Chapter 7: Give a Man a Fish and You Feed Him for a Day; Teach a Man to Gwent and You Feed Him for a Lifetime

The Pontar. Like the Yaruga down south, it crawled out of the Blue Mountains, snaking west past Oxenfurt and Novigrad before emptying itself into the sea. Those two rivers carved out the Northern Kingdoms' wide, flat gut. Villages clung to their banks like ticks on a dog. Novigrad, squatting at the Pontar's mouth, got fat and independent from Redania because of its prime spot – all the trade flowed through it, like shit through a goose. The Pontar, one of the North's main arteries, cut through four kingdoms, marking their borders whether they liked it or not. South of it, Temeria and Aedirn. North, Redania and Kaedwen.

Two days on the road, shanks's pony all the way, and Zeilin and the girl were finally within spitting distance – well, twenty kilometers – of the Pontar. He figured they could make a village on the far bank by nightfall, find an inn that didn't smell too much of piss and despair, and ask about a bridge. More importantly, find a tavern. Find some willing Gwent opponents. These last two days, all forced march, no time to stop, no time to fleece some local yokels with more coin than sense. His fingers were itching for a game. The girl was his only option for a hand or two. But she was always lost in thought, fretting about her kingdom. Two, maybe three games a day was all he got out of her. Barely enough to get warmed up before she was done. "Just getting into my stride, and you're folding already," he’d grumble.

As for any kingdom's troubles? If she asked Zeilin, all he could tell her was that Temerian lords hoarded hero cards, Redanian nobles swarmed you with numbers, and Scoia'tael or Monster decks were their usual poison. Nilfgaardian bastards? They’d cheat, lie, and use every dirty trick in the book to win. Still, if he had to choose, Zeilin would rather face a Nilfgaardian spy than a drunken dwarf across the Gwent table. Especially a drunken dwarf. They didn't just play; they whined. And when they were losing? Suddenly their wife's in labor, their kid's got the bloody flux, their house is on fire – anything to snatch up the stakes and run. More than once, he’d had a game won, only for the dwarf to pull a fast one.

And another thing, a more pressing matter: his food supplies were damn near gone. Witchers didn't need much, not like normal folk. Zeilin never wasted pack space on a lot of grub. Water, a bit of fruit wine for the nerves, and the rest was high-energy stuff – dried meat, roasted chicken legs. Enough to keep him going. But since Artoria had joined him? He was starting to think about rationing. The girl could eat. Gods, could she eat. Zeilin swore she put away more food in a day than an entire army patrol.

"I am profoundly grateful for your generosity these past days. Your kindness will not be forgotten," Artoria declared, bowing with a solemnity that was almost comical, given the circumstances. "Upon my return to Britain, I shall ensure you are handsomely rewarded. On my honor as a knight, I declare this food a gift from the heavens themselves!"

"Might be more convincing if you put down the chicken leg while you're saying it," Zeilin grunted, eyeing her sideways. She was trotting along behind him, her gaze fixed not on him, or the path, but on the greasy drumstick in her hand. She took another savage bite. He still couldn't figure her out. He'd just sprinkled a bit of salt and common herbs on the damn chicken. In a decent tavern, it'd fetch eight crowns, tops. Maybe twelve in some backwater inn, if the cook was feeling greedy. And she was acting like it was a royal feast.

"Food must be consumed swiftly, lest it spoil," she announced, with the air of a philosopher imparting profound wisdom. "Once, during a campaign against the Anglo invaders from the North, I provisioned my knights with fresh meat, intending a celebratory feast after our victory. The battle, however, extended beyond my calculations. By its conclusion, the meat had all turned. A great waste. We won the day, yet returned to our halls with empty bellies."

"And that's your excuse for devouring my entire larder in two days, is it?" Zeilin sighed, rubbing his forehead. He found a small rise and scanned the horizon. Endless green, stretching as far as the eye could see. The great northern plains, the breadbasket of these kingdoms. Dotted with villages, all toiling to feed their lords. Redania and Temeria, the two big dogs who controlled this fertile gut, had grown powerful on its bounty. And down in Temeria, that puffed-up Marquis La Valette, holding the lands south of the Pontar, was always trying to use his position to strong-arm King Foltest. Even talked of open defiance, the fool. Zeilin, a Temerian born and bred, knew how that would end. If La Valette was stupid enough to raise his banners, he’d be trussed up and delivered to Foltest in Vizima within the month. Nobody but his own household guard would lift a finger for him.

The plains weren't entirely flat. Rolling hills, some covered in scrub, others carved into neat little farm plots. Far off, he could just make out a few smudges of smoke – farmhouses. Meant a village in that direction. Not close, though. Zeilin knew better than to trust his eyes out here. See a mountain on the horizon at dawn, and you’d be lucky to reach its foot by dusk. "The eye travels faster than the feet," as the old saying went. Three hours’ walk, at a guess. Maybe more.

"It is a beautiful land. It reminds me of my home," the girl said, coming to stand beside him. Her voice held a note of wistful appreciation. When she wasn't stuffing her face, Zeilin had to admit, she carried herself like a proper noble, a knight even. Why such a seemingly refined young woman was so utterly obsessed with food was a mystery he hadn't yet unraveled.

"Aye, it's got its moments," Zeilin agreed, his golden eyes sweeping the vista. "If you ignore the lone ghoul sniffing around about fifty paces to our left, and that corpse lying in the grass a hundred yards straight ahead… oh, and there's a griffin. Lovely." Right on cue, an adult griffin launched itself into the air from a nearby copse, a mangled horse carcass dangling from its talons. As Zeilin watched, the griffin’s small, beady eyes flicked towards them. It seemed to have eaten its fill. With a couple of harsh shrieks, it wheeled and flapped away into the distance, not giving them a second glance. Griffins were mountain beasts, originally. Hunted marmots, wild goats. Weren't supposed to bother humans. But then humans started spreading out, fencing in the land. And the griffins discovered a new, easier food source: Cattle. Sheep. And the soft, slow things that tended them. So, the half-eagle, half-lion bastards went from rare sight to number one pest for northern farmers in just a few years. Royal griffins, archgriffins – those were the worst. Even Zeilin treated a royal griffin with a healthy dose of caution.

"My homeland has no such monsters," the girl said, shaking her head. She’d seen ghouls and drowners these past couple of days, the common riff-raff of the monster world. She’d been wide-eyed at first, full of questions. Curious. Which gave Zeilin an idea. He’d started using his Monster Gwent cards to teach her about the local fauna. Quickest way to get her to learn anything, it seemed.

"No griffins where you're from, eh? Well, I reckon your kingdom has these particular pests," Zeilin said, a grim smile touching his lips. His right hand drifted to the hilt of his steel sword. A heartbeat later, the drumming of hooves reached them from the track behind. Artoria spun around. Four riders, clad in mismatched, dented armor, waving short, rusty swords and crude iron-headed clubs, were charging straight for them. No banners, no livery. But Zeilin didn't need any to know their trade. Bandits.

"Trouble?" she asked, her hand instinctively going to her own sword as she saw Zeilin draw his steel. Her voice was calm, questioning. "Not trouble." Zeilin shook his head, a predatory grin spreading across his face as he eyed the oncoming riders. His gaze, though, wasn't on the men themselves. It was on the four mangy, but serviceable, horses they were riding. "Horses."