Brightly coloured banners danced in the wind, an array of vivid yellows, greens and blues bearing all manner of sigil, from the coat of arms of a noble house to the silver eagle of Redania itself. Every errant gust pulled the scraps of cloth in a different direction, a bright cascade against the clear blue sky. Far overhead, the sun shone brightly, casting a heat that was pleasant on the skin.
Beneath the myriad colourful sigils, a small crowd had gathered, a susurrus of conversation among them. Here and there, a minstrel played a merry tune for the crowd, while children clapped their hands and danced to the beat. Dozens of conversations mixed together in a gentle tide, while the scents of freshly baked goods wafted over the heads of all present, setting many a mouth watering. The canny businessman would find many opportunities for trade in the gathered throng.
Beyond the flat plain where the crowd had mustered, atop a small hill, stood the city of Gulet, its high walls imposing, even as it was dwarfed by the dark shadow of the Blue Mountains rising behind it. A small city on the Eastern borders of Aedirn, it was rare for Gulet to see such a large gathering, more often a place where the Aedirnian military posted a garrison to protect against any bands of thugs and raiders hiding among the mountains. But today, today it was host to a gathering unlike any it had seen in many years. Noble and commoner alike gathered outside the city's walls, where brightly coloured tents and market stalls had been set up, a small town rising in the shadow of the city. A tense energy dwelled within the chest of each one of them, for today was a special day- the Tournament of the Griffin's Quiver.
Skilled huntsmen, soldiers, and other archers of note had travelled from across the Northern Kingdoms, eager to show their worth in the contest. Temerian, Redanian, Kaedweni, even a few Nilfgaardian and Skelligan figures moved through the crowds, a rare gathering so diverse and yet so peaceful. The excitement of the contest overcame the differences between the participants.
Watching all of this was a small figure, leaning against the bole of a tree some ways away from the crowd. A scarlet gambeson shone brightly in the sunlight, black shapes curling across it in a repeating pattern. At her side was an elegant but sturdy recurve bow, unstrung, carved from fine yew wood.
The figure settled even more against the tree, folding her arms as she watched the proceedings with a carefree air. Her features were soft, almost gentle, but somewhere within her expression there lurked a harshness that bore witness to many harsh truths that few humans could claim to have faced. This steely edge was soon explained by the silver medallion that hung around her neck, a snarling cat's head with emeralds for eyes. A Witcher's medallion.
Her name was Muire of Cidaris. A huntress of the Witcher's Guild, she had trained at the ancient fortress of Kaer Marter, but today she was on no monster hunt. Instead, she was seeking a prize that attracted her more strongly than any beast or spectre.
She shifted slightly, reaching up to adjust the long, mahogany braid that adorned her crown. Neatly braided, the braid reached down the length of her back, an elegant arrangement that was the envy of many women all over the continent. Most of her sisters in the Witcher's Guild wore their hair short, avoiding having it interfere in their mobility and risking having it get in their eyes during a hunt, but Muire kept her hair long, a point of pride for the young Witcheress.
Her hand went to her bow, picking up the carved weapon gently. Fingers traced the etchings along the body, finding the deep grooves of the triskelion that was roughly two thirds of the way along its length, in line with her eyes when she was using it. A trusty companion through the years, the bow was her most prized possession, and the key to much of her success. While other Witchers focused on power or precision with a blade, she had honed her skill with the arrow, becoming a keen and deadly huntress that could strike down a target before they even knew that she was there. Few, if any, or the Guild could match her skill. And now, here she was, making ready to compete in the final stages of the grandest tournament the North had ever seen.
Her eyes glinted in the sunlight, jade green flashed through with just a touch of hazel, an unusual colouration that stood out even among the Witchers, normally known for their feral yellow gaze. Those eyes now turned towards the crowd gathered among the pavilions.
The contest was being held by Baron Ilsrit Treovus, the lord who reigned over Gulet. A young man, no more than twenty five years of age, he had come into power in the city by right of his blood, inheriting his position from the late Baron Danbor Treovus, rather than earning it by conquest or deeds of valour. The old Baron lay dead some five years now, and the province had seen better days. The young Ilsrit hoped to improve his image in the eyes of the local gentry by hosting such a grand affair, no doubt draining his city's coffers to do so.
Not that any of this mattered to the young Witcheress. Muire wasn't concerned with politicking, or trying to appease a room full of stuffy old men and women who thought that gold somehow made them better than anyone else in the world. Her motivations for joining the contest were far simpler.
