Castoff: Just Rewards (ch. 6) (Patreon)

The Witch Hunters paid well, Guts reflected, a pouch heavy with gold placed into his hand. Ciri went ignored for the most part, something that seemed to suit her rather well. While the gold was placed into his hand, a scarred man that was missing an ear along with a few pock marks on his face that didn’t seem to come from a pox along his face spoke, “Two royals for every Drowner ear, three for every ghoul claw, five for harpy wings. You’re a rich man… Guts,” the leader of the Witch Hunters informed.

Ciri made a low noise in the back of her throat at that. Either at the generosity or because she saw that the reason Aiden, the leader of the Witch Hunters, was being so generous. They wanted him to stay. That attitude wouldn’t last too long once night fell.

Guts grunted a response, tying the coin pouch off in his belt. He had taken in his surroundings and this lot seemed crazier than the last religious bunch that he encountered. There wasn’t a young woman whipping him in some odd sexual awakening while also acting as a crisis of faith, and more scarred men that were in power and used that power. As if to agree with him, Guts heard a scream managing to reach the office that they were in. A blood-curdling scream of someone being tortured.

These men were thugs. Slapping on a religious ideology wouldn’t change that. It just made them thugs with an excuse for their actions.

“Since the war started with those fuckin’ Nilfguards and those treacherous sorcerers, we haven’t been able to patrol and protect the common folk like we should be. Ya’ did good work,” the man praised, giving what he probably thought was a charming smile. Instead, it revealed that he had a few rotting teeth. Whatever melted half of his face had melted some of his teeth together. “You could continue doing good work for us. We could use a big lad like you. How old are you?” The man asked, making Guts frown.

He had no interest in joining, but he needed to remain in the city for a day. His equipment needed repair and replacement, which would take time. Time that he wouldn’t get if he gave the Witch Hunters reason to come for him. They likely would anyway when the children inevitably blabbed their stories, but a head start would be invaluable. For that reason, Guts gave the question a moment of thought.

“I’m… twenty. Twenty-one, maybe?” Guts hazard a guess and for some reason that surprised everyone in the room. Aiden raised his eyebrows at that, not believing it for a moment. Guts never knew exactly how old he was, mostly because it never mattered, nor did he know when his birthday was. Because it never mattered. He had been around fourteen or fifteen when Griffith had found him.

He spent four years with the Band of the Hawk. After the Eclipse, he spent two years wandering the country in search of apostles. So, adding it all up, he was somewhere in his twenties. Maybe a little older or younger. It was hard to tell when he had always been large for his age.

“You’re a real young buck, then!” Aiden said with a laugh, thumping a fist on the table while greed shone in his eyes. “I won’t ask for an answer right now. We is a religious order, first and foremost. You need the Enternal Flame burning in ya’ chest to join up,” he stated. One band worshiped fire and another band worshiped the White Hawk. From how he said the words, it was clear that all he needed to do was lie so he could join.

“I’ll consider it,” Guts allowed, earning a small nod from Aiden in response, who seemed a bit disappointed that he wasn’t instantly joining up. However, he seemed to like his chances because he gestured to the door with a smile that told Guts he fully expected him to come back through it when he spent his coin on women and booze. Without another word, Guts turned around and ducked his head so he could leave the office.

The headquarters of the Witch Hunters was more of a barracks. Some officers got rooms, but most slept on cots or hammocks put up in the main hall. There was another scream coming from the basement that faded off into a whimper that was drowned out by the good cheer of the men. Anna and her daughter Tamara were in the center of attention, surrounded by all sides as their reunion was celebrated. The children clung to Anna, frightened by the rough-looking men, so they kept their mouths shut for now.

They would be fine, Guts decided, heading down the stairs that creaked under every footstep. They’d likely be taken in by the Witch Hunters, indoctrinated by them, but that was about as kind of a fate that a bunch of orphans in war were going to get. They’d be fed. They’d never have to worry about the cold or being able to ply a trade. They may not grow up into anything resembling a decent person, but few did. What they would become in the future was ultimately their decision.

