Castoff: Severance (ch. 3) (Patreon)

Casca would like her, Guts decided as he brought up the rear of the makeshift caravan they had going. The kids in front of him marching in a line, holding hands with the old woman while Ciri led upfront. In the early light, the bog still retained its ominous feel but, at the very least, the mist was gone.

His eyes landed on the woman's back, a slender longsword sheathed on it as she routinely scanned the trees for any sign of trouble. Despite how outlandish it sounded, Guts believed her claim that she was a monster hunter. Throughout the night, not only had she handled herself rather well, but she was knowledgeable about the creatures they fought despite Guts having never seen their like before.

The undead took many forms, but he hadn't recognized the 'necrophages.' More often than not, whatever vengeful spirit that inhabited a rotting corpse kept whatever form they found their host in. The ones he fought last night seemed to be the corpses of a matching breed of animals. The Drowners and Fiend, however, were new. They weren't possessed by a vengeful spirit, but they had attacked him all the same.

Which raised more questions than Guts wanted to bother with. Those things -- the Drowners, the Nekkers, the Fiend and Water Hags. What were they? Guts was no stranger to the supernatural, but those creatures had simply been monsters. Could it be something similar to what Rosine did? Capture a bunch of humans and twist them into monsters to serve and protect her?

Guts didn’t know. He didn’t think so simply because of how calm Ciri had been throughout the night. It didn’t take him long to realize that he didn’t have to worry about protecting her, leaving him free to fight on his own. Either she was an outlier, and given how those crones spoke about her that was probably the case, or wherever here was had a very different kind of wildlife running amok.

He had many questions, and he would get them a lot faster if he could ditch the children. Even if he didn't quite know where he was, all he needed to do was find the coast or a road and eventually he would find a town he could get directions from. Being near the kids was uncomfortable and, thankfully, they seemed scared shitless of him so they clung to Ciri after he gave them a few mean looks. That was enough for Guts for now. It was slower, but he would get his answers. Though, it was the fact that she managed to get that promise out of him…

Casca would have liked her. Not only was she a warrior, her demeanor even reminded him of Casca. How...she was before that night. Confident, borderline cocky at times, but capable. He could imagine them getting along rather well. Too well, even.

However, that observation made his thoughts drift to Casca. Her short black hair, her bronze skin...her smell and taste, how her body felt pressed against his. Guts did his best to push the memories away, knowing that they would do him more harm than whatever empty comforts they offered. Without fail, every time he thought of the woman that he loved, his memories turned to that night.

Worse than the nightmares was the ache in his heart that pained him more than any wound. The proud, confident, capable woman that Casca was...was lost. Broken by what happened that night, her mind shattered like a glass cup and Guts...he had no hope that the pieces would put themselves together again.

At first, he had hoped that it was shock. He saw it plenty of times on the battlefield -- a greenhorn after their first battle staring off at nothing for hours on end, trapped in their own head. More than once, after a bad battle, Guts saw greenhorns that never left their heads, forever trapped inside. He didn’t know if any of them ever recovered, but he didn’t have high hopes.

Or, rather, Guts didn’t let himself have hope.

“Guts?” Puck asked, turning around to face him as he distracted the children from a long day of walking. Guts glanced at the elf, the annoyance’s blue eyes were filled with concern. Odds were he was picking up on the negative emotions brewing inside him, the rage that was simmering underneath the surface that always came when he thought about Casca. What happened to her, to the Band of the Hawk, on that night.

He looked away, turning his attention back to the treeline. Puck, over time, learned when not to pester him, and thankfully he let the matter drop to return to entertaining the children. Some of the kids glanced back at him, though most looked away quickly except for one boy that glared at him like he kicked his dog. Guts stared him down, the kid’s small face was set into a deep scowl and he only looked away when he nearly fell face-first into the much over a root.

The kid opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off by the sound of howling in the distance. Guts’ gaze snapped in the direction that it came from, his one hand twitching towards Dragonslayer as he tried to find the wolf pack through the dense shrubbery.

From the sound of it, they were close, but not-

“Help!” Guts heard someone shout in the distance. A high-pitched voice thick with panic. A girl’s voice. He glanced over at Ciri to see that she was gazing off in the same direction before she turned her attention back to him. There was a question in her gaze and he had to fight off the urge to dismiss it, to tell her to deal with it herself. Only she beat him to it.

“You continue on,” Ciri said before she leapt into the bog with little hesitation, heading in the direction of the shout for help. Her exhaustion showed, but she pressed onward despite it. Guts watched her go, his hand still on Dragonslayer and momentarily debated going after her. Wolves were dangerous in their own way. His gaze slid over to the kids and woman that watched after Ciri with great concern before swallowing a sigh.

