Chapter 11: A Gwent Game to Save the World

Zeilin stared at the shimmering tear in reality Francesca had ripped open, his lips pressed into a thin line. Portals. If he had a choice, he’d take days on a sore-arsed horse over stepping through one of these things. Hell, he’d rather ride through a bloody blizzard. Knew it was harmless, mostly. But stepping into a portal always felt like sticking your bare hand into a hive full of pissed-off hornets. Usually, he only had to suffer through them when the Conclave of Mages held their damn meetings on Thanedd. Looked like this year, he was in for an extra dose of misery.

"What… what is that?" Artoria breathed, her eyes wide as she stared at the dark gold vortex swirling into existence in their cramped room. Its edges blazed like fire, darkening towards a center as deep and empty as a starless night. The portal solidified, a shimmering wound in the air. The girl had clearly never seen magic like this. Her hand twitched towards the sword at her hip, but when she saw Zeilin standing there, looking about as thrilled as a man about to be gelded, her gauntleted hand slowly dropped. Didn't miss that, though.

"Portal," Zeilin grunted. "If Lady Francesca here hasn't had too much fruit wine and accidentally opened this one up at the bottom of the bloody ocean, then the other side should be Mahakam." He pretended not to notice her little jump. Most folk's first time seeing a portal was a damn sight uglier. He remembered his own first encounter, back at the Griffin School. Thought some new kind of monster was tearing its way into the world. Years on the Path, though. A dragon could land on his head now, and he’d probably just ask if it wanted a game of Gwent. He gestured towards the shimmering doorway. "Supposedly harmless. Uh… first time through, you might feel a bit… queasy. Don't fight it. Just relax. And if the light gets too bright, shut your eyes. It's over in a blink. Only thing is, when you come out, you'll feel like something's given you a good shove from behind. Try not to land on your arse."

"I am not some third-rate hedge-witch who’d open a portal into the sea, Witcher. Though, perhaps three hundred yards above Mahakam… that might be amusing. See if Witchers can truly fly," Francesca shot back, hands on her hips, a sarcastic glint in her elven eyes. She turned to Artoria, her voice all honeyed charm. "Come now, child. Don't be afraid. It's just a doorway, not some beast waiting to swallow you whole. Pay no mind to this Witcher's grumbling. Magic is perfectly safe. Especially when wielded by someone who knows what they're doing." She took the girl's hand, bold as brass, and led her into the swirling light. 

Zeilin snorted. Knew her game. For a girl new to this world's magic, going through with an Archmage probably felt a damn sight safer than trusting a Witcher who treated magic like a bad smell. He shook his head, then stepped in after them. For an instant, blinding white light. Nothing like the dark, swirling entrance. Just… white. Everywhere. Infinite brightness, infinite depth. He couldn't feel his own body, couldn't move. No sound, no smell, no anything. This was why he hated portals. Stripped you bare, took away everything you relied on. A second stretched into an eternity. Or maybe it was just a blink. Time got twisted up in these things. Then, like a soap bubble popping, the world rushed back in. He stumbled, thrown out of the portal, but years of practice had taught him how to land on his feet. The hard, rocky ground under his worn leather boots felt blessedly real. He was back. A cool mountain breeze, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, ruffled his hair. Quiet. Just the chirping of crickets and the crunch of his boots on the loose scree. He took a deep breath, scanned for Artoria. Found her a few paces away, sitting on her arse, looking pale as a ghost. First portal ride. Never a pleasant experience. But no scrapes, no dirt from a fall. Francesca was standing beside her, looking entirely unruffled. She saw him, beckoned. "Took you long enough. The others are waiting. Full moon tonight, Witcher. We're short on time. Miss this window, and we wait another month."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Zeilin shrugged. The portal behind him winked out of existence, its magic spent. He walked over to Artoria. She looked a bit better, color returning to her cheeks. "You alright? Got a flask of Temerian ale, if you're feeling rough. Settles the stomach." He glanced up. Dark clouds, thick as thieves, choked the sky, swallowing most of the stars and the moon. But he could still read the signs. Francesca was right. Two hours past midnight, on a full moon… that's when the chaotic energies of this world were at their peak. And it was already well past midnight. "Sorry. Don't think we've got much time for a breather. Clock's ticking."

"I'm… fine." She took the flask he offered, managed a small sip. Grabbed his arm, let him pull her to her feet. "That feeling… it was… unpleasant. But let's go. If this gets me back to Britain, I'll endure it again."

"Britain's lucky to have you, then," Zeilin grunted, tucking the flask back into his belt pouch. He fell into step beside her, following Francesca deeper into the mountains.