Guts did his part.

“W-wait!” One of the kids shouted, pushing through the crowd of Witch Hunters and ran right up to him. Genny. “Are you leaving? Could you take me-”

“Get lost, kid,” Guts gruffly responded, brushing past the child. His face instantly twisted into one of confusion and hurt. There was once a point in time when that would have been enough to get Guts to stop. To feel ashamed. Those days were two years behind him now. It would be better this way -- when the children inevitably talked about the spirits that plagued him, or word reached from the village, they wouldn’t be impacted in any way.

“You’re leaving me too?” Genny started, a sob in his voice and Guts almost missed a step.

“I am,” Guts answered curtly, heading for the front door without another word. He opened it with more force than necessary, Ciri lagging behind him to do damage control. He felt Puck climbing up his clothing, staying hidden as he made his way up to his neck. Anger began to simmer in his chest as he walked away from the Witch Hunter building, people eyes drawn to him because of one reason or another, and he knew that Puck was about to say something.

“They’ll be okay, Guts. Anna will look out for them,” Puck said, dousing the anger in his chest for but a moment. “You don’t have to worry about them!”

“Keep your voice down,” Guts muttered to Puck, not entirely certain if he was grateful or not for the reassurance. In response, Guts received a salute while he walked through the streets. The wagon and horses would be left with Anna to do what they willed with. The comforts of not having to walk were severely outweighed by the liability animals proved to at night. Some basic supplies wouldn't go amiss, though.

"Stealth Puck activated!" Puck announced in a stage whisper. By now, Guts knew the creature well enough to know that the small creature was trying to distract him from his thoughts. He wasn't much good at it, but he tried.

Guts grunted in response, his eyes going to signs. His ability to read had always been rudimentary -- Gambino never taught him because he couldn't himself, and it was only when he started leading the Gut's Raiders that he started to learn. Mostly at Griffith's insistence. His thoughts darkened as the fond memories of Griffith badgering him for his very blunt opinions on the so-called great works of literature were tainted by his betrayal. As all things were.

But, as it would turn out, most peasants were illiterate, so shops conveyed what they were through signs. They were different from the ones he was used to, yet simple enough that he had no difficulty telling the difference between a general store from a tailor. If the difference wasn't evident enough, Guts heard the rhythmic clanging as a good dozen blacksmiths plied their trade. They were hard at work from the sounds of it as Guts approached the wide building -- in times of war, being a blacksmith could be more profitable than being a mercenary.

"Ho, there! Interested in some arms or armor?" A relatively cleaned-up man noticed his approach. His face and hands were still marked with soot, but that was a great deal cleaner than the near two dozen men working in the large forge behind him. "The streets aren't safe with Nilfgaardian spies and monsters a prowl-"

"Repairs," Guts cut him off from whatever pitch that he was about to make. He reached to his belt and took out his crossbow, making the blacksmith frown as he picked it up to inspect. "I also need five balls of iron -- it should weigh about twelve pounds at this size," Guts informed, putting the last of his cannon balls on the table. He would need to buy the alchemical ingredients to make more black powder elsewhere. The blacksmith's frown deepened but he nodded slowly.

"Aye, seems simple enough. This here just needs a string-"

"The draw weight needs to be about five hundred pounds," Guts continued, and the blacksmith narrowed his eyes at him, as if he thought Guts was joking. "How long would it take to craft three dozen arrowheads of this shape?" He pressed, holding up an arrow as an example.

The blacksmith pursed his lips, "Shouldn't be more than a day. But the King's commanded all blacksmiths to fire day and night to support his war. It'll cost you a pretty royal to get this done any time soon. I'm guessing time is of the essence?"

"You do," Guts agreed, his tone flat with the barest edges of a growl in it. He shifted his cloak, letting the man see the heavy pouch of coin, and he saw greed in the man's eyes. Greed that vanished the moment he looked up and met his eyes. Then the blacksmith caught sight of something else.

