By the time Geralt makes it to Jaskier's attempt at a fire, it's long past sunset. The night is black and the occasional howl of wolves fills the air, echoing through the woods that get denser the further down the mountain he goes.
Jaskier's path is easy to follow at first. He's not clumsy – even though Geralt will never admit it, Jaskier is a decent travel partner and a quick learner. After the original path of deep footprints stomped angrily into the dirt, Geralt actually needs to use his tracking skills to keep to Jaskier's path.
The trek is quiet. Geralt finds himself looking back every once in a while, wondering why there's no sound of a lute or a ridiculous song following him. Despite his initial protests, Geralt has become accustomed to the background noise, and it's an eerie walk through the dark in silence.
It gets even eerier when he stumbles across a trail of blood that's clearly human, and definitely Jaskier's.
Geralt's immediately on edge, hand going to his sword and hefting it carefully in one hand as he crouches down, touching his fingers to the sticky red path that's been dragged across the dead leaves. There's a small pile of firewood not far ahead, under the shelter of one of the larger trees, and glinting in the moonlight is…
"Fuck."
It's Jaskier's dagger – the one Geralt gave him years ago after a close call with a werewolf that had left Jaskier with a nasty scar and Geralt with an uncomfortably distressed feeling in the pit of his stomach. Geralt picks the dagger up carefully, the same sensation re-surfacing as he inspects the dark, sticky blue substance that coats the blade. A patch of the same secretion stains the ground nearby, but it's nothing compared to the overwhelming amounts of blood that lead away from the camp.
Geralt stands quickly, tucking the dagger into a sheath at his belt and following the tracks into the darkness.
Jaskier blinks awake slowly to a searing pain that nearly pushes him back into unconsciousness the second he opens his eyes. He groans, exhaling sharply as he swallows against the bile rising in the back of his throat. An overwhelming, ragged ache stretches from just below his left ear to the spot where his collarbone ends, and as soon as he moves, a cry of pain escapes him.
He leans to the side and throws up, then promptly passes out again.
When he eventually comes to again some time later, it's nearly sunrise. Soft gold light filters through the wooden slats of the shelter he's being held in, highlighting the dark red that stains the sleeve of his shirt.
"G… er…" Jaskier groans, unable to push out the syllables of his friend's name. He blinks slowly, trying to clear his blurry vision, and hisses in pain when he tries to move his arm and very quickly remembers that his wrist is broken.
"You are awake."
The voice is thick and accented, clearly unused to the cadence of Common Speech. Jaskier's not sure the statement is entirely true – he's half convinced he's dreaming, although generally only real life hurts quite this much.
"H… f…" The words gurgle through the wound in his neck and Jaskier's vision swims. He realizes that he's lying on his side on the ground – some sort of packed earth that's sticky with blood and… something else. He tries not to think about it.
"I will… not kill you," the voice says.
Oh, fantastic, Jaskier thinks, attempting to roll onto his back and failing. Although death does sound rather appealing at the moment.
Something vaguely humanoid crouches down next to Jaskier and he gags at the stench that emanates from it – a combination of rotting flesh and a deep, sickly scent of infection and decay.
"You are… afraid," the voice says, haltingly, with strange inflection on the wrong words.
Brilliant bloody observation, Jaskier thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to breath in the smell. Of course I'm afraid. This is all fucking Geralt's fucking fault, that stupid, selfish, shit-eating prick. Another wave of pain pulls a moan from Jaskier and he drags in a ragged, wet breath. The anger at Geralt recedes and quickly turns to desperation at the touch of a cold hand on his cheek.
"Not… afraid… enough," the voice says, and it almost sounds disappointed.
A deep, rough growl comes from behind the creature, and the sound sends a tremor through Jaskier. He can just make out a multitude of reddish eyes and a sharp flash of teeth – hundreds of them, razor sharp and crowded horrifyingly into a mouth where they shouldn't all fit.
"Sakhaetst." The word is rough and aching, and it scrapes the inside of Jaskier's mind, leaving him groaning and breathless. The fanged creature moves closer. "We will not… kill him. But pain can… be worse."
Geralt follows the trail of blood as quickly as he can – he can tell something dragged Jaskier across the ground for several miles, and then the tracks disappear. Two sets of prints accompany the trail; one walks on two legs and one on four, though neither are familiar.
"Fuck," Geralt mutters again, rubbing his face as his gaze jumps through the woods, searching for any sign of his stupid, reckless bard. He's not sure if a human can lose that much blood and survive, but they have to be able to, because Jaskier isn't—
Geralt shakes his head. Jaskier is fine; Geralt just has to find him and then never let the idiot out of his sight again.
He closes his eyes and exhales, focusing on the smells around him and trying to separate the sharp tang of blood from the light, cedar smell that's distinctly Jaskier. They've shared enough time together that Geralt can pick it out almost immediately. Even though the blood trail stops, Jaskier's scent doesn't, and Geralt takes off again, foregoing stealth for quickness.
"Jaskier!" he shouts, scanning the woods for any sign of life – human or otherwise. Nothing answers him except the low hoot of an owl nearby. "Jaskier!" The name hangs on the wind for a moment, then disappears into the dark. "Fuck," Geralt growls, pushing forward even as Jaskier's scent begins to fade. "Stupid, fucking—shit."
The unsettled feeling in his stomach is shifting into a sharp, stinging panic that drags the air from his lungs and makes him feel light-headed. Guilt joins it, heavy and aching, and Geralt grinds his teeth in frustration. He's tempted to head back up the mountain – Yennefer could likely find Jaskier faster with her magic, but it would take Geralt hours, and he's not sure Jaskier has that long.
Not with this much blood.
"Jaskier!" he shouts again, ducking out of a thicket and nearly stumbling into a thin stream that winds its way across the mountainside. A low, eerie growl stops Geralt in his tracks and he freezes when he sees the source – red eyes and a mouthful of teeth that are stained with blood.
Jaskier's blood.
"Where is he?" Geralt snarls, though he knows he'll get no response from this beast. It's nearly twice the size of a gray wolf, with too many eyes and strangely shaped legs, each tipped with a single, razor-sharp claw. A scorpion-like tail flicks back and forth behind it, dark and deadly against the starless sky.
It growls at him again, then opens its mouth and charges, leaping across the river in a single bound and slamming into Geralt hard enough to knock him onto his back. He kicks at its stomach, throwing the beast off him and rolling to his feet.
"Where. Is. He?" he says again, voice low and deadly as his sword dances between them. The beast's muzzle is stained with blood – too much blood, and Geralt's eyes flash with anger as he steps closer and slashes at its hide. The blow connects and the beast howls, dark and furious, before whipping its tail at Geralt and catching him on the forearm.
He barely feels the wound.
Jaskier's lost track of time. Pain is the only thing with meaning now – maybe he's been here hours, maybe a week, maybe decades. He's still on the ground, breath coming in sharp, pained gasps as he gags on the scent of blood and burnt flesh.
Geralt, Jaskier thinks, trying to make the word, but nothing comes from his lips but bubbled blood and a gasping moan. Please. Help.
