"The more you get into it, the more it stinks", the witcher thinks to himself with a sneer as he wades through the thick, tangled blackberry bushes and dense thickets. The farther he goes away from the sunbathed road, the more the forest around him gets dark and desolate. As the darkness and silence keep growing, the foul smell gets worse. Dense, pungent vapors creep over the muddy litter like fog. The fumes irritate the witcher's throat and burn his eyes. The forest is deathly still and smells of rot and sulfur. Eskel thinks that at least there's no need to trouble himself with proper hunting. He just needs to follow this viscid odor farther and farther, until he reaches its source. The witcher parts the frayed, pale fern leaves with his hands and steps over a rotting log. One of his boots sinks into the soft litter with a wet smack. He wants to get away from this foul bog and go back to fresh air and sunlight, but he stops in his tracks nevertheless. He gazes at one of the tree trunks. There's a brown-red handprint embedded on it, barely visible in a bleak streak of light. He eyes it carefully, squinting his eyes. There's a memory flashing briefly in his mind as he does that. He propped himself against this tree after his fight, while trying to reach his horse. He held onto it tightly for a long time, because he knew that if he had fallen just one more time, he wouldn't have stood up. He would have sunk into the cold, slimy mud and died. His flesh would have rotten because there was not a single living creature in this wretched forest that would chew his bones clean. He grimaces grimly and then goes on. He hasn't fallen anymore that day, not once, until he saw the road between the trees.
The odor becomes almost unbearable and that's how he knows he's close. There's not a single sound coming to his ears. The all-consuming silence is dull and overwhelming. The forest seems desolate. Every living creature has seemingly fled from the rotten smell of the poison. The witcher is on his own.
He parts the last cluster of bushes only to find what he's been looking for. He takes a few more steps and then stops. The cockerel's huge, twisted carcass lies in front of him on the forest litter. He frowns grimly, eyeing the monstrous corpse slowly and with caution. His gaze stops in the places where the carcass is cut through. He follows the traces of his own work. He doesn't remember much from this fight. All he can grasp are just incoherent, glimmering snippets of memories that cannot tell him what really happened. He grimaces and shakes his head with irritation. The cuts are messy, too shallow, not precise enough. He should have used some oil and gone for the arteries right from the start. In the end it was just pure luck that he managed to slain this monster.
He shakes his head and takes out a small, freshly-sharpened knife. He crouches by the carcass and buries the dagger in the beast's dead flesh.
His horse neighs and stamps as he comes back onto the sunbathed road, dragging the severed head of the cockerel on a rope. He claps its neck gently.
"Rotting carcass is not what I'd like to carry either, believe me", he murmurs sourly. "But it is what it is, so stop grumbling".
He secures his trophy behind the saddle and then takes the reins and leads the horse towards the village. The thatches are red in the setting sun. The witcher is grim. The wound on his leg has not healed completely yet and even though his pace is slow and careful, it still throbs with a dull, irritating pain. It's almost dusk before he reaches the village and the bustle is dying out. It's empty and quiet around him, but as he strolls between the huts, he meets the folks, who stop their work to stare at him in silence. Some of the villagers look at him with curiosity, whispering to one another. The others' gazes are cautious and cast from under the eye. Some old man, who's sitting on a bench in front of one of the huts, spits as he sees him. A ruddy woman in a cap on her head hurdles two shabby kids inside and slams the door shut. The monster's head, dangling behind the saddle and dripping green blood, makes a few people sigh and curse. The witcher goes on, not paying much attention to all that. He's tired and grim. The fear and hate do not faze him at all. He just wants to get the coin for the contract he's fulfilled.
He stops in front of one of the huts and wraps the reins around the fence. Then he ties the cockerel's head off the saddle. The lizard's dead eyes peer at him with a sneer as he walks slowly through the yard, dragging the trophy behind through the sand. Before he can knock on the door, a sound of gurgling bark comes from inside, warning the host of his presence. The witcher stops in his tracks and waits patiently. The villagers are still watching him, he can feel their curious gazes tickling his back. After a while the barking stops. The witcher hears some knocking and shuffling, as if someone has just risen from a table, then two or three muffled voices and a sound of footsteps drawing nearer. The door creaks and a young man appears in it. He uses one arm to prop himself against the door frame and tucks the other one behind his belt. The gaze that lands on the witcher is clearly hostile. Behind his back a large, shaggy dog creeps, watching the witcher with similar distrust.
"Whaddaya want?", the man grumbles. Standing in the doorway, he can gaze upon the witcher from above, and he clearly makes use of that fact. His scrawny hands keep twitching.
