“Fuck.”

Roland hissed through gritted teeth as he removed the hasty bandaging on his thigh, revealing the inflamed gash that ran its length. It was a deep, ugly wound, his attacker's claws having sheared through pants and flesh as if they were nothing.

He cursed once more as he poked around the edges, trying to gauge the full extent of the injury. At least the shoulder seemed alright. The leg was another matter. It was bad. Of that much he was certain. The hunter needed a doctor to patch the injury up appropriately. Or a skillful mage. He nearly laughed out loud at the notion, silencing himself as a new jolt of agony shot through his leg. Hopefully, the monstrosity that had attacked him was in at least as much pain. Damn beast. His nose twitched in frustration as he tried to consider his options. A mage was absolutely out of the question. A doctor little better. He could not afford to dawdle in this woeful city, and a surgeon's ministrations would waste time ill-afforded. Business had to be settled, and then he'd have to disappear. Almost instinctively, he glanced out the window of his room, down at the streets of Loseine below. There was no safety to be had here. The King would not forgive his actions, and his agents would no doubt be dispatched in pursuit, it was only a matter of time before they arrived.

The Free Duchy of Luttenia was such in name only after all. Lisy was little more than a puppet dancing to Charles' tune. It would not be long before his pursuers acquired whatever meager papers of authorization were needed and then tracked him here.

And then there was the aberration at the ford. He shuddered at the thought. She probably wouldn't even care for papers.

He sighed and opened his hip flask, the smell of Eckerheim's finest wafting to his nostrils as the silver cap came loose. What a waste. With a grunt of resignation, he splashed his injury with the liquor, the burning sensation making his leg spasm in response. What an absolute waste. Without further consideration, he downed the rest of the container, the burn in his throat nearly matching the pain assailing his leg.

Hardly the first time doing my own sutures. The thought flitted through Roland's mind quickly, bringing a grimace of amusement to his face. He'd also done a botched job of it the last time, and the hideous bullet scars on his chest bore testament to that reality.

The needle pierced flesh, over and over, the painful jabs drawing the exposed meat of his thigh closed. With every stitch the witch hunter cursed his attacker, consigning her to whatever deepest, darkest hell existed, and hoping her agony was far worse than his. When it was done, a hideous wound replaced an equally hideous patchwork of stitches, swiftly covered by still-torn riding breeches. What a mess. But it was the best he could do.

Roland was suddenly regretting having drained all of his alcohol. Perhaps a bottle was what he needed, to dull the damnable throbbing in his leg. Yes indeed, that would help restore some of his humor. Groaning, he stood up, gingerly testing his strength and making his way toward the stairs to the alehouse below. He could walk, but running would be out of the question for some time yet. Even the slightest motion aggravated the injury, making the witch hunter wince with every step.

“Ah, Master Arnow, I trust all is well? You look like you've been struck by the ague!”

“All is well Moran,” Roland limped forward and took a seat at the bar, “All is absolutely, perfectly, flawless.”

The innkeep smiled and eyed him dubiously as he cleaned out a mug, “Good to hear you feel that way. I'd hate to lose a well-paying customer such as yourself.”

The witch hunter rolled his eyes, gesturing a finger toward a bottle of Steckian, “Lord's sake, my legs torn to shreds and I feel like shit.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Miserable, truly unfortunate Roland. My sympathies,” Moran nodded and uncorked the liquor, sliding it toward the hunter with a sweep of his hand.

“Glad to hear it,” he sighed and took a swig from the proferred bottle.

“How was Brachsenburg? Did you get to see what happened?” the innkeep asked.

“Unfortunately not,” Roland shook his head and grimaced as the harsh liquor burned his throat, “They wouldn't even allow me inside, place was sealed up tight. Was lucky to get across the Dvina before they shut the borders.”

“Quite the lucky streak I must say. Except for the leg, what happened there?” the older man jabbed toward his thigh intently.

“Did you know there are wolves living in the woods near Hechenholm?” he glared and kicked the bottle back once more.

“No, I thought those had been hunted down, thought they were all dead,” Moran frowned in consternation.

