Chapter 1. Misunderstanding

Chapter 1. Misunderstanding

Redania, 1265, mid-October

Awakening came abruptly, as if doused with a bucket of icy water from a mountain stream.

Yet, there could be no talk of freshness. Quite the opposite—the nose was instantly assaulted by a foul stench. It reeked of freshly congealed blood, feces, and urine. Such is the smell of fresh corpses—at death, all muscles relax, and this rich inner world is no longer contained. Moreover, there was a strong smell of mud and rot, and also, somewhat oddly, of very strange spices or herbs—likely some herbal tincture, though it was impossible to identify which herbs specifically. Edrin grimaced. The odors were so overpowering it felt as though he wasn't lying on something hard, but at least on a pile of decaying corpses.

Edrin opened his eyes, immediately squinting at the bright sunlight, and tried to shield his eyes with his hands, but... it was too late. His eyes adapted to the light instantaneously, even before he realized it. And, most strangely, Edrin felt his pupils contract—not quite correctly, not like a normal person's. Edrin shook his head, trying to recover. Usually, he didn't have such strong control over his own body—at least, not unless he was meditating, pondering the meaning of another Word of Power. Perhaps it was unwise, for shaking his head made everything go dark before his eyes, and a lump rose to his throat. Edrin leaned slightly to the side—and immediately vomited. Not too violently, mostly bile and water, but extremely unpleasant. For his overly sharpened senses, it was even more disgusting. After catching his breath somewhat, he finally managed to look around, still wary of standing up—just in case.

The first thing that definitely caught his eye was the surroundings. They absolutely did not match what he last remembered before his death. This was definitely not the Throat of the World. And the terrain around was far from mountainous. Rather the opposite—swampy, flat, like the northern swamps of Morthal. But it couldn't have carried him to the swamps. Impossible. The landscape was frankly depressing. Swamps, stretching amidst a forest burnt to the ground, seemed endless in all directions. Not wanting to lie in the wet mud, the Dragonborn tried to stand, relying on somewhat solid ground. He managed to do so, even standing somewhat steadily, though his head felt as if it would fall off. Moreover, another problem arose—Edrin felt and fully realized that the foul stench of fresh corpse, from which he had awakened, emanated not from someone else, but from himself. He closed his eyes, focused, trying to summon simple cleansing charms. And he succeeded, but... Such simple spells, known almost to every novice just admitted to the College of Winterhold, serving a Master, or otherwise having accessed the source of arcane arts, came with such difficulty as if he had just summoned an entire host of atronachs. Edrin swayed, his temples pounded, his vision darkened again. But, at least, the magical effect worked—some of the unpleasant odors disappeared along with the dark stains on his clothes. Of course, it didn't fully save the situation—the swamp smell remained, as did the scent of the herbal tincture, but Edrin was less concerned about that now. Standing up, he finally managed to somewhat inspect himself and curse.

The body was not his. Definitely not his. He was shorter, more sinewy, more delicate. Narrower at the shoulders. His hair was shorter than before. Heck, he was almost completely shaven. His vision, which had significantly worsened after night sessions with books and manuscripts, was corrected. And corrected well! His hearing was enhanced. At least right now, he could hear someone sloshing through the swamp far away. Very far, as if on the other side of the swamp. His sense of touch also improved—he could, rubbing the dried mud from his fingertips, feel every crumb and roughly differentiate the harder from the softer. How this happened—Edrin did not know. The only thing that came to mind was that Alduin foresaw danger for his faithful servant and provided him with a new body, for which one of the followers would surely agree to sacrifice themselves. Edrin was also dressed completely differently than during the assault on High Hrothgar, and differently from how the inhabitants of the Empire dressed. Where, one might ask, did the dragon scale armor go? However, it had to be admitted—the clothes he was wearing were at least the right size. Not new, of course, but fitting. A shirt, a leather jacket with a high collar and hood, made of quite good leather, dyed in a very dark blue color. Pants of the same color as the jacket, reinforced along the seams with something like leather strips with rivets. High, almost to the knee, lace-up boots with metal tips. Fingerless gloves with forearm guards, almost to the elbow, lined with metal strips. Several small leather pouches were placed on the belt, which Edrin had seen more than once on merchants and caravaners, and around his neck was a small metal medallion in the shape of a cat's face. Strangest of all—nowhere on the armor, at least in a visible place, was there a single sign. This meant the items were not made in some factory or workshop, or at least, not by a well-known master.

