.XVII. Visse gead'tocht gaedeen. Vatt'ghern.
'He was among the emperor's highest ranked men,
A valuable piece, in a game of chess.
Serving under the flag depicting a Golden Sun.
Never had he appeared on the board,
Yet, he knew all the moves...
What was he ?'
The favor that Rourterggest had asked Gerd to do, involved the 'unfortunate vanishing' of a few men that belonged to a gang from the upper side of Novigrad. That had planned a meeting with a mole from the south, who for half a year had gained vital information.
The information contained routes used by Verner's men, secret stashes, hideouts and names of the informants within and outside the city of Novigrad. The information could be the spark of another gang war, and with the ship leaking, Verner and his gang might sink. A result that two other gangs would suffer from, and others would take advantage of. The dwarfs were among the ones to benefit, if they get their hand on the port side, their business with weapons and forge ingredients would dominate the others in Novigrad. While under Verner, they are kept in check.
Frances 'advised' the witcher to leave no man nor elf or dwarf or halfling alive. And scorch their remains to ashes. This was not only a clean up job, but a message, to all those who think of trying such methods. That it won't work, not against this gang, and their leader, Zedt Verner.
Frances couldn't have chosen, someone more fit, to complete this task but Gerd, The Witcher.
Who had once a drawn line that he thought he'd never cross. Believed in honor, and a fair fight, knowing that there wasn't any. But, that was many years ago, more exactly around the time he barely had a few years since he left the keep of the School of the Bear, practicing his profession on the path. Nevertheless as he advanced in age, he realized honor is for those that want to reach the grave faster then the others. Honor is for dumb knights and stupid men, philosophizing about purpose in life, a healthy mind and life without sin. For ballads and poetry, stories of heroes and legends. Not for witchers, who are no material for legends or heroes. A witcher is what all the people think and always thought. A cold hearted killer, emotionless, remorseless, with one purpose, which is, to kill monsters.
For if a sword could begin to think about becoming a stick, it would lose it's sharpness.
If a fish would believe it could live on land, it would lose it's life.
Thus, a witcher mustn't believe it is something that he isn't.
But he most of the time considered himself more human than the ones that lacked his mutations. He saw more humans kill humans than the times he killed one himself. He considered, that as one gets older he either accepts the hard truth or live in a self made illusion. That the humans are no worse then what they, themselves, call monsters. For the monsters didn't start wars for territories. Didn't reduce villages to smoking ashes, killed children and women, raped, hanged, decapitated non-humans and burned mages on pyres outside of their cities. Killed for coin, pleasure or out of jealousy.
A monster, kills for food. It kills out of fear or anger. It kills to feed it's offspring. It kills to protect.
As a human would.
The world won't, ever, run out of monsters. There will always be something for a witcher to kill...
'Now that all the important stuff is resolved. I'd like to address a matter that has caught the ears of few gentlemen within this very chamber.', began a man, dressed with a cobalt blue jacket, same color trousers, wearing a hat tilted near the front, of the same color. Standing across the table from the dwarf, Viggil Bronxdburz and next to him, a human, Velwen 'The Sly' Wilkken. On the left end of the table sat Zetd Verner, while to the right Albert Nomme, a redanian.
The room was illuminated by two lanterns placed on each side of the table.
'Hah !', snorted the dwarf, 'What might that be, I wonder !'.
'We should wait for Egil, he walked outside to take a piss...', spoke a Albert.
The sound of seagulls, the yelling and swearing of the sailors, of hammers hitting planks, churn of barrels and talks of the passing merchants were uninterrupted outside. They were in a warehouse at the port.
In Zetd Verner's territory.
Egil Yngvarrkir, a Cintrian. returned to the table. He wore a black tunic with green details around his shoulders and belt. Sat down and leaned on the back rest of the chair.
Around the table were the six gang leaders of Novigrad's underworld.
'Now, we can talk.', resumed the man called Albert.
'What's this about, Raben ?', asked the dwarf, 'Why have you kept it till' now ?'.
'Having something special to announce ?', Egil joined on the conversation, leaning onto the table, biting from a piece of bacon, as he gazed upon the man.
The man cleared his throat and placed his left hand on the table, hitting his fingers one after the other onto the table's surface.
'I'd wager, few of you heard of Gerd, a witcher, from Skillige.', Reban continued. A couple of men in the room quickly fixated their eyes on Verner. Egil made a smile out of his thin lips while he chewed on the fat bacon. The dwarf crossed his hands, while the others just stared.
'I heard of him...', said Egil, then spat. 'He's a tough son of a wench. Saw him in Attre many years ago. It was after he finished a contract on some blood sucker. He stopped at the Zebo's, Rebis Inn, where some daft knight and his mates, picked a fight with him over something that involved the honor of that blood sucking whore. Though that prick and his pals, were covered head to toe in armor they got punched and kicked out the door into the street like some bloody tramps. The damned idiots didn't even get the chance to reach for their swords. Two days later, nine bodies were found, east, outside the city. The folk livin' around those parts, said the witcher made camp there, and that the ploughin' idiots attacked him during the night.', he continued, stuffing the remained bacon in his mouth. 'What about him ?'
