Witcher: Master Kiliman’s Grand Ambitions

Chapter 63: Dwarven Ballistaes and a Night Raid

Kieriman was considered a fairly quick-witted witcher.

The moment he saw those three dwarven bed ballistaes, he immediately thought of his upcoming wyvern contract.

He had no fear of facing wyverns on the ground;

he dared to engage them in close combat—after all, they were still just bigger lizards. Even so, despite having learned five Signs, witchers still lacked in ranged weaponry. You couldn't reasonably expect ordinary crossbows to pierce those big lizards' scales, and he didn't have that kind of pinpoint accuracy.

If those wyverns were clever enough to attack only from the air, dealing with them would be troublesome just to imagine.

Kieriman produced his cherished strong spirits and several plates of steaming dishes stored in his pocket space.

He set the food and drink down in front of them, draped an arm over Dwarf Iron Axe Black's shoulder, and made small talk with the middle-aged dwarf foreman, cozying up to him to build rapport.

The liquor was potent dwarven firewater, and the dishes were signature plates from a famous Vizima eatery.

For these lumberjacks who had been weathering the outdoors for so long, it was delicacy beyond refuse.

After good food and strong drink, Iron Axe Black warmed up and began to talk, stroking his beard as he recounted his past.

In truth, within the Kingdom of Temeria he was a long-established dwarf resident—he'd lived in the country for over fifty years and had witnessed Foltest's ascent to the throne.Whether Vizima's old town or the new district, none of it lacked the hard work of him and his team of dwarf artisans.

During wartime, those artisans would don arms and armor, transform into siege masters, build all manner of siege engines for Temeria's forces, and accompany the army to battle.

Back in the war with Nilfgaard, their excellent engineering provided the Northern Kingdoms with significant advantages.

Those three dwarven bed ballistaes were Iron Axe Black's own masterpieces;

rumor had it they'd seen several campaigns.

He was a professional in siege engineering and also an expert in house construction.

For dwarves who lived over four hundred years, as long as one wasn't lazy, most would master a craft and become a skilled artisan.

Listening to the middle-aged dwarf boast, the witcher humored him thoroughly, making the dwarf flush with pride and get increasingly spirited.

Perhaps it was the drinking-table culture of his past life that gave him such ample experience.

When they had eaten and drank their fill, Kieriman dropped his pretense and efficiently stated his purpose.

He patted Iron Axe Black's shoulder with a friendly grin and said, "Black, you're a fine dwarf craftsman and a good friend."

"Actually, I'm about to hunt a flock of wyverns, and I’m short on ranged weapons."

"I noticed those three bed ballistaes at your camp—they'd be perfect. Why don't you make me an offer and sell them to me?"

Hearing the witcher's proposal, the experienced middle-aged dwarf didn't look too surprised;

he seemed to have suspected Kieriman had other motives.

Unfortunately, Iron Axe Black shook his head regretfully and replied with some embarrassment, "Kieriman, to be honest, you're my friend. If you're in trouble, I'd help."

"But those things are controlled items. They've been registered at the town hall, and officers come by to inspect them from time to time."

"If I sold them to you, I'd likely end up thrown in prison for months."

"However, if you really need ranged weapons, I can sell you some crossbows."

"Those have been registered too, but I have some spares that could pass muster."

"As for those three big ones, there's nothing I can do."

"Besides, each of those bed ballistaes weighs over two hundred pounds. Even if I sold them to you, you couldn't possibly haul them away."

"Ah! Is that so?"

Kieriman sighed with disappointment. He did have a fair number of crossbows already—the batch they had looted from the Salamander Gang contained many.

But dwarven bed ballistaes were truly rare items;

ordinary folk never saw them. They were stored in armories as military heavy weapons and were strictly regulated.

As he fretted over how to get his hands on those three fine pieces, he suddenly noticed some Gwent cards lying inside the camp tent.

Clearly, the lumberjacks used Gwent to pass the time during rest.

Seeing them reminded him of what Zoltan had said: Gwent was very popular among dwarves—many loved the game so much they'd even lose their undergarments and never repent.

Kieriman took out his own Gwent deck and two bottles of dwarven firewater, testing the waters as he said, "It's still early, Black."

"Care for a round of Gwent?"

...

At dusk.

Before night fully fell, Kieriman returned to Murkywater Village, back to the house he shared with Shani.

The medical student had been working diligently these days;

because of the special celandine, she seemed to have made several new discoveries and was very excited.

Researching a new medicine, however, was not something finished quickly. Even with Shani's efforts, progress on the new compound remained slow.

When Kieriman pushed open the door, he found Shani exhausted and leaning over the table, eyes half-closed and breathing evenly—asleep.

Seeing this, the witcher moved quietly, came to the girl's side without disturbing her slumber, lifted her gently, and carefully laid her on the bed.

Watching Shani's short red hair sway slightly and reveal that charming, delicate face, his gaze inevitably lingered on her neat, small nose and the lightly pink, tender curve of her lips, stirring desires in him.

Just as he was about to lean down and sample the delight before him, his ears twitched.

He heard a faint disturbance outside the house: small, stealthy movements, like mice creeping closer, afraid of being noticed.

Sensing danger, Kieriman instantly shifted into combat readiness.

He entered a half-meditative state;

a transparent soul form slipped from his body, passed through the wall, and moved outside.

Through the soul's observation, he saw roughly a dozen figures clad in night clothes, carrying crossbows and short swords or daggers—assassination weapons—sneaking to encircle his room.

Under cover of the night, this group of assassins was clearly far more professional than ordinary thugs.

From the killing intent suffusing the scene, they did not intend to parley;

they planned to strike directly.

What concerned Kieriman more was that behind the assassins stood two robed figures, cloaks hiding their bodies and staffs in hand.

From their attire, they were most likely two low-level mages.

That made things awkward.

Mages accompanied by a team of assassins—it didn’t take long for Kieriman to guess who wanted him dead.

Damn it, the Salamander Gang, those bastards.

He hadn't even gone after them yet, and here they were, volunteering to be slaughtered.

They were courting death.

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