And there were weapons. Three specimens in total. Two hand-and-a-half swords, one of which—a shining blade with a strange triangular guard—lay on the ground next to where Edrin had recently lain. Oddly enough, the body's previous owner, whoever he was, preferred to carry the swords on his back, like a quiver for arrows. Edrin had seen some travelers do this—in a long journey, a back harness is more convenient than a hip scabbard, but in battle... There was also a short hunting knife hanging in a sheath covered by the boot's leg. The Dovahkiin picked up the sword, estimated its size and weight. About forty inches[1], weight—around fifty ounces[2]. The hilt fit in his hand as if made for it. A perfect weapon with good balance. Though, Edrin thought the pommel shaped like a cat's head was not the best idea. Thrusting would be uncomfortable—the stylized ears would dig into the hand. But if those were filed down—it would be quite good. The second sword did not differ much from the first in length and weight, was also straight and well-balanced. Except the guard was straight, not triangular, the pommel had no frills, and the weapon itself was made of a darker metal, obviously steel, while the first seemed to be made of silver or, more likely, silver-plated. Both swords were good, but there was a small problem—the previous owner hadn't had the chance to clean them, so Edrin had to drain his magical energy again.

"May the Daedra drag you through Morthal!" cursed the Dovahkiin.

There was almost no magical energy left. Especially compared to the recent power provided by absorbed dragon souls. Edrin felt terrible. Magic was his weapon. Even stronger than the Voice or a sword forged from ebony and dragon bone powder. Without it, the Dragonborn felt almost naked. Of course, he could perform some spells, but he better not count on serious magical practices for now. Of course, once he reached the nearest dragon lair—they would help. Especially after everything that had happened. Miraak and Serana would surely find a way to return him to his former body. It couldn't be any other way. If only he could find a way out of these swamps... Even for members of the Dragon Cult, the Morthal swamps were considered not the safest place, let alone for mere mortals, which, apparently, this poor fellow was.

"I'll have to ask the Council to compensate his family," said the Dovahkin. "If he had any, of course..."

The worst part was that Edrin had absolutely no idea where to go—the area was completely wild and, moreover, completely unfamiliar. At least it was still fairly light, as wandering through the swamps in the dark was not for those fond of living. However, the sun was already beginning to set. That is—to the west. Otherwise, orienting was quite simple. If these were the Morthal swamps, then he needed to head north as much as possible, then turn east and follow the coastline to the first outpost of the Cult. A maximum of seven hours. Alone, and virtually unburdened—it was, frankly, trivial.

However, Edrin decided that before leaving, it was worth checking the rest of his gear, which, fortunately, wasn't much. And, it must be said, he did not regret it, though this inspection only raised more questions. In the small bags and pockets, he found simple essentials: flint, a folding shaving knife, a small bag with something like very fine, almost powdered, ruby. But what shocked Edrin more was not the not-too-tightly stuffed purse, but its contents. Throughout the Empire, the main currency was the septim. A large gold coin. After the Dragon Cult came to power, it was so strengthened that a silver herald was introduced as a change coin. But that was it. Of course, the high elves talked about introducing their own coinage made from moon metal, but the Cult nipped that initiative in the bud.

The coins that Edrin pulled from the purse were completely unfamiliar to him. First, there were many different types. Gold coins with a sun image, several silver coins with the portrait of some man in a crown, several different copper coins—some were stamped with a crown, others had nothing but strange-looking runes. Most of all, there were small, no larger than an inch in diameter, silver coins with the image of a man in a crown on one side and a bird spreading its wings on the other. There were no familiar septims or heralds at all.

"What in oblivion?"

Thoughts, one more incredible than the other, immediately began to swarm in his head.

The first thought was that he had been transported to Atmora, but Edrin quickly convinced himself otherwise. Certainly, he had only visited the abandoned continent twice and neither time for very long, but, in principle, he surmised that Atmora could hardly have gathered several kingdoms at once. At least because no one had ever mentioned them, even in the most ancient chronicles, and the races that still remained on the continent could hardly have organized into states, much less mint coins with a human portrait.

The second thought was about a possible time travel—after all, the last battle took place at a temporal rift. However, if that were the case, it had brought him to a time no later than the reign of Tiber Septim, who unified the disparate lands into one Empire, and that was ages ago... And it would be quite a bad situation—after all, languages probably differed from modern ones, and Cyrodiilic might not have become the Common tongue yet. Of course, Elvish should not have changed much—damn those long-eared aficionados of tradition—but Edrin was not so sure about that, and his Elvish was mediocre at best. This was, of course, the most likely scenario, but it did not make it any better.

The third thought, even more disheartening, was that this could be one of the planes of Oblivion. Well, why not? The Void exists, Hircine's Hunting Grounds exist, the Shivering Isles too. Why couldn't there be some minor plane belonging to some lesser-known Daedra, about whom no one has heard or knows? This could also be a possibility, were it not for one small "but"—those same coins. Why would anyone in Oblivion need money, especially made from despised metals? Other thoughts—that he might have ended up on one of Nirn's moons or in some other world—were dismissed as lunacy.

