Farmers, ferriers, stable boys. These are no soldiers.
Looking back, he concluded that dying would have been the better choice.
He began to recall how he cheated death.
He remembered the melee, his dark hair plastered with sweat. Someone knocked the sword out of his hand. He cowered behind his shield, a tiny wedge of wood that was the only thing between him and meeting his ancestors.
Someone roared behind him. He swiveled around just in time for a Nilfgaardian's sword to bite into his shield. The southerner in black armor tugged, but the sword was stuck. Bron quickly dropped the shield. Then he ran.
The flames licking at the farmhouse in the distance was the only reason Bron could see his fingers. No point in returning. Temeria had conscripted him from his home, but at least he would have something to return to. Nilfgaard had taken that prospect away.
Somehow, he made it to the forest intact. His legs were already sore, but if he stopped someone would find him. And if they found him, he would hang. He would hang being a deserter or for being Temerian.
He glanced back. Nobody was following him. Good.
Then he smashed into someone. They both yelped. Only after Bron kissed dirt did he realize that it was a woman.
He glanced at her. A hood concealed her, but the resonant voice and exquisite figure betrayed her. What was a woman doing here? He stole a glance at her clothes. All black.
A Nilfgaardian.
He took off as fast as he could.
I regret to inform Your Grace that Your Grace's son fell while hunting a fiend. He died on the spot, along with his squire, his guide, the beaters, his peasant entourage and his hounds.
His legs stopped burning about two hours ago. Now, they were beginning to go stiff.
Bron choked and tried to swallow. He couldn't do that though, because his tongue wouldn't move. It was as dry as sawdust. He realized he was choking because his throat was too dry.
A creek winding through the forest beckoned him. He collapsed into the water, lapping up the pristine water.
He drank his fill and sat up. Bron absorbed the beams of warmth on his skin and took in the songs of birds enjoying the morning air. He thought he could stay there forever, away from the war, where he could build a log cabin, pick berries, hunt rabbits...
A crash ripped the daydream from him. He frantically panned around, trying to find the sound's source. A deafening roar brought Bron to his feet and scattered the birds.
Trees began to explode. Something massive was ripping through them like weeds. Bron willed his wooden legs to bend. He burst onto a beaten path, slick with mud from a recent downpour. He lost traction and tasted mud.
Spitting and groaning, he dared to glance backward. A massive beast with fangs and ram's horns churned the earth with four limbs. Trees trunks crumpled on contact with its barn-sized frame.
Bron's brain ordered him to run, but his body was frozen. His eyes were glued to the humongous monster. It burst onto the main road—then into flames.
The monster's meaty paws missed him by a hair as it careened over him. It crashed into the trees on the other side of the path, then bellowed so loud Bron's teeth rattled.
Why did it—
Two blurs raced past him. The glint of silver flashed in their hands. They whirled at the monster, who howled every time their blades found purchase. Magic leapt from their hands to the monster's carapace. Bron's eyes could not keep up with their speed. He realized they were Witchers—humans who were mutated to kill monsters.
The monster roared for the last time as its blood desecrated the soil. The two Witchers caught their breath and sheathed their swords. Then they walked over.
Bron whimpered as they drew close. Both carried a pair of wicked swords. Armor unlike any he had ever seen bolstered their bodies. Odd pouches and strange hooks populated their belts. But what was most unsettling were their glowing cat eyes.
One of them with a huge scar running across the left side of his face spoke up. "You okay?"
Bron nodded. "What—what was that thing?"
"A chort. A miniature fiend."
He had no clue as to what that was, but he let it slide. He wasn't a Witcher, after all.
"I—I know your kind doesn't work for free, but—"
The scarred Witcher waved it away. "Have you seen a woman? Middling height, raven-haired, dresses in black."
Bron froze. The Witcher was looking for the Nilfgaardian woman.
"Well?" The Witcher demanded.
Bron put up his hands in surrender. "I—I saw her. I—In White Orchard."