In order to tantalise competitors into participating in the contest, the young Baron had presented a unique prize for the victor to claim- a quiver of arrows. Banded with silver, the black leather bearing intricate embossing of Elven design, the quiver was a thing of beauty. A lunging Griffin decorated its exterior, snarling visage represented in exquisite detail. Inside, a half dozen arrows.
A relic of the old Baron's hunting equipment, Ilsrit had declared, clearly not fully understanding its value. The hopeful contestants had quickly arisen, hoping to claim the prize. And as soon as she'd heard tell of what was on the line, Muire had been swift to join them.
The first few stages of the tournament had been fairly simple, large numbers of amateurs having signed up. They were soon weeded out in the initial stages, until only the most skilled remained. Now, Muire found herself up against four other contenders, ostensibly the best the continent had to offer.
The low drone of a horn echoed forth across the gathering, drawing the attention of all present. Muire turned her gaze back to the array of banners, noting the many shapes that now clustered there. With barely a sound, she stood, placing her bow across her shoulders as she sauntered back towards the waiting ranks. It was time for the final challenge.
~o~0~o~
The borders of the temporary archery range bustled with people, the crowds pushing and squabbling in an effort to get the best view. As Muire pushed her way through the gathered throng, easily making her way to the edge of the field, the crowd parted around her, a few concerted whispers echoing around her. The myths surrounding the Witchers were many, and the common folk were all too often unsettled by the presence of one of the mutated hunters. Muire ignored the sidelong glances, the anxious muttering, and the occasional insult hurled her way. She had survived far worse.
The Witcheress emerged onto the archery field, keeping a languorous pace as she ambled towards the banners that still stood over the field. Underneath each banner, one of her opponents glowered at her, the Witcheress' cocksure manner seeming to only antagonise them further. Slowly, making sure that everyone understood she moved at her own pace, Muire made her way to the fifth banner on the field, emblazoned with a snarling cat's head that matched her medallion, against a field of plain black. As she took up her position, she spared a glance towards her opponents.
To her immediate right, the threefold gonfalon of the duchy of Ellander hung over a small awning, a man of proud features sitting in the shade. His stern expression deepened as the Witcheress made eye contact with him. Falden of Ellander locked his azure gaze with the Witcheress' two-tone hues for a long moment before, shifting uneasily in his leather armour, the fair-haired man turned away, unable to meet the monster hunter's stare any longer. Muire smirked at his discomfort before looking to the next figure on the field.
Standing at only half the height of his Human opponent, Dasmar Hengor of Mahakam tugged irritably at the buckled of his gambeson. The surly Dwarf wore his midnight black beard in a tight braid, his head clean shaven. At his side was a bulky length of gnarled wood that could barely be considered a bow at first glance. But, Muire had seen the force with which it could launch an arrow at its target, the compact musculature of a Dwarf the only one that could hope to flex the oddly shaped weapon to its full strength. Muire had seen the Dwarf's arrows strike their target with the force of a hammer blow, more often than not shattering on impact rather than piercing the target, but she could not deny the weapon's effectiveness.
Next to him, a much more elegant awning than the others had been set up. Under it, a slender man in his mid twenties watched the proceedings with distant interest. Baron Ilsrit was not a contestant himself, but the Elf that stood by his side competed on his behalf. Raven hair cut close to his scalp, his clothing a mixture of dun grey and deep green that would blend in effortlessly in the forest, the tall figure was willow-thin, his eyes a sharp grey that gleamed with an inner light. Anchaeren watched the Witcheress with barely concealed disdain, lips twitching downwards in the ghost of a sneer. As Muire watched, the Baron muttered something to his Elven servant, drawing the tall non-human's attention away from her.
The final figure in the array of contenders was perhaps the only one that Muire could have respected. His banner was naught but a scrap of dark grey cloth, all that he could afford. He bore no family crest, no coat of arms, just his bow and a simple honesty that the Witcheress found the other contenders lacked. Stenn of Flotsam was a trapper by trade, a simple huntsman. And yet, during the course of the competition, he had matched the best of them shot for shot. The squat, broad-shouldered huntsman watched the Witcheress arrive, his grey-green eyes narrowing as he weighed her up. He had been the first to comment on a woman taking part in the competition, and also the first to cease objecting when she had easily bested the first few challengers.
As Muire took her place beneath her banner, she turned her gaze out towards the tournament field. An array of targets had been set up, of various sizes. At distances of thirty, fifty and seventy yards, the targets were brightly coloured, concentric circles used to measure the accuracy of the competitors.
