Work Text:
Trixiana and Elsepetha clinked their wine glasses together. They'd had a great victory that day. Three specimens to provide material for their creation. Usually, they only managed to grab a single one every now and then, but that day they'd gotten lucky. A woman had been washing clothes by the river in the forest, with twelve children running around her. Perhaps they were her own, perhaps she was watching her neighbours' progeny. Rix and Lizzy didn't care. They saw their opportunity, and they seized it. When the woman was deeply engrossed in her washing, the children ran into the forest to hide and chase each other. It was easy to pick three of the smallest ones and make a hasty retreat.
"Do you agree that we should harvest the nerves from the youngest one?" Lizzy asked. Her glass was already empty.
"Yes, I sense great potential there. The dark-haired one has the lowest quality, but his eyes are a pleasing colour."
"No objection from me, as long as they function adequately. Do we have more cake?"
"We do," Rix said. She reached for a plate behind her that was bearing a slice of fruitcake. Beside the cake, there was a jar on the table. It held multiple pairs of eyes in several shades suspended in a thick viscous liquid.
"Thank you. This is really good, even better than usual."
"I used the fat from the chubby child as shortening. Would've been a shame to let it go to waste," Rix said. She finished her wine and stood up. They had a lot of work to do, and the ingredients wouldn't stay fresh indefinitely. She grabbed her apron and the good knife and approached one of the small bodies on the floor of their hut. They only had one work table, and that was taken by their creation.
"I reinforced the stasis charm on Igel, but I suggest we address the circulation issue tonight," Lizzy said. She also put on her apron and grabbed a knife. It was smaller and less reliable than Rix's, but she didn't need such a high level of precision. Her task was to make the bodies more manageable. She kneeled on the floor and inserted her knife into the stomach, clearing the flesh away to reveal the spine for her axe.
"The tall one has broken his leg relatively recently. It hasn’t healed straight. I say we find another pair," Rix said.
"Agreed. Can we harvest anything from it?"
"Not really. I can take some blood, but that's about it."
"Pity. At least we can feed it to Ziege, won't be a total waste," Lizzy said and stood up. She switched her knife into an axe and swung low. The child's spine severed with a crack.
"Mind the floor! Cushioning charm first, please!"
"Sorry Rix, I forgot," Lizzy said. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, smearing the droplets of blood spattered on it. "This one's legs are a bit bowed. No good to us."
"Let Ziege feast then. That pig will be the happiest creature alive."
Lizzy laughed and picked up the legs, carrying them to the back of the hut, where a door opened to a small shelter that housed their pig. They'd stolen it from a local farmer back when they thought they'd use animal parts for their creation. A fortunate accident had handed them their first human specimen. Recently drowned, the child had still been warm when they fished it out of the river, body plump and pliable. It provided the spine for Igel, the frame on which they were building the perfect man.
"Give me a hand here," Rix said when Lizzy got back inside.
"Do you mean that literally?" Lizzy asked and pointed at the sets of arms resting on the floor.
"Very funny. Now gather the sinew when I extract it, I want it straight in."
"Alright. But you have to admit my joke was funny."
Rix rolled her eyes and muttered something about empty heads.
The women kept working late into the night, cutting the children's bodies into ever smaller pieces, utilising what they could and feeding the rest to their pig. Their creation was starting to take shape, resembling a human more each day. They were tireless in their task, but their need for better parts demanded an increasing number of specimens to harvest from. Eventually, the villagers realised how many children had gone missing in a short amount of time. They didn't know why or how or what to do in order to protect the remaining ones.
*****
Some contracts were not only not lucrative but simply pointless. Every witcher knew them, and every reasonable witcher immediately turned them down. However, witchers also had their weak points. Admittedly, most of them had a feeble forehand or accidentally dragged the wrong foot during a krumphau.
With Geralt, it was something else. He had to admit that he probably suffered above all from a soft heart – especially when it came to children.
On a small river, near, though not within sight of, a village, he had met a desperate woman, virtually throwing herself in front of his horse.
"Three children are missing, they're just gone," she wailed, and he struggled to keep her from grabbing a full hold of Roach's reins.
He refrained from making a stupid remark because a whole crowd of children was wrestling for her apron. Most women would have cared little about the absence of some more. But they were not her own, as he soon gathered from her stuttered words. She was the maid of an orphanage that lived at the mercy of the local Duke, who had made it his business actually to care for the poorest of his country. Now the woman was not only afraid of the head of the orphanage but also of the Duke's wrath.
There was more Geralt didn't tell her. It was not that her crying and the frightened crowd of children did not move him, on the contrary. Yet, some children did not share the same view as their caretakers that an orphanage was pure mercy. And if they had simply fled into the forest in search of a better life, the best thing that could happen to them was a quick death. There were bears in these woods and wild wolves, so very different from the villagers' tamed dogs, and these were still the most natural of the dangers that threatened children in the forest.
All this the witcher did not say, considering the children's tear-streaked faces and hopeless eyes. He asked the distraught maid when and where she had last seen the missing children, and after getting this vague information out of her, she added, seemingly incoherently, "What if there really is a witch out there in the woods?"
Taking notice, he echoed, "What witch?"
As if suddenly aware of the fear-filled eyes of the little ones around her, the woman quickly said, "Ah, just a rumor, don't mind it, Master witcher. I will pay you my whole month's wages, and I know it's not much, but find those children, I beg of you!"
So off he went, into the deeper, darker parts of the forest, through brush and briars and dense overgrowth, until he had to leave Roach behind. The traces were more than vague, which puzzled him. Children, even more so at the age the maid had indicated, were anything but discreet. They might decide to cover their tracks, but even if they managed to slip through the thicket much more effortlessly than he did, broken branches and crumpled foliage would remain.
After some branches and thorny bushes scratched his face and caused unnecessary damage even to the thick leather of his armor, without him finding any trace of the children, he already wanted to give up, unnerved. On the other hand, he had seen no blood, no signs of battle, no indication that anything had happened to the children. This was unusual, and not only did it scratch his professional honor, but it also struck him as odd. Something bothered him, like an itchy scab on a wound. Almost as if he could already feel his medallion vibrating, even though it wasn't doing so at the moment. A kind of premonition, and as a witcher, Geralt was willing to take it seriously.
