Chapter 14: Utterly Merciless

I tell you truly.
The age of the sword and axe is nigh.
The age of the Wolf's Blizzard is nigh.
The age of the White Frost and White Light is nigh.
The age of Madness and Contempt is nigh.
The Time of Endings – the world will die amidst frost and be reborn with the new sun.
The Elder Blood will be reborn, from a seed that has long been sown – a seed that will not sprout but burst into flame.

Seven short lines. Yet every educated soul on the Continent knew Ithlinne's Prophecy, the elven seer's vision of the end of all things, from a time lost to memory. And no one dismissed it as mere elven fancy. They'd seen the White Frost that rode with the Wild Hunt. Seen its terrible power. Nothing survived where it passed. Even in the peak of summer, that cursed ice wouldn't melt. If the White Frost ever truly blanketed the Continent… it’d be the end for every living thing.

Zeilin knew the Hunt brought the Frost. Why? That was a question for mages and elves, and they weren't telling any Witchers, that was for damn sure. He hunched down, keeping well inside Francesca’s shimmering shield, his eyes fixed on the portal as it vomited out more of that killing cold. He shot a sideways glance at the elf-witch. Sweat beaded on her temples. "Gods, Francesca, do something! That frost is eating everything!"

"I see it, Witcher!" she snapped back, her usual elven composure cracking. "But something's fighting us! Something on the other side of that bloody gate is holding it open!" Her outstretched arm, slender and pale, trembled visibly, her silk sleeve plastered to her skin with sweat. "The Hunt's Navigators! It has to be! We can barely hold the portal stable, let alone close it! And there's more than one… if those bastards keep trying to widen it from their side… Damn them all! We have to stop them!"

The Wild Hunt. Not of this world. Everyone knew that much. Where they came from? That was anyone’s guess. Theories aplenty, none worth a damn. Only thing certain was their power to rip holes between worlds. The ones who did the ripping, their mages, they called Navigators.
And Navigators, Zeilin knew, were bad news. Powerful magic, like any sorcerer. Without a mage of his own at his back, Zeilin wouldn't fancy his chances against one. And where you found a Navigator, the spectral riders of the Hunt weren't usually far behind. One of those ghostly warriors, Zeilin could handle. Two? He'd need to be careful, look for an opening, strike hard and fast. But a Navigator and their riders? Zeilin would find a hole to crawl into and wait for them to pass. No shame in it. A Witcher’s job was to kill monsters, not get himself slaughtered in some heroic, pointless charge. He sometimes wished those Navigators, tearing through the void in their black ships, would just miscalculate one day. Splatter themselves across the non-space between worlds. Do everyone a favor and die.

Ghostly images, phantoms of other places, flickered in the courtyard, swirling like mist. The Archmages seemed to be wrestling for control of the portal, their combined power pitted against whatever lay beyond. Then, from the depths of the portal, came a sound – a chorus of piercing shrieks. Like hounds baying, but wrong, twisted. Like a wolf pack howling at a blood-red moon.
Something was stirring in that black maw, something hungry. The Witchers tensed, falling into ready stances without a word. They knew that sound. No common beast made a noise like that. Only the Hounds of the Wild Hunt.

Zeilin held the Axii sign poised in one hand, his silver sword a defensive line across his chest. Beside him, Artoria gripped her own blade, her knuckles white.

And then they came. Hounds. Big as ponies, lean and black as shadows, bursting from the portal’s darkness. They paused for a heartbeat, a pack of nightmares taking form, then launched themselves at the mages.The Witchers moved as one. Forward. Just like in the old days, the first Witchers, fighting back-to-back with mages against the horrors of a world gone mad. Igni fire roared, Yrden traps shimmered on the ground, Quen shields flared, Aard blasts slammed out.
A Hound lunged for Zeilin. He dropped into a crouch. As it crossed the shimmering boundary of Francesca’s shield, he unleashed the Axii sign he’d held ready, a bolt of mental force aimed at its snarling head.

The beast faltered, just for an instant. Zeilin lunged, silver sword arcing up, aiming for the throat. But his Griffin steel, good as it was, barely bit. It tore a shallow gash in the creature's unnaturally tough hide, nothing more.
The Axii’s hold was fleeting. Before Zeilin could strike again, the Hound was back on him, a massive foreleg, thick as a tree trunk, batting his blade aside with contemptuous ease.

"Stay inside the shield!" Zeilin barked, as Artoria made to dash after the retreating Hound. "That frost'll freeze the piss in your bladder before you take two steps!"

But for once, the girl didn't listen. She shook her head, her eyes blazing with a fierce, desperate light. "Zeilin, those phantoms… the images I saw… I know that place! It's Camelot! The northern fields outside Camelot! I've walked there a hundred times! I'd know it anywhere! You spoke of a Conjunction. If I understand… through that gate… I can go home. Back to Britain!"