Eskel points with his chin to the rope he's got wrapped around his fist.
"I came to collect my payment", he says flatly.
The man raises his brows with disdain, but when his gaze wanders to the other end of the rope, he instantly loses his composure. He glares at the carcass for a while, grimacing with disgust. Finally he raises his eyes back at the witcher, but the repulsion in his gaze does not fade. He folds his arms over his chest and raises his chin, as if he wanted to regain his smug attitude.
"So you're that monster-killer".
"I am".
"And what is that wretched thing you've brought here?"
"It's a cockerel", he says quietly. "It devoured your cattle".
"And how much coin do you want for that?"
Eskel takes a step forward. The dog that's been creeping behind the man's legs bristles the fur on its back and growls menacingly.
"I made my contract with the village's elder. He's the one I came here for", he murmurs, looking fixedly at the man. He bears the witcher's gaze for a while, but then he averts his gaze and makes a non-distinct sound. He straightens his back and looks over his shoulder and then back at the witcher.
"Come in", he says curtly. "But leave that filthy thing here. Momma would pop off for sure if you'd brought it in".
The witcher nods. He leaves the carcass by the door and follows the man inside, but once he steps through the door, he cannot make a step further. The shaggy mongrel is still there, guarding the entrance with a low growl.
"Smagor, come back", a low, hoarse voice speaks. The dog growls once more and then stands up and shuffles further into the room, where he lays next to a low bench and watches the witcher's every move from there. The man that's sitting on that bench pats the dog's head. The witcher comes closer to him.
The village's elder doesn't let the witcher's arrival disrupt his dinner. All he does is cast him a brief, uninterested look and then he turns his attention back to his plate. He's a man well past his young years. His hair has turned partly gray and the skin on his long face seems dry and sallow. His arms are lanky like his son's, but there is clearly rigid strength in them, strength of a man that knows hard work. A crooked nose and amber gold eyes with a sharp gaze to them give his face a certain harshness that makes him resemble a bird of prey.
When the witcher stands in front of him, he doesn't react in any visible way. First he finishes his meal, in silence and with no hurry at all. Then he reaches for a mug that's been just filled by a scrawny woman bustling around the table. He drinks for a while, puts the mug away, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and just then he slowly straightens his back and folds his crooked hands on his belly, looking at the newcomer.
"Greetings, witcher", he says calmly.
Eskel nods just a little. This harsh, contemptuous welcome does not faze him in the slightest. Decades of fulfilling contracts just like this one have taught him that men in power - a village's elder and earl in the castle alike - are always eager to show off that power. There was a time when he would get irritated with this. Now he just doesn't care.
"I'm here for the payment for the cockerel's head", he states flatly.
The village's elder squints his eyes as if he's pondering some thought. He raises his hand and without looking finds the head of the dog that's lurking under the bench. He scrapes the dog behind the ear, slowly and carefully. His eyes are fixed on the witcher.
"I've heard that the monster gave you more than you bargained for", he says at last. His yellow, birdlike eyes are cold and thoughtful, but there's no disdain in his voice.
Eskel folds his arms over his chest.
"It doesn't matter. I fulfilled the contract", he says quietly.
The old man stops petting the dog and folds his arms in front of himself.
"That's where you're wrong, witcher. It does matter", he says. His low, rough voice is no longer flat, now there's a harsh ring to it. The elder speaks slowly and quietly, carefully choosing his words so that every one of them is clear and separated from the others. "The contract we've made was that you shall kill the monster, take your coin and go your way".
Eskel doesn't move.
"Nothing's changed", he states calmly. "Pay me and I'll be gone".
They stare at each other for a long while in dead silence. Finally the elder leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.
"Seems to me you're very late to collect your coin. I'm not sure if it's still yours to take", he says in a quiet, gruff voice.
Eskel wants to curse under his breath, but doesn't. The botched contracts are always a pain in the ass. Sometimes the hardest thing is how to mend a nasty wound before too much blood spills out of it and you die. And some other times the hardest thing is how to collect any coin for that spilled blood. Eskel clenches his teeth. People always try to make excuses, search for his pity or make a valiant attempt at intimidation - all in the effort of saving their money from him. He remembers the story of the katakan hunt all too well. He tracked it for weeks through the forests of Temeria only to earn not a single coin for its head. Now he expects the same - the rancors and the bargains - only this time he doesn't intend to leave empty-handed. There's no denying that he didn't do his job as neatly as was expected, but the cockerel is dead and that's all there is to it.