The other Witcher furrowed his brows. "White Orchard?"
Bron pointed. "That way."
"Thanks." The two Witchers gathered around the dead monster. Bron didn't dare make any sudden moves. The Witcher with the huge scar pulled something out of the carcass and proffered it to him. It was an old sword.
"Take it," he said.
Born reluctantly accepted the weapon. The Witchers whistled for their mounts and turned to leave.
"W—Wait," Bron pleaded. Their glances made him wince. "Which direction is Novigrad?"
The scarred Witcher cast a finger in the direction they came. "That way."
"Thanks."
Stop quoting laws, we carry weapons.
Two sunsets later, Bron was closing on another village. This one didn't seem deserted.
His stomach growled as he made it to the signpost. It read Benek. He shuffled towards the nearest house.
The man sitting on the porch took one look at him and ducked inside. Then he bolted the door. Three other families did the same when he drew near.
He tried the blacksmith last. The muscular man halted him when he drew near. "If you're here to plowing rob us, you will be very sorry." The man dropped his work and drew a sword. Bron immediately raised his hands. "Wait! I'm not here to rob you."
The man spat at the ground. "Then why are you holding your plowing sword out?"
Bron realized his folly. No wonder all the other refugees on the road gave him a wide berth.
"I—I'm sorry, I don't have a scabbard or anything."
The man glared at him. "Drop your plowing sword."
It clattered to the gravel.
The man sheathed his sword and tossed him a battered cloth. "Wrap the sword up. You have a plowing sack to carry your belongings, do you?"
Bron stared at him. The man sighed, muttered something about the offspring of whores, and tossed him an empty grain sack. Bron quickly gathered his things into the sack.
"Uh, sir—"
"What do you plowing want?"
Bron composed himself before responding. "I was wondering if there was work here. You know, there is a windmill, and—"
"No work," The man interrupted. "This here is Temeria. The War is coming. We aren't planting this year because the fields will just get plowing trampled."
"Well then, are there other—"
"No." The man got back to hammering a pitchfork.
Bron gulped.
"Wait, I—I want to trade."
The blacksmith stole a glance at him and continued his work. Bron hesitated, then took off his mail shirt, leaving just a doublet reeking of sweat.
"How much will you give me for this?"
The blacksmith stopped his work and inspected it. "A hundred crowns."
"I'll take it."
The exchange was made. Bron immediately spent some of it on a loaf of bread. If he rationed it carefully, the bun would last him the day.
Several hours later, Bron reached a wooden palisade. He could hear the sound of hammers at work inside.
He dared to knock. A few moments later, a guard showed up.
"What do you want?"
Bron's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for water. He finally managed to squeeze a few words out. "Is this Novigrad?"
The guard snorted. "Does this look like the world's largest city?"
Bron just stared at him. The guard stared back. "Your mother dropped you as a baby?"
Bron shook his head. "I... Uh... thank you." He began to leave, then realized he should have asked for directions. "Sir, w—which way to Novigrad?"
The guard pointed with a nod. "But what for? Looking for work?"
Bron nodded.
"We have work here, at Devil's pit."
Bron's eyes lit up. "What kind of work?"
"Devil's pit is a mine." The guard gestured behind him with his sword. "You hear it?"
The sound of steel and stone was a symphony to Bron's ears. "Yeah."
"Come in if you want the job." The guard beckoned. He followed.
Bron knew he miscalculated when the gate slammed shut and six other "guards" materialized from the shadows.
Three minutes later, he returned to the road with a thud. He no longer had the burden of his sword or his coin pouch.
Of all the problems you may meet on your journey, it will be people who are the greatest danger. But it will also be people to whom you must turn if ever you are in need of aid.
Bron forgot how long it took for him to find his way to the tall tower. He reached the bank of a river and gaped at the picturesque city on the other bank.
He was sure this was Novigrad. The Free City. He had arrived.
The farmer-turned-refugee marveled at the colossal gatehouses as he passed beneath them. He reached the border post and decided that he had truly left Temeria behind.