“We’ll follow the path,” he told her before he let go of his sword. If she was taking this chance to drop the brats on him, he’d make her wish that she had died to the wolves instead. Ciri flashed him a look of gratitude and Guts left her to it. Either she would come back or she wouldn’t. He pressed on ahead and, for a moment, the kids didn't follow him. "Don't think for a second I won't leave you all behind. Get going."

"Don't mind him, he's just a big grouch! Follow me!" Puck told the old woman and the children and the brats were too dumb to realize that by following Puck, they were following him. Guts strode forward, a hand resting on Dragonslayer, searching for threats as much as he was Ciri. All the while he thought back on his own childhood -- the children were around five through eight years old. Maybe nine at the absolute oldest.

By that time, Guts had killed a hundred men and he had seen thousands die. It was hard to believe how helpless the brats were.

With a shake of his head, Guts continued forward, leading the way. The path was winding, but there was a clear path to the Hamlet if you saw the signs. Along where there was solid ground where the muck didn't threaten to claim a boot for each step taken, was a trail of berries. Blackberries for the most part, but raspberries as well. They were the only spots of color against the drab marsh, making them stand out clearly.

It was a simple trick to lead unassuming folk straight to the apostles, but Guts wasn't surprised that it worked. Food was always a worry. For some, they'd follow that trail of berries through the gates of hell if it meant their belly would be full by the end of it.

They traveled in silence for a long hour before they caught sight of the end of the bog -- no such luck that there was a village there, but Guts did see a dirt road. When they neared it, he also noted that it had seen recent use. The air felt wet and now that he could see the sky above, he saw nothing but gray clouds. Based on the tracks, a good dozen people complete with a company of wagons, had used the road. Going west by the look of things.

"Ser," the old woman spoke up, the children huddled around her as if she could offer any protection, "What of Lady Ciri? She… should she not be back yet?"

She should. "She's likely dead," Guts dismissed gruffly. Or, that Wild Hunt she spoke of had found her. Meaning that he was saddled with the brats. Maybe he should have gone to investigate the cry for help.

The children started to get choked up, as if tears could solve anything. Much less bring the dead back to life. Guts' lips thinned ever so slightly, looking over his shoulder at them. If he snapped at them to shut up, would that stop their weeping or would that just make it worse? The old woman tried to soothe them, but she seemed on the verge of tears herself at the thought that Ciri got herself killed like an idiot.

A sigh escaped him, "Or she couldn't come back for some reason. Or she's on the road behind us and she needs to catch up," Guts offered, thinking the latter was unlikely. However, it was the one that the children latched onto.

"Then we should wait!" A pudgy boy named Travik decided, going as far as to take a seat as he looked at the road they had taken.

"Yeah! Let's wait for Ciri!" A girl with a reddish brown braid of hair named Aynara seconded. She at least looked up at the old woman for permission. She, in turn, looked to him for guidance. If they waited here, the they'd be waiting until the end of their days for a woman that wouldn't show up. In the rain, most likely.

"We'll leave a sign," Guts decided, his voice a low growl that told the kids that it wasn't a matter of debate. They debated it anyway and Guts had to crush a flash of annoyance while the old woman began to shush them. When Guts unsheathed Dragonslayer, that shut them right up, letting him put down a sign that they were heading west.

Guts didn't know how to read or write, but he knew how to communicate through signs. The one he put down was an old one from his father's band of mercenaries.

"Your sword is big," one of the brats remarked as Guts wordlessly began heading down the dirt road, expecting to be followed. Genny, Guts recalled. Red cheeks and brown hair. "Can I hold it?"

"No," Guts intoned, wondering how far it was to Oxenfurt.

"Please?"

"No."

"Pretty please? I won't drop it! Promise! My Da says I'm really strong!" Genny pleaded, puffing out his chest. Guts narrowed his eyes at that.

"And where is your Dad?" He asked the boy quietly, wary of the answer. Predictably, his face twisted ever so slightly, as if he were fighting off a wave of tears, but the boy put on a brave face and refused to let them fall.

"He went off to fight intha war," Genny explained. A common tale, really. "Mum got really sad about that, but me and my brothers kept her company. She took care of us until she got sick. Then we all went hungry for a bit before she sent me down the trail of treats!"

Guts really didn't ask for his life story, as short as it was, but that last bit caught his attention. "You mean the berries?"

"Hm!" Genny nodded enthusiastically, "Now, can I hold your sword?"

