The Divine Hunter

The semi-circular port of Cintra basked under the first rays of dawn. Approaching it were the battleships of Skellige, their sails tied up, the emblems upon them gleaming. The masts stood up high like trees of a forest populating the coast of Cintra.

A group of armed, burly men swiftly and quietly disembarked from the ships. Unlike the landlubbers, these men were wearing dark-colored capes, and elbow guards and leg guards that looked like they were made of the hide of all manners of beasts. Wooly, patterned belts hung from their waists, and circular shields were strapped to their backs. Swords hung from their belts, and a battle axe was held in their hands. Some wore horned helmets, while some wore regular helmets. But all of them had a piece of metal guarding their nose, lending these warriors a fierce look. Their beards and chest hair that protruded from their armor swayed as they walked ahead.

"Crach, Tkacik, Dona…" Eist hugged the leaders of these sailors. "Freya bless you. Thank you for lending a hand to us."

"Uncle Eist, it's only been a year, but you look like you've been through hell. What happened?" A burly, unkempt red-haired man looked at Eist with worry.

"I suffered a defeat." Eist shook his head in despondence. His eyes were bloodshot after Eist stayed up the whole night, and a perpetual frown was covering his forehead. Strands of grey hair hid on his scalp, and he seemed to have aged years in a single night. "I failed my people. All my soldiers perished in the battle. All ten thousand of them." Eist hung his head low in disgrace. "And yet I returned to this city with my tail between my legs like a coward."

"Ye be the three-time reignin' champion back on the isles. If ye be a coward, then wha' bout yer lessers?" Sea Boar shook his head. "Ain't ye fault ye lost. Them Nilfgaardian dogs are ter blame fer this. An' we're here ter help. We're gonna kick those sons o' bitches back to their momma's asses."

"Ter hell with them Nilfgaardian dogs!" the other leaders shouted in unison.

Crach asked. "Speakin' of which, where be Aunt Calanthe?"

"Back at the castle, healing up. She's not in the best of health." A hint of worry filled his eyes. "But this is not the time to talk. A crisis is upon us, so come with me."

The next battle was drawing closer, and Eist's scout brought back with him a piece of bad news. After their victory in Marnadal, the troops of Nilfgaard were making their way to Cintra unabated. Not once did they stop to take a break. It was obvious they wished to take Cintra down in one fell swoop. At best, they would be at Cintra's doorstep in half a day.

***

Eist and Cintra's royalty led forty-five hundred Skellige sailors—five hundred were left on the battleships lest the enemy attack through the waters—through the road leading back to the gates of Cintra.

Windows of the citizens' abodes were wide open. Standing within the houses were people with eyes filled with untold sorrow. Women and children, all of them. Most of the men in Cintra had gone to war, and all perished. All became food for the vultures no doubt still circling the skies of Marnadal. Orphans and widows, these people were.

The influx of soldiers bolstered their confidence, albeit only marginally. Their sadness could never be soothed, their nerves still tensing up with every passing second.

***

Cintra was surrounded by a vast sea. The city walls stood high and mighty, and all were made of sturdy granite. They stood as a defense against any intruder, facing the great wilderness extending beyond the walls. Not too far beneath the walls, a deep moat slept. The soldiers stood atop the walls, keeping an eye out for their surroundings. All of them were ready for war.

Crackling hearths were aplenty on the walls. Sitting over them were pots and cauldrons filled with oil just ready to be heated up. Rows of basalt boulders and logs big enough to require two men just to hold them up sat around. All weapons to hold off the invaders who would invariably try to climb the walls.

The looming gates standing in the center of the walls were slammed shut. Bestowed with magic, the gates were a lot sturdier than any mortal steel. It was nigh impossible to break it from the outside.

Standing before the gates was a young, red-haired sorceress. Triss had her hair tied up in a ponytail, and she was weaving a complex gesture in the air. A necessary move to enhance the defenses of the gates.

Beyond these walls, the wilderness stood. There on the horizon, an army of black-armored soldiers was making its way to Cintra like a wave of darkness. Nilfgaard's infantry and cavalry were swiftly closing the distance to Cintra, the silver sun on their flags billowing in the wind.

"Look alive, lads. Got a tough battle ahead of us." Crach turned around. He unsheathed his blade and held it high above his head. Solemnly, he said, "The House of Craite'll face these mangy curs first. E'eryone else, rest up. We need ya to tag in soon enough."

***

And then, the voice of Ciri broke Calanthe's train of thought. "Grandma! You need to get Grandpa here right now. We need to leave for Novigrad!" Willful Ciri leapt to her grandmother, shaking her arm. "I don't wanna go alone. I'm scared."

"Now is not the time to be selfish, Ciri. You must leave with the witchers." Calanthe gave the witchers a look.

Geralt was still in a daze. The news of Jerome's death hadn't yet settled in completely. But by instinct, he patted Ciri's head.

