bookbashuk Chapter 6 Amber and Iron
Chapter 6 Amber and Iron
However, the shadow of the hood cannot cover everything.
Amber-colored vertical pupils.
Like a snake, like a cat, like some kind of creature lurking in the darkness that is definitely not human.
The leader's smile, which was near Kiliam, suddenly froze, as if frozen in the cold wind. His Adam's apple bobbed violently, and his lips parted in a trembling voice that was much sharper than he had expected.
"Damn! A mutant..."
The moment the word left his lips, Kiliam adjusted his center of gravity. All the muscles in his body tensed, his back slightly arched, and the fingers of his right hand silently spread, ready to reach over his shoulder and grab the hilt of the sword on his back.
He silently calculated the distance and time in his mind. The heavy crossbowman was on the mound, about fifteen paces away, and it would take him less than a second for the bolt to reach him. If the crossbowman pulled the trigger, he was confident he could dodge to the side before the bolt arrived, provided he could anticipate the timing of the shot half a breath in advance.
This wasn't the first time he'd faced such a situation.
The discrimination against witchers in the North is more consistent and reliable than the Northern winter. Those civilians and soldiers, lacking entertainment, would never care if they took out their frustrations on a mutant with strange eyes before the claws of a water monster even touched their necks.
Insults, stones, being turned away, and occasionally even worse. Kilyam had seen it far too many times, so much so that the hostility had become background noise, like the sound of the wind and the chirping of insects—unpleasant, but not worth getting angry about.
Of course, not getting angry and not fighting back are two different things.
Simply killing an impolite employer doesn't guarantee that new commissions will spring up like crops in a field next spring. Poverty in the North means that wealth is concentrated in the hands of a very few, and if the lord of one baron hears that a witcher has killed his patrolman, the next baron will hang a sign at the city gate that reads "Witchers and dogs not allowed."
In this respect, the North and Nilfgaard are completely different worlds. The South is full of wealthy merchants; kill one who doesn't know the rules, and ten more will be lining up to hire you. The North is different; every Oren in the North must be earned and spent with utmost care.
So he chose another way.
"Raise your crossbow two inches," Kiliam's voice was calm, non-aggressive, and without a trace of fear. "You're aiming for my stomach now. Even if you hit it, it won't kill me; it will only make me very, very difficult to deal with."
He paused, shifting his gaze from the crossbowmen to slowly sweeping it across the faces of each soldier.
"When the water monsters gnaw at your fence, they don't check if you have witcher blood first. You and I are just meat in their eyes. The only difference is, I know how to turn them into dead meat."
A moment of silence.
The soldiers exchanged glances, the hesitation and unease characteristic of humans facing the unknown spreading among them like a contagious disease. The leader's hand unconsciously reached for the short sword at his waist, but he didn't draw it.
Then, an unexpected sound broke the deadlock.
The heavy crossbowman let out a short, mocking laugh. Surprisingly, the laugh contained little malice, but rather a hint of barely suppressed excitement.
"Look at his back!" The heavy crossbowman pointed at Kiliam's shoulder, his voice booming like a market vendor's cry. "Two swords! My uncle said that anyone carrying two swords is a Witcher!"
He leaned the crossbow against his leg, stretched out from the mound, and extended a hand covered in frostbite and calluses, tapping with interest a mark on the side of the crossbow. It was a pattern crookedly carved with a dagger, the lines so rough that the original shape was almost unrecognizable, but upon closer inspection, one could vaguely make out the profile of some kind of animal, probably a wolf's head.
"When I was in Oxenford," he said, beaming, "well, not studying there, but delivering drinks to taverns. But I saw a witcher's badge with my own eyes! Almost like this one I'm carving, a wolf's head! My uncle said in your line of work, you don't care if the employer is a nobleman or a farmer, as long as Oren pays well."
The spearman next to him gave him a "you're here again" look, the kind of numbness and helplessness that only someone forced to hear the same story more than ten times would have.
Kiliam glanced at the rough engraving. To be honest, if he hadn't known beforehand that it was a wolf's head, he would probably have guessed it was a frog run over by a carriage.
"If we're only talking about monsters that threaten lives," he said slowly, his guard easing slightly, "generally speaking, that's how it is."
His nostrils caught a faint, sour smell of ale emanating from the bulging leather flasks at the soldiers' waists. Intoxication is a double-edged sword; sometimes it amplifies malice, and sometimes, due to clouded judgment, it can surprisingly give rise to a few acts of kindness.
Judging from the current situation, luck is on the side of goodwill.
Kiliam pulled a badge from his collar. The metal gleamed in the dim light of the day. Although its shape and patterns were not those of the Wolf School that the soldiers had seen, the unique casting technique and the way it was worn spoke volumes.