"What in the name of the Flame is that?" The blacksmith gaped, looking at Dragonslayer and realizing that the length of the blade ran as long as Guts was tall. Guts hesitated a moment before he began to unsheath it, nearly making the man's eyes fall out his head when the wood table between them groaned pitifully underneath his blade's weight.

Dragonslayer had seen better days, Guts could admit to himself. Maintenance was never his strong suit because it never really mattered for him -- his swords had always been thick enough that they cut through flesh, bone, and armor because of his raw strength. In the past two years, he never stopped to sharpen Dragonslayer. The sword never felt like it needed it because of its thickness and weight. However, after hundreds of hard-fought battles against spirits and apostles alike, the once proud blade almost seemed brittle. The edges were dull and chipped, rust gathered in nooks and upon the blade itself.

It needed to be reforged. Preferably at the hands of Godot, but that wasn't an option. Not anymore. It felt wrong to let anyone else put their hands on the blade, but he vastly preferred tarnishing the old man's professional pride over the blade breaking on him. He affixed a sharp glare at the man who was looking at his sword in utter bafflement, "Can you do anything for it?"

"Can-" the man spluttered, throwing up his hands. "Are you having me on? I don't even know what this thing is beyond not being a bleedin' sword? I could smelt the damn thing down. Seems like that's all it's good for-" he fell silent when Guts started to snarl at the mere thought of it. There were precious few things that Guts was capable of trusting. Rickert, Erica, Godot, Puck, and Dragonslayer. "The metal's taken a real beating. Dented and warped," the blacksmith found his words, rapping a knuckle on the flat of the blade.

"It's holding up because of how thick it is, but wouldn't surprise me at all if it was filled with cracks at this point. I can give it a sharpen and scrub, but I don't even know how'd I go about reforging it. As is -- I'd say you're a bad swing away from being down half a blade. Good news is that it’d still be long enough to be a broad sword." It wasn't what Guts wanted to hear. The exact opposite, really.

It became more imperative than ever that he find a blacksmith. A good one. He wasn’t sure if he would ever see Godot again, but if the old blacksmith saw that Dragonslayer had been touched with amateur hands, then he’d try to kill him. Of that, Guts had no doubt.

“The rest of my order?” Guts grunted, resheathing Dragonslayer and the blacksmith marveled at him as he did so. There was a small beat of silence between them for but a moment, the smaller man’s throat bobbing as he gulped.

“I’ll start on it right away. Shouldn’t take more than a handful of hours with some apprentice hands. With ‘em, it’ll cost a good thirty crowns,” he informed and Guts realized that the Witch Hunters paid very well indeed. That didn’t stop him from arguing the price down.

“Twenty. Ten now and ten when the job is done,” Guts refuted, a hand going to his pouch and he could see that the man wanted to haggle the price back up. Back in Midland, blacksmiths made a profit for commissions. He wouldn’t be making much from this order, but Guts found that he didn’t care. Not in the same way he would if it was someone like Godot, someone he wanted to work on his equipment.

“Aye, sir,” the blacksmith nodded, scooping the coins up as soon as they hit the table. “Anything else, serah?”

Guts looked down the road -- they were on a street of steel. Metalworking from blacksmiths to jewelers. “A tavern. One that sells rum,” he decided, earning a nod and a name.

As far as names went, Junior’s Delights was a poor one.

…

Ciri decided that Guts really had no idea what kind of impact he had on the children. Every single one of them was utterly inconsolable, fat tears streaming down their faces because they couldn’t understand why Guts was being so cruel to them. The only one who didn’t was Greta, the girl that she had saved from a pack of wolves, and then the Wild Hunt. She stood by her side, looking at the others like she couldn’t understand why they were crying.

Anna was doing the best that she could, along with her daughter. It felt good to see them reunited. How they would part ways did sour things a bit -- Ciri had hoped for tears of joy and a happy farewell, but she understood why Guts did what he did.

