A/N
I dunno what the problem is with the previous chapter, but hopefully it's been resolved by the time this update's uploaded. And now, time for the Big Bad White Wolf himself to make an appearance :)
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Vandal lay where he had fallen for the longest time.
The cheerful twitter of some alpine bird in the distance added to his growing ire as he suffered in untold agony, feeling as if his painful circumstance was seen as a joke. His neck and spine were broken, his ribs were smashed and made it difficult to breathe, the broken piece of spear was still stuck through him, shoulders dislocated, and the bones in his limbs were in pieces. Out of breath, with his limbs twisted in odd angles all around and bleeding out from several gashes torn throughout his body, to say that he was in bad shape would be the understatement of the century. He willed himself to be still, as every movement he made served to intensify his already insurmountable suffering. His own body, however, refused to obey him as his broken limbs moved to repair themselves. Healing through his curse was no easy process and brought no comfort. It was, in fact, more painful than being tossed through the cliffside like a ragdoll.
His heart started to heat up again, and Vandal braced himself.
First, his neck and spine corrected themselves, twisting both muscle and nerve that caused Vandal to cry out. This was followed by his shoulders snapping back into place, which doubled his agony. Without waiting to give the knight a moment's pause, his ribs suddenly rearranged their pieces like a puzzle and expanded his chest, allowing air to rush into his lungs. Vandal gasped and let out a stream of curses. Tears welled up in his eyes, and the poor man could no longer hold back, so he sobbed his aches out in torrents.
Finally, his broken arms and legs mended themselves whole, allowing Vandal to finally push himself out of the bottom of the cliff and onto his feet.
Vandal glared down, gazing at the protruding spearhead stuck in his chest through blurry eyes filled with tears. The pain of a gradually tightening wound closing in on a piece of metal was like being ripped open and sewed up over and over again. Vandal knew that the longer he allowed that thing to stay inside of him he would continue to suffer throughout the day. The ordeal had exhausted him, so Vandal took a moment to drag whatever reserves he had left to purpose, and he leaned against a nearby boulder for support.
He wiped the tears from his eyes and closed them, taking a few short breaths in succession before grasping the shaft with both hands.
The task proved to be harder than suffering his body healing itself, as the spearhead was lodged between the two lowest ribs on his left lower back. Every time he yanked at it, one way or another, it was like sawing himself in half. Sweat poured in rivers all over his face, neck and back. Vandal whimpered and roared once more in agony, falling slump against the boulder in defeat.
There was no getting it out. The spearhead was already in too deep, the edges of his wounds had already closed over it, locking it tight between slabs of flesh. He hadn't the strength to both tear it out at the same time hoping to be still on his legs throughout the process. He needed someone's help, and he needed it soon. Kostin and Rostchild would soon return to the caravan, if they hadn't already. Serah and Sandy would be defenseless without him.
Vandal left the spearhead where it was and bore the pain it caused, which was a little less than the one he endured when attempting to dislodge it from his body. He picked up his fallen mace and staggered out of the canyon, heading up the slope to ascend into the mountain so he could stumble back into the camp, hoping to get ahead of his betrayers.
The knight avoided touching the spearhead or bending his back in any direction, as either of those movements produced lancing sparks of immeasurable suffering throughout his body. Eager to be freed from his predicament, Vandal quickened his pace and climbed faster. He put his thoughts far from thinking about the wound and focused on getting away from the cliffside before the sight of him attracted any hidden opportunistic predators.
"Nasty thing you've got in there." A voice, like a low growl from a bristling wolf's lips, addressed him.
Vandal groaned and looked up. He saw a man on a brown-skinned horse, and yet he couldn't have been a man, not with the way his hair was of the color of ashen snow. His eyes were inhumanly yellow like a cat's. Not a man, perhaps something more?
A strange medallion shaped like a wolf's head adorned his neck, and it vibrated curiously as his horse drew them both closer and closer to Vandal. Two swords were on his back like a bow and quiver. Usually warriors like him had their weapons on their hips, yet Vandal had a feeling that there were no warriors like him.
"I appreciate your…remarkable powers of observation." Vandal said sarcastically as he fell to his knees onto the path. His lungs fought for air, and he went down on all fours to struggle against the overwhelming feeling of passing out. "Please…stranger…help me pull this damned thing…out of me."
"You'll only cause yourself more pain." The white-haired stranger, in all his candidness, initially refused. "You're already dead."
"Not dead…not yet." Vandal wheezed, "Come…do me this small favor…would you?"
White-hair just sighed, then dismounted. "Have it your way." He walked towards Vandal, set the knight upright and grasped the shaft of the spearhead. "Ready?"
"Do it." Vandal hissed.