While Muire was surveying the field, a figure strode out from the crowd, the Baron's majordomo. A portly man clad in rich purple velvet, he thrust his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers as he surveyed the crowd and the competitors. His clean shaven jowls quivered as he drew in a deep breath, chest expanding to its limit.
"Lords, ladies and gentlemen," He bellowed. "We return for the final round of the Griffin's Quiver Tournament, as hosted by our generous Lord Treovus. Only five competitors remain: Anchaeren of Gulet, on behalf of our dear Baron, Falden of Ellander, Stenn of Flotsam, Dasmar Hengor of Mahakam and..." He hesitated for just a moment. "And Muire, the Witcher."
Muire bristled at the disdain evident in the majordomo's voice, her lip curling just a fraction.
"That's Muire of Cidaris." She growled, loud enough for all present to hear.
"Er… yes. O-of course." The majordomo's double chin shook as he turned a hesitant eye towards the Witcheress, his voice dropping low as he bowed his head. "My apologies."
"Don't apologise to that thing." The sputtered protest rose from Falden, his face twisted in a deep frown. "A mutant cannot hold a title, and has no place to call home!"
Muire felt the heat rush through her chest, anger sparking quickly inside of her. She turned swiftly to face the arrogant young man, but a shouted word from the Baron caused her words to catch in her throat.
"Enough!" Baron Ilsrit barked, raising a hand sternly. "I will not have you disgrace this competition by fighting on the field of contest. Falden, keep your opinions to yourself. And Witcher, do not cause any further disruptions, do I make myself clear?"
Muire felt the sharp retort in the back of her throat, but managed to hold back from saying anything, just barely. Instead, she turned her back to the still fuming Falden, a sharp twist of her head tossing her braid back over her shoulder. The young noble merely snorted before turning back to his awning, while the Baron offered the majordomo a nod of encouragement to continue.
"The, uh- the final round of this competition shall be carried out in two parts." He explained. "Firstly, the honourable Falden of Ellander and Dasmar Hengor of Mahakam shall compete against one another, followed by Stenn of Flotsam and Muire of Cidaris." He spared a furtive glance towards the Witcheress as he added the moniker. "The most accurate marksman shall progress from each bout. The victors of each clash shall then face off against Baron Treovus' representative, Anchaeren, the champion of Gulet, after which the true victor and claimant of the Griffin's Quiver shall be decided!"
At this last statement, the crowd released a bellowing wave of cheers, loud applause lifting high on the warm air. The majordomo allowed this for a short time, before raising his hands to quiet them once more.
"Let the final bout of the tournament, begin!"
~o~0~o~
The air grew still as the first two figures stepped up to their marks. On one side, the grim featured Dasmar made a few final adjustments to his bow, planting three heavy black arrows in the soil by his feet. Beside him, the haughty Falden stood to his full height, chin lifting slightly as he surveyed the targets. The Human's golden hair shone in the sunlight, the wind tugging at it ever so slightly. To anyone who did not know his personality, the young man might have looked like a knight from a childhood tale.
Behind them, Muire lay on the grass at the foot of her banner, stretching out to her full length as she cupped her hands behind her head. She stifled a bored yawn while the majordomo spoke loudly to the crowd of the competitors' accomplishments, then stepped aside at long last to allow them to actually shoot at their targets.
The Dwarf was the first one to move, plucking an arrow from the soil and nocking it to his oddly shaped weapon. He squinted against the bright light of the day, weighing up the distance between him and the target. A loud hawking noise escaped his lips as he spat up a gobbet of thick phlegm, then began to draw his bow. Broad shoulders clenched and curled under his armour as he pulled against the stubborn resistance of the Dwarven bow, pulling it back just shy of its full length. A quick adjustment as the arrow's head neared the limbs of the bow, and the stout humanoid loosed, a loud whistle following the arrow as it sang through the air, striking the first target, at thirty yards away, just a few inches away from the centre. The target rocked back from the sheer force of the impact, almost toppling over before swaying back upright.
Two more arrows quickly followed, first lunging towards the fifty yard target, then the furthest one. Each strike moved slightly further from the centre, the Dwarf unable to maintain his accuracy at greater distances. After the third shot, he lowered his bow, grunting as he looked at the last arrow, embedded deeply in its target, but over a foot wide of the centre. Shaking his head in frustration, he turned back from his mark, stomping back towards his awning. As he left the field, a rippling chorus of applause followed him.
Falden watched with a wry smirk on his lips, chuckling a little at the Dwarf's reaction. As his opponent left the field, the young man lifted his bow, a fine piece of carved ash that gleamed white in the sun. He reached to his hip, where a small quiver full of arrows waited, and nocked one to his bowstring before taking aim at the first target.