The cobbled streets were a wonder to Bron, who only ever tread on unfurnished earth before. Young men clutching onto cumbersome tomes milled about, flanked by torrents of townswomen and masses of merchants. He strode along workshops, studios, shops, and inns, all carrying distinct aromas of wood, paint, flowers, and food.
Mouthwatering food.
Bron stumbled his way into one such inn. The aroma of fresh food wafted out of the stove, accompanied by the lively chatter of the inn's patrons. He strode through the pleasant atmosphere and found the innkeep.
"Yes?"
"I... uh... I was wondering if there was any work here."
The innkeep shook his head. "We're fully staffed."
"Well then," Bron persisted. "Perhaps there is something I can do for a bit of bread?"
The innkeep stared at him. "Do you play Gwent?"
Bron furrowed his brow. "What's that?"
"Never mind," the innkeep sighed. He sized up Bron. "You look like an able young man. Cart these empty barrels to the port. Come back with the coin I'll find you something to eat."
Bron deftly delivered the containers to the port, where a wine merchant collected them onto his ship. He cradled the coin in his calloused palms as he hurried back to the inn. The innkeep, heaven bless him, was waiting for him with a loaf of ordinary bread.
It tasted like heaven.
Bron lovingly held the bread as he wandered away down the street, taking a bite every few steps. What they said was true. Novigrad was certainly a wonderful city. The savory bread exploded in flavor as he munched down on the delectable morsels.
"Hey! What are you doing here?"
Bron snapped out of his daydream. Three guardsmen in red and white livery strode towards him with purpose. He turned and ran.
Straight into three other guardsmen.
Bron whimpered and pleaded, but it was a back alley, and nobody else was around. When they discovered that he was literally penniless, they took his precious half-eaten loaf.
"Halt!" A piercing shout cut through the commotion. The guardsmen stopped.
The last thing that registered in Bron's mind was that it was the voice of a woman.
"Good, you're finally awake."
The same woman.
Bron struggled into an upright position. Bandages and ointments formed a patchwork over his body. He anxiously found his bearings.
He was indoors. Shelves filled with books and walls covered in diagrams surrounded him.
"Last check-up," the red-haired woman said. She looked over his bandages and decided that one of them was unsatisfactory.
She made small talk as she reapplied the dressing. "So, what brings you to Oxenfurt?"
"Oxenfurt?" Bron blurted out.
The lady smiled. "I guess you're not from around here. This is Oxenfurt. Part of Redania. A holding of His Royal Majesty, Radovid the Stern."
Bron was aghast. "Then where's Novigrad?"
"Are you headed there?" The lady finished her work and wiped her hands on a rag.
He nodded.
"I guess you're fleeing the war."
He nodded again.
The woman pursed her lips. "Wait here a second."
She returned with an old satchel, a skin of water, and a handful of coins. Bron covered his face to hide the shameful trickles of water running down his cheeks.
"Here," she said. "The satchel is for you to hold your stuff. Food, clothes, whatever. Fill the skin only at wells and flowing rivers. And hide the coin well."
She helped him into his boots. "Keep your bandages on until tomorrow. Then throw them away—do not try and wash them and keep them."
Bron could only sniffle in response.
She walked him to the door. "If you're headed for Novigrad, you might want to leave now. You should reach city limits before the sun sets."
"W-wait," Bron protested. "What about those guards on the street?"
The woman chuckled. "I happened to be the company medic for those boys who robbed you. They're busy by the port digging latrines."
The lady waved as Bron left. A smile stretched across his face for the first time in a long time.
Now to him that worketh is the reward not reckoned of grace, but of debt.
The sun was getting drowsy when Bron spied a sprawling city in the distance. But a nearby windmill was what arrested his attention.
He strode towards the village, eyeing a large crowd gathered near the signpost. It read Carsten.
"Is this Novigrad?"
"No, but we work for Novigrad," said one woman as she glanced up at the traveler. She frowned. "You get mauled by monsters?"
