Chapter 6
Rowan sat, chilled and stunned, on the edge of the bed for a long time. The hours slipped across her eyes as she replayed her evening's encounter with Geralt over and over again. Sleepless, Rowan paced slowly across the cool floorboards in the light of that full moon. The quilt over her shoulders still smelled of him.
Returning to the bed, the druid sat once more and leaned heavily against one of the bedposts. She slowly reached up to one ear and felt at the rippled skin there. Her scars didn't normally bother her, but she couldn't help but wonder.
She let her hand fall back to her lap. She couldn't help thinking of the way he had touched her. Let his lips catch and linger over her own. Capturing her sighs...
Rowan shook herself. It didn't matter how many times she went over it, it still didn't make any sense. Something had gone unsaid. Yet she had nothing to hide.
By the gods, she was nearly 200 years old. This was ridiculous. She should know better. The thought of a Witcher caring for her. A half-elf druid. Did he care? Could Witchers feel such things? Of course they could. They begin as humans, don't they? Then again, who knows what sort of trials and horrors they were forced through. Perhaps embracing another frightens them. Perhaps it is forbidden. It's not as though she had contracted him to kill some beast for her.
Rowan paused. Did the Witcher harbour some sort of debt to her in his mind? Or she to him? Perhaps Geralt adhered to such superstitions. It would be boorish to bed someone with such an obligation plaguing the mind. What nonsense.
At that, Rowan decided to put the matter to rest once and for all. She would never sleep is she did not. Gathering herself, she donned the nightcoat Beth had left for her, draped one of the linen scarves over her ears, and reached for one of the smaller oil lamps. Tossing the end of the scarf over one shoulder, she tip-toed to the door and opened it as quietly as she could.
The inn was quiet and dimly lit. Only a handful of voices could be heard from the tavern below. Still, Rowan padded down the hall as quietly as she could. There was only one other occupied room. The druid crept silently, the dim light of the oil lamp she carried barely enough to illuminate from one side of the hall to the other. When she finally reached the other occupied room, Rowan took a deep breath and summoned all her courage. She raised her hand to knock.
It began with the sound of wood crashing against wood. Rowan gave a start and turned toward the stairs. Foul sounds of struggle and distress suddenly burst through the calm of the late night. Ugly shouts and the clattering of chairs falling and glass breaking struck her ears hard as they floated up from the main floor of the inn. Rowan's eyes widened in terror as another unearthly scream pierced the air like the crack of thunder from Hell. Tall shadows began to dance on the far wall, and a swollen burst of fire erupted from the bottom of the stairs. Rowan had begun to back away when the door in front of her burst open.
Geralt stepped out, sword in hand, nearly trampling Rowan as he moved.
"Geralt?" Rowan started. But the Witcher was already moving. He gently ushered Rowan behind him with one arm as he started toward the fray.
"Geralt!" Rowan whispered harshly. The sounds were harrowing.
"Stay there," Geralt growled over his shoulder. His hand fumbled for a moment at his side as he produced a small vial of dark liquid from a pocket. Uncorking it with his teeth, he downed the liquid and paused for a moment in the hallway as the potion took effect. He staggered, breathing heavily. Rowan hesitated. He was clearly in pain.
"Geralt," Rowan whispered again, terrified.
When he turned, his eyes were black and crazed with an animalistic fervor. A demonic glower darkened his whole form, and he fought to catch his breath. He simply held his hand up, indicating for Rowan to remain. She nodded, shrinking in on herself and unwittingly backing into the corner of the hallway.
The Witcher bolted down the hall and dropped down the steps into a whole new degree of noise. More screams added the fray, and a whole new dim of violence surged up through the hallway. The splintering crack of fire intensified, and the druid soon smelled smoke.
Rowan had no intention of remaining. She instantly set the lamp down, threw the shall from her head, and ducked into Geralt's room. Just as she had hoped, his other sword sat patiently in the leather caddy he carried on his back. She grabbed the handle and yanked the weapon free of its sheath, nearly stumbling with the weight of it.
