chsdbacks Chapter 18 Klinfield Raiders
Chapter 18 Klinfield Raiders
"May Meriteli protect the King's stomach." Two light infantrymen on duty were stirring an iron pot with wooden spoons, their hemp leggings covered in mud. "Last time at Mahakam Fortress, there was a whole water ghost's hand in that stew—thankfully the King is here, otherwise those damned noble officers would have embezzled our food."
Fires had already lit up the military camp at night, and the aroma of food mixed with the smoke from burning wood swirled into a cloud of white mist that floated in the air.
Folstätter was indeed as good to the soldiers as rumored, which explains why even the farmers in the countryside would recite a few words of blessing for the king before eating.
Because Giliam could even find meat in the haphazardly mixed mess, whatever kind of meat it was, it certainly wasn't from the water ghost.
"Hmm... there's probably enough salt, and apart from the rat meat, there's nothing else unsettling. It's a pretty good meal."
Kiliam sniffed; the Witcher's keen senses could detect the scent lingering in the air. It sounded pitiful, but if Folstätter could provide his soldiers with this level of rations daily, the Temurian army would undoubtedly be the most powerful force in the Northern Kingdoms.
But if it's not happening every day, then this group is about to face a tough battle.
As I walked along the path through the mess hall, worn smooth by thousands of boots, the surrounding noise gradually changed. The low murmurs of ordinary soldiers complaining about their hometowns and women were replaced by a rougher, more boisterous clamor, thick with the smell of alcohol.
Kiliam had to sidestep a supply wagon loaded with crossbows, and just as he was about to quicken his pace, a piercing, maniacal laugh, like a broken bellows, accompanied by the sharp crack of some metal vessel being smashed to the ground, rudely blocked his path.
"Hey! Look who's here? Another pair of cat eyes!"
The voice roared, with a heavy northern accent and undisguised rudeness.
A burly figure, as imposing as a brown bear, staggered to his feet from beside the fire. He wasn't wearing the neat blue uniforms of the Temerian regulars, but rather a hard leather armor studded with scratches and a distinctly personal style.
He was a bald, burly man with a face full of scars, and a hideous scar ran through his chin, making him look like he was grinning maliciously.
By the firelight, Kilyam could see the face clearly. It was a huge bald head, even larger than Letho's, shiny and oily as if coated with lard. The fleshy face trembled irregularly with his chewing movements, and a hideous pale pink scar, like an ugly centipede, ran from his left ear to his chin, tearing his smile into a terrifying, almost savage grin.
Kiliam recognized that face. Or rather, any mercenary making a living in the northern kingdoms, from the frigid wastelands of Redania to the dense forests of Temeria, would find it hard not to recognize that face.
Poholt, leader of the Klinfeld raiders.
This group prided themselves on being professional dragon hunters, even going so far as to deliberately depict lizard-like creatures on their leather armor. However, in the eyes of the witchers and even slightly knowledgeable scholars, the so-called "dragons" they hunted were mostly pterodactyls driven out of their nests by hunger, slow-moving petrified lizards, or even just slightly larger forked-tailed dragons.
But that didn't stop them from cutting off the monsters' heads and hanging them on their saddles to parade through the streets, nor did it stop them from becoming one of the most shameless and infamous mercenary groups in the North.
For them, whether it's a dragon or a human, there's nothing they won't kill as long as they're paid.
"If those cold-blooded eyes hadn't deceived me," Poholt said, holding an oak goblet almost half the size of his head, his face flushed, the smell of alcohol emanating from him detectable from three meters away, "isn't this the 'great philanthropist' we met in the Pontal Valley? What, cat-eyed brat, you've caught the scent of blood here too?"
Behind Poholt, two other familiar faces turned around. The tall, thin Kennett was fiddling with a short dagger, a strangely mocking expression on his face; while the other, a quiet fellow, was focused on stuffing roast meat into his mouth.
But what really caught Kiriam's attention was the fourth person sandwiched between these three seasoned thugs.
He was a boy who looked far too young, almost like a child. In the biting cold of the early spring night, he wore only loose linen underpants and a pitifully thin white shirt, shivering so hard that the sound of his teeth chattering could almost blend with the crackling of firewood.
He clutched a longsword with a worn-out scabbard tightly to his chest, his eyes filled with awe for his seniors and a fear of impending death.
"Poholt," Giliam's voice was as flat as still water, seemingly oblivious to the sarcasm in the other's tone, "I thought you only took big jobs slaying dragons. What, have pterodactyls become so extinct that even the infamous raiders are now babysitting siege towers?"
"Shut up, mutant." Kennett spat, but there wasn't much real killing intent in his voice; it was more of a habitual provocation. "Don't think we've forgotten what happened last time. That petrified chicken snake's head should have been hanging in front of this tent, not chopped up by you to save that damn goose girl!"
Kiliam remembered it. The raiders, wanting to lure out the monster, planned to burn down the entire reed bed, completely disregarding the several villagers who hadn't had time to escape hiding inside. He had to rush in before the raiders lit the fire and kill the beast in waist-deep mud.
"I didn't take a single penny of the reward; it all went to the village chief who lost his flock of geese." Kiliam glanced at them coldly, his gaze finally settling on the trembling young man. "Is this yet another of your new tricks? Are you planning to strip him naked and sacrifice him to the goddess Meritele for good weather? Or have you finally decided to sell yourselves because you can't afford the drinks?"
"Ha! That's even more interesting! This is a bet about courage!" Poholt let out a thunderous hiccup, his large, fan-like hand slamming heavily onto the young man's back, nearly knocking the boy into the fire in front of him. "This kid, let's call him Neubai, made a bet with some of those Temerian Blue Guards over there. He said he could charge into La Valédé Castle tomorrow in this outfit, completely unharmed!"
"Since that white-haired guy can come drink, there's no reason why you can't. Come on, cat-eyed kid, have a drink and then come over and be the judge!"