Chapter 4: A Way to Prove Innocence

The deeper Zeilin pushed into the woods, the more of a mess the tracks became. More signs, though – human prints mixed with claw marks gouged into tree bark, and the distinct, splayed tracks of ghouls.

And then he found it: a human corpse. Looked like it had been lying there a week, give or take, judging by the rot. Tucked into the rags of its clothes, he found an amulet. Zeilin figured he’d ask around the local villages once this business was done, see if anyone was missing. Let the kin know. Not much else a Witcher could do for someone likely taken by a monster.

"Peace to you, whoever you were," Zeilin muttered, more to himself than the corpse. He raised a hand, snapped his fingers. A flicker, then the body erupted in flames, as if doused in oil. The sudden blaze threw dancing shadows across the trees, and the stink of burning flesh, sharp and acrid, filled the air. Zeilin wrinkled his nose, turned away, and picked up the trail of human-like prints again.

Seconds later, the corpse was nothing but ash, whisked away by the sighing night wind.

One thing you learn about corpses on the Path: if you can't get it into a proper grave sharpish, and no scavengers – crows, ghouls, whatever – are making a meal of it, burn it. Quick. You never knew if a dead body would just rot down to bones or come back as something… worse. A spectre. Folk die with hate in their hearts, or some unfinished business tying them to this world, their souls can curdle into nasty things. Ghouls, werewolves – a decent troop of soldiers could handle them, with a few losses. But spectres? Steel swords just passed right through. Useless. Witchers saw plenty of notices: ‘Haunted Mill,’ ‘Spook in the Cellar.’ Usually meant a spectre, maybe a leshen if you were unlucky, and a fat purse. Folk were always more willing to pay top coin for things they couldn't see or understand, especially when those things could scare them to death. And spectres? They earned their price.

Leaving the unknown dead to the wind, Zeilin pressed on. He needed to find his quarry before the damn blade oil wore off. The tracks were getting thicker, more jumbled. Meant whatever he was following had been busy around here. But his Witcher senses picked up no signs of a fight. Not a battle, not a nest of social creatures… but a lot of coming and going. That usually meant one thing… He was close.

Sure enough, after pushing maybe a thousand paces deeper into the woods, a hill rose up ahead. Slopes thick with trees, all in their spring green. His view was blocked by the dense canopy after a dozen yards or so. But a dozen yards was enough. He could see the tracks heading uphill. If this thing had a lair up there, Zeilin had to start thinking about harpies. Not that harpies themselves were much of a threat. Weak, squawking things. The real danger from a harpy nest was the godawful stench that could gag a maggot.. Made a Witcher’s potions smell like roses in comparison.

Luckily, the tracks veered off into the undergrowth before they got too far up the slope. Zeilin pushed through the tangled bushes and found it: a cave mouth, dark and uninviting, hidden in a thicket.

"Hmm... A cave. Fits a foglet, right enough…" Zeilin eyed the entrance. About two yards high, maybe wide enough for two men to squeeze through shoulder-to-shoulder. This continent was riddled with holes. Humans stuck to the river plains, mostly. But up in the hills and mountains? Caves everywhere, all shapes and sizes. Sometimes you found a lone monster holed up. Sometimes, elven ruins, fifteen hundred years old and forgotten. And those elven ruins? Usually a damn sight more dangerous. Crawling with spectres, katakans, things that had festered in the dark for centuries. And always some damn fool, blinded by tales of elven gold, blundering in to get himself killed and join the spectral ranks.

This one, though, looked like a simple grotto. His Griffin medallion lay quiet against his chest. No thrum of magic. Safe enough, likely. Zeilin narrowed his eyes, every muscle coiling tight. He gripped his silver sword, two-handed, and stepped cautiously into the darkness. Plenty of Witchers had ended up dead because they got careless. Zeilin didn't plan on being one of them. His name wasn't going to be some cautionary tale whispered by rookies.

