The Divine Hunter

Letho took out a gleaming dagger and cut up the grave hag. His movements were as fluid as those of a butcher who had complete understanding of the anatomy of all livestock. Letho cut out its eyes, ears, and those mysterious lumps. He laid them out in a neat row on his blue cloth, then dug out a few twisted, misshapen pieces of meat and shook them. “Lucky find. This hag’s mutagen is ripe enough to make some potions.”

“What are those, witcher?”

Letho gave Roy silent praise after the boy asked him the question. He killed that grave hag in its death throes without even blinking, and he didn’t even look away when we dismembered it. What an oddity. Anyone else would have vomited their stomachs out. Including adults. Roy’s bravery and courage piqued Letho’s interest. “This one has potential.”

Letho pointed at the parts he cut out, telling Roy their names and explaining their use to him patiently. Roy listened in silence, frowning occasionally as he mulled over what the witcher told him.

“Right, Roy. Do you have a family?” Letho asked, sounding nonchalant.

“I’m living with my parents.”

Letho was disappointed to hear that, and he hastened the dismembering of the grave hag.

The gas from Letho’s bomb, which had been thrown into the cabin earlier, had dissipated after an hour, and they entered the late gravekeeper’s abode.

What was once a place humans could comfortably stay in was now an eerie, horrifying hellhole. Filthy mud covered the walls, roof, and floor of the place. Some of it even dripped off the ceiling like glue. The abode, once warm and well-lit, was now humid and dark. Here and there, canisters and bizarre containers lay haphazardly. The grave hag seemed to have been making something before it had met its grisly end. The bones of humans and small creatures hung on the mud-caked walls.

After Roy saw what was hanging on the innermost wall, he rushed to it.

“Brandon.”

Nothing was left of the fat, snotty child who used to pester him about magic tricks, save for his rotten corpse. It was pierced by a black spear, making him a human flag.

The eyes on his dried, sunken head were gouged out, leaving two gaping holes that stared back at Roy. His mouth was open in fear, and Roy could imagine the terror he’d felt when he was alive.

Roy closed his eyes and took a deep breath before taking the corpse down carefully. He hugged it without any feeling of disgust, as if he couldn’t smell the stench of mold and rotten meat. “I’m sorry. If I had been more patient and didn’t say that to you…”

Then, a big, warm hand patted his shoulder. “Be at peace. You have avenged them,” the witcher consoled him, which was a rare case.

A short while later, Roy buried the corpses of Seeger, Fletcher, and Brandon. With the help of the witchers, he managed to finish their tombstones.

‘Here lies Seeger, the blacksmith of Kaer, the son of Skellige.

His courage was proven in battle.

Died September 1260 in a valiant battle against a grave hag.’

The other grave had two names carved on them.

‘Fletcher, butcher of Kaer.

A loving father who chose to show but not tell it.

Brandon, friend of the Rooster Slayer, future bard and magician.

He shall shine as bright as a star in the kingdom of Melitele.

Died September 1260.’