When the house appeared before his eyes, it was as surprising as if he had stepped out of the darkest part of the forest into a clearing – only it wasn't even in a clearing. The building seemed to be squeezed just like that in an open space between the trees, and whoever looked closer inevitably had to get the feeling of squinting. Geralt's hand reached for the medallion on his chest. It felt warm, but it did not vibrate. Again, it seemed to him as if it was simply on the verge of doing so. On the one hand, the house was strange and, on the other hand, not. A hut in the forest, with a somewhat warped but stable door, a glassless window with heavy shutters, a small but quiet chimney. Not a gingerbread house like in fairy tales, but no reason not to assume that a witch actually lived here. Or at least someone that simple peasants thought resembled a witch – a herbalist, perhaps.
But behind the small fence to the right of the cottage was no herb garden. A tiny copy of the house had been built on the somehow muddy ground, but without correctly depicting the front part. Instead, it was a kind of doghouse, only not for a dog. There, quietly grunting and snoring, sat a pig, its front paws resting possessively on a small bone.
Geralt slowly stepped closer to the fence and muttered to himself, "What have you got there, little piggy?"
At that moment, the house door creaked open, and from the deep darkness that became visible behind it, a voice asked, "What is the wind bringing?"
A second voice answered, "A witcher, sweetheart. A witcher."
*****
Rix and Lizzy couldn't believe their good luck. A witcher. Right at their front door. Witchers could be dangerous, but they were also something created, almost a crude version of what they were trying to accomplish in their little hut. If they proceeded with caution and cunning, they could harvest ingredients they never could've dreamed of being able to procure.
"What brings you to our humble abode?" Rix asked. She opened the door fully and stepped on the threshold. The witcher looked at her with his strange eyes, gleaming golden in the afternoon light.
"I'm looking for missing children. Their tracks seemed to lead in this area, maybe you've seen something?"
"I'm afraid there are no children here. Only us lonely crones and our pig, and he would've warned us of any strangers sneaking about. It's been quiet all day."
"I'll be on my way then, thank you," the witcher said.
"Dinner!" Lizzy shouted from deeper inside the hut. Rix quickly glared at her before turning back to the witcher.
"As my friend so eloquently suggested, please have dinner with us. There's also fresh fruitcake for dessert."
"I'm afraid I must decline, these tracks will soon be lost, and I'd prefer to follow them while I can. But thank you," the witcher said, his unusual voice pitched low.
"Oh, I insist," Rix said and smiled. Behind her back, she raised two fingers, crossed them, and jerked them towards the witcher. He grabbed his chest, where a wolf's head medallion hung, and his eyes widened. Before he could unsheathe one of his swords, Lizzy stepped past Rix and made a grabbing motion in the air. The witcher's eyes lost focus, and he stumbled but remained upright. The women clasped their hands together and pointed at the witcher, the raw magic surrounding them making the shutters in their windows rattle. The witcher went down.
"Resilient bugger," Lizzy noted. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck.
"Guess that part of what they say about witchers is true at least," Rix said.
They stepped closer to the man on the ground. His hair was silvery white, but his face did not carry age. In that regard, he was not unlike Rix and Lizzy, who also hid behind the mask of youth.
"How long do you reckon he'll stay down?" Rix asked. She poked the witcher with her foot. He did not stir.
"Not long, the way he fought us. Do we have those old dimeritium cuffs still around?"
"No, we got rid of them after that unfortunate accident with the potatoes," Rix said.
"Rope will have to do then," Lizzy said and grabbed the witcher's legs. Rix put her arms under his, and together they carried him inside, grunting from the effort. He was not heavily built, but still had solid wiry muscle. They put him down on the floor where the last remains of the children were. Lizzy went to retrieve some rope while Rix started removing the witcher's armor and clothes.
"Do we agree that Igel will get his eyes?" Lizzy asked when she returned.
"Definitely. We'll want parts of his brain too, and every nerve we can gather."
"What about his… manhood?"
"Why not," Rix said and grinned. Together they tied the half-naked witcher as tightly as they could, trying to account for his greater strength. Killing him would've made their work safer, but they wanted the organs to stay as fresh as possible before transferring them over to Igel. As long as their spell held, he wouldn't feel a thing.
"Time to get to work," Rix said, her good knife in hand. Lizzy grabbed her axe and nodded.
*****
Geralt came to as the knife jammed deep into his shoulder. Pure coincidence that Rix had decided to start extracting nerve cords, as this would take significantly longer than peeling his eyes out of their sockets. Pure luck, moreover, that Lizzy, to give her friend room, had not yet begun to bring the axe down on him. Waking up to the sickening feeling of a sharp knife digging deep into his flesh, driving around in it like an extremely poor workman looking for a flaw in his work was not pleasant. A quick inventory before letting his attackers know he was awake seemed barely possible over all the pain, but that's exactly what he was trained to do. The armor was gone, his shirt... and he was bound, his hands tied in front of his stomach with rope. Rope. Amateurs, he thought.
The witch above him continued to dig around in his shoulder like a miner looking for gold. The pain went through his whole arm, blazing hot. And yet pain also had a function, a good one even, in this case. Adrenaline shot through his body, making him fully alert. If the two witches wanted his flesh as a meal, he grimly thought the hormone would surely spoil it. When he jerkily opened his eyes, the witch kneeling on him flinched back.
"Faster than we thought," she hissed, pulling the knife out of his shoulder with a smacking sound, and even as Geralt tried to turn away, she shoved it deep and hard into his upper arm – the only part of him she could catch in her hurry. Pain flashed through him again, hotter and angrier than before, now that his senses had returned. It was hard to believe, but the witch was either just lucky or knew where to stab. This new attack destroyed the tendons and nerves that she actually wanted to preserve, that she wanted to harvest like ripe fruit. Geralt almost felt as if he could hear them tearing, which was ridiculous and only attributable to his senses heightened by danger.