"No," Guts responded and the brat got it in his head that by answering the questions, he was earning the right to play with Dragonslayer. His eyes narrowed as he looked beyond the trail -- the bog was clearly marked on one side, but he saw smoke off in the distance. Too much to be from a hearth fire. Less than if a building had been put to the torch. The smoke was an oily black that Guts recognized with ease -- someone was burning bodies. Quite a few of them.

The walk over was miserable. Guts would sooner part with his tongue before he admitted it, but Puck made himself useful by distracting the children so they would leave him alone. He was good with children. Better than him, at any rate and it was better for the brats than hanging around him. All the same, as they neared a round in the bend and on top of a small hill, Guts caught glimpse of the village.

It was small. Few buildings and the source of the fire seemed to be coming from the center of the village. Given that none of the children were shouting about how they recognized it, Guts suspected that there were a number of villages on the edge of the bog. A curious thing, Guts noted because he sure as shit didn't see any farms. The hills could contain ore, but if they did, then the village wouldn't be as small as it was nor would it look so old. A dozen buildings at his count made it too big for a hunting village, not to mention that between a bog and rolling hills, the territory didn't strike him as rich with game.

Which begged the question of how could this small village support itself? Without a river? Without farms or a trade?

Guts suspected the answer and he strode forward, a deep scowl on his face as the stench of charred meat and burning hair reached his nose. The villagers were a rough motley looking bunch, Guts noticed as they stood around a pyer in the heart of their village. Puck drifted forward, whispering in his ear," They're afraid. Really afraid. Will the sun rise in the morning kind of afraid so… try not to be yourself."

The mayor of the village made himself known. A portly man wearing a old stained tunic that his gut was straining against while his face was covered in pox scars. More interestingly, Guts noticed that he was missing an ear. "Hold there strangers," he said, stepping forward, bringing the attention of the rest of the village to them. Their eyes were red and swollen. Many had been weeping. "You've come at a poor time. There's a pox in the village. Claimed half of us in the night."

The same night that he killed the Crones. After years on the road, hunting for Apostles by nothing more than his Brand or by rumor, Guts knew a coincidence when he saw one. And this was one. This was cause and effect.

"We're looking for supplies and directions," Guts answered, his eyes sliding over the villagers. Their gazes weren't welcoming. That was no surprise given that they arrived at a point of mourning. However, Guts watched them carefully, spotting the exact moment that one of the village men took notice of the band of children and the old woman behind him. His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed… and he began to think. "We're traveling to Oxenfurt."

The Mayor's lips thinned, a hand going to his greasy and thinning hair. "You're on the proper path for it, but you'd be better off going back east to Velen. The Nilfgaardian army is out west and all sorts of monsters are prowling the old battlefields," The Mayor advised.

Nilfgaard. That wasn't a name he wasn't familiar with.

"Is that so? Who are they at war with? I'm a mercenary," Guts questioned, and the Mayor just looked at him like he was daft.

"The whole northern bloody Kingdoms," the Mayor answered, sounding perplexed that Guts didn't already know. Guts narrowed his eyes ever so slightly.

"The Kingdoms of Dis? Balden? Tudor?" Guts questioned, listing the three northern most kingdoms off of the top of his head. He had helped end the century spanning war between the Midlands and Tudor. He would have heard if the hostilities resumed. However, Guts wasn't certain where Nilfguard entered into the scene. To the west of the Midlands was the Kushan Empire, and there was nothing to the south but empty ocean.

"Wut? I don't know any places by them names. King Radovid has gone and united Redania and Kaedwen with force. The rest of the Northern alliance is offering what they can, but if you ask me, it's just a lot of blood spilled over nothing," The Mayor stated, offering his opinion with a small shrug of his shoulders.

Guts had never heard of Kaedwen. Nor Redania. Were they lands that belonged west of the Kushan Empire? Even if they were, that begged the question how he managed to get here in the first place. He had been traveling through Midland yesterday. The fact he was displaced wasn't a surprise -- he had been camped on top of a hill near some ruins, not in the middle of a bog. Now, however, Guts was forced to wonder how far he had been taken and, better yet, why?

The man that Guts noticed earlier stepped forward, nearly stumbling a step as he approached. "Stranger, what's with those children behind ya'?" He spoke, sounding like he already knew the answer. There was a soft muttering from the villagers while the children huddled around the old woman behind him. "Where did you find them?"

"In a bog. With three old crones," Guts answered, a snarl in his voice, making the Mayor's eyes bulge. The reaction was immediate through what was left of the village. Based on the pile of corpses piled up, about half of their number were struck down. Men, women, and children. “Anyone you know?” He demanded, a hand going to Dragonslayer when the man that put it together stepped forward.