Muire watched as the haughty noble drew back on his bow, aiming as he drew. As quick as a blink, he loosed the arrow and reached for another one, then another. The three arrows whistled through the air, each one finding its target. A hush fell over the crowd as multiple eyes narrowed to try and spot where the arrows had struck.
Three white arrows trembled in the targets, just missing the centre of each target. While a close run thing, it soon became clear who the victor was, as the crowd began applauding and cheering for the young noble from Ellander. The Dwarf took the outcome in stride, shrugging before bowing his head in defeat.
The first part of the bout over, it was soon Muire's turn. The Witcheress leapt to her feet, retrieving her bow. She stepped up to her mark, glancing sideways towards her opponent, the trapper from Flotsam. Stenn nodded to her, his stubbled features narrowed in concentration. The huntress returned the gesture, a brief moment of genuine respect. Then, without a word, the pair turned towards the targets.
The huntsman was the first to shoot, reaching back over his shoulder to the quiver that perched there. He drew a long, slender arrow of ash wood, its fletching coloured red. Nocking the arrow to his bowstring, the hunter stepped up to the line and assumed a balanced, powerful stance. With a smooth intake of breath, he drew back, at the same time sighting along the arrow. A fraction of a heartbeat was all that passed between the arrow pulling back halfway, and the hunter releasing. A low hiss echoed across the field after the loosed projectile before, with a dull thunk, it embedded itself in the thirty yard target, just barely missing the centre point. From behind the archer, the crowd let out a few approving sounds, some applause, a couple of admiring whistles, one man beating his fist in the air as he hollered in triumph before being quickly shushed. It seemed as though the humble trapper appealed to the commoners in the crowd, although those of higher birth were notably more muted in their excitement.
A second arrow soon leapt onto the huntsman's bowstring, moving with serpentine grace as he shifted his focus to the fifty yard mark. Another heartbeat, and the deadly projectile leapt forward, striking close to the heart of his target, to another round of applause. The final arrow was nocked, a moment's hesitation while the wind gusted ever so gently, and then in a momentary lull between zephyrs the trapper loosed, his arrow leaping towards the furthest target. There was a brief hush, then a wave of jubilation washed through the crowd as the arrow sunk deep into its target, just below the centre.
Stenn relaxed visibly, stepping away from his mark with a small nod to Muire. The Witcheress narrowed her eyes, glancing to each of the targets as she stepped up. She carefully planted her three arrows in the soil by her feet, then turned towards the targets, taking a brief moment to close her eyes and centre herself.
For just an instant, she was back on the archery field before Kaer Marter, the ancient keep looming over her. Somewhere close by, her fellow adepts were running drills. Before her, a series of targets, each one more familiar to her than the back of her hand. In her grasp, the bow she had possessed since becoming a Witcher, every whorl and knot in the carved wood a familiar memory to her. In that momentary meditation, stillness seized her, a razor-sharp focus. She let the air flow into her lungs, and exhaled, purging any distraction.
When she opened her eyes again, she was back on that field in Gulet, ready to take action. The leather gauntlet around her hand creaked as she adjusted her grip on her bow, her free hand finding the first arrow.
Taking aim required almost no thought from her, her jade and hazel eyes narrowing as the pupils tightened, a willing act on her part to focus her vision. Her arrow found the string, fingers gently curling as she began to draw the bow back. Air moved through her, a subconscious response as her shoulders flexed, her chest expanded, and her arms grew tense.
The first arrow was loosed with a loud hiss, surging across the tournament field. With deadly precision, it struck the target, but Muire did not wait to see how true her aim was. She instead grabbed her second arrow, finding the mid range target, and loosing again. Once more, she reached for an arrow, and fired at the final target. Before the first arrow had even stopped quivering, the third was more than halfway across the range towards its mark.
A hush fell across the crowd, uncertainty in their silence. As they watched, the majordomo stepped out onto the field, moving towards one target, then the next, then the third. He inspected the accuracy of the arrows, too close to those of Stenn's to tell from a distance who was the victor. Finally, as the crowd watched in tense silence, the Baron's representative turned towards them, lifting his hands as he bellowed out his verdict.
"By the narrowest of margins, the victory goes to the Witcher, Muire of Cidaris!"
Satisfaction bloomed in Muire's chest as the crowd applauded her victory, albeit more quietly than they had celebrated Stenn's performance. She turned from the field, glancing to her defeated opponent. Stenn met her gaze, nodding his approval with gruff stoicism. He was humble enough to recognise the better archer, silently accepting his defeat. Falden, though, was not so calmly accepting of the verdict. As Muire turned to move past him towards her banner, the young noble's face glowed a jealous scarlet. As the Witcheress moved by him, his words hissed out just loud enough for only her ears to hear them.
