The discussion, which was initially like casual chatter on horseback, eventually slipped into a serious, terrifying atmosphere.
But fortunately, Lann didn’t want to talk too much about Da Gun. After a bit more idle chatter, he finally said to the still stubborn Geralt.
"I sincerely hope you never encounter such a monster in your life, Geralt. Truly."
After this sentence, only Geralt muttered to himself with nonsensical words like "That’s not logical" and "Doesn’t count," and the atmosphere among the four immediately filled with lively cheerfulness again.
Monsters that could annihilate all creatures and the gods that remain unseen—these things are too far removed for ordinary people and even ordinary Demon Hunters.
Lann felt that in their lifetime, they would only hear of them in rumors and would never actually face those troublesome matters.
The four of them came to a fork in the road again, a place full of hoof prints and rut marks. According to the plan, they should take the path heading east, going to Brugge City.
But Ciri worriedly looked at the road leading west.
"That road leads straight to Nashtrog." Ciri’s back-seat Geralt teased her, "Are you planning to find Prince Kristin and get married?"
Ciri grumbled in annoyance, both horses having already stepped onto the eastern path, yet the little girl still glanced westward from time to time.
"What’s wrong, Ciri?"
Vesemir, with his old, perceptive mind, saw that something was off with Ciri’s expression.
"I don’t know," she whispered, "but this road doesn’t feel right."
Lann reached out, crossing the space between the two horses, to pat Ciri’s head.
"Even if it doesn’t feel right, we have to go; otherwise, it’s just wilderness with not even a roadbed left, where people can walk, but horses can’t."
"Besides, I’m also curious to see just how ’not right’ your premonition really is."
Ciri’s seemingly innate prophecy intrigued Lann, making him want to see what the standards of this ’prophecy’ are.
Whether judged solely from Ciri’s perspective as a little girl, or integrated with the combat power of three Demon Hunters, if it still felt ’not right.’
Geralt and Vesemir understood Lann’s meaning, but only Ciri’s emerald eyes still appeared puzzled.
The two Demon Hunters tightened the straps of their armor and adjusted the positions of the sword hilts on their backs.
By the time Radish and Bopai passed through a large thicket-bend, the three Demon Hunters realized Ciri was correct.
A group of soldiers blocked the way there, and upon seeing them approach, a few horsemen came directly to cut off their retreat.
On the road in the distance, a few soldiers stood with crossbows, and although they weren’t seen drawing the bows, it’s assumed their arrow-shooting speed wouldn’t be slow.
They wore conical helmets, deep gray cotton armor, chainmail on the outside, and surcoats embroidered with emblems over the chainmail. This text is hosted at novelFɪre.net
It represented the Royal Family of Videns, with black and yellow checkered shield emblems.
The three Demon Hunters exchanged glances and dismounted without waiting for the soldiers to harshly reprimand them, leaving Ciri on horseback.
Demon Hunters aren’t skilled in mounted combat, but this action appeared compliant in the eyes of the soldiers.
A short, stout man with a bow had been shouting at them from afar but seemed assured they weren’t a threat and approached them.
"Who are you people?"
"We’re just trying to head home to Brugge. What’s happened?"
Geralt stepped forward to negotiate while Vesemir calmed Ciri on horseback.
Lann, on the other hand, casually rested his left hand on the hilt of the Lady of the Lake’s Sword at his left waist, his cat-like eyes shifting under a polite smile.
In an instant, Mentos had roughly figured out the numbers.
"There are presently twenty-three visible individuals, sir. But we cannot rule out that there might be others still hidden in the roadside woods."
Lann’s smile didn’t change, but his left-hand fingers tapped lightly on Aron Dite’s grip now and then.
"Bring them here, Jeghan!"
A voice shouted from the front of the path, and the encircling soldiers opened up, making way.
The smiling Lann and the expressionless, task-focused Geralt walked ahead.
Behind them, Vesemir led the two horses alone.
"Don’t look, Ciri," the Old Demon Hunter quietly instructed the little girl, "Bury your head, don’t look at the road."
Up ahead, a large, lush tree had fallen across the road.
Ahead of this ’roadblock’ was a horse cart covered with canvas and several packhorses lying on the ground. Broken wooden cart frames and reins tangled into a chaotic mess with their bodies.
Arrows were stuck all over the packhorses, and one that hadn’t died immediately was showing its yellowing teeth, panting heavily and bleeding.
Several human corpses were tangled in the wheels, or thrown several meters away.
A cross-eyed soldier surrounding the crime scene roared. He was wearing a tight outfit trimmed with copper and was sturdy in build.
"Blood for blood! It’s simply intolerable. First, it was our Bodrog Barons, then the Princess of Sintra, and now merchants. For the sake of the gods, revenge, we need revenge! Otherwise, they’ll be killing at our doorstep by tomorrow!"
"You say ’revenge’... Was this the work of tree spirits?"
Geralt hesitantly asked, and a soldier with leather archer’s bracers responded.
"What else could it be? It’s crystal clear! It’s those green-skinned bitches!"
"Blake spoke well," the cross-eyed soldier continued, "Do you agree? And also you, brother, I have to ask you: where are you from?"
"Bruges People." Geralt continued to lie; his work expression was ironically perfect for this scenario.
Lann thought it was indeed a well-used skill.
"Bruges People..." The cross-eyed soldier frowned, "I have to say, brother, it’s your King Venceslav who allowed these monsters to flourish. He doesn’t want to ally with our King Aivelle or Karak’s King Viraqsa. If we attack from three sides, surely we can wipe them out..."
"Are you sure it was the tree spirits?" Lann interjected from behind Geralt.
The cross-eyed soldier was not annoyed: "These arrow feathers come from mountain pheasant tail feathers in the forest, the arrow glue is tree gum, the whole arrow shaft soaked in tree sap for waterproof hardening... what else could this be other than the tree spirits’ arrows?"
"I also saw those arrows." Lann interrupted him again, "But among the people on the ground, many were finished off with knives, weren’t they?"
"Good observation." The cross-eyed soldier said, "That makes it even better; you should report to King Venceslav, man. That king doesn’t want us to harm the ’innocent and friendly’ tree spirits. By May Day, they might even come for a rendezvous. In the matters of this kind, they might indeed be quite friendly. If we can catch one alive, we can verify it."
"You should persuade your king to have your wife cling to his leg and cry, quickly ally with King Aivelle to quell the tree spirits, or how will business continue on this road?"
"Well, that’s indeed a proposal that can concern a king; after all, nothing can upset kings more than diminishing respect among city residents."
Lann nodded seriously, deeply agreeing. But then he tucked his loose silver hair behind his ear, his smile gradually faded as he continued.
"But, my friend, it seems these people weren’t killed by the tree spirits."
"The person who murdered them chopped down a tree to make a barricade, but tree spirits... they wouldn’t cut trees."
The fingers that had been tapping aimlessly on the sword hilt suddenly stopped.