He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when his keen ears caught it – a faint, crackling pop. Wood burning. Monsters didn't usually bother with fires. Especially not foglets. Few beasts had the brains for it. Grave hags, maybe, they were queerly human-like sometimes. But foglets? They hated light, let alone making their own fire. Had he misread the signs? Zeilin’s frown deepened. Nekkers liked fires in their caves, true. But he’d seen nekker lairs. You usually got swarmed before you were within spitting distance. Nekkers didn't do subtle. They saw meat, they attacked. Human, beast, didn't matter. If it wasn't nekkers… he’d be damned if he believed the wolf-killer was some common bandit. Not with that kind of skill. A man who could take down a warg pack that cleanly didn't need to stoop to robbing travelers. True, with Nilfgaard stirring in the south, soldiering wasn't the steady work it used to be. But skills like that? They’d be snapped up by any decent mercenary company, or even a king’s special unit. Zeilin knew for a fact… The Temerian Blue Stripes, the Order of the Flaming Rose – they paid well for talent. And the Eternal Fire was always looking for more witch hunters, offering coin and blessings to any skilled blade.

Zeilin paused, thinking. He loosened his grip on the silver sword, his other hand drifting towards the steel blade on his back. Better safe than sorry. Making a mistake wasn't the end of the world. Refusing to admit it, that was what got you killed.

The cave opened up inside. Past the narrow entrance, the ceiling soared to over five yards. Wide enough for four horses to stand abreast. Plenty of room to swing a sword, even if he was facing something big, like a she-troll. He moved slowly down the passage, rounded a bend, and saw it – a small campfire, crackling merrily. And a figure beside it. The moment it saw him, the figure shot to its feet, snatching up a heavy sword from the ground – blue hilt, fancy golden crossguard – and dropped into a defensive stance. "Who are you? Name yourself!"

Once the figure was standing, Zeilin saw it was small. Barely reached one-sixty, he reckoned. The cave was vast, the fire small, casting long, flickering shadows that made the edges of the cavern swim in gloom. A large cloak hid the figure’s form completely. Nothing to go on there. The voice was hoarse, raspy, like someone who hadn't had a drink in days. But unless they were using some mage-trick to disguise it, it was a woman’s voice. Or maybe… a girl’s? Then his eyes fixed on the sword. Just looking at it, the craftsmanship… that blade would fetch two thousand crowns, easy. Maybe more. And the way she held it – she knew which end was for sticking into people. At least, she wasn't likely to drop it on her own foot. Zeilin had seen plenty of green recruits manage that particular feat. This one, though, wasn't a raw recruit.

"Who are you! Speak!" Seeing him just standing there, looking her over, the girl under the cloak snapped, her voice sharp despite the hoarseness. She shifted her weight, left foot forward, sword held ready at her left shoulder. A proper fighting stance.

"Just a Witcher," Zeilin said, his voice calm. He slowly sheathed his silver sword, mentally cursing the wasted oil. His hand, however, stayed on the pommel of his steel blade. "Came to deal with a monster plaguing the local farms. Looks like I might have found a cattle thief instead." He wasn't one to be fooled by a pretty face, or a small frame. He’d met kind-hearted dopplers and gentle nightwraiths. And he’d met plenty of humans who looked like angels and had hearts blacker than a Temerian swamp at midnight.

"I have stolen nothing," the girl said, her denial firm. Zeilin listened hard, trying to place her accent. It was… odd. Didn't sound like any dialect he knew. A bit of Temerian in it, maybe some Aedirnian. Even a hint of the clipped tones he’d heard from Nilfgaardian merchants. Strange.

"Thieves always say that, right up until you find the stolen goods in their saddlebags," Zeilin said, his voice cold. "Was it you who killed that pack of wolves outside, this afternoon?" The girl nodded. "Hunting for food?" Another nod. "And the villager in the forest? Did you kill him too?" She shook her head, the hood shadowing her face, hiding her expression. "A knight," she said, her voice surprisingly steady, "does not strike down an unarmed foe." It wasn't a plea of innocence. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a certainty that took Zeilin aback. He’d seen enough soldiers looting and worse during wartime to be cynical about such pronouncements.

"And how am I supposed to believe that?" Zeilin asked, cutting to the heart of it. Witchers dealt in facts, in evidence. Not pretty words. He wouldn't let a suspect walk just because they sounded convincing.

"How will you believe I am innocent?" she countered, not a hint of pleading in her tone.

"Your innocence…" Zeilin looked her up and down again, his golden eyes narrowed, trying to see past the cloak, past the bravado. He kept his gaze fixed on the small, defiant figure, while his hand reached into his jacket pocket. "Do you play Gwent?"