Chapter 6: Hero

First light was filtering through the canopy when Zeilin finally stirred, the usual chorus of birdsong drilling into his aching head. He sat up slow, the embers of last night’s fire still winking in the gloom of the cave. His vision swam, a nasty, hungover sort of blur he hadn’t felt in years. Alcohol was a luxury he rarely indulged in. Dulled the senses, and a dull Witcher was a dead Witcher. Besides, getting pissed in some town tavern usually led to… complications.

His gaze swept the cave, landing on the girl. She was already up, sitting bolt upright, hands resting on that fancy sword of hers. She’d shed the cloak. Underneath, she was kitted out in gleaming silver plate, chest and back. The breastplate was curved, shaped for a woman. Some dark marking, a sigil maybe, was etched over the belly. Knights painted their crests on their shields; nobles were always precious about their family emblems. Made her tall tales from last night a fraction more believable, at least. Beneath the steel, a blue dress, the skirt falling to her calves, showing off iron-greaved boots. Layered tassets protected her thighs, practical enough not to hinder her movement. The whole getup was clearly custom-made, a fine piece of work, blending function with a bit of flash. Whoever forged it was a master. Zeilin could only think of one smith capable of that quality – Hattori, the elf in Novigrad. And his waiting list was longer than a royal procession.

She saw him stir, met his eyes, and nodded. Clapped her gauntleted hands. "You're awake. Good. We should make ready to leave. I need to return to Britain, if possible. The Anglo threat remains, and I fear they'll strike while I'm gone."

"Aye, I need to be moving too. Those villagers will be wondering where their monster-slayer got to," Zeilin grunted, dragging in a deep breath of the cool cave air. It helped clear the cobwebs, mostly. At least he wouldn't trip over his own feet. "But before we go anywhere, tell me what in the blazes happened last night. I don't remember touching a drop. But I can smell Viziman Champion." He rubbed his nose. The breeze from the cave mouth was fresh, but the stale stink of spilt wine lingered deeper in. He was sure he had a bottle of Champion in his pack. A gift from a grateful tavern owner a month back – his Gwent games had pulled in a good crowd. Zeilin had only kept the dwarven spirit – good for alchemy – and the Champion. A weakness, that Temerian fruit wine.

The girl actually blushed under his suspicious gaze. Turned her head away, stammering like a caught-out schoolgirl. "Last night… I… I accidentally knocked the bottle over. Yes. That was it. Spilled it."

"And I just… fell asleep? I was supposed to be on watch," Zeilin said, already rummaging in his pack. Vials and jars, all neat and tidy. Only the slot for his necrophage oil was empty. But his food pouch… that was definitely lighter. And the faint, delicious scent of roasted chicken… His eyes flicked back to Artoria. In the dim firelight, he could just make out a tiny smudge of grease at the corner of her mouth. When she heard his question, her face went even redder. Made Zeilin instinctively check his own tunic, just in case. All in order. No drunken fumbling, then. "You… uh… you drank, and you fell asleep. Yes. You've a weak head for it. Needs training."

"That so?" Zeilin scratched his head, playing dumb. The food was gone, clearly down her gullet. He didn't mind. Planned on sharing it anyway. Kidnapped to a strange land, scared and alone… a bit of food, a friendly face, might make her more willing to talk. He needed to know about this Wild Hunt, and she was his only lead. If she clammed up, he was back to square one. But him, passing out from a bit of fruit wine? Not bloody likely. Witchers could hold their liquor better than most. Had to. Half their potions were cut with dwarven spirits. And the mutations… they gave them a certain resistance. Not just to disease. Alcohol too. It’d take a damn barrel of the hard stuff to put Zeilin under. Viziman Champion? That was dessert after a nasty decoction.

"Yes," she insisted, but the fire had gone out of her voice. Zeilin had to smother a chuckle. Never met anyone so bad at lying. If this was the King of Britain… gods help Britain.

Before they left the cave, Zeilin scattered a handful of dimeritium dust. Little violet grains. Messed with magic, dampened it. They mixed it into the steel for mages' manacles. Witcher bombs were packed with the stuff too. It’d keep nekkers and foglets from nesting here for a while. Griffins, werewolves, katakans – none of 'em liked the stuff. The nearby village would be safe from monster trouble, at least until the dust wore off.

Back at the village, he found Elder Sigi in a muddy field, practically groveling before two young, bored-looking soldiers and a puffed-up tax collector. The other villagers kept their distance, a few of the younger lads looking like they wanted to step in, but held back by the older, wiser heads. Interfering with the King’s men? That was a quick way to get yourself, and maybe half the village, strung up as an example. No one wanted that kind of trouble.