This arm was useless for the moment, but even if the witch had guessed it, she obviously did not know that simple rope was not an obstacle for a witcher - not even then. All it took was one quick, bold step. The secret was to overcome the pain, not to let it hold you down. In one direction the movement was hindered, and yet: Geralt tore his hands apart, the rope snapped, and the witch widened her eyes in surprise. Quickly, he grabbed the injured arm with his other hand, held himself, and turned to the side as fast as he could to somehow get to his feet.
"This little piggy wants to escape the slaughter," giggled Lizzy, the witch with the axe.
"Don't knock him down right away," warned the other. "We should not waste all the good gifts."
"You're thinking of his manhood again," sneered Lizzy, cradling the heavy weapon in her arms. "That's what got us into trouble in the first place, sister, don't you remember?"
Of course, she did. Men in general and handsome ones, in particular, were the downfall of women, had always been. Men who, when they were children, had never been shown their limits. Which was the reason why this little experiment had to succeed. Because taming grown men was pointless, they had a whole basement full of testimony to that. But a child, created from the best that humanity had to offer physically and brought up with the worst that the witches intended to give... an accurate, living tool, formed according to their will… As if Lizzy had just remembered this, a jolt seemed to go through her body.
"Step aside, dearest," she admonished the other lovingly, "I'll only chop off as much as we need. So much that he won't fight back, and Ziege will get the rest."
Rix laughed with a chuckle at the thought of how lucky their little piggy was. Geralt, still struggling to get up, sat on his knees, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. His blood soaked the wooden floor of the hut, mixed with the sawdust – such clean witches, the irony, he thought – and flowed into tiny crevices. Lizzy's eyes fell on it, and although she had already raised the axe to strike, she suddenly paused.
"The children," she said.
"What about them?" asked Rix.
"The last three of them. He came looking for them, didn't he?"
"Perhaps, but he can probably only bring back bits and pieces of them," Rix chuckled.
"Who hires a witcher to look for children? We may have to move, dearest sister."
"Again?"
Lizzy shrugged and raised the axe again.
"Children are dear to people, even troublesome orphans, it seems to me. We better hurry."
The axe suddenly whizzed down.
*****
Geralt rolled out of the way of the descending axe. The witch with the green apron was thrown off balance, and Geralt saw his chance. He leaped towards her, hand poised to smack her in the jaw, but she was too quick. She dodged, bringing the axe up as she took a swift step, hitting him in the side. Geralt felt the blade slide along his ribs and cut deep into his hip before it was pulled free. He remained on his feet, but the pain slowed him down. Without his potions, it was harder to ignore the sting, harder to push past his body telling him to pay attention to the injury. But he couldn't falter now. Not with two frighteningly competent and malicious witches intent on defeating him.
"The last candle's enchantment!" the shorter witch shouted. She switched her knife to her left hand and reached for the other witch with her right. They joined hands, and Geralt knew he was in trouble. He could resist one witch, but when they combined their strength, he fell short.
The witch with the green apron tossed her axe aside and pointed her free hand towards Geralt. She chanted something under her breath, starting to glow as the words grew harsher. Geralt looked at the fallen weapon. In his prime, he could’ve reached it with ease before the witches got their spell off, but the injury to his hip would slow him down. He had to try anyway. A direct hit at such a close range would devastate him, no matter what the spell would do.
Geralt dove for the axe. Time seemed to slow down as his brain processed what was happening at lightning speed. He saw he wouldn't reach it in time. The tall witch stopped talking, and the silence seemed to stretch for unreasonably long. Geralt's fingers were almost brushing the handle when a hot blaze hit him, knocking him across the room. He rolled on the floor from the power of the impact, incapable of stopping himself. The sharp pain all over his body was excruciating, dulling his reflexes and addling his sense of direction. When he stopped moving, he couldn't get up. The witches were coming closer, he could hear and feel their footsteps vibrating on the floor.
Geralt closed his eyes. His body was stunned, but perhaps he could fight magic with magic. Compared to the combined might of the witches, his signs were truly pathetic. He would try anyway. A moment of distraction could turn the tide of battle, but he was uncertain if he could produce even a small spark.
The witch with the green apron had picked up her axe again. She placed it against Geralt's neck, holding him in place while the shorter witch approached him with her knife.
*****
"The mutations should speed up Igel's maturation," Lizzy mused.
"You think?"
The other witch wiped her knife briefly on her apron before scanning Geralt's back, looking for muscles and tendons that could be easily and quickly removed.
To Geralt, this seemed like a conversation that the two witches had had many times before, and without result.
"Well, I certainly understand that much about witchers," Lizzy snappily replied.
"Just because we gutted one of them, back in Brugge, doesn't make us experts. With the mages, the brain was not the seat of their magic either. Maybe there's nothing special about this one," Rix interjected.
As far as that was concerned, she seemed to Geralt to be the more sensible of the two lunatics. The axe grip on his neck made it difficult to speak, but he groaned out, "This is dangerous business, you'd better leave it. "
"Oh, is that what you think?" sneered Lizzy, pressing the axe handle harder on his neck, taking his breath away. "I don't like when they talk. Start cutting already, Rix. "
"I'll take something from here," muttered the addressed witch, while she let the knife tip glide almost playfully over Geralt's back, along the spine. He shuddered, sensing where she guided the knife along. If she stuck it there, she would irrevocably paralyze him, whether she was aware of it or not – and she didn't care anyway. Now was his last chance.
His left arm shot up, clutching the axe handle, and using the momentum of the movement, he pushed up as it were while pushing the surprised witch off of him. The shorter one nagged, a spell on her lips that she could no longer carry out. Although Geralt felt dizzy because no potion stopped his blood loss, and although his other arm seemed useless to him, he managed the sign. The power of his rage kindled the flame. It hit the axe handle, burning the witch's hands, and she cried out and dropped the weapon. Immediately, Geralt reached for it, not caring about the heat that still radiated from the scorched handle. A few blisters were the least of his problems now.