White-hair pulled the spearhead outward twice. Once to tear at his stubborn flesh to loosen up the exit wound and twice to finally remove the offending piece. The cat eyes widened with surprise at the sight of brightly glowing blood spurting out of Vandal's body, and the stranger stared curiously at the spearhead soaked in ichor.
"Ahhh…" Vandal uttered a long groan of relief, "Thank you."
"Huh, looks like there's more to you than meets the eye." White-hair muttered, tossing aside the spearhead as Vandal got to his feet. "You alright?"
"I'll be better." Vandal replied, "Once I've returned to camp and dealt with the blackguards responsible for my harrowing experience."
The stranger looked to the cliffs and made quick guess, "Someone stabbed you and left you for dead?"
"Stabbed and thrown off a cliff." Vandal said, "All for jealousy's sake."
"And you survived?" White-hair tilted his head to the side wolfishly, "Because of magic?"
"Cursed blood, actually." Vandal corrected, looking to the stranger to request his aid a second time. "I'm grateful for your aid-"
"Yeah, don't mention it." He started to walk back to his horse, but Vandal would not let him go until after he made his request.
"Wait, I know I've got no right to ask, but I may need your help in bringing my would-be murderers to justice." Vandal said.
"I don't involve myself in the squabbles of men. Don't bother pressing for my aid, consider that to be the only reward you can ever give me."
Vandal thought it useless, but he said so anyway as the stranger started to ride himself away. "You don't understand, these men covet two ladies under my care and would surely sully their honor now that they've thought to have gotten rid of me. They have friends in the camp and they're sure to come to their aid if I try to defend those under my protection." White-hair was already a few feet away on his horse, "Please, I need this to be resolved quickly."
"If I get involved, that matter will be resolved in a bloody end. No thanks."
Vandal shrugged, "I don't mind a bloody end that much, so long as its not my blood or my charge's spilt. I'll pay you 15 crowns to assist me."
White-hair yanked the reins and drew his horse to a stop. His cat eyes studied Vandal with unmatched scrutiny as he considered his offer, "30 crowns."
Vandal frowned, "15 crowns."
"25."
"20."
White-hair nodded, "Deal."
Having made a bargain with him, Vandal led the stranger through the path back to the camp after picking up the discarded spearhead, intent on making good on his word as long as the stranger made good on his. "I'm Vandal, by the way. Vandal of Saggrel."
"Geralt." White-hair returned the greeting, "Geralt of Rivia."
The sun was up, and the first to greet the day in the far-flung foothills of the ragged patch of earth stretching between Attre and Cintra was the noise of battle.
A small contingent composed of Cintran knights and the Royal Army's reinforcement groups intent on bolstering the defenses of the fortresses of the vassal state, met the undead legions of the looming world after chancing upon them through the king's road. The knights, thinking them as inconsequential prey, mounted up and charged the wandering cursed souls.
These undead wore no armor, but were dressed in ragged tunics or tattered peasant clothes. Not a single warrior among them, but it did not matter to the men of Cintra.
Among the knights was Sir Reynauld DeGrey the Faehunter, a champion of Cintra and slayer of elves. He wore the rare dimeritium breastplate that had the roaring lion symbol of Cintra carved into solid gold over the unnatural black of the strange metal, which served him well when hunting down the magically gifted pointed-ear race of humanoids that dwelled in the forests and mountains around the kingdom. His cape of bright scarlet, a testament to his station, flowed in the wind as his horse galloped down the valley.
Sir Reynauld raised his lance of steel and rode down the undead to pieces, laughing jubilantly as he did so. "Ride them down! For Cintra, for King Dagorad!"
His fellow knights surged in after him, trampling everything in their path until there was nothing left. Once they've finished, the knights raised their banners high for the footsoldiers to see. Scores of undead lay strew about the fields and roads like refuse. Some, though reduced to mere torsos with arms and a head, crawled about the dirt only to be stomped out by a hateful downwards thrust of the boot.
"Another glorious victory for the crown!" Reynauld declared.
Suddenly, they all felt the air grow thin and cold. A heavy white mist started to form over the grass, and a murder of crows started to fly over the battlefield. A swirling cloud of incessant cawing, fluttering and gleeful mockery. Then, the sound of a hundred feet marching over the soil could be heard in the distance amidst the tittering of the crows, and the knights of Cintra quickly returned to form so they would meet their enemies on equal footing.
In truth, there was no equal footing, not for them.
The armies of the undead approached the gathered knights upon their horses, donning ancient but sturdy armor that bristled with winter's breath. Their shields were white like silver, their weapons shone with eldritch energies, and their skin was gray like a storm's darkening clouds. At the helm of this undead army was a giant.