Bron remembered his bandages. He shook his head, then cleared his throat. "Is there work here?"
The woman shook her head. "Work is halted. Monsters in the barn, you see. You happen to kill monsters?"
"Monsters?" Bron backed away, the monster in the woods still vivid in his memory. He was sure that Novigrad would be monster-free—a bigger, better Oxenfurt.
He strode towards the promised land without looking back.
Novigrad was definitely bigger than Oxenfurt. In fact, the city was probably bigger than the entirety of White Orchard. He walked through bustling gates, flabbergasted with how packed its streets were with strumpets, priests, guardsmen, merchants... and non-humans.
Bron had only seen a dwarf before. White Orchard's blacksmith, Willis, was one of them. But in Novigrad, dwarves, elves, and humans roamed the streets alike. He decided that it truly was a free city.
He wandered through the city, marveling at the hustle and bustle. Then one man caught his attention. A bald man with two swords on his back.
A Witcher.
Bron chased after the man as quickly as his bruised legs could carry him. He found him in a bookstore, haggling with the clerk.
"Look," the Witcher reasoned. "I have this trophy. It's from a Shaelmaar. Very rare monster. It's worth at least two hundred crowns."
The storekeeper glanced at the volumes clutched in the Witcher's hand. "Very well, I'll take the trophy as collateral for these books."
The Witcher turned to leave, those glowing cat eyes petrifying Bron for an instant. He shook off the daze, the braced for impact. "Excuse me!"
The bald Witcher's eyes bored into his soul. Bron did everything in his power to not lose control over his bowels. "Th—there's a, um—"
"What do you want?" The Witcher pushed past him for the exit.
"Wait!" Bron pleaded. "There are monsters. At C—Carsten. In a barn."
The Witcher stopped and turned. Bron preferred it when he didn't have to face the daunting eyes. "Is there a contract on them?"
"Contract?"
"Coin," the Witcher demanded. "Any coin on those monsters' heads?"
"Uh, no, I don't think—" the Witcher stormed away.
He muttered something about this not being the first time someone didn't pay him for his work. Bron chased after him, remembering that the redheaded lady had given him some coin. But the Witcher's silhouette disappeared into the crowd.
The farmhand sighed. Time to look for work in the city.
He asked around the market square, offering the merchants there his services. Only one of them accepted Bron's proposal.
"Here," he pointed. "Sort my herbs out. Finish it quickly and I'll give you extra."
Bron, familiar with plants, skillfully separated the herbs into different boxes. Fool's Parsley Leaves, Wolfsbane, Celandine—he could distinguish between them with ease.
"It's finished, sir," Bron politely notified.
"Guards! Guards! This man here is trying to steal my herbs!"
Bron's jaw dropped. He spotted three men possessing pikes pushing through the masses, pelting him with profanities.
He charged into the confounded crowd, away from the callous cheat.
Whatever your life's work is, do it well. A man should do his job so well that the living, the dead, and the unborn could do it no better.
Having escaped his pursuers, Bron searched for accommodation. He checked out several inns but he did not have enough coin for even the most meager room. The food was expensive too. He could barely buy just one piece of bread when he could have bought three back at White Orchard. Novigrad was free, but it was expensive.
Bron ditched the bandages as instructed and washed up after he finished his dinner. He refilled his skin in a well. The coin the lady gave him in Oxenfurt would only last another two meals.
He returned to the cobbled streets, the brisk air of the night covering him in gooseflesh. He wandered the streets, now deserted. The only signs of life were the scurrying vermin and the bands of guardsmen who patrolled half-asleep.
Bron found a spot near a well. He dozed off, only to be awakened by a guardsman and shooed. He tried to sleep again in a nearby garden of sorts, only to be asked if he was a patron of the Passiflora. He shook his head, then was seized and rudely introduced to the cobbling. Finally, he found a secretive spot on a massive bridge, where his fitful slumber came to a close.