"Maybe. Maybe not," Zeilin said, his voice hard. He grabbed her shoulder, his grip like iron. "No one knows what's on the other side of a cursed portal like that. Phantoms are just echoes. I could find you a dozen fields that look the same in Velen, if I had a mind to. I won't let you run off on some fool's errand, not when we don't know what we're facing! Too many have died fighting the Hunt, only to end up as one of their ghostly riders. I'll not see you among them next time they come howling out of the void!"

"I am the King of Britain," she said, her voice low but unwavering, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I cannot abandon my people. Not with the Anglos at the gates. Lancelot, Gawain, Guinevere, Kay… they're waiting for me."
Responsibility. He saw it burning in her emerald eyes. And something else. Duty. And in that moment, looking at this small, determined girl, barely reaching his shoulder, Zeilin felt a grudging respect. He knew, with a certainty that settled like lead in his gut, that he couldn't stop her.

"Thank you," she said, her voice softer now, her gaze dropping to the sword in her hands. "For your help these past days. I… I am sorry for this." Was she explaining, or just avoiding his eyes? Hard to tell.

"When I drew the Sword from the Stone, I swore an oath. To forsake myself, to be King. I… I must…"

"Alright. I get it." Zeilin closed his eyes, let out a long, weary breath. He cut her off. When he opened them again, his golden Witcher eyes were fixed on the Hound snarling just outside the shield, looking for another chance to get in.
He traced the inverted triangle of Quen in the air, the shimmering shield flaring around him. Then, his own protection in place, he reached for the girl, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
"If you're going, then we go together. I'll see you through. A Witcher finishes the job. Always."

"What?" She stared at his outstretched arm, stunned. "But this is my burden. Not yours."

"I said," Zeilin repeated, his voice cold as the encroaching frost, "I finish the job." When she still hesitated, his gloved hand shot out, gripped her arm. He glanced at Francesca, still battling to hold the portal.

The elf-witch had heard them. Of course she had. Her mouth twitched. "Am I to be glad I'll owe one less fee, then?"

"Aye. And a hefty one at that." The Hound was circling, wary now. Zeilin took his chance. He ripped the Griffin medallion from his neck, gave Francesca a quick, appraising look, then, before she could react, he stuffed it down the collar of her elaborate robe. She let out a startled gasp.
"Sorry. Your fancy dress doesn't seem to have any pockets. And I'd rather this didn't end up frozen to dust." He said it deadpan, cutting off any rebuke she might have had. "When this is over, take it south. To my old master. Tell him… tell him I found a good apprentice. A proper one. Tell him not to worry."

"A contract. From a Witcher. How… honored I should feel," Francesca said, her voice dripping sarcasm. "Fine. In exchange, then. If you see one of those Navigators on the other side, do me a favor. Punch him square on his pointy elven nose. I'll start moving the shield towards the portal. Give you a clear run through the worst of the Frost."
She closed her eyes. The shield around them began to shrink, its light intensifying, becoming almost solid. And slowly, step by agonizing step, she began to move it, and them, towards that gaping black wound in reality. She didn't like his plan. But she wouldn't stop him. If someone was mad enough to go through that portal, to take the fight to the Hunt on their own damn turf, it would ease the pressure on the mages here. That much was certain.

The other Witchers had seen. George, closest to them, roared over the wind after shoving a Hound back. "Zeilin! What in the seven hells are you doing?! Get back here, damn you!"

Zeilin looked at him, at this Witcher who dreamed of slaying dragons. He gave a short, sharp wave.
"George! Next time we meet, I expect to hear the bards singing of Saint George the Dragon Slayer! See you on the Path!"

He turned away, shutting out their shouts, focusing on the portal, now only a few terrifying paces away. He gripped Artoria’s arm tighter. "Remember what I told you about portals! One chance! And becoming an ice statue? Not how I plan on dying!"

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the storm. "You are a true knight, Zeilin." She was scared. Terrified for her people, for her Britain. But facing the unknown, this impossible gateway to who-knew-what horrors… having a Witcher at her side? It was the only comfort she had.

"Listen to me, Artoria," Zeilin said, his voice rough, urgent. Adrenaline, maybe. Or maybe just the sheer bloody madness of it all. For a moment, he wasn't a cold, detached Witcher. He was just a man, a mercenary, facing impossible odds. He stared into the swirling blackness of the portal, gritted his teeth, took a ragged breath.

"Time to go!"

And then they ran. Out from the shimmering protection of Francesca's shield, into the killing bite of the White Frost. A Hound lunged, jaws gaping. Zeilin met it head-on, his silver sword a streak of light, plunging deep into its open maw.
And then, before the frost could steal the last of his warmth, before it could turn him to brittle ice, he used the momentum, skewering the beast on his blade, to hurtle them both into the yawning black portal.