Chapter 8: Why Not?

After "convincing" four bandits to part with their horses, Zeilin and the girl found the going a damn sight easier. Anything beat trudging along on your own two feet, especially when those feet were starting to ache. As for the four "generous" souls who’d provided the mounts? Zeilin had given them a swift, free pass out of this miserable, monster-infested world. His list of things to hunt wasn't limited to beasts with claws and fangs. Men who acted like monsters, whose hearts were just as black? They were fair game too.

With horses under them, Zeilin didn't bother stopping at any more flea-bitten villages. He pushed them hard, wanting to reach a proper town by the Pontar as quick as possible. Find a ferry, get across the river come morning. These nags weren't a patch on his old Kaedweni warhorse, though. More than once, he’d felt the poor beast under him shuddering, worried it was about to drop dead from exhaustion. Still, they held out. By the time night truly fell, and they saw the distant lights of a town, with Redanian patrols in their red coats on the road, the horses were still on their feet. 

"Gods, I miss a good Kaedweni horse," Zeilin muttered, running a hand down his mount's lathered neck. He could feel the tremors running through its whole body. He sighed, dismounted, and led the animal by the reins towards the town lights. The girl did likewise, trailing after him. She was lost out here, a stranger in a strange land. If she got separated from him, she’d likely wander in circles until she starved or something worse found her. Never mind finding her way to the Mahakam mountains. She claimed she’d first appeared in this world somewhere in those peaks, but it had taken her four days just to find her way out, and then she'd blundered about aimlessly for days more. Had no map in her head for these parts.

"Your old horse must have been a fine beast," she said, her voice quiet. He could tell she was still trying to figure him out. He'd told her he was a Witcher, but the word meant nothing to her. Her world had sorcerers, druids – her own mentor, this Merlin fellow, was a wizars, she said – but no Witchers. Knight-errant, maybe? That's what she was probably thinking. "A knight needs a good steed, it is true."

"Aye, she was that," Zeilin said, a rare note of warmth in his voice. A nostalgic sigh. He’d gotten that mare a year back. Rescued some fat Kaedweni merchant from a pack of mountain bandits. The merchant, overflowing with gratitude (and probably relief at still having his purse and his head), had gifted him the best horse in his string. Kaedwen. Harsh land, harsh weather. Famous for its hard-bitten folk and that mage academy up at Ban Ard. And forests, endless, primeval forests, crawling with things best left undisturbed. Used to be elven land, long ago. Horses bred in Kaedwen were tough, though. Stamina. Guts. At least with that mare, Zeilin hadn't had to worry about her spooking at the first sign of trouble and dumping him on his arse. Or bolting for the horizon while he was busy trying not to get eaten.

They trudged along the muddy track, joining the trickle of folk heading into the small town as night closed in. It wasn't much of a place, but the Pontar made it a waypoint merchant barges, heading inland from Novigrad, had to pass through. Even from the town gate, Zeilin could see the masts of big trading ships down at the southern docks. He spotted a few stalls selling trinkets from the Skellige Isles. The Skelligers, the only island kingdom in the North. Their goods didn't fetch much on the coast, but haul them inland, to places like Aedirn or Kaedwen, and the price could double, easy.

Soon as they were inside the town walls, Zeilin’s nose picked it up – the faint, oily stink of fish. Most of the locals, the ones who weren't merchants passing through, made their living on the river. Fishmongers were everywhere, haggling with fishermen over their fresh catch, then packing it off inland to sell for a fat profit. Scarcity drove the price up. A fish that was cheap in Novigrad could cost a king's ransom in Ban Ard.

It didn't take Zeilin long to find the town's only inn, tucked away in the maze of narrow, muddy streets. "The Golden Tuna," the sign creaked. Apt enough for a fishing town. He handed the knackered horses to a sleepy-looking stable boy, pressed a couple of crowns into his hand. "Best fodder you've got. And rub them down well." If he wanted to make good time to Mahakam after crossing the Pontar, the horses needed a proper rest. Still, once they were across the river, it was less than two days' ride to the foothills of the Mahakams.

He pushed open the tavern door. The usual wall of noise, heat, and smells hit him. Ale, sweat, stale fish, all mingled together in a charming perfume. Barefoot men, fishermen by the look of them, or sailors off the river barges, roaring drunk, bellowing at each other. Finally ashore, with coin in their pockets, eager to piss it all away on cheap, watered-down beer. Most inns doubled as taverns. Zeilin was used to it. Part of the life. Artoria, though, looked like she’d just swallowed a live toad. Her brow was furrowed, her nose wrinkled in distaste.

"You alright?" he asked, keeping his voice low. Her discomfort was plain as day. "We can get a room, have food sent up. Quieter there." "I am well." The lines on her forehead eased a fraction. She shot a disdainful look at a couple of serving wenches whose dresses seemed to be mostly missing. "Compared to a battlefield against the Saxons, this is… merely uncivilized."

"Don't force it," Zeilin said, shaking his head. He could read her like an open book, even with those Witcher eyes of his. She didn't belong in a place like this. A knight, she called herself. And she had the air of one, for all her strange talk. Nobles didn't frequent the stews and slums. This den of drunken revelry wasn't her natural habitat. "Come on. Let's see if they've got any rooms left that don't have too many fleas."

At the counter, the innkeeper, a portly fellow named Amon, greeted them with a greasy smile. The eighty crowns Zeilin slapped down on the scarred wood probably helped with the warmth of the welcome. Profit was profit. Zeilin reckoned Amon would happily rent a room to a doppler and an Eternal Fire witch hunter, side-by-side, if the coin was good. "Two rooms," Zeilin said. "And a roasted chicken. Some fresh bread, still warm if you've got it. And a couple of bottles of that fruit wine." He glanced at the girl. At the mention of roasted chicken, a familiar, hungry gleam sparked in those emerald eyes. Zeilin sighed internally. "Alright, make that two roasted chickens. Send it all up to the rooms. And hot water for baths. For both of us. That should do it."

Amon looked at the two fingers Zeilin held up, then at the pile of coins, then back at Zeilin. A troubled expression crossed his pudgy face. "Apologies, good guests. Only the one room left, I'm afraid. Largest in the house, mind. Plenty of space for two… Perhaps you could… make do?" He gave Zeilin a sly, knowing look, then glanced at Artoria. A strange, oily little smile played on his lips.

"Right." Zeilin let out a weary sigh. "Suppose we could try our luck elsewhere." Not that he held out much hope. Finding folk willing to rent a room to a Witcher, especially one who looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, wasn't always easy.

"That will not be necessary. We can share."

 Zeilin stared at her, surprised. She met his gaze coolly, those green eyes unreadable, no flicker of emotion in them. "I have often shared a tent with my knights during campaigns. Is there an issue?"

Zeilin considered it for a moment. "Suppose not."