Desperately wishing for her bow, Rowan dashed toward the chaos, staggering when she finally saw what was waiting below.
The main floor of the small inn was teeming with the black, slick bile of what was very obviously a fire elemental. Rowan had only ever read about them, but the way it's twisted, blistered body bled furnace-like heat spoke painfully true. Flames engulfed the inn and leached a powerful and acrid smell into the air as patrons attempted to flee or fight the creature. Tables, chairs, and their occupants lined the walls in bloody piles. Rowan held Geralt's sword close to her chest as the reality of the scene pressed on her.
Geralt was already engaging the golem, his silver sword flashing through the distorted haze of heat and smoke at the far end of the room. Rowan's ears numbed for an instant as the Witcher drove the creature back, extinguishing some of its flames with a forceful gesture. After a moment, however, the thing was back on its feet, and more enraged than ever. Geralt's black eyes narrowed and he cried out as he charged back into melee with an upward thrust of silver. Rowan could see the Witcher's skin reddening and blistering even from her position at the bottom of the steps.
Without thought, the druid dropped the sword and forced what little magic she knew into her veins. Reaching out against the harsh heat, Rowan summoned the most powerful barrage of ice magic she could muster. Her effort was desperate, but effective. Crying out, the druid was able to maintain a burst of ice that stunted the flames in a powerful eruption of steam. Rowan screamed, and did her best to shield her eyes.
The residual blast shoved both Rowan and Geralt to the floor, but the Witcher saw his opening. Keeping the elemental down with two more Aard gestures, Geralt then descended on the creature with a savage series of two-handed blows. The silver did its work and after a few more bloody moments, the golem's fire was extinguished and Geralt stumbled away from the lingering heat, falling to the side with his exhaustion and new injuries. The inn continued to burn.
Rowan regained herself and snapped into action. Clambering to her feet, she grabbed up the sword and dashed to the nearest patron she could see through the smoke. Falling to her knees, she shook the man, only to find he was long dead, his face bubbled with red sores and a layer of black tar-like bile splashed across his form.
Very nearly retching, Rowan moved to the next form she could see. He too was long dead. The flames grew worse as she darted from corpse to corpse. Tears fell freely down her cheeks. Smoke and grief fueling them. Beth's body lay under a table across from her. Tar covered the innkeeper's sunken face. Her skirts were blackened, bound to the skin beneath.
"No!" Rowan cried. The last of the druid's hopes collapsed and she released a muted sob against the roar of the flames around her.
"Go!" Geralt shouted. He himself wasn't moving.
Rowan gathered herself and all her remaining strength. She started across the room toward the Witcher. A series of beams and floorboards creaked and collapsed with a burst of sparks and ear-splitting sound as she crawled. Covering her face, Rowan rolled to the side and continued onward.
"Get out! Go!" Geralt cried, his black eyes straining now. Rowan ignored him, the thought of Beth's body, broken and burning next to her, drove her limbs forward in a fit of rage and grief.
Rowan could barely see now as she shuffled to Geralt's side. Blood coated his side and his arms were badly burned up to his elbows. His leg and hip had disappeared into the floorboards beneath him where he had battled the elemental. Rejecting his orders, Rowan forced herself under the Witcher's arm and drove her legs under him. She rolled with all her might, dragging Geralt's weight away from the hole enough for him to plant his knee on a safer plank. Moving quickly, the Witcher rolled again, hauling both himself and the druid under him away from the nearest blaze. Supporting each other, the two rose and lurched forward, blind, toward the door. With one last push of Aard, Geralt forced the fire before them down enough to stumbled through and burst through the door into the freezing night. Rolling, Witcher and druid extinguished the last of the lingering heat in the frosted grass, coming to a halt in an embrace of smoke-stained skin and coughs.