“You! You did this to us! This is your fault!” The man screamed, veins bulging in his neck, clenching his hands into fists. The sentiment was shared by the rest of the village while the mayor stammered, at a complete loss for words. They shouted and jeered, stepping forward and their protests made Guts sneer at them.

They weren’t the first to bend their knees and offer their necks to apostles. Guts learned at the start of his journey to not expect gratitude for bringing the apostles low, no matter how tyrannical they had been to the populace. Nor did he want their gratitude.

“You did this,” Guts snarled back at them, hefting Dragonslayer and that brought the villagers up short. Their eyes widened at the size of the blade and how easily he wielded it. In his ear, he heard Puck sigh dramatically. “What was the deal? You feed your children to the Crones, sacrificing them for… what exactly?” The villagers recoiled at the accusation, some flipping between indignant anger to tears. “You disgust me. I’ve murdered plenty, but don’t go dropping your dead families at my feet. It’s your own fault for worshiping an apostle.”

“I knew this would happen,” Puck muttered while the children whimpered behind him. Guts didn’t move an inch, standing steadfast against the village, daring them to make a move against him.

From what Guts saw, they were every bit as wretched as any other peasants he had ever seen in his life. They had no fields that needed a bountiful harvest. They had no river that needed plenty of fish. As far as he could tell, they were a village located on a half important road that existed here as easily as it could have existed elsewhere. For what, exactly, were they murdering their children?

Something dark and violent welled in his chest, a sinister anger surging in his veins. Guts wanted to kill them for it. Just hack them apart, no matter what their reasons were.

“We didn’t have a choice!” The Mayor protested, a heartbroken sob escaping him. “We couldn’t leave the village! Anyone that did would be stuck dead. When we didn’t offer enough, we suffered a pox. The Crones… they… they asked for our unwanted children and damn us all, we gave them what they wanted.” He said, a hand going to cover his face as he shook his head. Guts’ lips peeled back, not at all satisfied with the answer.

“That’s not true!” Genny protested, brushing past Guts. “You’re lying! You’re a liar!” He swore, going red in the face with anger. “My Mum wanted me! She did! You’re lying,” He shouted at the top of his lungs with a ferocity that only children truly possessed. It wasn’t an easy thing, Guts reflected.

Learning that you were an unwanted child.

“Guts!” Puck shouted, but his voice was drowned out by Guts’ heartbeat thundering in his ears and Genny’s screeching. “Guts! Guts! I feel magic! I feel magic!” Puck shouted, screaming right in his ear, and Guts’ gaze snapped to him. Puck looked at him with wide eyes before he started pointing back to the bog.

“Shut up,” Guts demanded, his voice a low growl as he looked out into the bog, narrowing his eyes. Genny kept screaming until Guts got his attention by resting his prosthetic hand on his head, getting his attention. Guts narrowed his eyes, not seeing anything or hearing… but… he heard it. The splashing, the thumps of hooves… “Everyone, get inside. Get inside!” Guts shouted, bearing Dragonslayer, recognizing the sound of calvary.

Despite the tension between him and the villagers, with how quickly the children and the old woman fled indoors, it prompted the others to do the same. Guts stood alone before the village and the pyre of bodies, Dragonslayer in hand as he waited for the calvary to draw near.

It did, just not before Guts caught sight of a person sprinting through the underbrush.

Ciri escaped the bog, looking far worse for wear, with a girl clutched into her arms as she sprinted forward, her eyes wide. Guts was already moving, spotting exactly what she was running from -- heavy calvary by the looks of it. A poor choice for the thick muck, but Guts suspected that was what saved Ciri from capture. They were tall, wearing sterling silver armor stylized to look like skeletons, seated upon white war horses.

The first of the calvary leapt through the underbrush, intent on riding her down. Guts strode past Ciri, who whipped around upon seeing him, her face, shirt, and hair drenched with sweat. The heavy calvary leveled their weapons at him -- great swords. A poor choice for calvary. Guts hefted Dragonslayer, gritting his teeth as he swung his blade at the two of them, just as they prepared to run him through.

Their own momentum worked against them as Guts cleaved them in half, horses and all. The horses lost their head while the riders were bisected, their fine armor not being worth shit. That's what they get for choosing style over substance. The horses crashed to the ground, stumbling into the dirt while the bodies sailed forward before crashing into the ground, sending up clumps of dirt.

Ciri came to a stop behind him while the rest of the calvary fanned out, pouring from the treeline. Guts watched them -- a good dozen riders. Ten now. To his surprise, all of them were large. It wasn’t often that Guts found himself being towered over, but they would even without being seated on war horses. They encircled them, the horses neghing and digging their hooves into the dirt as the warriors took note of him.

