Chapter 9: Magical Anomaly

Night wore on, and the racket in The Golden Tuna finally started to die down. Drunks, swaying like trees in a gale, stumbled out, leaving a battlefield of spilled ale and overturned stools behind them. Probably more booze soaked into the floorboards than ever made it down their gullets. The locals cleared out first – fields to plow, families to feed come morning. Then the river rats, sailors off the merchant barges and fishing boats, scurried back to their ships before the town guard started cracking skulls for curfew. Amon, the innkeeper, wasn't running a charity. No coin, no room. Sailors who passed out in the common room would miss the morning tide, and no captain worth his salt waited for stragglers. Time was crowns, especially with fresh fish. No merchant would risk his cargo spoiling for a couple of deckhands off on a bender. The ones left nursing their drinks were mostly hired muscle – guards for the merchants holed up in the private rooms upstairs. Those rich bastards wouldn't be caught dead slumming it in the common room. They had their food and wine sent up by servants. These guards, though, they weren't usually short on coin. The roads were a damn sight more dangerous than a tavern brawl, and merchants paid well to make sure their protectors wouldn't turn tail and run when real trouble came knocking.

"Hah! Got you now, Witcher!" The brute of a guard across the Gwent table from Zeilin grinned, showing yellowed teeth, and drained his tankard with a flourish. Still a long way till dawn. Zeilin had sent the girl, Artoria, upstairs. Hot bath, a bit of peace and quiet. She needed it. These last few days, he'd seen enough to know she wasn't just some lost farm girl. This Wild Hunt business… her being tangled up in it was no mere chance. But whatever she was, she was still human enough to need rest. Zeilin, on the other hand, had wandered down to the common room, hoping for a bit of Gwent to pass the time. And line his pockets.

"That a fact? If you say so…" Zeilin’s eyes, narrowed and gold, flicked up from the cards to the guard. Built like a brick outhouse, this one, with a wild, dark brown beard that looked like a bird had nested in it. A cheap wooden helmet with ridiculous horns sat askew on his head, and his small, piggish eyes gleamed with a mean sort of light. A nasty scar, white and puckered, ran from his left cheekbone down to his jaw, doing nothing to improve his looks. A Skelliger, Zeilin reckoned. One of the islanders. Mad bastards, the lot of them, but fierce fighters. Best warriors in the North, some said. You didn't see many fat nobles lording it over folk in Skellige. Out there, it was strength and courage that mattered. Not who your father was. Four more of his countrymen were with him, likely guarding the same merchant. Skelligers were good for protection, second only to a Witcher, if the coin was right. Right now, they were all crowded around the table, roaring encouragement for their mate. The game had even caught the attention of the serving wenches, who kept finding excuses to drift past, snatching glances at the cards before Amon, the innkeeper, barked at them for slacking.

"Still think you can pull this one out of the fire, eh?" the Skelliger bellowed, his laughter shaking his considerable gut. "Look at the score, Witcher! Your cat-eyes gone dim? You're sittin' on forty-four. I've got ninety! And you've only three cards left in that scrawny hand of yours. How d'you plan on winning that? Hah!" He slammed his last two cards face-up on the table, then bellowed for more ale. A wench scurried over. "I pass! Done! Let's see your magic trick now, eh? Lads, get ready to count my winnings!"

The board looked bad, no denying it. The Skelliger's Monster deck swarmed his melee row, and a well-placed Commander's Horn had doubled their strength. Ninety points. A mountain to climb. Zeilin's own heavy hitters, his siege engines, were bogged down, crippled by a weather card. He looked at his last two cards. Two weather cards. Gods, he loved Gwent.

"You never know…" A slow, wolfish grin spread across Zeilin's face. He plucked one of the cards from his hand, held it delicately between two fingers, and laid it down. Clear Weather. Wiped the slate clean. The Torrential Rain that had drowned his siege units vanished like morning mist. Zeilin's score jumped to fifty-seven. The Skelliger grunted, shifting his bulk uneasily. "Lucky play, freak. But that's the end of it. You ain't got another Horn, I'll wager. Stop stalling. Pay up! A bet's a bet. You're beat."