Zeilin told Artoria to keep her cloak up and hang back. Her looks would cause problems here. That pale skin, that fine-boned face – screamed Nilfgaardian, or at least Southern. And in these Northern Kingdoms, hating the Empire was practically a religion. Some drunken lout, full of patriotic piss and vinegar, would be sure to start something, trying to impress the local wenches. He told her to wear her sword outside the cloak, though. Visible steel, especially with those gems on the hilt – only nobles or rich merchants carried blades like that – usually made even the dumbest thugs think twice.

"…seven hundred crowns for the month’s taxes! Today’s the deadline! Full payment required!" Zeilin heard the tax collector’s reedy, arrogant voice before he even cleared the edge of the crowd. "His Majesty, in his infinite mercy, already granted you a week’s delay! The month is nearly gone! In the name of Vizimir the Great, Defender of the Faith, if you don't pay, you'll be sentenced to hard labor under Redanian law!"

"But… sir… we paid twenty sacks of grain at the start of the month…" Sigi mumbled, bent nearly double, his voice cracking. The old farmer towered over the taxman, but he hunched himself down, trying not to look intimidating.
"His Majesty’s birthday approaches! All loyal subjects must offer tribute! Are you saying you refuse to honor your King?!" the tax collector shrieked, puffing himself up like an angry toad. That got Sigi trembling. If he even hinted at refusal, the soldiers would be on them. The whole village might pay the price.

"What's the trouble here?" Zeilin said, stepping between them, his voice calm but carrying. He looked at Sigi. The tax collector frowned, his eyes flicking over Zeilin. Then he saw the Griffin medallion. He took an involuntary step back, before remembering the two guards flanking him. Not that those two looked like they’d be much use against anything more dangerous than an unarmed peasant. To cover his nerves, the taxman puffed his chest out even further. Just made his beer gut more obvious.

"Witcher! This is official Redanian business! It does not concern you!" he squawked. "Stay out of Redanian affairs!"

"Oh, alright. My mistake." Zeilin shrugged. Then, quick as a striking snake, his forefinger traced a triangle in the air, and he touched it to the taxman’s forehead. "Now. Apologize to the good elder. Nicely. And the village's tax shortfall? You'll cover it from those… ‘administrative fees’ you’ve been skimming. Off you go."

"Ugh… I… I am… deeply sorry," the tax collector mumbled, his eyes glazing over. He swayed like a man three sheets to the wind, then stumbled off, his two guards looking thoroughly bewildered. They shot Zeilin a wary look, then hurried after their master. Axii. The mind-bending sign. Useful for dealing with folk you couldn't reason with, and couldn't rightly run through with a steel sword. Most of the time.

"There. Trouble's gone." Zeilin turned back to Sigi, but the look in the old man’s eyes gave him pause. Fear. Not of the taxman, not anymore. Of him. The taxman, for all his bluster, was just a man. Zeilin… Zeilin was something else. Something mutated, something not quite human. If he could twist the taxman’s mind with a gesture, he could do it to anyone. Including Sigi. Zeilin said nothing. He was used to it. "The monsters won't bother you again for a good while. Contract’s done."

"Th-thank you, Master Witcher." Sigil bowed his head, not meeting Zeilin's eyes. "But… as you saw… the King’s men took all our coin. We’ve nothing left to…"

"Keep your crowns," Zeilin said, his voice flat. He took a breath, the earthy scent of the wheat fields cutting through the last of his own lingering weariness. He turned to leave. "Good luck." He walked towards the edge of the field. The villagers parted before him, silent. No thanks. No curses either. Just… a wary distance. His little display with the taxman hadn't made him a hero in their eyes. It had just reminded them what he was: something powerful, something alien, something to be feared. A king, a taxman, a peasant – they were all just men. They aged, they sickened, they died. Zeilin… Zeilin was different. Had been, ever since the Trial of the Grasses. Only at a Gwent table did they sometimes forget, treat him like just another man. He didn't look back. He wasn't needed here anymore. And they sure as hell wouldn't be up for any Gwent now. No cards, no reason to stay. He caught Artoria’s eye, beckoned her to follow. She was looking at the villagers, a puzzled frown on her face, clearly not understanding their reaction. Zeilin met her questioning gaze and just offered a small, tired smile. Witchers weren't heroes. Never had been.