Amir led the horse by bridle; the valley accentuated a cruel wind which tangled the man’s chestnut hair by the knots. His fingers seemed to freeze to the bone, and his toes were found to be no better. Each trudge was emphasized by a grunt; wet mud clung to his rawhide boots as the ground opened up and swallowed his feet. The Witcher quickly detested taking this route through the Pontar Valley. 

Much blood had been shed upon this particular swathe of land; strategically it was an important stretch of landmass, adjoining the borders between Kaedwen, Temaria, Aedirn and Redania, and was also the scene for several violent conquests in the past. 

It rained the night before, and the Pontar River swamped the flat plains, leaving nothing but a soupy mess which Amir now found himself unfortunately cutting across. The Witcher could almost see the crimson shade of blood that mingled with one of its branching tributaries as he carefully stepped through the sludge, and the horse reluctantly followed. 

“Please Master Witcher, I ain’t done nutin’ wrong!”

The Witcher’s face formed a scowl as he continued to trek onwards. “Only guilty men run.” He massaged his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, sighing exasperatedly. The captive was a human, no less, but a disgusting rat at heart. The Witcher had hunted eleven long days to find this particular shit stain, slowly tracking the cur north to Vengerberg, and then to the eastern foothills of Aedirn before finally catching sight of him just outside the Kaedwenian border. 

“But a swear Master Witcher!”

Amir cocked his head behind him to meet the man’s whimpering gaze. He was pot-bellied, with sparse tufts of hair splayed against his scalp. He was drabbed in sheep cloak and browned britches, whilst the only protection for his feet were mud-caked sandals. Tears collected against his reddening cheeks before absorbing onto his unkempt beard. The rat was hogtied to the back of his horse, surely a display of humiliation for the man once they returned to town. “Shut the fuck up” the Witcher sneered. Provisions were running low, and Amir had been grouchy since he took on this work. “A Witcher reduced to the work of a fucking bounty hunter!” he scoffed, the thought made him weary and at the edge of his temper. 

The captive remained silent for a while; he knew that opening his mouth again would surely be the quickest way to meet the end of the Witcher’s blade; he also knew that the bounty wouldn’t be reduced whether he was brought back alive [i]or[/i] dead. “Only a few more mile...” the Witcher pondered aloud. Vergen, the city built in stone was a splendor of Dwarven ingenuity. The settlement was an important trade center where precious ores were unearthed and sold, and just outside was the Pontar Valley – an agricultural superzone, producing most of the food and wine which surrounding settlements feasted upon. 

As they drew closer, the prisoner began to chime up again. “Witcher, fer the love of fuck I didn’t do it!” His words gargled from the back of his throat, and snot smeared across his face. “One more word and I’ll cut out your fucking tongue.” They had finally made it out of the boggy part of Pontar Valley, and the end was just in sight. 

After a while longer the city began to emerge from behind a formation of massive rocks, and Amir smiled. “Looks like we’re here,” but things never go smoothly for a Witcher. The city had been reinforced and on heightened guard detail since it had won its independence from the clutches of Henselt’s Kaedweni warriors, and had been wary of anything that stood more than five feet, and without pointed ears. 

“Halt!”

The Witcher froze. 

Six guards wearing plated steel approached him, two Elves, and four Dwarves. They drew their weapons and circled around the outside of him, outnumbering him and surrounding him. “What’che got there traveler?” one of the Elves slapped the ass of the captive that had been hogtied to the back of his horse. “A present,” the Witcher grinned. 

“What sort of present?” a Dwarf snorted and spat, a miasmic amount of phlegm landed next to Amir’s feet. 

“He’s a Nilfgaard spy, and my prisoner.” 

Their eyes widened, and their mouths agape. They stood silent for a while, exchanging glances between one another, and the Witcher spoke once more.

“Now sheathe your fucking swords. Tell Saskia that a Witcher is here to see her.”