This giant was not as monstrous as the others they witnessed wandering about the lands of Cintra. He walked upright like a man, donned armor like a knight, and wielded a massive two-handed axe. When he opened his mouth, his voice was like the boom of distant thunder as it called out in an ancient and incomprehensible tongue. The axe crackled with fell magic as he raised it to challenge the men of the living.
"That thing's calling you out, shall we oblige?" A fellow knight inquired of Reynauld.
"We all shall oblige." Reynauld responded confidently as he raised his lance, "To me, comrades! Again, into the fray! Charge!"
The moment they had gotten the momentum, just meters away from the vanguard, the undead warriors formed up a shield wall and pushed forward with their swords raised like the hairs of a porcupine. Then, ice formed over their weapons to turn swords into pikes- a horseman's worst nightmare. The horse charge was put to a blood stop as the pikes dug into them, causing half to tumble into the undead vanguard and the other to rear back in panic. The undead warriors cut them down where they stood and swarmed over the Cintran infantry. 30 knights and 300 good men charged, bravely if history had its way, and died.
Reynauld was thrown off his saddle violently after a pike struck his mount through the chest and landed on a pile of corpses, the bodies of which belonged to his fellow knights who were cut down or impaled on the spikes of ice and iron. The Faehunter rose up and removed his helm, drawing his sword to fight against the undead warriors slowly closing in on him like the hangman's noose.
The pikes were all around him, and they were drawing in closer and closer like the teeth of a dragon's maw. Reynauld spun around and struck one way and another, but they kept coming. The pointed shards of enchanted ice poked, pressed, pierced then skewered the hapless knight. Reynauld screamed and screamed, then gasped as his lungs were punctured. His voice came away into ragged rasps, and he pushed against the impaling shards as though he were below water and was fighting to resurface for air.
The undead warriors withdrew their weapons and let the dying knight fall to the ground to join his comrades. They returned to formation and left the battlefield, following the giant as he walked in the direction of the capital city, leaving the dead for the crows to feast on.
Serah and Sandy left the camp briefly to refill their water skins from the nearby spring, planning on heading back immediately after their errand was done so Vandal would have a pretty sight waiting for him when he returned.
"You're smiling, Serah." Sandy observed with a giggle.
"Why wouldn't I? There's plenty of reason for me to be happy." The raven-haired woman replied as they pushed through the dense underbrush and into the clearing where a small waterfall ran down an overhanging rock into a large pool of water gathered within a natural stone basin. A stag was drinking from its waters when the two arrived, and he bolted at the sight of the women towards the opposite end of the clearing.
"Oh, I'm just curious as to how you take our departure from our home in stride." The golden-tressed woman said, bending down to dip one skin in the spring. "And I find myself in agreement, I too find his company a great comfort at such a time."
She knew Serah was thinking about Vandal, in spite of her initial hesitance of being attached. And why wouldn't she, after all he's done for them? Sandy was practically worshipping the man, as he possessed every characteristic any girl from some lonely town imagined a knight would have. He was chivalrous, unlike the vile dogs that hounded after her in Amendale, and a skilled warrior. Serah, on the other hand, appreciated Vandal for his innate skills in the bedroom. He was an awkward man, a wide-eyed pup in armor. And yet, this pup had teeth and claws.
True, she had no right to have such high standards given her profession, but every woman had her preference. They both did.
"I find myself impressed with his nightly capabilities, I wonder if he's lying and had many lovers before." Sandy said with a blush.
"Oh, Sandy." Serah sighed, "The look of a virgin should be self-evident to you by now. But I know why you doubt what we've both seen and felt from him, as I've wondered about it myself as well. He is-"
"Dead."
Both woman sprang to their feet at the mocking cruel voice that interrupted their pleasant talk, fearing the worst as seven men emerged from the woods. They were Enris' men, Serah recognized Rostchild and Kostin among them. They had brought Vandal with them on a hunt for food, now they returned without him.
"W-What did you say?" Sandy stammered.
"Dead." Kostin was grinning as he said those words, "Your knight is dead. Slipped and fell off a cliff, broke his neck upon descent."
Serah scowled in contempt. She'd bedded many a man who professed and claimed to love her long enough to know the face of a liar when she saw one, and she knew what these men had killed Vandal for. "Enough with the lies, do what you will." She pulled Sandy aside and dropped the skins, immediately taking the dagger out of her belt. "But be warned, I shan't make it easy for any of you."
"Hah! So this bitch's got spunk!" Kostin guffawed as he approached her, unafraid of the gleaming piece of metal she held in her hand.
Rostchild sneered, "I do hope you can indeed put up a fight, but I doubt you'd have any left in you by the time we're done with you." The one-eyed man reared back as Serah took a swing at him with her dagger. He caught her hand and twisted it about to make her drop the blade.