"I killed the monster", he states, never losing his composure.
The old man squints his eyes and leans back against the wall.
"I've heard that the monster got close to killing you instead", he says. His voice is starting to sound cold and sharp. "You've strained our hospitality, witcher. You've botched your work and thus you've been given food and a roof over your head. It's not what we've settled on".
Eskel unfolds his arms and takes a step forward. The dog lurking under the bench raises its head and growls, alarmed. Eskel casts it a brief, irritated look and fights a sudden urge to stun it with an Aksji sign. Instead he focuses his gaze again on the man in front of him.
"I didn't ask for your help", he says.
The old man snorts and shakes his head a little. There's a little sneer on his lips that makes his face wrinkle even more.
"But you needed help", he states. "And that means you failed at your job. So tell me, why should I pay you for it?"
Eskel does not respond to the provocation. He stands in front of the older man, unfazed, with not a single twitch on his face. He's silent. The old man watches him just as calmly. At last he averts his gaze and looks towards the window. He fixes his eyes on the huts. In the dusk their thatched roofs are no more than round, black forms. The elder's face looks like it was carved in dry, coarse wood. It wrinkles as he muses on something.
"You see, witcher", he starts slowly, "there are rules in the village. Rules that our fathers and their fathers before obeyed. We know what a man ought to do to live a proper life".
He averts his gaze from the window and looks the witcher in the eyes. His gaze is hard and serious.
"You disobey those rules", he adds at last.
Eskel frowns.
"What rules?", he asks.
"You live under a roof with no proper host. With the women". The elder's hoarse voice sounds sharper and more distinct as he speaks the last words. "Their virtue is in peril with you around. It cannot be permitted. Even more so when there are men who want to marry".
For a long while Eskel watches the village's elder in silence. He muses on his words and the answer he's about to give. His patience is growing thin, but he forces himself to stay composed. He knows that he can leave this wretched place at any moment, but Wszebora and Cudka will stay. He doesn't want to make their lives any harder than they already are. He sighs heavily.
"Pay me and I'll go. This way no one's virtue will be imperiled", he says flatly.
There is a sneer behind his back, clearly full of contempt. Not particularly fazed by it, the witcher looks over his shoulder to see the elder's son, who has just stood up from the stool in the corner, from where he's been listening to their conversation. The man makes a few steps towards them. He tucks his thumbs behind his belt again and raises his stubbled chin high, probably to compensate for the fact that the witcher stands a solid few inches taller than him. He eyes him from head to toe and taunts:
"So they say that witchers are no proper men. Even if one lays with a lass, nothing will come out of it. No kiddy. But I would not take one that's been with a witcher. Foul, that's what it is. Who knows what a witcher could taint her with".
Eskel unfolds his arms and slowly turns towards the boy. He's staring at him, brazen with the fact that as long as he is at his own home, witcher cannot do him any harm. Eskel looks at him calmly.
"If I were you, I would be careful", he says quietly. "We witchers can taint your women with the thought that they don't actually need some hobbledehoys in sackcloth pants. And what would you do then?"
The boy blinks and loses his confidence for a moment. He glimpses towards his father, who's watching this scene with composure equal to the witcher's. Finally he pulls his pants up and snorts.
"I need no opinions from any lass. I take from them what's mine and that's all", he declares.
The witcher says nothing. He just stares at the boy, cold and unmoved, and that's enough to make him take a step back. Eskel turns his gaze back to the old man. The elder looks back at him, completely unfazed with the scene that's just unfolded.
"Some folks think I should banish you with no prize, witcher", he says dryly. "Chase you out with the dogs, so you won't ever come back".
Eskel stays calm, but his irritation grows. He's annoyed not only with this silly kid and with his father, but also with himself. He shouldn't have let them taunt him. He should have endured the mockering and the insults, at least for Wszebora's sake, if not for his own peace of mind. He's far too old to be bothered with this kind of foolery. He's seen too much of it. But there's something so icky and irritating in these people that he just cannot keep his composure any longer. He makes another step, props his arms on the table and leans forward.
"Maybe those folks should hunt down the drowners in your swamps. The arachnomorphs and kikimores in your woods. The griffins and the draconids that devour your cattle. So no lustful witchers would come after your women's virtue", he growls.
The village's elder squints his eyes. The muscles on his jaw tense under his wrinkled skin. Finally he reaches under his wool coat and tosses a small leather sack onto the table with disdain.
"Here's your coin, witcher", he drawls in a low, sullen voice. "Take it and begone".