'Your too young to know this Egil. But, he used to be a good pal of Verner's. Isn't that right ?', Reban resumed, looking at Verner.
'That's right.', said Verner as he stopped fiddling with one of his rings and leaned toward the table, into the light of the lantern. His pointy chin, small lips, with a scar running from the left side of his nose, diagonally to the right side of his chin, expressed a vile smile.
He spoke in a low, rough tone, as if he had a sore throat.
'Didn't you use him during your latest major success ? Years ago, when you managed to impose your control over this port, eh ?', asked Reban.
'Used ? No. I merely had something of interest to him. He helped. I gave him what he wanted. That's all. A favor for a favor. Nothing more.', he paused, looking at Reban, moving his eyes on each of the individuals that sat at the table. Then, smiled again. 'You all feel unease ? Fear ? The voices in the back of your skull give you troublesome, desperate ideas ? That I might use him, once again, to cut one or several of you out ?', replied Zetd with a terrifying smirk, as he paused for a while. Glancing over those that sat at his table. 'I won't. Why break the formation ? Gentlemen. We are doing a tremendous work as we are.'. He glanced over his partners. 'Trust me. You won't have to expect such a threat from me...', he resumed at last.
'Well...', began Albert. 'Glad to know. With that, this meeting has been concluded. See you next week, gentlemen.'.
'About bloody time. My arse began to hurt from this damned chairs !', said the dwarf.
Reban, walked to shake Zetd's hand. 'I didn't.', he whispered in his ear, then walked away.
The last to remain in the room was Albert Nomme, he walked towards Verner, shook his hand, and left, closing the door.
Verner's lieutenant approached. 'The witcher. He's on his way to the location of Yngvarrkir's mole.'.
'Good.'.
'Isn't this affecting the trust of the other bosses ?'.
'Trust ? They didn't 'trust' a single thing of what I said.', he replied, then chuckled. 'Smart. They have a couple of good reasons not to.', Zetd said, grabbing his cane from near the door jamb.
'What if-'.
'No if's about this, kid. A war wouldn't be bad. Most of these bastards must end up dead. By my hand or someone else's. The more this 'peace' lasts the more they become like rabid dogs. Inpatient for the sight and smell of blood. Constant pressure is good to be imposed, but if it last's to long...', he paused, 'It loses it's wanted effect.'.
'No one lives long enough, they say with great sorrow in their voices.', began the man closest to the fire. 'But, none says anything about deserving that never ending life. Not realizing that such a thing can have horrible repercussions on ones mind. And why would they ? Such a wish comes from the greed and selfishness one harbors in his rotten heart. Everyone must accept death. Welcome it. Fear, is only human, they also mumble, huh...', he paused, taking a drink from a flask he had near him, then leaned on a log. After gulping down whatever the flask contained, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and resumed, 'I don't fear it. I'm tired of this miserable life. Death, is a gift from the gods themselves. One that I will receive with open arms-'.
'Quit murmuring shit, Moe. There is not one man, dwarf, nor elf that I know able to beat you...'.
'Able ? Hah !', Moe replied, throwing a few branches on the fire.
'Who's that ?', asked another man, standing up.
'I don't recall Egil saying something about sending additional help. Do you ?'.
A figure on the back of a horse appeared to approach the camp, not far outside the walls of Novigrad.
'A messenger ?', another asked standing up.
The horse walked slowly towards the camp, from east, on the road that circled the camp.
Behind Moe, who leaned on a log of a pin tree, was a shed.
The others stood up to greet the one approaching.
As the horse walked out of the shadows casted by the trees around the small road leading to the shed, it's rider revealed himself to be dead. His head clean cut from one side to the other, hanging on a thin slice of skin and muscle, towards his left side.
'Fuck !', said the closest, to the approaching horse, which suddenly stopped, making the corpse that stood in the saddle fall.
Moe got up. 'Who did this ? That's Willy.'.
'Yeah, we fuckin' noticed, Moe...', replied another. 'Shit !'.
As if it got spooked, the horse neighed and raised on it's hind legs, turned and ran.
The two men that stood near him fell on their bottoms.
'Damned, stupid horse !', yelled one of them.
'Ah, poor Willy...', said Moe, approaching. 'He was supposed to get some booze...' he continued. 'The-'.
'Moe ? You're alrigh-', he didn't get to finish his question for an arrow pierced his skull, the tip emerging through his forehead. Moe had his windpipe severed and drowned in his own blood. While the other three that remained got stabbed in the back by a sword or had their neck sliced.
None managed a slight noise or a call for help.
All of a sudden the fire withered.
The door of the shed was blown to splinters. Inside, a scream, a thud. Then silence.
Followed by the sound of a sword being placed back in the sheath.
The sound of crickets.
The dead corpses that laid outside, were dragged, one by one, inside the shed.
Then, the inside of the shed was set aflame.
Soon the whole wooden construction began to be devoured by the raging flames.
Until nothing was left...
But ashes.