The next morning, he resumed his wandering. Novigrad was truly gargantuan, too expansive to cover in one day. He decided that he would try the markets that day.
His search was fruitless. As the moon rose, he spent the last of his coin on several loaves of hard bread that could sustain him for a few more days.
Another restless night passed, with three interruptions instead of two. Bron chewed on a stale loaf as he headed towards the docks. He pleaded to every god that he knew, including Novigrad's Eternal Fire, that he would find work.
Bron's prayers were answered. A deckhand had come down with venereal disease and the Captain needed a replacement. Unfortunately, there was competition. Another man, and a non-human. An elf.
Bron stared at his pointed ears, a pit forming in his stomach.
"Well well," the Captain hooted. "Seems we got tryouts! Look here bois, I'mma gonna test you on sailin' and scrubbin' and haulin'. Now, whoever does the best job, I'll hire. Clear?"
Bron nodded. He glanced at the other men.
"Get goin'!"
Bron raced to the mast, swung up the rungs, and unfurled the sails. Then he clattered down the ladder, towards the bucket of water.
He stole a glance at the others. The man was feeling his way down the ladder, as the elf was twirling up the mast like a pole dancer.
Next was scrubbing. He picked up the rag and wiped his way forward. The deck behind him glimmered in the sunlight. He finished scrubbing, then panted as he made his way to the crates.
Bron peeked at his competitors. The man was halfway done, while the elf was busy tracing patterns with his rag.
His heart raced. Bron was sure he would get the job. He picked up the crate—heavy, but nothing he hadn't handled before—and slung it over his back. His endurance had been whittled away by his trek from home, but his strength remained. Bron hauled the crate to the dock.
"Done, sir!" Bron reported, breathless.
The Captain raised an eyebrow. "Done? Alright, you'll have to wait for the others."
The man finished a minute later, sweating profusely. The elf joined them two minutes after that. "Hear, hear," the Captain barked. "I'm hirin' the elf."
Bron was dumbfounded. "But I finished first!"
The Captain shrugged. "I didn't mention first being best. You're quick, that's for sure, but this elf here? He's unique. I gotta have an elf on me ship!"
"But unique doesn't mean useful," Bron objected.
The Captain's face turned red as the sunset. "Are you hirin', or am I?"
He whistled. "Boys, at 'em!"
Anyone who has ever struggled with poverty know how extremely expensive it is to be poor.
Bron woke up to the patter of rain on a windowsill. He realized that his left eye was so swollen that he couldn't see out of it.
He turned over on the bed, his ribs screaming at him for it.
An aged man loomed over him. Bron passed out again.
The next time he regained consciousness, the man was still there.
"Good afternoon." The man rose from his chair. "You are well?"
Bron nodded. Another person who saved his life.
The man did a final check-up. "You seem well. I will discharge you in an hour."
He pointed to the nightstand before he left the ward. "Over there you will find the receipt."
Receipt?
Bron dared to peek. Four hundred crowns. A month's worth of food in Novigrad.
He started to whimper. There was no way he could pay. They had taken his satchel too—Bron's last reminder that kindness existed.
He stared out the window. Then it hit him. Perhaps it was a way out.
Bron immediately regretted jumping. But jumping was preferable to debt, so that was that. He limped his way down the street, away from the barbaric place where they saved a man's life, only to squeeze it out of him later.
He stumbled outside the city's walls, towards a large house. Smoke rose from its chimney. A hand-painted HIRING sign hung near the door.
Bron wept at the sight of his salvation. He trudged through the mud and threw open the door.
"A—are you hiring?"
A hooded man looked up from his parchment. "Yes."
Bron sighed in relief. "I-I 'd like to work here."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Your name?"
"Bron," he responded. The man scribbled on his parchment, then stood up.
"Follow me."
Bron joyfully followed the man into the other room. Then his smile evaporated.
A furnace sat in the midst of a sea of corpses.
"This is Novigrad's crematorium," the man explained. "Where we burn the bodies of those found dead on the streets."