The crossbowman's eyes lit up, like a child seeing irrefutable proof of his boasting. He jumped down from the mound, leaned close to his companion, and spoke in a low voice, but to Kiliam's mutated and enhanced ears, it sounded no different from normal speech.
"See? I told you he was a witcher. They're definitely different from those mutant monsters warlocks talk about. My uncle said witchers are there to protect humans!"
"Alright, alright, it was all your uncle's fault." The spearman next to him rolled his eyes, but his grip on the spear shaft loosened considerably, and the paleness of his knuckles was fading. "I was almost scared to death just now. I thought he was going to pounce on me like a water ghost."
"Water ghosts can't speak human language, you idiots," another spearman muttered.
"How did you know? Did you chat with a water ghost?"
"I've talked to a water ghost with your head."
Kiliam tucked the badge back into his collar, silently observing the group. The hostility was visibly fading, replaced by a complex mix of curiosity, fear, and some inexplicable anticipation. He'd seen this transformation far too many times; one moment they'd want to crucify you, the next they might be kneeling before you, begging you to kill the ghouls in their cellar.
That's just how humans are. They're forever caught between fear and need. Witchers may have lost most of their emotions, but ironically, this has given them a clearer understanding of how human emotions work than most humans. Like a chess spectator who can't play, they often foresee the game's direction before the players themselves.
“You have a very knowledgeable uncle,” Kiliam said to the crossbowman, his tone genuinely sincere. “Give him my regards. These days, there aren’t many people who would rather tell their nephew a Witcher story than a Witcher joke.”
The crossbowman grinned, clearly taking the words as a high compliment.
In his experience, showing a moderate amount of kindness to ordinary people can sometimes bring unexpected rewards. A hot meal, a dry bed, or a tip about something worth hunting nearby.
"However," he tilted his head slightly to look at the leader, "if you don't need anyone to deal with the water ghost problem at the camp, just let me through. I have an employer waiting in Velen, and if I'm delayed too long, I'm worried he'll probably find someone else."
The team leader's expression changed in an instant.
The change was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone other than a Witcher. His pupils contracted slightly, and the muscles at the corners of his mouth twitched, as if struck by a sudden thought. His gaze shifted from Giliam's face, swept over the two crossed sword hilts behind him, and then returned to his face.
Then, a completely new smile bloomed on that face that had still retained a hint of wariness. Kilyam had seen that smile many times before—fawning, obsequious, with a greasy enthusiasm that seemed to say, "I've just had a brilliant idea."
"Master! Of course, Master!"
Grandmaster.
Kiliam pondered the title in his mind. Rare. Extremely rare. In the northern lands, the common people's respectful address for witchers usually only came when a monster's jaws were about to bite them. The rest of the time, he heard words like "freak," "mutant," and "outcast" as naturally as breathing.
Humans discriminate against other races, hating any race different from themselves with equal and unwavering defiance. Elves, dwarves, witchers—in their eyes, they are all merely targets of different flavors. And this hatred is even more intense in the harsh northern kingdoms, like strong liquor in winter, easily ignited.
Witchers were once human. But the word "once" is clearly never enough in the face of prejudice.
Oren had recently spent too much on alchemy materials, leaving his purse so light that he had to take every potential commission seriously. And commissions from the military were usually not too expensive.
At least, it was much more respectable than the farmers receiving three chickens and half a bag of flour as payment.
"A commission?" Giliam made his tone professional, the manner of a witcher discussing business—neither humble nor arrogant, but businesslike. "You know what I do. Just tell me: the location of the sighting, the time of the sighting, how many people died. Tell me that, I'll give you a price, and then we'll each go our separate ways."
The team leader's lips moved, as if he was urgently rehearsing his words in his mind.
"Uh...not at the moment...no!" He quickly changed his tune, his hesitation written all over his face, impossible to hide. "I mean, this isn't our decision. If you're willing to come to the camp with us, perhaps...perhaps there's something suitable for you."
He spoke haltingly, clearly making up this reason on the spot.
Kiliam frowned.
He could take a stroll around the perimeter of the military camp without any trouble. But the leader's words clearly implied more than that. He was referring to the "camp," the kind of regular camp with iris flags flying, patrolling cavalry and fortified with barricades and chevaux-de-frise.
An unnamed witcher is invited to a military camp to meet a "mysterious person".
In his experience, such matters rarely ended with a simple commission to exterminate the water ghosts. Like Eskel of the Wolf School, he never liked getting involved in noble disputes. Noble affairs were like quicksand in a swamp; they might seem ankle-deep, but once you stepped in, you found yourself up to your neck.
Before he could refuse, a soft clanging of metal came from behind him. Two spearmen had silently moved behind him; although their spears weren't level and aimed directly at him, the direction the spearheads were pointing was enough to tell the story.
Kilyam silently curled his right hand fingers, forming the starting hand gesture for the Alder sign.
Then the team leader spoke.