"Don't be so sure of yourself, mutant." He seethed. "You may have defeated the common rabble, but you will not win today. The grand prize shall be mine, as is right and true."
"Big words, your lordship." Muire's reply dripped with sarcasm, her tone mocking. "But I think you will find that I shall be the one claiming the prize today."
"Pfeh!" The noble spat, his glower growing ever deeper. "I will not lose to a woman! You have no place in such a tournament. Were it not for your filthy mutations, you'd never have got this far. I guess it will be up to me to put you in your place."
Muire bristled, the nobles words cutting her deeper than she liked to admit. Her lip curled back angrily as she took her place beneath her banner, waiting to be called forth again.
"Whatever you say, my lord, but words cannot match actions. We'll see who is the better marksman by the end of the tournament."
"Yes. Perhaps once you are defeated you will finally know your place." The noble tossed his head, turning away from the Witcheress with disdain.
Muire's eyes flashed as she glanced at the noble, anger sparking inside her. His words burned deep inside her, but she managed to hold back a biting reply, for the time being. Instead, she looked to the archery range, where the majordomo barked orders at a few servants, making ready for the last stage of the tournament. She would show him. She would give them all a show they wouldn't forget.
~o~0~o~
The air had grown still once more, the tension among the crowd rising. This was it, they knew, the final moments of the tournament, when the best marksman in the Northern Kingdoms would be decided. The majordomo bellowed loudly, his shrill voice echoing far across the field. He was proclaiming the great deeds of the Baron's chosen champion, telling tall tales of the Elf's skill with the bow. Muire wasn't really paying any heed. She'd met enough Elves in her time to know that the myth of all Elves being superhumanly skilled with the bow was an utter fabrication. Still, for the Baron to have chosen Anchaeren, he must have had some aptitude.
As she mulled over what her opponent might have been capable of, the Majordomo called out Anchaeren's name and the Elf in question emerged from the Baron's awning, stepping out into the bright sunlight. His grey eyes squinted a little as he stepped up to the mark, black hair gleaming with a silken sheen. In his hands, he held an elegant bow, carved of a wood that Muire did not recognise.
Close behind him, Falden was already marching up to stand behind the Elf before his name had even echoed forth. Finally, Muire was called, the Witcheress casually sauntering over to stand behind the others. Last in line, to her utter lack of surprise.
Stillness descended on the contest field as all eyes turned to the three competitors. Anchaeren had already strung his bow, a quiver of polished brown leather sitting at his hip. He drew an arrow, fletched with goose feathers the colour of fresh snow, and took up a ready stance. As the Majordomo nodded for him to proceed, he nocked the arrow, pausing for just an instant to take aim, then drawing and loosing his first projectile in a single smooth motion. With barely any sign of effort, he sent the second arrow down the range, and swiftly moved to the third. The thudding impacts of each shot echoed forth, the distinctive arrows shivering in their targets. Each shot had struck almost in the centre of their targets, the third and final one striking the bullseye dead on. As the Elf's shoulders relaxed, an excited murmuring rippled through the crowd, many applauding the exceptional skill on display.
Falden stepped forth, a little of the swagger vanishing from his stride as he surveyed Anchaeren's skilful shots. He paused for just a moment at the mark before preparing his first arrow, taking a long moment to sight down its length and make sure it was of good quality before taking up a ready stance. He hesitated just a couple of breaths, then nocked the arrow, raising it towards the first target.
Muire felt a twitch of annoyance at the Human's sudden slowness, obviously delaying a few seconds as doubt assailed him about whether he could match the Elf's obvious skill. A couple more seconds passed, and then the young noble drew his bowstring back, and loosed.
The arrow whistled through the air, arcing a little before striking the target. All eyes turned to the target, where Falden's white arrow lurked just a hair's breadth closer to the centre than Anchaeren's. Surprised applause washed through the crowd again as Falden turned his attention to the second target, once again hesitating as he adjusted his aim before, with yet another skilful shot, he drove his arrow into the heart of the target, once again besting the Elf.
Muire had to admit, she was surprised to see the Human's slow, methodical approach paying off. But the most challenging target still awaited him, the seventy yard goal, and Anchaeren's arrow stood proudly in the bull's eye. Falden would have to match the shot for any hope of winning the competition.