“These those Wild Hunt guys you were going on about?” Guts questioned, shouldering Dragonslayer, keenly aware that he was surrounded. Guts saw axes, swords, but no lances. The closest thing that one had was a stave.

“It’s them. They found me,” Ciri breathed, clutching a child to her side while she wielded her slender sword.

“How about a new deal then,” Guts spoke, his gaze flickering between the Wild Hunt, picking out the most imposing. “I slaughter them and you deal with the kids from now on. About drove me up the wall the hour that I had them.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbled from Ciri at his confidence and the Wild Hunt stopped circling him. The largest one, wearing a helmet with a skull motif complete with a pointed crown, urged his head forward. “You will give her to us,” he spoke and Guts thought that he sounded like a king. He didn’t know many. Really just one. However, he spoke with the tone of someone that was used to being obeyed and learned to expect it in all things.

Guts smiled. “Why don’t you try taking her?” He asked, hefting his blade and flicking the excess blood off of it. It splashed on the ground and between the two men and horses, there was enough excess on his blade that a man could have died from bloodloss. He already proved that he could kill them and with their numbers, he’d hack them to pieces before they realized they were dead.

In response, the two Huntsmen at his sides rushed him, intent on bisecting him. Guts leaned out of the way of one blade, striking down the offending huntsman as he passed before pivoting to do the same to the one that flanked him. A dozen became eight with two swings of his sword, their horses dying with them. It proved to be a distraction, Guts saw when the one wielding the staff thrusted out with it and he felt like he had been kicked by a horse.

Guts sailed back, his ribs aching, but it was nothing. He killed his momentum by backflipping, driving Dragonslayer into the earth and the mighty blade acted as a plow for a good half dozen feet before he touched down on the ground again. Perfectly because he was in swinging distance of the Huntsman behind him.

His horse reared back, saving his master, but not managing to save his legs because Guts cut right through them along with the horse. Blood splashed out in a flood, soaking the dirt while the member of the Wild Hunt went down with a heavy thud. Never to leave things to chances, Guts thrusted the tip of Dragonslayer into his chest, skewering him, before he hefted the corpse and flung it at a charging member of the hunt.

“So that’s magic, huh?” Guts growled, crouching low as he pinned a sharp look at the one wielding the staff. The rest of the Hunt was reacting, not at all expecting to lose another three so easily. And, with a flash of blue, Ciri proved that the one with the staff wasn’t the only one that had it. Out of the corner of his eye, Guts saw Ciri wink out of existence, startling him, before she reappeared ontop of the one that Guts unhorsed with the corpse. She thrusted her slender blade into his neck, making him gargle, but before anyone could respond, Ciri vanished before reappearing next to him.

Just like that, twelve became six.

“You’re going to explain why we couldn’t have just teleported to Oxenfurt later,” Guts told her, wanting to know exactly what that was. He was no stranger to the supernatural. His first instinct was to assume the abilities came from an apostle, but his brand didn’t burn when he was near her. Her talk of knowing sorcerers carried a lot more weight after the display. He had been expecting to be led to some herbwomen that peasants called a witch because they didn’t know any better.

“Well, you’re looking at the reason. I can’t use it without this lot finding me,” Ciri informed while the rest of the Wild Hunt quickly grouped up. From the looks of it, the ones that they had killed were chaff. The few remaining were close to the king of the hunt, and he could see from their posture that they were eager to avenge their losses.

Guts prepared himself for a charge, only to be surprised when the one wielding the staff shook his head. The king looked to him, some unspoken conversation passing between them for a moment. The staff wielding one lifted the staff and it started to shine brightly before he slammed the butt of it against the ground. Guts’ eyes narrowed when a hole appeared behind them -- a black void framed by fire.

“You have found an able protector, child of the Elder Blood, but know this -- we will come for you, and none shall be spared our wrath,” the king voiced before the lot of them started retreating. Last words from someone retreating from the fight. A desperate act from someone that didn’t want to feel like they had lost.

A second later, they vanished from sight entirely. Guts looked around, making sure that they weren’t around him. The action brought his attention to his neck. He was used to the sensation, so he knew what it was without looking. His brand was bleeding… however, it didn’t hurt. That hadn’t happened before.

“I’m trying to be polite about this, so don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you? You just sent the Wild Hunt with their tales tucked between their legs!” Ciri blurted, the girl that was clutched to her side was watching him with curiosity and awe.

Guts looked to her, his lips pressed into a thin line. Everything the Crones had said, combined with what the Mayor had said all painted a very clear picture once he put th pieces together.

He had no idea where here was… but it wasn’t Midland.