"Aye, a bet's a bet," Zeilin agreed, almost gently. He played his last card. Biting Frost. All melee units on the board dropped to one strength. The Skelliger choked on his ale, sputtering, his eyes bulging as if they were about to leap from their sockets. His impressive ninety points shriveled to a pathetic forty-three.

"No! No! Damn your eyes, Witcher! I still had a Clear Weather!" the guard roared, flailing his arms. But it was too late. He'd passed. He was out. "Gods curse it, why didn't you play those sooner? I'd never have passed if I'd known!"

"And if the score hadn't been so lopsided, would you have been so quick to pass then, friend?" Zeilin asked, his voice smooth as oiled leather. He gave the Skelligers a look of pure, unadulterated Gwent-shark satisfaction. Feign weakness, draw them in, then spring the trap. Worked on monsters, worked on men. Especially men full of ale and overconfidence. He snapped his fingers. The Skelliger's mates, grumbling and cursing under their breath, reluctantly tossed their coin pouches onto the table. Game over. No point arguing. Zeilin scooped up the pouches, weighed them. Fifty crowns, give or take. Not a bad night's work. Covered the room, with a bit to spare for a decent meal. He caught the eye of a serving wench. "A round for these brave Skellige warriors," he said, gesturing to the sullen group. "On my coin." He’d seen too many rich fools lose their shirts, chasing small wins. He wasn't about to make the same mistake. Besides, what good were crowns if you couldn't turn them into better steel or a new pair of boots?

He pushed back from the table, headed for the stairs. A sudden drumming on the windowpane made him pause. He strode over. Rain lashed against the glass, blurring the world outside. He cracked the window open a sliver. The roar of a full-blown storm hit him, a blast of icy wind sweeping into the tavern, making the remaining patrons shiver and curse. Zeilin looked out. The sky was a churning blackness, the moon and stars swallowed whole. Oppressive, suffocating. "Bloody hell. A proper tempest," Zeilin swore under his breath, his face grim. A muscle jumped in his jaw. This wasn't going to blow over quick. The Northlands weather was a fickle bitch. Sunshine one minute, pissing rain the next. Even Witchers didn't fancy traveling in this kind of deluge. Worse, it meant the ferries on the Pontar would be shut down. No ferry, no crossing the river, not with it swollen like this in spring. Stuck.

Then, through the sheeting rain, his Witcher eyes caught something. Movement. Down on the road leading to the port, columns of men. Soldiers. Redanian, by the look of their gear, what he could make out. Well-armed. Visibility was shit, and they weren't carrying torches. No ordinary eyes would have seen them. But Zeilin's missed little. He glanced towards the town gate. More of them. Pouring in like ants. Five hundred, at least. Maybe more. What in the blazes…?

"Oi, Witcher! Shut the damn window! Trying to freeze us all out?" a wench yelled up from the foot of the stairs. "Right, right." Zeilin shook his head, pulled the window shut. Whatever King Vizimir of Redania was up to, it was no skin off his nose. Witchers stayed out of politics, out of wars. That was mages' folly. The plotting of kings and nobles? Zeilin gave it a wide berth. Always.

He reached the second floor. The girl should be done with her bath by now. He put his hand on their door, ready to push it open. A decent night's sleep, that was the plan. If the storm broke by morning, good. If not… they’d have to find a bridge. Somewhere. Hopefully not too far a walk in this muck.

Then it happened. The medallion on his chest, the silver griffin's head, suddenly thrummed, vibrating violently against his skin. Zeilin looked down, startled. It hadn't done that, not with such intensity, since… since he’d glimpsed the Wild Hunt. The Wild Hunt… Artoria!