Interesting, then, who was the previous owner of the body? He didn't seem like a merchant—too skinny. And what would a merchant be doing in the swamps? Especially alone. A mercenary? Possibly. Most likely, he worked in various places, hence the accumulation of different currencies. Edrin didn't know whether he now had a lot of money or not, but he intended to figure it out. In any case, gold is gold. And it doesn't matter from which land it comes. In any case, it could be melted down and sold by weight—precious metals are always valuable. Basically, this could explain how he ended up in the swamps—perhaps he was hired to kill some beast, went after it, but failed to complete the task. Or, on the contrary, he succeeded but was wounded, drank some healing elixir, hoping to reach people, but didn't make it.

Eventually, deciding to somewhat figure things out on the spot, Edrin prepared for the journey. There was no horse, and relying on a dragon was also out of the question. So, he had to walk, trying not to wander aimlessly and not to go in circles, following human psychology. He had to navigate by the sun, constantly checking himself and returning to course. Several hours passed before he reached some dirt road. This was a success. Let Akatosh, the eldest of dragons, grant that he managed to reach people, and from there... From there, as Edrin believed, he would certainly not be lost...

He had never been so wrong...

Soon, after about forty minutes, he heard the sound of hooves. Riding were at least several people. Must be a patrol or a mounted party—they were moving too fast for loaded peasant carts or Khajiit caravans. In any case, Edrin decided to step off the road—lest they run him down, failing to stop the horses in time... The riders soon appeared—several robust figures in matching gambesons and helmets. Enhanced vision helped him make out the white signs on the riders' red shields, shaped like a bird spreading its wings, exactly like the one depicted on the silver coins. The horsemen noticed him—hard not to, for one would have to be blind not to see a man on a track laid through the swamp.

"Stoisko!"

Of course, they quickly surrounded him, the riders dismounted. While they did so, the Dovahkiin decided not to do anything for now. Apparently, these were the men of the local ruler. If instead of a bird, there was a wolf on the shields, they could perhaps be mistaken for the guard of Jarl of Solitude, hence Edrin decided not to make any sudden movements. Eliminating a patrol was the last thing he needed now. Guards—they differ from bandits only in uniform and the jarl's pay, but they wouldn't completely run amok on their own land in any case. One of the patrolmen stood in front of the Dovahkiin, two more behind. The one in front—apparently, the leader of the group—removed a baton from his belt and loudly asked in a language completely unknown to Edrin:

"Kim jesteś?"

"What?" Edrin asked, purposely trying not to raise his voice.

"Treska!" cautiously said the second patrolman, apparently addressing the first. "Myślę, że to wiedźmin."

"Wiedźmin?" squinted the first, approaching even closer to get a better look at Edrin. "Zastanawiam się, czego wiedźmin potrzebował na bagnach w pobliżu obozu wojskowego?"

"Easy," Edrin cautiously raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, trying not to speak in the commanding tone he had developed during his reign. "I don't understand your language, but..."

He wasn't allowed to finish. One of the guards, standing behind, heartily hit Edrin with a club on the back of his head.

"Szucy synu," grumbled the guard. "Czeszka! Galek! Weź tego drania na konia i zabierz tego zwiadowcę na mrózne. Niech pan Dijkstra zajmie się nim sam."

---

The next several weeks Edrin spent in prison, once again experiencing all the delights of being a detainee accused of a serious crime. Just like before being sent to Helgen back in the day...

Every day they woke him up with a bucket of dirty water to the face, shook him—and dragged him to another interrogation, where they hung him on a rope so that he could only stand on tiptoes on the floor, and beat him, meanwhile asking one question after another in the same unfamiliar language. The Dragonborn would have been glad to answer their questions, but what he had expected happened—he did not understand the language of the locals, and the locals did not understand his speech to the same degree. True, they only beat him so far, not daring to resort to more serious torture, obeying some "dekret"[8]. Then they dragged him back to his cramped cell, where they fed him some slop like wheat porridge cooked in water, scolded him, judging by the disapproving tone and angry faces of the guards, and left him like that for several hours. And, most importantly, they almost never left him unattended—the guards even placed a table and two chairs directly in front of his cell.

In different circumstances, Edrin would have simply escaped—after so many days, he had more or less memorized the route by which he was taken for interrogations and the path the torturer took after finishing his work, as well as the schedule of the guards' rounds. But not now. He needed to regain some of his magical strength, which was proving difficult. He still retained some magical abilities—quite minor ones so far, but they seemed to be strengthening with each day. They would have recovered faster if not for the daily interrogations, after which his body needed rest and regeneration, consuming even those meager bits of magic he managed to gather. Nonetheless, Edrin was gradually preparing. Just a little more time, and he would have enough strength to summon a flame spell. A few seconds, and the guards would be left as nothing but corpses with a crispy crust instead of skin. What happened after that would be up to fate.