"I'm not going anywhere!" Ciri burst into tears, her cheeks crimson. "They say we lost the war, and everyone's dead! If I leave, I'm never gonna have the chance to come back. To see you anymore. I'm not going!" She sobbed. "Not unless you come with me!"

"Who told you that?" Calanthe's face fell, fury and sadness weling in her eyes. She wanted to lie to Ciri once more, but the queen decided against it. "Ciri, I do not wish to lie anymore. Our kingdom is faced with a predicament even as we speak, but we will not be defeated. Once we lay claim to victory, Eist and I will travel to Novigrad. To see you. Now, be a good girl and do as I say, alright?"

"If you can win this, then why can't I stay? I saw it. I saw everything. Everyone's gonna die. Grandpa, Roy… Everyone!" Ciri muttered in sorrow.

"What did you see?"

"Grandma, the people of Cintra are no cowards. I'm a Cintran as well, and I am no coward. I will stay with you until we win this war!"

"Silence! Geralt, Roy, take her away!"

"Grandma, I swear, if you make me leave, I'm just going to sneak back to Cintra. I'd rather die with my people than escape a battle!" The girl turned around to face the witchers, and she snarled like a bristling kitten. "You take me away and you'll be my enemies for life."

The girl rested her head on Calanthe's lap, staring at her grandmother with tear-filled eyes. "Let me stay, Grandma. I'm not leaving unless you're coming with me."

Calanthe exhaled a long, long sigh. "Geralt, I'll need you to keep an eye out for Ciri over the next few days. Thank you."

"I'll chip in as well." Mousesack entered the chambers, still wearing his antlered helmet as usual. And a wooden staff was strapped to his back. "We'll keep the girl safe. Until she meets her destiny."

Calanthe stared at the young witcher, her eyes filled with resignation and a hint of complaint. "As for you, Roy, you may attend Triss if you wish. Keep her safe. She's imperative to the upkeep of Cintra's gates. As long as the gates remain unbroken, the Nilfgaardians shall never break us."

"Be careful, mate. Stay out of danger." Geralt tensed up and patted Roy's shoulder.

***

In the horizon, the sun set, and dusk took the place of light. As if on cue, the Nilfgaardian troops launched their assault. It was supposed to be a silent night, but the air was filled with shouts and screams, not unlike a marketplace in the morning. A chaotic, bloody marketplace.

The torches on Cintra's wall shone upon the busy soldiers. The Nilfgaardian troops were split into dozens of divisions, pushing their wheeled ladders over to the wall. These ladders were equipped with grapples and shields, and the soldiers easily pushed past the moat. Onward to the walls they went, and they attacked from different directions.

The archers launched a hail of flaming arrows down on the city, but most of it was fended off by the Cintran forces. Soldiers of Skellige stood behind the ladders that had grappled themselves onto the wall, their axes gleaming from the light of the flames. As one soldier held his shield up, two more picked up a log. The moment a Nilfgaardian soldier reared their head, they would let the log slip.

And down the ladder they went. A sickening crunch echoed through the air as the Nilfgaardian soldier was sent tumbling down the ladder. He lay on the ground, his breathing shallow. Every breath he took would end up with him coughing up more blood. His chest had caved in, and his limbs were bent at unnatural angles.

Yet his sacrifice failed to stop the falling log's momentum. Down and down it went, until it slammed into the ground like a giant, smashing a few soldiers into pancakes.

***

Some of the more aggressive Skellige soldiers opted for the brutal basalt boulders. The rain of these boulders was nothing less than a disaster for the Nilfgaardian vanguard. The ones who were hit only managed to let out a howl, and then they lay on the ground, unmoving, their helmets caving in.

Some were hit on the back or chest. The broken bones of these soldiers punctured their internal organs, killing them slowly and painfully.

***

Some of those soldiers opted for a hotter solution. These soldiers were covered in brigandine, their arms shielded with thick gloves. They pushed the cauldrons of sizzling hot oil like it was some sort of carriage, and then… They poured the scalding oil down on the invaders.

This was a nightmare.

Any Nilfgaardian soldier, if they were splashed by the oil even just a little, would start to cook. Smoke would billow from their flesh, rotting and melting them. The oil was not as destructive as the logs, but one little drop was enough to make a soldier roll around in agony, taking them out of commission. Only those who had shields managed to defend themselves against the oil.

***

But that wasn't the extent of Cintra's defenses. Two hundred Cintran infantry units—the soldiers in blue armor with the emblem of Cintra emblazoned on their chests—fired off at the invading Nilfgaardian forces.

But most of their arrows were deflected by the enemy's sturdy armor. Even if some of them were unlucky enough to be hit, there would be more soldiers taking their place as they were taken back to the enemy base for treatment.

Bows and crossbows couldn't do much damage, especially at night when vision was impaired. Well, for most people, weapons like these couldn't do much. But there was someone very special among them that night.

A man, slender and lean. With eyes as wild as a beast's. Though he was wearing Cintran armor, he insisted on pairing it up with a pair of tight pants. Odd, most people would think.

