Chapter 15: Camelot

A sea of wheat, green and shimmering, swayed in a wind that felt warmer, softer than the one they'd left. Summer, then. Farmers dotted the fields, hunched over their crops. All this grain… it wasn't just for their own bellies. It was the lifeblood of a kingdom. An army marched on its stomach, and without these fields feeding its soldiers and people, this "Britain" of hers wouldn't survive a single hard winter. A kingdom's built on the backs of its peasants, whether the lords in their castles knew it or not.

"Ugh, damn it all! Heavy bastard…" Zeilin groaned, his head still swimming from the portal's rough passage. A dead weight was pinning him to the ground. The Hound of the Wild Hunt. He’d managed to drag the ugly son of a bitch through with him. The beast wasn't going anywhere, though. His Griffin silver was still buried to the hilt in its gullet. Zeilin, on the other hand, was mostly in one piece. Bruised, battered, but breathing. He’d been in worse scrapes. He remembered being swatted off a cliff by a wyvern once, a long, tumbling fall to a beach below. Lucky to get away with just a few broken ribs that time. But brawling with a monster inside a portal? That was a new one. He reckoned not many could add that to their list of accomplishments.

He shoved the dead Hound's carcass off with a grunt and immediately scanned for the girl. Something had gone wrong, that much was clear. This wasn't the monster-infested ruin they'd left. They'd been spat out somewhere else entirely. But right now, her safety was all that mattered. He saw her a few paces away, kneeling in the dirt, her face a pale, sickly green, her jaw clenched tight. He couldn't smell blood, but that didn't mean much. Internal injuries were sneaky bastards. But hurt or not, she was in a bad way; that was plain to see.

Zeilin pushed himself to his feet, a low groan escaping him. He crossed to her in two strides, crouching down, his hand hovering over her shoulder. "You alright? Hurt anywhere? Gods, I should've held onto you." If she was broken because he'd been careless, he'd not forgive himself. He should've known she wasn't a Witcher, didn't know how to ride out a portal jump gone wrong. Her damn royal composure had made him forget. All he'd been thinking about was taking that Hound with them, one less beast for Francesca to deal with.

"I… I am well." She sucked in a few ragged breaths, a touch of color returning to her cheeks. Her fine armor was a wreck, dented and torn. The blue dress beneath was shredded in places, showing glimpses of skin as white as milk. Zeilin wasn't looking at that. He was scanning for injury, his Witcher eyes missing nothing. "That feeling…" she forced out through gritted teeth. "It was… foul…"

"No pain? Tell me if anything hurts. Don't be brave. Hiding an injury just lets it fester."

She shook her head. "No. I am fine." Noticing his intense gaze, she awkwardly pulled the tattered fabric of her dress over a tear at her chest. Not that there was much to see. He wasn't looking for that. He was looking for the tell-tale signs of a ruptured spleen or a broken rib, things a person might not even feel at first. But she kept denying it, and he couldn't see anything obviously wrong. 

He sighed, pulling a flask of dwarven spirits from his belt pouch. "Here. Drink this. It'll settle your stomach. Or burn it out. Either way, you'll feel different." While she took a hesitant sip, Zeilin stood and took a proper look at their surroundings. Open fields. Far on the horizon, a high wall of grey stone, crenelated and massive. A city. A huge one, by the looks of it, big enough to house tens of thousands. He shook his head. People and their bloody walls. Thought they could build a big enough cage to keep the world out, keep themselves safe. Fools. The worst monsters were always the ones hiding behind the walls, wearing human faces. Give him an honest, slavering ghoul any day. At least you knew where you stood. Near them on the dirt track was a ruined stone cottage, its roof caved in, looking like it had been abandoned for a decade or more.

"Where are we? You know this place?" he asked her. "If you do, you need to get back to your castle, and sharpish. Before your enemies get wind of your return. Find your loyal knights. Or at least a few men who know which end of a sword to hold." He knew nothing of her world, but if she was a king, then he knew enough about the treacherous nature of kings in his own world to worry for her. A monarch, stranded and alone, was prey.

"There is no need for concern, Zeilin. This is Camelot. My kingdom. I know this place." She got to her feet, a new strength in her voice. She stared out across the fields, her eyes narrowed. Then, with a certainty that seemed absolute, she said, "The northern farmlands of Camelot. Yes. This is it. This is the very spot from which the White Frost took me… where I was pulled into your world. That city…" She pointed towards the distant walls. "That is Camelot." Her head snapped back to him, urgency in her eyes. "Quickly! You must come with me, Zeilin. I fear that terrible frost… it may have followed. If Camelot is in danger, I will have need of your skills." She bowed her head to him, a formal plea.

Zeilin shrugged. "If I only did things for thanks, I wouldn't have jumped through that bloody portal in the first place… Hmm? What's this?" He glanced down. Stuck in the seam of his leather shoulder guard was a small, milky-white crystal. He knew, with absolute certainty, it hadn't been there before. A Witcher knew his gear, every strap, every buckle. You didn't just find strange objects on your person. Could be anything. A harmless bit of rock. Or a cursed fetish designed to draw wraiths. He pinched it carefully between two fingers and worked it free. Caution was a Witcher’s best friend. The moment it came loose, it blazed with a fierce, white light. And in that light, a familiar, imperious face took shape. Francesca's phantom, her expression unreadable, floated in the air before them. Her mouth moved, and her voice, thin and ethereal, echoed in the quiet air. "Zeilin. Next month, at the full moon, the chaotic energies may breach the weakened space in Mahakam again. A new portal may form. If you receive this message, and if the Wild Hunt does not interfere, I can bring you back from that same location."

Just a few short sentences. The elf-witch must have slapped the crystal on him in that last chaotic second. Had to give it to her, the woman had skill. A recorded illusion like that wasn't something you cooked up on the fly. Good news for him, then. A way back. But he saw the hope drain from Artoria's face as she heard the message. "Zeilin…" she said, her voice low, "we… we should get to Camelot. Quickly."

"Right." He pocketed the crystal. One problem at a time. He started walking with her towards the distant city. One month… Should be enough time…