“W-will we ever see you again?” Genny questioned, snot dripping from his nose that he wiped away on a sleeve, stumbling to Ciri through blurry eyes. The Witch Hunters watched on, choosing to give the children their space. Either because they wanted to respect their privacy, or because they wanted to be away from weeping children.

“Maybe one day,” Ciri allowed, dropping down to a knee and placing a hand on Genny’s shoulder. She couldn’t make any promises. Ciri didn’t have in her to protect the children as Guts had -- with overt cruelty so that even if the Witch Hunters did come for them, they wouldn’t think to use the children as bait. Their practices were known to her. They were near formulaic.

Anyone could justify anything if they had a cause. Such as using children to draw people out to murder them. Burning down homes filled with people to murder a single person. Terrorizing communities and villages, drunk on power and knowing that those that they tormented had no recourse of action.

“But you have to keep the trip a secret, Genny. You and everyone else,” Ciri whispered into the boy's ear after pulling him into a hug. Ciri wasn’t sure if they would manage it or not, but at the very least, Ciri trusted that they would make the attempts. She felt Genny nod into her shoulder, giving her a rib-squeezing hug in response, and she pretended she didn’t notice the snot stain on her shirt. She offered a smile as Genny wiped away his tears, going to spread the message to the others.

“Thank you,” Ciri heard and looked over to see it was Tamara, Anna’s daughter. She took Ciri’s hands in hers and gave them a small squeeze, gratitude shining in her eyes. “The words seem so little now that I’ve said them, but I don’t know what else to say. I thought I’d never see my mother again. Thank you. If there’s anything you ever need, then please, tell me. I’ll do everything in my power to see it through.”

In her experience, people that said those words weren’t the type to follow through with them, but Tamara uttered them with sincerity. If she could actually follow through was another thing entirely, but that was neither here nor there. She didn’t help Anna or the kids to run up some debt.

“I’ll hold you to it,” Ciri returned with a kind smile, knowing that she would never call in that debt. Refusing would be a sign of ingratitude on her behalf. It was a part of people's pride -- with those that had little would always try to give something for a favor owed, while those with excess guarded what they had jealously. Better for Tamara to feel like she was paying something, even if she never would.

Tamara smiled, one that grew when Anna approached. “Share our thanks with Guts. He… can be very cold, but I think he has a very kind heart,” Anna said, taking her turn to embrace Ciri for but a moment. The children had certainly picked up on it.

“I do too,” Ciri admitted. “It seems I’ll be leaving all of you in good hands. Stay safe, Anna. Enjoy the time that you have,” she continued, making the mother hold the hand of her daughter.

“I shall, Ciri. Safe travels to you. I suspect you’ll need it,” Anna remarked as they said their farewells. The children waved her off, tears streaming down their faces, and as far as goodbyes went, it was one of the kinder ones she had received. Giving them a smile and a sad wave off, she left the Witch Hunter headquarters, knowing that there was nothing else to be done for them.

A sigh heaved out of her, feeling melancholic as she walked the streets of Oxenfurt. It wasn’t the first time she had been to this small city on the Ponter. The last time, she had been a much younger girl, but the streets were still familiar to her. Idly, she wondered if Shani would be in the area -- she had been learning at the Academy to become a doctor- healer.

And, luckily, Guts stood out in a crowd.

“You broke some hearts back there,” Ciri announced her presence to Guts from behind, earning a flat glance and a grunt before he resumed looking at the signs above doors to shops. A weight scale for general goods, a leaf for alchemical goods, an sword and shield for arms and armor. And so on and so on.

“Will they be okay?” Puck spoke up, peaking out from Gut’s cloak, only to be swatted back down by a meaty hand.

“They’ll be fine, Puck. Just a little sad that they didn’t get to see you off,” Ciri admitted, looking up at Guts as they walked. It was a real shock to learn that Guts was around her age. Possibly even younger. She had entered her twenty-third year, if her estimates were right. The flow of time didn’t match in all spheres, but the year she spent in Night City seemed to mostly match up with how long she had been gone in this sphere.