Several times, instead of being taken to the torture room, he was brought to a room resembling an interrogation chamber, where some fat cat in an expensive caftan asked him various questions, periodically switching to, apparently, other languages, which Edrin still did not understand. However, he caught on to the rules of the game and also began trying to pick out other languages, simplifying his phrases as much as possible in hopes the interlocutor would understand something, but in vain—the interlocutor did not understand Cyrodilic, Redguard, or Khajiit languages, which Edrin knew well. The bruiser, whom the other guards called Dijkstra or something like that, nevertheless did not give up, periodically bringing different people to the interrogation—presumably, translators from other languages—but all in vain. There was one language, extremely rough and full of growling sounds, that reminded him of a terrible mix of Orcish with Common and some other unknown language. At least, Edrin understood the words "nordling", which presumably was meant to denote a "Nord", i.e., an inhabitant of a northern province, and "not black", which sounded, judging by the interlocutor's tone, to be addressed to Edrin himself. The Dovahkiin tried to respond in Orcish, which he somewhat knew how to speak—and, apparently, he didn't guess wrong.

Dijkstra noticed the fact that the prisoner understood something. He frowned and started to invite people for a conversation in a language which, as Edrin understood, was called "Nilfgaardian", whatever that meant. Some understanding and points of contact were established, so guessing every fifth word for the tenth, they began to communicate slowly with each other, periodically helping themselves with signs and something like primitive pantomime. From the side, it probably looked terribly funny.

"Who you," Dijkstra pointed a finger at Edrin, "do when find you?"

"Me," Edrin pointed at himself, then looked around, shrugged, and twirled a finger by his temple. "Not know. No memory."

The interrogations went somewhat better, calmer, and more measured in this manner. Gradually, Edrin began to understand what was expected of him and even started to respond in Nilfgaardian, making mistakes and constantly reverting back to Orcish. Dijkstra still didn't give up attempts to find other languages they could more successfully communicate in. First, he brought some long-eared elf who tried to talk to the Dovahkiin in at least three languages, then there was an old man who first attempted other languages and then even tried sign language—also unsuccessfully. Once, Dijkstra even brought a dark-skinned man in a blue caftan, embroidered with gold and pearls, who started rattling in a completely incomprehensible language, only remotely, by its barking sound, resembling the speech of the Redguards.

In any case, Edrin managed to convey the main point to the brute—he wasn't a spy for some "blacks" and didn't remember how he ended up in those stinking swamps, which Dijkstra called "Velen land". Telling the truth—that he was actually the head of the dragon cult—Edrin decided against. Gradually, he began to understand that he was not transported to another time but entirely another world, so it was better not to claim any power or announce high titles to avoid getting hit for trying to show off. Instead, he took the easiest and lightest path—pretended to have lost his memory. Not all of it, but a part. And where the strange languages came from—he himself did not remember. Seems like he spoke them all his life.

The story was pretty simple, understandable, and utterly unprovable—after all, try to figure out what a person genuinely doesn't remember and where they're just cunning. So, playing on this, Edrin began to learn about his surroundings, fully aware that he would have to verify and re-verify all this information, as Dijkstra could also be playing the amnesiac and feeding him any nonsense.

It turned out that he, Edrin, was now in the body of a witcher—an alchemically altered human, specially prepared and enhanced for the sole task of killing various monsters that were plentiful all over the world. And not just any witcher, but a witcher from the School of the Cat, known for its extremely bad reputation of renegades, among whom there were plenty of saboteurs, hired assassins, and other cutthroats. That was the reason he was captured—considered that a witcher from the School of the Cat was sent by some "blacks" to cause trouble in the camp of the Redanian army, stationed here, near a large city called Oxenfurt.

Finally, after nearly a month, Dijkstra ordered the guards to release the witcher from the cell and return his belongings, which the soldiers did with great displeasure.

"You will come with me," Dijkstra told Edrin in Nilfgaardian. "First to the baths, and then to a meeting. A sorceress... she very much wants to speak with you. You seem to have caught her interest for some reason."

"I do not think this is a good idea," the Dovahkiin managed to reply.

"No one is asking you," Dijkstra shook his head. "Remember, witcher, your life depends on this meeting. Be so kind as to behave properly."

"I will try."

"Good. Now, move ahead, and no foolishness. Make one wrong move, and I'll personally crush your skull. You seem honest enough to me, but remember—I've still got you by the balls."