Chapter 5: The Wild Hunt’s Gamble

After a bit more talk, Zeilin managed to get the girl to ease up, just a fraction. What irked him, though, was that she didn't know Gwent from a hole in the ground. This grand game, the finest on the Continent (or so he reckoned), and she had the nerve to ask him what the bloody cards even were. Still, for all her ignorance, she seemed genuinely curious. Took a real shine to it, even. Especially when Zeilin mentioned, casual-like, that Gwent sharpened a man's—or woman's—tactical mind. Then she was all ears, humbly asking for tips and tricks. That, at least, improved his opinion of her.

Talent, foresight, even basic smarts – none of it mattered much. Long as someone had the heart to learn, Zeilin figured he could hammer them into a decent Gwent player. And from there, a Witcher master? Why not? If you couldn't handle a deck of cards, how in blazes were you going to handle a contract on a fiend? Course, he wouldn't be spouting that particular philosophy around the Griffin School, or to any Witchers he didn't know personally. Not everyone appreciated his… advanced thinking. Folk ahead of their time always got a raw deal. Zeilin was no different. He just laughed it off. What else could you do? Witchers who’d seen a century, like him? Rare as hen's teeth. Most of the lads walking the Path these days were fresh-faced recruits, barely dry behind the ears from their Trial. Too young, the lot of them.
The mutations, the Trial of the Grasses – they didn't just make them faster, stronger. They stretched out their lives, far beyond a normal man’s span. If a monster didn't get you, old age wouldn't. Witchers aged slow, really slow. Far as Zeilin knew, old Vesemir, the Wolf School Grandmaster, was pushing past four centuries. Even saw the Witcher's golden age, and the bloody end of it – the siege of Kaer Morhen. Mages, damn them. Got it into their heads that Witchers were getting too big for their boots. Riled up the peasants, thousands of 'em, and threw them at the fortress. Magic and numbers… Kaer Morhen fell. Dozens of Witchers slaughtered. Vesemir only made it out by playing dead amongst the corpses. No Witcher liked to talk about it. But it left a scar, a deep one, between our kind and the mages.

Besides getting the girl hooked on Gwent – or at least the idea of it – Zeilin also got an earful of a right fantastical tale. She claimed to be from some kingdom called "Britain." Name of Artoria Pendragon. Odd name. But her story? Odder still.

"You're a king?" Zeilin eyed her, skepticism practically dripping from him. Girls her age, in his experience, were usually just learning to pull their weight around the farmstead – helping their mothers in the scullery, fetching water for their fathers in the fields. If they were highborn, they’d be cooped up with tutors, learning needlepoint and how to curtsy, hoping to snag a decent husband. A king? Ridiculous.

"You don't carry yourself like a king," Zeilin stated flatly, after a moment’s thought. He’d been watching her, sizing her up. He let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Call yourself a knight, maybe a soldier, and I might just swallow it. But a king? Say that in Temeria, and King Foltest might grant you an audience, just for the novelty. Try it in the other Northern Kingdoms, they'd likely cut out your tongue and string you up from a roadside gibbet as a warning to other madwomen. And if you tried that line in Nilfgaard? Gods help you. Within three days, you'd be a pawn in some perfumed noble's game in the City of Golden Towers. They'd use you up and spit you out before you even knew what hit you. You ain't got the bearing. Hell, the actors I’ve seen prancing about on stage in Novigrad, playing kings? They had more royal swagger than you do."

"Indeed. Actors possess a finer bearing. I have much yet to learn," she said, and damn if it didn't take him by surprise. Artoria, or whatever her name was, didn't seem offended in the slightest. Just nodded, all serious. He couldn't see her face under that hood, but her tone was grave. Zeilin almost whistled. Taking criticism well was a rare virtue. Most folk, you pointed out a flaw, they’d get their hackles up, accuse you of spoiling their grand vision.

"Right. Well, my advice? Keep that 'king' business to yourself. Don't matter who you're talking to," Zeilin said, shaking his head. He rubbed his temples. This was getting complicated. "When did you get here? Not this cave, I mean. This… land. This whole mess."

"Ten days past, if my memory serves," she replied. 
Ten days. Something clicked in Zeilin’s mind. "Day or night, ten days ago?"

 She didn't even have to think. "Night."

"Full moon?" he pressed.

"Aye, a full moon. Bright as day, it was. The road outside was clear, even in the dark."

"And snowing?"

A flicker of surprise in her voice now. But she answered true. "It was. Heavily. My finest knight, Lancelot, had reported… an unnatural sight. I feared some dark sorcery at play, so I rode out from the castle to see for myself."

"And the cold," Zeilin continued, dredging up old tales, half-forgotten lore. "The ground froze hard, didn't it? Quick as a blink." He watched her. "Cold enough to freeze the marrow in your bones. Every breath you took turned to ice before it left your lips. And the snow… it wasn't white, was it? More of a… pale yellow."

She couldn't hide her shock then. Shot to her feet, she did. Under the hood’s shadow, her emerald eyes, sharp and green, bored into him. "How… how could you know? Does my being here have something to do with…"

"You're not the first to see them. Won't be the last." Zeilin stood too, slowly. He raised a finger to his lips, a silent signal for calm. He spoke low, the words drawn from ancient, chilling legends.

"Their coming is an omen. Death. War. They are the Wild Hunt. Old elven scrolls say they're Aen Elle, elves from another world. Say they can open gates between worlds, hunt folk for their own twisted reasons. Hah! Elves in spectral armor? I'll believe that when I see what’s under those helms." A short, derisive laugh. He didn't put much stock in dusty old scrolls. He bent slightly, meeting her gaze. "I think, Artoria, they've found themselves new prey."

"You mean… this Wild Hunt… they're hunting me? Is that why I'm here, so far from Britain?" she asked, her voice tight with confusion.

"No. You're not their target, Artoria. I've seen the Hunt before. Just a glimpse from afar, thank the gods." Zeilin shook his head, gestured for her to sit. To calm down. He’d seen too many folk driven mad by things they couldn't understand, horrors they couldn't name. He didn't want this girl, king or not, to shatter. Doubt… doubt was a poison, worse than any monster’s venom. "Trust me on this. If the Hunt was after you, you wouldn't have made it here in one piece. More like, you got swept up in the backwash. Their Navigators, guiding those black ships of theirs across the void… sometimes the magic gets messy. You were unlucky, caught in the currents." He softened his tone a fraction. "Look, try to rest. Tomorrow, you show me where you first set foot in this land. Might find some clues. Might even find a way to send you back…"

Other contracts were just work. The Wild Hunt? That was different. That was a threat to everything. Witchers were made to protect this world, this flimsy, fragile world. And the Hunt… they were a blight far worse than any common beast.

Zeilin reached out, gently pushed back her hood. Shoulder-length hair, fine as spun gold. And those emerald eyes, blazing with a spirit that wouldn't break. Seeing that look, Zeilin figured his worry had been misplaced. This one had steel in her spine. Her face, pretty enough without any paint or powder, was smudged with dirt and etched with fatigue from the past few days in this strange, hostile land. Made her look… vulnerable. "Get some sleep, eh? Victim of the Wild Hunt, or whatever you are. Don't fret. Nothing's getting past me tonight. I'll keep watch." His gaze drifted up. Her hair was a mess, tangled and wild. One bright golden strand stuck straight up, defiant. "Your hair's all over the place." He reached out, his calloused finger gently smoothing down the errant lock.