Rix, however, reacted quickly. In a swift movement, she thrust the knife forward, catching the witcher in the middle of his left thigh, almost bringing him down. Almost, because he had already been in mid-swing when her attack occurred, and while the blade was digging into his flesh, his body was already making sure that he just worked. That's what he was made for, which the witches had underestimated.
He held the axe very close to his body, another reason why he did not fall, and although his aim was clearly clouded by pain and renewed torment, he hit the witch on the hand. The deep, imprecise cut came as a surprise, and she roared, dropping the blade, contorting her face. Geralt held the heavy weapon firmly in his hand, regulating his stance even as one leg trembled noticeably, but his hand did not shake, and the witches saw that.
"That's just a man," the one with the green apron muttered incredulously. "A single man."
"A witcher, not a man," hissed the other.
The two looked at each other, and Geralt sensed that something important was happening. His medallion vibrated. Raising the axe, he threatened, "Give me the children before I cut you both to pieces."
It was obvious from his strange eyes, his determined look, that if he didn't get his way, he probably would anyway. Because that's the way it always was with men.
"Igel," Rix said.
Geralt still didn't know what she meant.
"We'll get him later," Lizzy replied.
Again they looked at each other, raising their hands, filled with a plan that only they knew. Geralt stood there, knowing full well that the axe offered no protection, and where his swords and the rest of his equipment were, the gods alone knew. The air crackled with suppressed magic that would be released shortly, and he had nothing to counter it with.
Suddenly, the world went white.
*****
The magical explosion took out half the hut. White fire blazed, consuming the thatched roof at an alarming rate. The back wall of the building was gone. Smouldering destruction reached along the sides, obliterating a good portion of the shed too. A frightened pig stood still, its side burned, its ears flopping with how violently it shook. When nothing happened for a while, it recovered and realised there was no longer a fence between it and freedom. Cautiously, it took a step, then another when no one stopped it. It paused just long enough to pick up the arm it had been gnawing on, then started running towards its original home and the kind farmer whose soft voice it still remembered.
Inside the hut, Geralt existed in a haze. His ears were ringing, and he couldn't move. It took him much too long to understand that the reason he was immobilised was because something heavy was on top of him. Reality returned slowly, bringing pain along with it. Grunting quietly, Geralt flexed his fingers. One arm was fine, one howled in agony even at the slight movement. But he couldn't stay where he was. He couldn't hear the witches, but they had to be there. Why would they blow up their home and trap him and then just leave? No, they had to be near, but Geralt was too weak to do anything about it.
"Get a grip," Geralt whispered to himself. He started to take a deep breath but stopped before his lungs were expanded to their full size. A sharp, stinging pain in his stomach nearly made him black out again, digging deep into his insides. He didn't need to look to know there was something catastrophically wrong there.
Slowly moving his good hand around, Geralt felt the thing weighing him down. It was wooden. Probably part of the ceiling. Heavy as all hell, at least in his weakened condition.
"Oh right, I'm bleeding," Geralt suddenly remembered. His head felt fuzzy and disordered, like the nest of a deranged bird. He tried to organise his priorities, but he couldn't think straight. Bleeding was bad, being stuck was bad, not knowing where the witches were was bad. So many bad things, so few ways to correct even one of them.
Geralt blinked slowly and looked around. The block of wood in front of his face obscured most of his vision, but if he carefully turned his head, he could see the blue sky beyond the hut. In the other direction, he could see a mostly intact wall. It was on fire.
"Oh," was all Geralt could say. A voice in his mind tried to convey to him how terrible the discovery was, but Geralt didn't care. He was cold, a bit of fire would warm him up nicely. He drifted, floating somewhere between reality and the darkness that beckoned. Nothing mattered, he was finally able to rest. The pain he felt was inconsequential, the flames nearly licking his feet a comfort.
Were it not for the voice calling out for someone, he could've sunk fully into oblivion.
*****
"Melitele, let him be there," the farmer prayed to a deity he had never really believed in. He was not a particularly devout man. Nor was he particularly superstitious, yet this part of the forest had seemed dark and mysterious to him. Like everyone in the village, he had avoided it and had never gone that far, a common agreement that was never expressed.
Even now, he would rather be somewhere else, back on his farm, in the peaceful tranquility of a labor that had always seemed dull to him. If it hadn't been for his pig. He had been missing Ziege for weeks. A painful loss, although somehow, it had always been clear that Ziege would survive both this winter and perhaps the next and not end up as a ham – from the moment his young son Urpo had named the pig. The neighbors had laughed at him, called him soft. As if they all had no children. Well, they did have some, considerably more than he did, and maybe that was the point. He and his wife had waited years for Urpo, and when he finally came, he was the light of their lives. Until the day he disappeared.
They had searched everywhere for him. Urpo was by no means the only child who had disappeared in recent years. Of course, children always disappeared, but the despair that had settled over the village was almost unnatural. And maybe it was not true that they had searched everywhere, because no one had dared to enter this part of the forest, as if it had already disappeared from the collective memory.
Even now, the farmer would never have come here. But suddenly, the pig had reappeared, and where the pig was, Urpo had to be. It was a tiny thread of hope because the two had been so close. Ziege was a bit burnt, smelling like a slightly seared ham, and the farmer had taken the little pig in his arms, whispered his son's name, and asked the pig to show him the way.
It was said that pigs are smart. Either this or it was the scent that not only hung on Ziege. The wind was favorable, and when the farmer was deep enough in the forest, there was a distinct smell of burnt wood in the air. His heart stopped at the sight of the half-destroyed, burning hut.
"Urpo!" he roared, leaving the nervously squealing pig behind and running toward the source of destruction.
But it was not Urpo, his beloved son, who lay there amid the rubble, half-buried by a roof beam, almost reached by the lambent flames. A grown man was lying there, covered all over with blood, his snow-white hair spread out around his head, so that the farmer almost believed to see a ghost. But ghosts did not twitch their fingers, did not moan, a sound that could be heard even above the crackling of the flames.