The noble stood for a moment, eyes narrowing against the bright sun as he gauged the distance. He pulled a final arrow from his quiver. Once more, he placed it against his bowstring, then paused, drawing in a few long breaths, shoulders rising and falling rhythmically. Just as Muire thought she would burst from the tension of waiting, the young man raised his weapon and pulled back, making a few small adjustments as he waited for the perfect moment, when his hands stilled and the wind dropped to almost dead stillness. Then, he loosed the arrow.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the projectile left the young man's bow, fletching rippling as air rushed across the trimmed feathers. The arrow lanced through the air, cutting a brilliant arc as it lunged towards the target. The onlooking crowd held its collective breath as the arrow flashed across the tournament field before, with a loud thud, embedding itself in the target.
Gasps of astonishment rose from the crowd as all eyes turned to the target where, against all odds, Falden had also struck the bull's eye, thrusting Anchaeren's arrow aside. The two arrow now perforated the centre of the target, their struggle to occupy the same spot pushing them apart so that they protruded from the target's surface at an angle from one another, forming a V-shape.
Thunderous applause rose from the crowd in admiration of the shot, some cheering for the Human's victory already. Anchaeren's brow rose in surprise, but he said nothing.
Falden, meanwhile, had already returned to his previous level of confidence, turning from the archery range with a smug twist to his lips. He spared Muire a haughty glance, eyes flashing with cruel arrogance.
"You'll never beat that." He sneered. "Never should have bothered coming here, mutant. I told you I'd teach you to mind your betters and know your place."
Anger, pure and uncontrolled, flared in Muire's chest at the nobleman's words, her heart beginning to race as she felt a warmth spark in her cheeks. Images sprung forth in her mind, unbidden. The echoes of her stepfather's voice, repeating those very same words to her, followed soon after by the raised fist, and the sting of bruised flesh. The memory awakened something primal, animal inside of her, her instincts taking over. Before she even had time to think about it, her hands were moving, an arrow drawn from her quiver, her bow already rising. Without even stepping up to the mark on the edge of the field, the Witcheress simply nocked the arrow to her bowstring.
Falden's eyes widened as the point of the arrow moved in his direction, flinching away. That was all that Muire needed, loosing her arrow as the young man dropped into a crouch and raised his arms to hide his face.
The arrow leapt from the bowstring, hurled through the air with deadly precision. It rushed past the young noble's ear, the wind of its passage caressing his flesh. The carved shaft lunged across the field, burying itself in the nearest target.
Without waiting to see where she had struck, the Witcheress grabbed another arrow, nocking, drawing and loosing in a blink. The nobleman, still cowering from the first shot, had not time to respond as the second raced by his shoulder, soaring across the field towards the mid range target. Again Muire reached for an arrow, this time leaning just a little to fire around the cowering nobleman as she sent the final arrow downrange towards the furthest target, at this range some seventy five or eighty yards distant from her.
Silence fell across the field, this time in shock rather than awe or admiration. The crowd was deathly still, many eyes wide at the Witcheress' aggressive display. A second passed, then another.
Finally realising that he had not been pierced by a hail of arrows as he had feared, the trembling Falden looked up, first at Muire, then at the crowd, before turning slowly to look to the archery field, following everyone else's gaze.
Muire's arrows still quivered in their targets, having pierced them all straight through the centre. In the first, her arrow had pushed past the white one to bury itself all the way down to the fletching in the dense straw. In the second, her arrow had found the same hole created by Falden's arrow in the bull's eye. The third, meanwhile, where both Falden and Anchaeren's arrows had found the heart of the target, Muire's arrow had gone between them, the impact forcing both of the other projectiles to pop out of the target and tumble to the ground, while the Witcheress' arrow stood proud and straight in the centre of the target, a lone victor standing over her battlefield.
Falden's eyes bulged at the sight, what little colour remained fading from his cheeks as he turned back towards the Witcheress. His mouth gaped, at a loss for words. Muire was the first to break the silence, her voice low.
"My 'place' is wherever I damn well choose it to be." She hissed defiantly. "That's how you'd need to shoot to even stand a chance against a Witcher like me."
As she said this, a sudden, dark light sparked in the nobleman's eyes. His lip quirked upwards in a little smirk, before his expression suddenly became one of aghast horror.
"Foul play!" He bellowed out, pointing an accusing finger at the Witcheress. "The Witcher cheats! She used her magics on the arrows, whispering a spell as she loosed them! I saw it with my own eyes!"
Shock rushed through the crowd, startled whispers darting from ear to ear in a growing tide. Some muttered in disbelief, while others growled angrily at the idea of the mutated huntress befouling their contest with magic.