The man paced back and forth. The walls were great for both offense and defense. Already he had fired multiple shots at the incoming invaders, his bolt arcing through the air like silver flashes of death.

Every shot he took would claim a life, and it did not take the Nilfgaardians long to notice they had a superb marksman among the enemy. Thus, the young man found himself having to face the brunt of this army's attack.

A Nilfgaardian crossbowman who was hiding behind the moat set his sights on Roy, and he fired off a shot.

The bolt barely grazed Roy, but that was enough to smash Quen into pieces. The witcher ducked behind the walls right away to recast Quen. Once Quen's protective light shimmered around him once more, Roy pulled the trigger of his Gabriel.

A bolt tore through the air like a silver thread, and it turned a corner. Not a moment later, the bolt found itself piercing the crossbowman who had tried to take aim at Roy earlier. And the crossbowman dropped dead.

"Alright. It's hunting time." Roy inhaled sharply and stuck his head out, assuming his firing position. His eyes shone in the night, not unlike a cat's. Even through the darkness, our young witcher could see the hidden archers and crossbowmen of the Nilfgaardian troops. Then the world was quiet. All the shouts and screams, all the sounds of steel cutting through flesh and oil cooking the enemy soldiers, all the crunching of bones being shattered… All of them, gone.

He pulled the trigger once more, and a bolt sent one Nilfgaardian crossbowman flying into the wall beside the moat. The crossbowman crashed into the granite with a sickening crunch. As he slowly slid to the ground, what was left behind was a blooming flower painted on the walls with the blood of the enemy.

"Nice shot!" The Skellige soldier closest to Roy whistled. He lifted an obsidian boulder, veins popping on his arms. His face turned red, his nose twitched, and with a bellow, the soldier tossed that boulder into the distance.

Two Nilfgaardian soldiers fell, their helmets caved in.

"You aren't half bad either."

A rain of arrows fell upon Roy. At long last, Nilfgaard's archers found their quarry. One of the arrows whizzed through the air, going past the marble stones, and then it finally reached Roy. Yet this time, the witcher did not move. Instead, he pulled the trigger once more.

A gasp of agony rang into the night skies only to be overwhelmed by the shouts and screams of war. One archer slumped to the ground like a puppet whose strings were cut. His brain matter and blood splattered all over his comrades, and they rained down even more arrows on Roy.

Yet another bolt hit Quen, but it was deflected. Roy blew a lock of his fringe away and pulled the trigger again. Another deadly bolt flew through the air, and one of the archers let out a scream of horror. He clutched the bloody hole the bolt bore through his chest, and the archer knelt in Roy's direction like a devout believer meeting his god.

The death of another archer sent the enemy into a panic. There were nearly ten of them, and Roy was alone. But still he managed to hit them, even though there were nearly thirty yards between them. Even after raining down a hail of arrows on Roy, he still was unhurt.

And his bolts were incredibly powerful. A single hit was enough to take their lives, unless they were shot in their limbs. And to the enemies' horror, Roy's bolts were guided. They could change directions if needed.

Two of the remaining archers were starting to feel fear. They hid beneath the moat, losing their courage to fight Roy. But their companions felt their fighting spirit roar. They wished to keep on their battle with Roy.

That was a mistake they would never do again.

A while later, what used to be a cover for a group of Nilfgaardian archers was now decorated with the cold, lifeless corpses of the very same archers who were taking cover there.

And the only injury Roy sustained was on his right arm. He pulled the arrow out without flinching at all. The young witcher heaved a sigh and poured some liquor on the open wound. Without warning, Roy swiveled around and fired another shot. This time, the bolt found itself buried in the face of a Nilfgaardian soldier who was about to slice off the head of a Skellige soldier.

Blood burst forth, and the soldier slid down the ladder.

"By Freya! I owe ya one. Name's Jorn Ettusack." The bearded man rubbed his nape, a shudder running down his spine. He grinned toothily, his teeth yellow. Gratefully, he said, "Wouldja tell me ya name? Would like ter treat ya ter a drink or two af'er the war's o'er."

"Auckes. See you after the battle."

The little episode was swiftly brushed aside, and our warriors jumped back into battle.

***

Well, Roy was mostly firing off bolt after bolt. Every moment, at least one Nilfgaardian soldier would drop dead, their corpses dragged into the darkness.

Hours had gone by since the night assault. Once again, dawn slowly rose over the horizon. The Nilfgaardian troop had sustained heavy casualties, but Cintra, on the other hand, only sustained one-fifth of Nilfgaard's death toll thanks to their defenses and high ground.

At some point, the witcher lost count of the number of Nilfgaardian soldiers he killed, though it certainly weren't a few. He killed so many, it was enough to fill his EXP bar, and then some.

'Level 10 Witcher (9000/8500).'

But before dawn could fully break through the horizon, Nilfgaard made a change to their approach. A few gigantic machines, black and horrifying, stood within the enemy base far in the distance.

***

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