In the evening light the road is bright and empty and the forest that grew into the fields outside the village is black and silent. Wszebora looks around and listens carefully, but the wilderness would not speak to her tonight. There is no rustling and no twitters, not a sound of scratching, no clatters. There is only the fading orange light of the evening and the silence that's neither languid, nor ominous.
Wszebora stops, puts the axe up to her belt and looks around once more. It is reasonable to think that since the witcher has not come to claim his prize, the beast must have had him torn and eaten. Therefore it would be stupid to cross the woods and look for what remained of him. But there is also the stallion - perfectly alive, even though mad with fear and smeared with blood like a sacrificial goat. Wszebora doubts that the monster that nested in their forest would eat the witcher and leave such a grand animal be. She wants to see if it was the monster that had made the horse flee. If some foul creature still sits in the wilds and she is to meet it, it will not make a difference. The thing could devour them all before the next witcher comes.
Wszebora crouches down. Dry dust lifts from the road and flies away when she runs her hand across the dirt. She fixes her eyes on rusty brown stains, dark and vivid on bright sand. They are fresh, not even dried out yet. It looks as if someone shook them off a tuft. Or as if the stains dripped off the sides of a frightened galloping horse. Wszebora stands up and takes a few more steps. The trail of glossy brown stains stops at the edge of darkening forest. She takes her axe and warily comes off the road, in between the shady trees. From the silence that engulfs her she finally picks up a hoarse and uneven sound. She takes a few more steps. Springy, damp leaves of ferns tickle her as she goes. Then she finally finds the witcher. With him she also finds the blood. A whole lot of it.
The witcher sits propped against a tree, motionless, with his head bowed to his chest. His left arm lays limply across his knees, the palm of his hand open and black with dried blood. In the other hand that stretches limply along his body he clutches a flask filled with luminous fluid. Beside the witcher there is a leather bag that looks like someone dug violently through its contents and strewn them in the grass. A few more flasks and vials are glistening among the ferns. There are also some runes glowing with feeble light, several pieces of parchment filled with words she cannot read and bundles of peculiar herbs that she have never before seen in her life.
She crouches beside the witcher and realizes that the hoarse sound she followed is coming from his chest. His breathing is shallow and uneven. It's no wonder to her that each breath takes a strain on him. She can see dark, thick blood drying on the hand he clutches to his ribs. His blood seems to be everywhere. It trickles down his scarred face, dries on his lips and palms, drips down his ripped armor and glistens on the sword that lies abandoned in the moss. What amazes her is how he still has enough blood inside him to not die and force one breath after another into the chest that was so horribly ruptured by the monster. She knows that any man mauled like this by a beast would surely perish, but the witcher still lives. And if he lives, that could mean that the monster in the forest is no more.
She kneels beside the witcher and eyes him once more, this time with more caution. She tries to see where his most severe wounds are and how many of them he sustained. The witcher has thick armor and it is getting dark, so she cannot tell precisely, but of one thing she is certain - the monster lost this fight just by a hair.
Wszebora frowns and looks into the witcher's face. It is so deathly pale it looks almost livid. There is a net of jagged scars and dark veins underneath a dry crust of blood and mud. This face does not look like it belongs to a man. But it does not look like it would belong to a monster either.
Wszebora slaps the witcher with enough force to make his head bob from side to side. She notices his eyelids flutter feebly, so she hits him again. The witcher wakes and looks at her with yellow eyes that are squinted and hazy with weariness and pain.
"Is the beast dead?", she asks quietly, but he does not respond as if he has not heard her. He stares at her for a moment. Then he looks around, as if he is searching for his equipment that lays strewn in the grass. Finally he fixes his blurred gaze on the sword. He tries to grab it, but she holds him by the arm.
"Did you kill the monster, witcher?", she repeats, still looking cautiously at him. He looks grim and worn-out, but his eyes are brighter now, more conscious than before. He nods slowly.
"Got rid of it", he rasps and then he coughs heavily. She notices fresh blood on his lips. "The village's safe", he adds through gritted teeth. He closes his eyes for a moment and lays his head against a tree.
She releases her hold on his arm and he tries to grab his abandoned sword one more time. He slowly stretches his trembling arm, but before he reaches the sword, he curls and mutters an ugly curse. Blood, fresh and dark, trickles from underneath the palm he presses to his side. The witcher breathes heavily. He looks at Wszebora, who stares at all this in silence.
"The vial", he rasps. He points with his chin to his half-emptied bag and its contents that lay in the grass. "The round one. Dark glass".
She hands him what he asked for. When he opens the bottle, an unfamiliar, spicy smell fills the air. She watches as the witcher swallows down with heavy gulps. He finishes, throws the vial into the grass, winces and then finally closes his eyes and breathes a sigh. The arm he was pressing to his side falls down limply. The witcher looks like he forgot she is still there. The veins on his brow and the bags underneath his eyes seem to darken, which makes him look even worse. They sit in silence for a while.
"What was it?", she asks at last.
The witcher opens his eyes and looks wearily at her, as if he cannot understand why she still sits beside him and why she wouldn't let him die in peace.
"A cockerel. Tough old beast. It must've abandoned its nest out of hunger".
The witcher falls silent and tries once more to grab his sword. This time he succeeds. He lays the bloodied blade across his knees and grips the hilt. "It's gone. You may come back to the village. There's no more harm to you".
"You're hurt", she says quietly. "No sunrise for you if you stay here. The wolves would come for blood".
The witcher looks darkly at her. He must know better than she what could have been lured from the wilderness with the scent of blood. With no horse and with the blood trickling from him like the water trickles from a leaky wineskin he can never reach the village he took the contract from - she knows he is aware of that. Nevertheless he does not look scared. He does not ask for her help. She stands up.
"I'll be back before the sun sets. Please be alive by then. The soil is dry and hard this year, it would be hard to dig a grave", she says with a quiet voice.
The witcher's yellow eyes look at her curiously, with suspicion.
"Why come back?", he asks her at last. "What good would come out of it?".
Wszebora looks back towards the village, then she sets her gaze back on the witcher. For a moment she stares at the blood on his hands.
"You saved us from the monster. Not right for you to die here alone".
She can see the doubts and distrust etched on his scowled face. She puts her hands on her hips. She is getting impatient. The night is coming. The wolves would not wait.
"Choose", she says sharply. "The wolves or me".
"You".