"Agh!" The raven-haired woman screamed, turning to yell at her friend. "Sandy, run!" The younger woman hesitated, then gathered her skirts as she fled in the direction of the camp.
"Get her!" Rostchild bellowed as he wrestled the stubborn woman into the ground. His friends helped him by grabbing Serah's wrists and ankles, stretching her out for Rostchild to ravage freely. The one-eyed man grinned evilly as he loomed over Serah, greedily taking an eyeful of her as he admired her bewitching beauty. His lithe fingers grasped the hem of her dress and lifted it over her hips, causing the men on either side to utter a collective 'ooh'.
"Let go of me you brute!" Sandy's screams echoed through the forest as Kostin seized her from behind and shoved her into the roots of a nearby tree.
Rostchild gave his member a few tugs to get the blood pumping and leaned forward to lap at the grimacing beautiful face beneath him, lost in thoughts of utter depravity that befitted that of the mind of an animal. Serah looked away and squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the pain. She clenched her teeth tightly, willing herself to be silent. Even through it all, she would not scream.
Suddenly, a powerful crack and the sound of something bursting reached her ears. This was followed by something hot and wet covering her face, that smelled coppery- almost like blood!
Serah opened her eyes to see that it was indeed blood, and Rostchild's head had come apart, leaving nothing but the part below his nose intact. Everything else above it covered her and the men holding her down. The corpse dropped forward and fell slump on top of her. She felt the rough hands release her as they moved for their weapons.
Standing above her was Vandal, and he was not alone.
A man with eyes of cats, hair as white as snow, wrapped in steely muscle and hard leather. In his hand was a sword of finely crafted steel. A witcher, and he bore the same look of wrath as Vandal.
The mercenaries looked to him as though they saw a ghost, and they might as well would have. Vandal should have been dead, they'd seen him speared through the chest by Kostin and tossed over the cliffs. They fell back into the grass, but could not get to their feet as Vandal would not allow them. He was a knight, he might've allowed them to stand and fight as equals- but he knew better now.
They were not men but monsters, and they needed to die.
"Kill them all, my friend." Vandal said to the witcher.
"Hmph." The witcher grunted and Serah bore witness to the whirlwind of steel that was Geralt of Rivia. He weaved in and out of the battle with the savagery of a wolf and the grace of a swan, almost as if fighting was all a dance to him.
Vandal aided him with the mercenaries, striking with clear direction as opposed to the complex spinning about that his white-haired companion was doing. His mace struck like a battering ram, seeding grass with blood and brains whenever he swung. Together, they hacked and crushed their way through their enemies with ease. Soon, the ugly pig and one other mercenary was left to deal with. Kostin abandoned his would-be victim the moment the fight started, and now it was he who was bolting off into the woods.
The witcher was faster, and he caught up to the man by striking him across the back with his sword. It cut him at the spine, robbing him of any activity beneath the waist. The other mercenary turned about to defend himself, but was just as quickly cut down as the others.
"Are you alright, Serah?" Vandal asked as he hauled Rostchild's ruined corpse off of her. The woman quickly covered herself as she was in a state of undress.
Serah's face was a mess of tears, runny mascara and blood. She was obviously shaken, but the woman was no stranger to the vile nature of men. She would recover, though the scars would remain. "I'm fine." Serah glared at the squealing survivor, "Go finish it."
Vandal carried a spearhead with him and nodded, "Gladly." He got up and approached Kostin while Serah stumbled over to see to the wailing Sandy.
Kostin retched and groaned as he crawled through the bloodied grass, painfully aware of the witcher watching him as he struggled in vain to haul his heavy body away to safety. All the while, he grunted. "Mercy...please...mercy..."
Geralt grimaced in disgust, having seen and heard the same thing from every dying man that met his blades. He saw Vandal approaching, the young man's face twisted with hate. He stepped aside, offering the pig up for him to slay. "This one's all yours."
Vandal nodded and gripped the spearhead tightly, "Hey, you left something in me." Kostin stopped and twisted his neck to look up and see the face of his killer. He cried out as the spearhead embraced its owner, a little too eager to be reunited. Vandal drove it deep into his back, breaking bone and piercing both fat and flesh until it bore through his frantically beating heart.
"It is done." The knight heaved a heavy sigh of relief, turning to his companion. "Help me bring the ladies back to camp. There, your coin awaits you."
Geralt nodded and sheathed his sword after wiping it on Kostin's tunic. "Hmph, fine."
Together, they escorted both sniffling Serah and sobbing Sandy through the woods, leaving the corpses of their assailants to rot near the spring. As Vandal put his arms around her, Serah had to smile despite what she'd just gone through. She clutched him tightly as if to claim him for herself. She was mistaken. Vandal was no pup, but a hound.
A hound without his mistress. And if so, she would have his leash.
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