Mahakam. A knot of mountains tangled up at the borders of Temeria, Aedirn, Sodden, and Lyria. Smack in the middle of the Northern Kingdoms, more or less. Not empty, though. This was dwarf country. Non-humans, mostly dwarves, called it home. Technically under Temerian rule, but the King of Temeria mostly left them to their own devices. High degree of autonomy, they called it. Their banner was a pair of crossed black hammers on a pale yellow field. Rich in ore, these mountains. Home of the best damn smiths in the world. Most of the North's mines, foundries, forges, armories – they were all here. The iron they dug out? Best quality you could find, anywhere. And the weapons and armor they crafted? Dwarves and gnomes, masters of their trade. Biggest supplier of steel in the North. Everyone bought from Mahakam – Northern Kingdoms, even bloody Nilfgaard. But if the dwarves didn't want you in their mountains, you wouldn't find your way in, or out. Probably why the girl had wandered for days without seeing a single one of them.

"We've an agreement with Brouver Hoog, the elder here," Francesca explained as they walked, her voice echoing slightly in the narrow pass. "He's keeping his folk clear of this area. No interruptions while we conduct the ritual." She added, "Not all dwarves are happy with Hoog's rule, of course. But the dissenters… they tend not to stay in Mahakam for long."

"So, no meddling dwarves to worry about, then?" Zeilin asked. Good. Fighting dwarves on their own turf, in these mountains? Bad idea. Probably why the high-and-mighty Conclave had stooped to actually negotiating with them. Whatever deal Francesca and her mage-mates had struck, it suited Zeilin just fine. Less trouble for him.

"You could say that." Their destination wasn't far from the portal site. Just around a rocky outcrop, and then he saw it – a ruined castle, clinging to the mountainside like a dying beast. Looked ancient. Walls crumbling, riddled with cracks big enough to see through in places. Looked like a strong gust of wind could bring the whole damn thing tumbling down. But he could see the ghost of its former strength. Built right into the rock, a fortress. With enough supplies, the garrison could have held off an army.

The courtyard was a wilderness of weeds. Nature reclaiming its own, now that the masters were gone. A few straggly laurel trees huddled near the walls. Looked like someone had planted them, once, a long time ago. Now, neglected, they were withered and sad. Besides the weeds, a few gnarled fruit trees, and the rustle of rats in the rubble, Zeilin saw them – the "others" Francesca had mentioned. Hen Gedymdeith. Tissaia de Vries. Vilgefortz of Roggeveen. Artaud Terranova. And Francesca herself. The whole damn Grand Chapter of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, all five Archmages. That sent a shiver down Zeilin's spine. A bad one. He hadn't seen this many top-tier mages in one place since… well, never. Not even when the Wild Hunt had last been sighted. And besides the mages, a few familiar, grim faces. Witchers.

"Zeilin! About damn time!" One of them, wearing a Griffin medallion like his own, spotted him and strode over. George. A bit younger than Zeilin, but not by much. Good lad, for a Griffin. "Heard some tales about you from a Kaedwenian merchant. Keeping busy, then?"

"Busy enough, George. You?" Zeilin waved a hand, a noncommittal gesture. "What beast are you chasing these days?" 

"Heard tell of a dragon. Adult green. Last seen in Velen. Was just heading that way when these… mages… collared me," George sighed, clearly pissed off. "Been on that dragon's trail for three months. Damn it all, I don't want to lose it now. And they say we've got to wait another half hour! Gods, that beast can cover leagues in half an hour!" As George grumbled, the other three Witchers ambled over. Medallions told their schools: a Wolf, a Viper, a Bear. Zeilin knew two of them.

"Don't fret, George. Maybe the green dragon's found a nice spot for a barbecue, waiting for you," Zeilin said, trying to lighten the mood. He turned to the others. "Geralt. Didn't expect to see you here. And Letho. Thought you were down south, trying to rebuild the Viper School in Nilfgaard." He nodded to them, then to the last one, the Bear. A stranger, this one. Built like his namesake, that was for sure. "Five Witchers, five mages. Nice round number. What is this, a party to save the world? Or just a setup for a Gwent tournament?"

"Mages are still fussing with their glowing bits. Wouldn't mind a game myself," the Bear rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. "Name's Gerd. Pleasure." Zeilin shook hands all around. Then he looked at George, Geralt, and Letho. George was still fuming about his dragon. Geralt and Letho… not much for small talk, those two. But Zeilin knew their weaknesses.

 "Heard stories about you in Kaedwen, Geralt of Rivia. Master of dice, they say. And cards. Fancy a warm-up duel before we find out what fresh hell these mages have cooked up for us?" With a grin, Zeilin pulled out his Gwent deck. "Come on. Still got time. Why not have a little fun?"