He paid no attention to Ziege, who jumped ahead to grab a bone from a part of the house not yet destroyed by fire, as if it were his favorite toy. He didn't even see the bone, only saw the man, and his instinct said he had to help him. The heat was indescribable, although there were not many walls left of the house. But the farmer, used to hard work and adverse conditions, did not think. He simply reached out, braced himself with all his strength against the beam that lay above the man, and pushed it away. The wood fell with a crash into the back of the house, where the flames licked at everything that offered them food, and already they pounced on it and began to devour.
The farmer grabbed the armpits of the man, who appeared half-dead to him, yet much younger than the hair suggested, and he pulled and tugged. The man made noises that went to the farmer's core, and no doubt the movements pained him, but that probably made little difference. He may not have been burned, but he was badly injured by something. The way he looked, probably not much more could be done for him than to say a quick prayer and bury him somewhere where the necrophages wouldn't find him.
The farmer managed to pull the wounded man far enough away from the house. Thick smoke lay over the scene, and coughing, he let the man sink into the grass. He knew nothing about medicine, and all the blood caused nameless terror in the farmer. But he was not a coward. He glanced back, considered everything, and thought of nothing but Urpo.
Already he wanted to get up to go back again – because if there had been a man there, why not his little boy? Then the wounded man reached for him with incredible speed, held his wrist, and whispered something. Astonished, the farmer bent over him.
"My horse," he thought he understood.
Probably the poor man was confused, close to death.
"There is no horse here, good sir. I beg of you, let me go, I must look for my son."
"The children are all dead," the other one said now, very clearly.
The farmer froze.
*****
Geralt looked into the weathered face of the man who had hauled him out of the burning building. He had witnessed the loss of hope before, the utter despair when learning their loved one was gone. The man's eyes dimmed. His shoulders sagged. But then he raised his head.
"No. I will not accept that. You've been through something, I can see that. Maybe you're confused. My kid isn't dead. He can't be."
The man – a farmer if Geralt had to make a guess – went back to the house, climbing over a collapsed wall and ducking under a fallen beam. He moved around, Geralt could follow the sounds, but he couldn't lift himself enough to see the man. He was hurting so profoundly all over that it was hard to track down the most severe injuries. He remembered the first cut in his shoulder, but it wasn't life-threatening beyond the blood loss. His thigh was probably responsible for most of that, the wound deep and near an artery. It truly was a miracle he hadn't bled out yet.
The pain in Geralt's stomach concerned him. He didn't remember receiving a wound there. But the burning agony accompanying each of his breaths told him there was something wrong there. He explored the area with his good hand, finding lots of sticky blood. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Geralt pressed his hand against the wound, feeling a hard object in it. He gasped, trying to keep his movements to a minimum. The explosion must've driven a large splinter into him. He had to get it out, but removing what was plugging a wound would most certainly result in uncontrollable bleeding. He needed the farmer's help, but the man was too distraught to think about anything except his missing child.
"Hey," Geralt tried to shout, but his voice held no strength behind it. He could've saved his efforts. The farmer stumbled out of the ruins, carrying something in his arms. Geralt turned his head, trying to see better. He felt like his eyesight was fading too.
"I found him. I found Urpo!" the man exclaimed. The thing in his arms was a burned body. It was disfigured beyond any attempt to recognise it, other than determining it was roughly the size and shape of a human child.
"He's gone," Geralt said, not unkindly. He understood how much the man must be suffering, he'd witnessed the agony of a parent often enough, but he needed his help, or he would perish too. "Lay him down."
"No. I will take him home, where he belongs. Our little miracle baby, the light of our lives. He is not gone."
"Listen, all I need is your help in removing this splinter from my stomach and finding my horse. That's all. Then you can go and do whatever you want. Please," Geralt added, although he could see the man wasn't listening. He was cradling the burned body against his chest, smoothing its head. As Geralt watched, he noticed damage on the body that the fire couldn't explain.
The legs were missing. While the explosion could've resulted in violent loss of limbs, it couldn't account for the clay caps covering the stumps of the thighs. The more Geralt studied it, the more he understood that the body couldn't belong to a human. It had chunks of flesh missing in places that could not be uncovered without instant loss of life. Yet the burn patterns indicated that there was unblemished skin directly over the skeleton. Like someone was making a doll, and they hadn't stuffed it yet.
"That's not your son," Geralt said. His voice was quiet, but it carried over to the man.
"You're deluded. I recognise my own child. I'll take him home where he belongs."
"Could you look for my horse first? I can get myself to the village, I just… I need Roach."
"My son," the man muttered and started walking away. Geralt's hope waned with each step he took. He couldn't even attempt to get up. His vision wavered at the edges, making the forest seem darker than it was. He closed his useless eyes. There was silence. No bird sang, even the wind rested. It would've been so easy to give up. Finally, an end to the endless journey.
Geralt's eyes shot open. The creature the farmer had taken home, it must've belonged to the witches. And they were nowhere to be seen. And if Geralt knew something about witches, it was that they didn't share their toys. Would they know that the body was ruined? Would they want it back anyway? Geralt's mission was not done. He had failed to rescue the children, but he could still save the farmer.
The path in front of him was clear. Find the farmer, defeat the witches, deliver the sad news regarding the children's fate to the villagers. His task was far from completed, but Geralt wasn't sure he could see it through. His body was damaged, the blood loss too significant to ignore. And yet, he would try. Like he always did.
Geralt grunted and rolled over to his side. His weapons were somewhere in the ruins of the hut. He couldn't leave them, no matter what. He accepted that he lacked the strength to walk, but he could crawl. Moving agonisingly slowly, in incredible amounts of pain, he approached the rubble. Even had he been fit, finding his swords would've been formidable. A larger scale needle in a haystack. But Geralt didn't let that stop him. He crawled closer, wincing and gasping when his wounds came into contact with the sharp edges of the fallen timber. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to feel his weapons. Perhaps he had bonded with them over the years and the limitless bloodshed, or perhaps some deity finally smiled upon him. Geralt lifted a broken table, and there, next to the burned remains of his clothes, his swords sat in their sheaths, apparently unharmed. Geralt pulled them over his less damaged shoulder and crawled out, nearly weeping with relief.