She thought Guts was in his thirties. Maybe even forties. The idea that he could be younger than her was a weird one.

“I know,” Puck muttered mournfully. Having him out and about inside the Witch Hunter base was a recipe for disaster by any measure.

“What does that sign say?” Guts interjected, gesturing to a halfway run-down-looking tavern. It had been nice at one point in time -- painted with bright vibrant colors meant to catch the eye, finely decorated with engravings into the wood, but its best days were behind it. The paint was chipped and faded, stains gathered on the fine engravings that seemed well weathered away, and standing before the tavern were two men in pants and boots, showing off their muscles and tattoos.

“Junior’s Delights,” Ciri answered without missing a beat and was mildly surprised when Guts started heading towards it. She followed along, idly wondering what exactly Guts had gotten into the moment she took her eyes off of him. The two bouncers- guards outside of the tavern puffed out their chests the moment they saw Guts, hands going to their clubs.

Guts didn’t miss a pace, “Move.” He uttered, his voice dipping to a low growl that promised violence and a bloody end. The two guards opened their mouths, one looking to the other for a moment, then to Ciri, then back at Guts before he made an incredibly wise decision to step out of Gut’s way. Ciri didn’t think he had it in him. Upon seeing his partner's wisdom, the other did so as well, letting them enter the tavern unmolested.

The exterior was run down, but the interior was worse. She could almost see hints of grandeur that it might have once had -- a central stage for a minstrel, tables and booths, painted walls that had fine works… now the interior reeked of swill, piss, and vomit and the patrons smelled little better.

Guts approached the barman, “Bottle of rum.” He ordered before adding on, “and news.”

The barkeep looked Guts up and down before deciding that he would grab the bottle of rum, “Mercenary, eh?” He questioned, setting the bottle on the counter. “You showed up just in time if ya’ want to fight on the right side of tha’ war.”

Guts seemed to understand what that meant instantly, “Which army is on the move?” He questioned, and that caught Ciri’s attention. As far as she heard, the war between Nilfguard and the Northern Kingdoms had stalled out for the most part. There were a number of battles -- some bad ones, but both sides had gone about consolidating their territory and defenses over actively attacking the other side.

“Nilfgaard. Scouts have been a muttering about them trying their luck getting through the swamp. Used ta’ be they had to cross the Ponter and tha best way to do it was here in Oxenfurt,” the barman explained as Guts tore the cork out with his teeth and took a long swig of the rum. He made a dismissive sound, telling them both what he thought of the possibility.

Before, she would have said taking Oxenfurt would be a breeze. The position was good, but it was an city for scholars first and foremost. Now it was a city of fanatics. Ciri resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder, just to make sure that a Witch Hunter hadn’t followed her here. Leaving the children in their care left her feeling deeply uneasy, wondering if it would have been better to just take them to Novigrad with them.

Only if they did, they could be bringing them to a city that was imminently close to being sacked.

“Damn fools, those lot is. Everyone knows that no army is gonna get through that swamp. Teemin’ with monsters and mud. But, where Nilfgaard is gatherin’, King Radovid will follow, so I’d sign up before head hunters start comin’. Get in early when the pay is better,” the barman advised. Guts accepted the information with a nod of his head.

“Any notable bounties in the area?” Ciri spoke up, bringing the barman’s attention to her. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her shirt with an extra button left undone before his expression tightened when his gaze landed on her scar. She could practically see what the man was thinking when he glanced at Guts. ‘Keep your woman in line.’

“Answer,” Guts demanded, his tone very much a threat.

The barman shrugged, “None that I know of. I’m sure you could find something if you look up on tha’ board, but most folk are dealing with the war. Most of the money is there. None for bandits plaguing the roads.” He said that with the barest hints of a smirk, like he was in on a joke that they didn’t know.