“So did I,” the witch-hunter shuddered and tapped the revolver at his hip, “This here's the only reason I'm still alive. Well, this and Ruyter, horse smelled the bastards a mile away. Still nearly got me.”

“That's quite the adventure, sometimes I don't know if I should envy you or pity- What's wrong lieutenant?” the innkeep's sudden question caught Roland by surprise, followed by the clatter of hobnailed boots entering the establishment.

What's wrong indeed? The witch hunter raised a curious eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder at the small group of armed soldiery entering the establishment.

“Bad news, unfortunately,” the officer sighed and strode to the bar, politely nodding an acknowledgment to Roland before turning back to Moran.

“Related to the Brachsenburg incident, eh?” the man sighed and leaned forward to speak to the sergeant, “Fucking Astanians can't keep their country together so we've got issues now?”

For his part the soldier nodded sympathetically, albeit refraining from open agreement, “It is indeed. News of the killer has been relayed. He crossed the border yesterday, near Hechenholm. Evaded the king's forces and is suspected to be hiding somewhere in our lands.”

“Aye, that does sound like a problem,” Moran groaned and ran a hand through his hair, “I assume we're to be on the lookout for 'em?”

“Indeed, Duke Lisy has vowed to do all within his power to aid in the capture of this dangerous criminal,” the man said, “Rumor is he's a rogue witch hunter.”

The innkeep blinked once, disbelief on his face. Roland did much the same, head rising from his Steckian as he gave the soldier a dubious stare.

“Fuck me, this is really out of hand,” he shook his head, turning away and belching.

“Ha, had the same reaction when the captain told me!” the officer boomed with laughter, clapping Roland on the shoulder and nodding to the innkeep, “Glad I ain't the only one feeling that way. Regardless of what we think though. That's the orders, we still need to make our rounds 'bout the rest of Southport. Just wanted to make you aware.”

“Of course,” Moran nodded.

“See anything, anyone suspicious. Any strange outsiders wearin' a getup that might seem odd, maybe carryin' a rifle. You report it to us! Either of ya!” the captain smiled, turning about and striding clear of the inn.

“That's an unpleasant revelation,” the innkeep shuddered, idly fiddling with a small kitchen knife.

“It is indeed,” Roland nodded in agreement.

“I think it would be best if you leave,” Moran said abruptly.

At that the witch-hunter raised an eyebrow, setting aside his now drained bottle of Steckian and casting the man a confused glance, “Leave, why?”

“I don't just mean leave my establishment Roland, I mean leave the city. Leave quick,” the man smiled coldly and leaned close, “It's nothing personal, but I've been running this inn for a long, long time.”

“I know, and I've been coming here for a long, long time,” the witch-hunter chuckled.

“Aye, it's been a few years now, ain't it? But understand, I know how these hunts go. Soldiers are all friendly, then the ducal investigators get involved, then sometimes its the inquisition, they round up every poor bastard who's here from out of town, half of 'em turn out to be part of the grand conspiracy,” Moran leaned in and frowned at Roland, “You're a good sort. Polite, pay well, always got a good story to tell and the scars to prove it.”

He had to wonder, just how much Moran knew. The man had never said anything. Not after Tarva. Nor after the incident in Steidlitz.

“Rather not lose a good customer eh?” he laughed once more and stood up at his seat.

The agony in his leg jolted through him, causing him to hiss with pain.

“Precisely, also rather not see an innocent man hang,” Moran nodded.

Roland pulled out a gold kroune, laying it down on the bar before the innkeeper.

“That's far more than you owe Master Arnow,” the man shook his head and passed the coin back, “You overpay most of the time anyway. Heed my advice, and get out. You can pay me back next time you pass through.”

Roland wasn't sure there would be a next time. Not the way things were deteriorating by the hour.

“I have business I must finish, but after that, I'm taking your advice, I'll be gone before nightfall,” he nodded and sighed.

“See that you are,” Moran said as Roland began making his way toward the stairs, “No business is worth hanging in the town square.”