Once he reached the soft grass again and collapsed on it, the magnitude – and foolishness – of his mission hit him. How would he catch up to the farmer in an unfamiliar forest when he was incapable of even standing up?
The answer came in the form of a moist snout.
*****
The pig gently rubbed its snout against him, sniffed, but the man might be bruised and bloodied, it could not reach his bones. Not yet. Ziege turned away, but a thought flashed through Geralt's mind. He needed Roach. And there was a way to find her. Perhaps only a slim glimmer of hope, for she could be anywhere, out of reach, in the village even, far away. But as Vesemir had always said, "There is no try. "
Geralt raised his fingers, realizing at the exact moment that he had lifted the wrong hand, and hissed angrily against the pain. For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the sky, breathing. Then, calmer again, he raised his other hand, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled. The sound was faint, a foolish echo of better times. Once again, he took a deep breath, ignoring the tugging in his chest, his stomach, his whole damn body. He blew the air out over the fingers in his mouth, and now there was an actual, genuine whistle that went up over the meadow. In his mind – and maybe it was just wishful thinking, nothing more – the whistle flowed through the forest and reached a pair of pointed, attentive ears.
"Little piggy," he whispered as he waited, "can you find a horse like a truffle?"
Geralt wondered if he was hallucinating already. Whether the blood loss was driving him half crazy, talking to a pig. Said pig only watched him with attentive little beady eyes, gave a grunt, and turned around.
"Don't run away," Geralt muttered, "You still have to lead me to the farmer."
The piglet pricked up its ears as if it actually understood him. Suddenly, its nose twitched, it turned its head and moved closer to Geralt. The ground vibrated softly. Geralt did not need the familiar snort to realize that a small miracle had occurred. The pig pressed against him as if it was afraid, and maybe it was. A horse, after all, was a lot bigger than a pig.
As if no time at all had passed, Roach poked Geralt on the shoulder, and although a sharp pain almost made him faint, he laughed in a choppy, breathless tone.
"Good girl," he praised. "The reins, Roach."
Once more, his sensible mare snorted, bent her head low, rubbing her nostrils against his chin in a comforting gesture. His hand went up into her mane, and he patted her head before reaching for the reins with a firm grip.
"You know the drill," he said, more to himself than to his horse.
Roach resisted his tugging, whinnying softly but not giving in, and he didn't either when, with her help, he pulled himself to his knees, painfully slowly. His eyes went black, and he bit his tongue to keep from falling over here and now because maybe he would never get up again. One thought spurred him on: the witches had to suffer for what they had done. It was the right thing to do. It was his duty.
Finally, the witcher squatted on his knees, a single blinding bright pain, but now he was closer to redemption than before.
"One more time," he whispered to Roach, and she tilted her head as if she understood every word.
Somehow he got to his feet, he would not have been able to say later how he had succeeded. The pig grunted, the horse neighed, and Geralt himself would have let out a scream if there had been any air left for it. With trembling hands, he somehow held on to the saddle, laid his head, which seemed strangely warm to him, on Roach's side for a moment, and breathed, breathed, breathed.
After a while, when the world wasn't spinning too much anymore, he groped for the saddlebags, and when his fingers fully obeyed him again he found what he was looking for. A vial found its way into his hand. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and virtually inhaled the content.
Geralt closed his eyes, and he imagined the liquid literally flowing through his veins. For a while, this would help keep him on his feet, and his body could begin to repair the initial damage.
His gaze fell on his stomach, from which a piece of debris still protruded. He sighed, rummaged through the pockets once more, and found a layer of cloth that could serve as bandages. It would have been better to leave some of the bottle to put on the wound, but there was no point in crying over spilled milk. Without much fuss and with a single sharp jerk, he pulled the intruding piece out of his body. The potion was able to dull his senses a little, but not completely. The pain was numbing in its own way, but there was no time for that. Activity was the best medicine, Vesemir had always said that, too, but he had also been the kind of man who, even with this damage, would have claimed it was just a scratch.
Geralt blanked out the pain, wrapping the bandages around the gaping wound (this was supposed to be stitched, but probably that was true of most of what had happened to him here). Then came the next task. He had to climb Roach. After all he had accomplished so far, this proved to be surprisingly easy. Everything hurt anyway, he just had to be careful not to make it worse.
Finally, he sat in the saddle, not necessarily straight, not necessarily proud, but he sat. Down there, intimidated next to the horse's long legs, sat the pig.
"We're going home," Geralt said, "to your master, the farmer. Come on, little piggy. Let's save a village."
*****
The pig snorted as if aware that the witcher was talking to it. Geralt straightened in the saddle. Despite the potion, he still felt lightheaded. The pain was partially dulled though, enough that he could function, although each step Roach took still felt like a slam from a giant's club. Belatedly, Geralt realised that they were moving. He was fairly certain he hadn't urged Roach on, but she was walking, following the pig that was trotting on the uneven forest floor.
"Good, lead us to the farmer," he said. While they walked, he wrapped another bandage around his thigh. The bleeding had slowed down considerably, but still a sluggish trickle flowed down his leg.
"I'm going to pay for this one," he muttered. Roach snorted as if confirming that yes, you are an idiot.
"You're right. If I was at all sensible I'd just find a comfortable bush and sleep under it until I heal. But I can't leave the farmer at the witches' mercy. And who will tell the villagers what happened to their kids if not me. No Roach, we're on the path, we'll see it through to the end, far may it be."
They advanced slowly through the forest. The pig led the way unerringly, following some instinct that guided it home. Soon the trees started thinning out, opening to wide fields rich with wheat and barley. Geralt dozed in the saddle, leaning against Roach's strong neck. She kept walking, going as smoothly as she was able. Eventually, they reached the edge of a field, on the other side of which was a small farmhouse with several barns surrounding it.
The sudden lack of movement brought Geralt to full awareness. He looked around, familiarising himself with the layout of his surroundings. The house in front of them had to belong to the farmer. But why had the pig stopped so far from it?