Ciri’s eyes drifted to the jester tattoo on the man's bicep, one that the guards outside had shared. It seemed that the information wasn’t coming from an unbiased source. Even if there were bounties, they wouldn’t find out about them here. However, that was good news to Ciri. He was looking at her like a piece of meat that he wanted to fuck, not as a potential payday.

Meaning that it was only Nilfgaard that was looking for her due to her father. Provided that they stay out of his reach, she would only have to deal with his spies.

Guts opened his mouth to ask another question, only to snap it shut before he looked at the door. Her gaze lingered on the Brand on his neck, noticing how a single drop of blood dripped down from the engraving into his flesh, lazily rolling down his neck. It was a warning that something was coming. She glanced at the door just in time to see a man striding through it. Brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin that was flushed an angry red.

Clothing hinted that he was upper-class. Tailor-made boots and breeches that were form fitting. His shirt was looser and more casual. The kind of clothing that someone of wealth would toss on for a trip down to a tavern, but their worst clothing was still more expensive than everything in the tavern itself. The swill included. The man didn’t look around the tavern itself, almost as if he were blind to it.

Instead, as if they were drawn to him, his gaze landed on Guts.

“Gael,” the barman spoke up, sounding mildly surprised. “Don’t usually see you up at this hour.” He remarked. A night owl from the sounds of it. Pale white skin as well that was heavily aggravated by the sun. While that wouldn’t normally be enough reason to assume that he was a monster, the reaction of Gut’s brand did. With the two pieces of evidence, her assumption was a species of vampire.

Not something that was ideal. There were several species of vampires that ranged from animals that were little better than beasts to neigh unkillable hyper-intelligent people. Given that he was here, in the tavern, told Ciri that he was some species of higher-grade vampire because only they could portray themselves as humans. The irritation to the sun ruled out Alps, Nosferats, Mula, and Higher Vampires, which were extremely rare. Still possible, but highly unlikely.

Katakan species was most likely.

“Had good reason to step out during the day,” Gael responded, his tone musical while his eyes never left Guts. The Brand had an effect on sapient monsters as well, Ciri quickly noticed, stepping out of the way of Gael since he nearly went through her to approach Guts. There was lust in his eyes. Desire.

Ciri gave Guts a pointed glance, telling him to play along. Katakans were dangerous. Especially in an enclosed space with numerous people inside. Best play along for now until they could isolate the vampire-

“Good evening my good-” Gael started to speak, only to be cut off when Guts grabbed him by the head and slammed his face into counter with enough force that the wood splintered. The barman flinched back, a shout quickly going up when the illusion of the vampire's humanity faded away as he recoiled from the blow. If only it were so simple to kill a vampire.

“Monster!” Ciri heard someone shout as Gael slipped out of Gut's grip, his hand fading right through the creature's skull before Gael reappeared on the side of the counter. Seven feet tall, a face shaped like a bat with horns engraved with gold. No wings to speak of, but large talon-like hands.

Gael snarled at Guts, who simply grabbed hold of his sword, ready to draw it. However, a split second later, Puck emerged from his coat.

“Final! Flash!” Puck screeched at the top of his lungs before the room became filled with a bright light that pierced her eyes even though she clenched them shut.

“Damn it, Puck!” Guts snarled, Ciri hearing a clatter and something being smashed. Wood. A chair maybe? It wasn’t the first time she would have to fight blindfolded, but there was too much noise -- sounds of panic from the patrons, Gut’s heavy footsteps, glass breaking, and then wood splintering. Her brow furrowed as she drew her sword, separating the sounds of Gael and Guts.

“Get ‘em while he’s distracted,” Puck shouted and she saw the logic. He was trying to arrange a surprise attack. “Ah- he’s getting away!” Puck shouted a split second before Ciri heard the sound of smashing. She lashed out with a blade, catching Gael in the side as he passed by her, a pained cry filling the air, but the wound was too shallow. He smashed through the door behind them.

“Coward!” Puck shouted while Ciri pivoted on a foot.

Seems like the hunt was on.