"Lord Falden speaks the truth!" A voice suddenly piped up. Muire spun to see Anchaeren addressing the crowd theatrically. "I saw the Vatt'ghern weave an enchantment on her bow with each shot!"
Muire felt her stomach lurch at the accusation. Falden's wild words had not overly surprised her, but to hear the Baron's Elven champion join in the charade caught her off guard. As she looked to him, the Elf spared her a sideways glance, an angry spark in his grey eyes. Clearly he had been just as angered by her showmanship as Falden.
"The mutant is trying to steal the prize from us!" A voice called out from the crowd.
"'Tis known they use Witchcraft!" Another supplied.
"Fraud!"
"Cheater!"
"Charlatan!"
"Get the mutant!"
The chants began growing, anger building as the crowd mutated into a mob. Before Muire could say a word in her defence, a missile arced over the heads of the gathered throng, heading straight for the Witcheress. It struck her in the shoulder with a wet splat, a half-eaten apple.
Muire raised her hands, opening her mouth to shout out in her defence, but the crowd's furious chanting was growing by the second.
"ENOUGH!"
The single word barked out across the tournament field, arresting the mob in their tracks. All eyes turned to the Baron, still seated upon his chair under his awning. His eyes glinted with fury.
"I will not have my grand tournament reduced to a riot." He proclaimed firmly, hand slamming down on the arm of his chair. "We will not dishonour my father's memory, or disgrace the city of Gulet like this!"
The Baron's gaze turned to Muire, a spear that threatened to pierce her if she did not hold her tongue. Wisely, she did so as the Baron continued to speak.
"I will not stand for foul play or trickery in this tournament." He declared. "Muire of Cidaris, you have disgraced our contest, and yourself. You are disqualified from this tournament, and are no longer welcome in my city. Know that I will make sure that all of Aedirn hears of your treachery here today, and you will find no honour in competition anywhere within our borders. Begone, before I have my guards remove you!"
Muire opened her mouth to reply, but a sharp gesture from the Baron silenced her. She could see that she would get nowhere trying to plead her case. Her mouth worked around a silent word, before her shoulders sagged wearily. Silently, she turned away from the Baron, doing her best to ignore Falden's triumphant smirk as she quickly left the tournament field. Behind her, the mob jeered insults, their echoes following her long after they had faded from view.
~o~0~o~
Flames crackled in the gloom of the night, a small campfire under the boughs of a tree overlooking the road between Gulet and the border with Temeria. Overhead, the moon scudded through a cloud-littered sky, making its way towards the horizon. It was not long since the sun had set, and the night was sure to be a cold one.
Muire had travelled for as long as the light had held out, only making camp once the full darkness of the night had closed in around her. Not that the darkness was an impediment to a Witcher, her eyes well adjusted to the gloom and her stamina reserves far greater than those of a Human. Still, she preferred to travel during the day. There was a village ahead, a small settlement called Boggevrieg, where she could perhaps find a roof to sleep under and a warm meal at an inn, but it would be no use arriving in the small hours of the morning, when the villagers slept. Common folk tended to be ill-disposed to being roused from their beds in the middle of the night, as usually that would mean they were being attacked or their homes were burning. A lone Witcher appearing at their door, tired and hungry, was unlikely to summon forth feelings of sympathy.
The Witcheress lounged by the fire, her head leaning against the trunk of the tree as she gazed blankly at the sky beyond the leaves. Irritation still ate at her, anger at Falden's dishonest accusations, Anchaeren's complicity in the lie, and the common folk's rush to believe that a Witcher would be so treacherous. She bit her lip to try and diffuse some of her anger, but the sudden blossom of pain was little distraction for her. Astrid had warned her that the people of the land were slow to trust Witchers, quick to attack something that was not their own, but she had always ignored it, thought herself above such troubles. A long sigh escaped her lips. It seemed as though even the most likeable and easygoing of the Guild would always be seen as an outsider, different, an enemy.
The Witcheress' musings were suddenly interrupted by a loud rustle. Muire tensed, rolling onto her side and then springing into a low crouch, her two-tone eyes narrowing as she scanned the surrounding underbrush. Almost as if it had always been there, a knife appeared in her palm, ready to strike.
Stenn emerged from the bushes nearby, moving cautiously, for a Human. By Witcher standards, he was as loud and clumsy as a Cemetaur in heat. His eyes widened in surprise as he found himself faced with the Witcheress, blade in hand. He quickly raised his hands in a gesture of peace.
"Easy!" He muttered. "Didn't mean t' startle ye."
