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Here you are, Mister Witcher. Is there aught else you’ll be needin’ then?”
Alek of the Bears shook his head, counting out the coin onto the counter. “No, that’ll do. Though, if you’ve any messages to be passed on, I’d be grateful for the courtesy.”
“Hm? Oh! Yes, hold on just a moment, Sir. There was a message, if I remember right.” The store owner darted back into her storage rooms, returning minutes later with a dusty book that had clearly seen better days. Alek had to suppress the urge to sneeze at the bloom of dust when she thumped it down on the counter.
Oblivious, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and opened the book to the most recent page. “Ah! Here we are! … Oh. Um, Mister Witcher? It says here that the Nilfgaardians are angry at you witchers. And that they’re trying to hunt down someone named Professor Pankratze and Jaskier the bard?”
“They’re what?!” Alek bit back any further outburst, motioning her on.
Gratifyingly, she didn’t seem the least bit worried about his outburst, instead shooting him a look full of sympathy as she glanced back down at her book. “Exactly that, Sir. The message says that everyone is to pass the word and try to steer the Nilfgaardians away from them. I take it they’re not witchers?”
“No. But they’re near and dear to us all for their kindness.” Alek affirmed. “Anything else?” She shook her head, and he hurriedly gathered up his purchases into his pack. “Then I’d best be off. Thank you for passing the message along. Tell me, is there a mage in this town that can send messages?”
“There is! She’s on the far side of the market. Look for the red awning.”
“Thank you.”
Alek strode out of the shop and made his way across the crowded market. Melittel’s tits, he’d be damned if he stood by and did nothing while those curs hunted the professor like an animal. There weren’t many witchers that he counted as friends, but he should have enough coin to warn them. And if more sightings came in from other corners of the continent, it would muddy the waters and make it a hell of a lot harder for the search parties to track Pankratze down.
Alek smirked.
The Nilfgaardian’s just kicked a hornet’s nest.
The White Wolf of Kaer Morhen.
The Bloody Butcher of Blaviken.
After being a ghost for all that they’d been able to pin down a location, abruptly the Nilfgaardians found themselves with the opposite problem. Now reports were coming in from all corners of the continent. Many from countries that they were decidedly not in control of. Countries that they weren’t welcome in. Where it would be exceedingly difficult to get confirmation.
There were a plethora of sightings of the bard too.
Some of them coincided with sightings of the Butcher, but more didn’t. Which wasn’t unusual, given that the two seemed to part ways and join up again as the fancy struck them. With the exception of the winters. The bard usually returned to Oxenfurt then. Or at least he used to. They’d missed their chance to catch him there twice already, his appearances there growing more and more random each year. The fact that he still had a job there was a testament to his skill as a musician and educator.
Much to the irritation of the headmaster.
But no matter. They had leads now. Said leads would be difficult to chase, but that would hardly deter them. The powers that be set to work, dispatching soldiers and spies to hunt down the Princess Cirilla and the Butcher with renewed determination.
Bonus Memes!