"What's wrong, piggy?" he asked. The pig stayed close to Roach's legs, as if seeking safety from the larger animal.
Geralt focussed his gaze on the windows of the house. He saw movement. The farmer was probably inside, along with his wife. But as Geralt watched, he saw several figures pass the windows, at least three separate ones, maybe more. Realising that he might already be too late, he spurred Roach on, straight towards the house. His ability to fight was diminished, but he'd give his everything regardless. The witches had to be stopped.
Once they reached the yard, Geralt guided Roach behind the furthest barn. Hopefully, she would remain safe there and the mooing of the cows within would hide any sounds she might make. Geralt patted her on the neck and started the process of dismounting. He had grown stiff in the saddle, and his body protested the movement vehemently. Geralt longed to take another potion, but he knew his system wasn't ready for it yet.
Carefully, he lowered himself to the ground. His knees threatened to buckle, and he had to grab a stirrup to remain upright. He muttered an apology to Roach and straightened himself. The ground felt rough against his bare feet, and the straps on his back chafed his unprotected skin. Taking one faltering step, Geralt realised he didn't have the strength to bring both swords.
"Silver for monsters," he muttered as he unhooked his bigger sword and fastened it hastily to Roach's saddle. Armed only with the slender silver blade, wearing nothing but his underpants, Geralt started his approach to the house. His feet made no sounds against the hard-packed earth. He didn't feel steady, but his mind was fully focussed. When he got closer, he heard voices from inside.
"We can be reasonable. As we said, all we want is the body back. Just tell us where you buried it, and we'll be on our way." Geralt recognised the shorter witch. Her tone carried false patience.
"You can't have our child. Urpo is at peace, let him rest."
The farmer's pleas received no response. Geralt's medallion – miraculously still hanging from his neck – vibrated softly. He hastened his steps.
"This is your choice," the witch who had worn the green apron said. Geralt was close enough to peek through a window. He saw her moving her burned hands slowly, eliciting a sudden scream from a woman suspended in the air in the middle of the cosy living room.
"Noooo, leave her alone! Our child is dead, why can't you let him rest!" the farmer howled. The witches paid him no mind.
"The location. We can spend the night looking for freshly turned earth, but you won't be alive to witness it. This is your last chance."
"Let's just kill them, Rix. I'm tired of this nonsense," the taller witch said. She didn't have her axe with her, but Geralt reckoned she was just as dangerous without it.
"We're not murderers. We just want what's ours back."
The farmer and his wife sobbed. Geralt heard the desperate sounds, but he didn't let them affect him. His only advantage was a surprise attack. The witches didn't know he was there, probably didn't expect to be interrupted at all. He could momentarily distract them both with his signs, but his first strike of the sword had to count. If he couldn't eliminate one witch with his initial attack, he would not survive the fight. Not great odds, but Geralt had worked with far worse.
He snuck closer to the door, ready to burst in at the most opportune moment. He'd seen enough of the room to know where each person was. The farmer's wife was out of the way hovering near the ceiling, while the farmer himself was sitting on the floor under her. The witches stood facing them, turned away from the door. Geralt estimated the distance to the taller one to be about twice the length of his sword. Not a big leap to take, but a demanding one in his condition.
Geralt tested his mobility. His legs held, although each step hurt. He only had one reliable arm, but luckily the silver sword was light enough to wield with ease. Accuracy was more important than raw strength, and that he could count on. Under normal circumstances.
"I will not ask again," one of the witches said. Geralt prepared himself. While the women waited for the farmer's reply, he quietly opened the door, slowly enough to make no sounds. The farmer's wife noticed him, her eyes widening, and Geralt exploded into action. He begged his flagging body to keep up, just a little while longer. He released a flash of aard, more bright than holding any destructive power, but it was enough to put the witches on the defensive. While they conjured whatever charm kept them safe from offensive magic, Geralt swung his sword and tore the taller witch's throat open in one single cut. She went down, unable to produce a sound for the scream her face was contorted in. As expected, the other witch took the opportunity to attack Geralt. He knew something was coming and could only hope his body withstood long enough to counter it.
"You bastard!" the witch screamed, her voice painfully high. Geralt righted himself with a grunt and started running towards her. He only managed a step and a half before the spell hit him. She'd had no time for finesse, only for releasing raw power. Geralt flew across the room, his head bouncing off the wall upon impact. His vision exploded in shimmering colours, and all sounds faded. He could do nothing to prevent himself from sliding down and collapsing ungracefully in a heap on the floor.
The farmer's wife was shouting something. She sounded frantic. The farmer joined her. The witch said something. Too many voices, none of them made sense. Geralt's head pounded, the pain taking all his reason with it. His hand was still clasping his sword. That was significant. Get up, kill the witch, save the family. Geralt tried, but his body wouldn't move. He could barely breathe. Fresh blood was pooling under him, and he had no idea where it was coming from.
"Lizzy!" the witch sobbed. She was distracted, kneeling on the floor by the dying one, offering the perfect opportunity for Geralt to finish them both. His fingers twitched around the hilt of his sword. Too heavy. He couldn't lift the thing.
"I promise I will make him pay," the witch said. Geralt heard her kiss Lizzy's forehead. The erratic heartbeat quieted.
"Another man," the witch spat out, sounding unhinged, "another heartless bastard of a man, hurting women. Is that truly all you know how to do? Why does it always end like this?"
She was dancing at the edge of madness. Geralt understood the danger. A magic-user out of control could inflict serious damage on everyone around her. He tightened his grip.
The witch came to stand in front of Geralt. She clearly expected no resistance from him, holding up no defences. The pure hatred in her eyes blazed, manifesting as blue fire around her head. The farmer and his wife whimpered at the terrifying sight, but Geralt clung to his focus. He only needed her to take one more step, and she'd be within his range. Just one more step and he could end it all with one precise stab.
She raised her hands and opened her mouth.