"You didn't. Trust me." Muire drawled, lowering the knife a little, but keeping it close by. "Why are you following me?"
"F'rgive the intrusion, miss." The trapper replied. "I meant no offence. It were just that what the others did to ye today weren't sittin' right with me. I saw ye take those shots, and you never whispered a spell or chanted no charm on yer arrows. That was pure marksmanship, through 'n' through."
"And you didn't say anything?" Muire's brow rose questioningly.
"What would I say, miss? My word against a fancy man o' Ellander, an' the Baron's own Champion?" Stenn shook his head. "Nobody would believe me."
"I suppose not..." Muire sighed. "But that doesn't tell me why you're here now, Stenn."
"Well, after seeing Lord Falden do what he did, I figured I should try an' do at least something to put the affair to rights." Stenn reached to his back, where a small pack had been slung. "I weren't always a hunter for the mayor o' Flotsam. Once upon a time, I was usin' my ken o' sneakin' and hidin' for other things..."
He removed the pack from his back, opening it to reveal, to Muire's surprise, the Griffin's Quiver. The silver bands of the quiver gleamed in the moonlight, the leather inky black in the gloom. Inside, the six arrows were still secured, their fletching gleaming silvery white in the darkness.
"Lord Falden was celebratin' bein' declared the winner after you 'forfeited' your place." Stenn explained. "Him 'n' Anchaeren were drinkin' up a storm, and like as not won't wake for the next three days. By then, it'll be too late for 'em to come after ye lookin' for this."
"You stole it from them?"
"Aye, but if truth be told, they stole it from ye first." Stenn shrugged. "I was just makin' things right, is all. You won it, fair 'n' square."
"I- thank you, Stenn." Muire answered with genuine feeling. "You shouldn't have, but thank you."
The Witcheress pulled the quiver from the pack, inspecting it with careful hands. Her fingertips traced the embossing of the leather, the snarling Griffin's features, awe on her breath as she felt the quality of the craftsmanship. Then, with a quick motion, she pulled the arrows from the quiver, before handing the empty quiver back to the huntsman.
"Here, take it." She offered.
"You… don't want it?" Stenn appeared utterly perplexed.
"Truth be told, I only wanted to arrows inside it." Muire pointed at the fletching. "You see these feathers? They came from an adolescent Copper-Breasted Griffin, the last on the continent. The old Baron Treovus hunted them to the last one, then made his arrows using their plumage. These six are the last of their kind."
"Sounds rare. Does that make 'em magic arrows?" Stenn asked in wonder.
"No." Muire chuckled. "Although they are special, they are not magical. There's a girl in Lyria, dying of a rare venom, the bite of a venomous Ringed Bloedzuiger. It is a slow death, over many months, as the body rots away. These feathers are the most important ingredient in an antidote to the poison."
"So ye were only competin' to save the girl's life?"
"Well, not entirely." Muire felt her cheeks flush a little as she admitted it. "I did want to win, to show those stuck-up nobles that a Witcheress like me can do anything they can do, and even better. Plus, the coin is more than welcome. Slaying Ghouls in a swamp doesn't really pay all that well."
"Mayhaps, but you was workin' to save a life." Stenn prompted. "That makes your efforts all the more noble."
"Hah! I wouldn't exactly say 'noble'..." Muire chuckled, before growing a little more serious. "Thank you, my friend. I though that my need to win, to prove myself in front of people like Falden, to show off, had cost me the chance to get these. Now, thanks to you, I have a second chance."
"Well, I could see that you were a good 'un." Stenn shrugged. "Figured helpin' out was the least I can do. It's good to know that, in spite of what Falden an' the others may say, not all Witchers are bad."
"And it's good that I can say the same about Humans." Muire again proffered the quiver. "Here, take it. It's the least I can do to thank you for your help."
"Aye, if you're sure..." He took the quiver from her, examining it. "May need to get rid o' the silver. 'Tis a bit too flashy in the dark. Would give away my position to the animals."
"Just be careful who you let see you with it before you leave Aedirn, my friend!" Muire cautioned. "And… thank you, really. I owe you a great deal for this."
"Mayhaps next time you come to Flotsam, you can buy me a drink in the Nightingale!" Stenn grinned. "Best ale on the Pontar, just you wait an' see!"
"I'm sure I will, my friend." Muire smiled, before looking down at the arrows again, warmth spreading through her chest.
By the time morning came, Muire was already on her way, making quick progress south towards the road that would take her to Lyria. And so it was that she left Aedirn for the last time, the best markswoman in the kingdom, and one that would never be recognised for her achievement.