*****
A high-pitched, almost sniveling squeal caused the spell to die on the witch's lips. Unnoticed by them all, the little pig had slipped into the room behind Geralt, in its mouth a tiny bone with fresh earth sticking to it. Spoiled by the little boy, who had long since ceased to exist, and so happy to be back home, the pig resumed an old game. Maybe it actually believed that it was a dog. The witch, however, paused for a moment, squinted her eyes, and muttered, "Where did you get that, little darling?"
Everyone in the room was now staring at the animal, and every single one realized what Ziege had picked up – and more importantly, where it had gotten the bone from. Rix chuckled maliciously.
"Your pig is probably smarter than you," she said, turning to the farmer. "But we knew that, it was a good pet for us too. Now I will have everything: my revenge and my fulfillment. Good piggy. Show me right now where you got it. No, wait, first..."
She turned her attention back to Geralt. The witcher blinked. Never miss the right moment, another of Vesemir's endless lessons, and yet this had almost happened. Weakened by blood loss and pain, barely held together by a potion and a few soaked bandages, Geralt had nearly forgotten the element of surprise. This was more important to an injured witcher than any weapon. But he had a weapon, a very good one at that, and even before the witch's spiteful grin had completely twisted her lips, his arm made an ominous twist.
The sword flashed and sliced both of the witch's legs just below the knees. She shrieked in a sickeningly shrill sound that shook the window of the farmhouse. The witch sank to her knees, her long skirt already soaked in blood. But she was far from defeated. Perhaps, Geralt would think much later in a quiet moment, her last instinct functioned very much like that of a witcher. Pain can trigger very different reactions. Some freeze, others retreat, and some... will be spurred on by it. As for Rix, she managed one more spell. Geralt's ears rushed from the effort of even lifting the sword; the thought of getting up was ridiculous. But when he saw her lips moving, every fiber of his body screamed to rise, to give her the rest finally. Because if he didn't, he would have failed miserably. His own death did not mean much, and it meant nothing to him where it happened. But the farmer, his child, and all the children of the villagers who would never come home? He would have cheated their memory, dragged them into the mud with his incompetence.
Time seemed to slow down. Geralt saw everything very sharply, saw the solution, the way out, and also the dangers quite clearly. His knees pressed into the wooden floor of the room almost automatically, forcing him upright, although the weight of the sword, his guilt, and his pain wanted to keep him down. At the same time, he saw that he would never make it in time. The tip of the witch's tongue pushed forward between her lips in concentration, her right hand raised, fingers curled.
"Noooooo!"
A scream seemed to come out of nowhere, causing the small house and everyone in it to tremble. The little pig had long since retreated behind the fireplace, the farmer's wife had taken cover behind a table, sobbing. The farmer, however, had jumped forward, had seen something that all the others had overlooked, and had taken advantage of the moment. A small knife flashed at the hip of the witch whose throat Geralt had slit and who now lay motionless in a puddle of dark red blood. The farmer saw it, grabbed it, ripped it off in one fluid motion, and, just one step away from insanity, rammed it into Rix's back. His wife howled, a sound in which fear and anger were mixed with a quiet triumph. Rix, however, blindly reached behind with one hand, searching for the knife that the farmer had simply thrust in rage, then staggering back in disbelief.
"It's one thing to kill a swine, but a human being, that's something else," the witch expressed suspiciously calmly. "As we can see, you didn't even succeed with the pig. Tsk."
Killing a witch, that was the clear message behind her words, is no easy matter. To kill at all. The farmer had simply stabbed, unaware of how to do it and where to point the knife. Now, his eyes widened in fear. The witch spun around to face him, almost slipping on her knees on her own blood, and her face was such a miserable, creepy mask that a silent prayer escaped the farmer's lips.
"One really doesn't know where to start with you people," Rix said. "It's..."
Whatever she had wanted to say, it remained unknown for all eternity. Her mouth curled into a surprised Oh that never would be uttered. With a clean cut and a fountain of blood, her head separated from her body, which didn't notice the loss for another heartbeat or two. The witch's head rolled across the floor, and when it finally came to rest at the end of the wall, the rest of her simply collapsed.
Behind the body, swaying and with an unfocused gaze, stood the witcher, leaning on his bloody sword. If there was anything else he wanted to say, then that, too, would remain unsaid. The tip of the blade scratched a deep crack in the wooden floor. Then, it fell to the ground with a metallic crash, and with it, the witcher fell.
*****
Roach walked slowly through the village. The man riding her wore a red chequered shirt and comfortable workman's trousers. No one would mistake him for a farmer though, the two swords strapped on his back ensured that. His white hair glistened in the midday sun, dancing in a brisk breeze.
The man led his horse to the outskirts of the village, near a lazily flowing river. He could hear the joyous shouts of children long before the Duke's orphanage came into view. Several kids ran around in the yard, of varying shapes and sizes. Running after them was a woman who just looked tired.
"Master witcher!" she exclaimed when she spotted the newcomer. "I… I see no children with you."
"I'm afraid I have nothing good to tell you," Geralt said, dismounting with a grunt. He was alive and able to function, but he would've needed much longer to rest to fully heal from his numerous wounds. The farmer and his wife had cared for him, fed him, and clothed him, grateful for his assistance, even if heartbroken about their boy. Geralt had left that day, unable to bear staying there in the house of mourning any longer than he absolutely had to.
"I understand," the woman said. "I suppose you're here for your payment."
"No. I failed the mission, I didn't bring back the children. Keep your money. I only want to tell you where you may find the remains, should you wish to go look for them."
"Just tell me… did they suffer?" the woman asked, tears flowing freely from her eyes.
"They never knew what hit them. They were together until the end."
Geralt turned away from the woman. He adjusted Roach's saddle and gave her instructions on how to find the burned hut. The woman wept but nodded through her tears.
"Melitele bless you, witcher. You have given us peace of mind."
"A feeble solace," Geralt said. He climbed up to the saddle, trying not to groan audibly as he did so. He waved at the woman and turned Roach around. He didn't know where the road would lead them, but it was the one he'd follow. Once again, he'd leave death and destruction behind him and not know what would lie ahead. That was his life. Sometimes he failed, making the world a bit bleaker than before. But sometimes, there was a glimmer of hope.
One day he'd find it.
*****