"He must have fell and hit his head," concluded the bailiff.
Indeed, they found him at the base of a small cliff. One of the villagers found a pair of his boots on the top. Curiously, despite his ragged and scuffed appearance, there were no visible wounds or bleeding to be found on his body – just some bruises.
At least that's what the onlookers could see as they watched the young man swing and strike with his invisible sword. No matter what or how they called out to him, the lad just would not respond.
Finally, Martin was the one who decided to act.
"Alright, that's enough," he muttered, "grab him!"
The men from the village closed in on him and began to restrain him. To their surprise, he resisted fiercely and even managed to throw some of them off. A few of young ones ended up with bloody noses.
"Bugger all! Henry's gone mad!" Fritz cursed.
But eventually, they managed to pin him down. One of the guards brought some rope and they quickly tied him up.
When he realized that they had gotten the better of him, the young man became quiet. Instead he began darting about, staring at his captors like a dazed and confused madman.
That night, Martin brought home a stranger to his wife.
Andrea wept bitterly.
"Oh, The Lord protect us! Oh Henry, my son…what's gotten into you?"
"Sasha, is that you…"
His fingers danced on the leather grip of his silver sword. He could feel the glow of the blade reflecting on the back of his head as he held it behind his arm. The gentle stalks of wheat brushed past his armor as he stepped forwards to her.
"Sasha is dead."
She tilted her heard, and the moonlight illuminated the rotten flesh on her face. The blond strands of her hair floating through the air made them appear as silver strands. Gently, like distant clouds or a whisper of smoke, her floating form turned to face him.
Her deep, echoing voice cut through the air. He felt the air growing colder and colder.
"No…Sasha is here…"
Her disfigured arm wrapped themselves around the child. She was a young girl of twelve years old, wearing a peasant's wool dress. As the gaunt, bony arms closed around the girl's neck, he saw only a blank terror in her eyes.
"My Sasha is right here…"
By now the potion had spread through his blood. A terrible, suffocating calm descended onto his body, and he could feel neither fear nor excitement. His movements felt sharp and precise, like a finely tuned harp string being plucked.
"That girl is not Sasha."
They send for the parish priest at all the way from Rovna.
By the time Father Francis arrived in Skalitz, there was a small crowd gathering outside the house. He made his way through the whispering onlookers and into the blacksmith's home.
He found himself staring at a young man writhing in bed. He was shivering and struggling against his bonds, muttering in a strange language that nobody recognized.
Father Francis was vaguely aware of who the young man was. He had seen him during the weekly services - the blacksmith's son.
Henry, was it?
Frankly, Father Francis preferred not to be here.
The entire affair seemed to be quite nasty indeed. In any case, he was unsure of what to do. If he failed to handle the matter properly, then the villagers may start to question his devoutness.
How would it reflect on his spiritual labors if one of his flock was bewitched by the devil? It may even come to the attention of the abbot!
The rumors were already flying.
"It's the devil's work!"
"His soul must have taken by a demon!"
"Lord forgive us, it's divine punishment for…"
"Oh, come off it! Henry's a good lad, what's he ever done wrong? He must have knocked himself in the head."
"It's the boozing, I tell you! These young 'uns, good-for-nothings…"
Martin did his best to keep the crowd out of his home. At one point he even resorted to threatening the pushy ones with an unfinished sword. But they just wouldn't stop talking. Andrea had knelt beside her son at his bedside, feverishly muttering prayers to the lord.
Father Francis didn't know what to do either.
"Send the crowd away!" was all he managed to say.
In the end Sir Radzig arrived at the scene.
Sir Radzig Kobyla, Royal Hetman and the Lord of Skaltiz, in the service King Wenceslas IV of Bohemia, arrived outside the blacksmith's home.
A small retinue of soldiers accompanied the Hetman. He must've heard the ruckus from his castle – after all, the smithy was located just outside his walls in the inner bailey of palisades.
He dispersed the villagers and ordered them to go back to their homes. Under the threat of force, the Skalitz folk slowly disappeared from the house – giving them some much needed privacy.
Sir Radzig quickly shared some words with Martin and Andrea, out of the earshot of the guards and the priest.
He couldn't help but let out a small sigh.
He posted two guardsmen outside the smithy to prevent other villagers with prying noses. Then he got back on his horse and slowly made his way back to the castle. Just before he entered the gates, he looked back at the blacksmith one last time.
He shook his head with a heavy heart.
Now Father Francis finally had some privacy.
He began to recite prayers in Latin from the Bible, dousing the young man repeatedly with holy water. All night long Andrea and Martin stood in attendance as the priest made the rounds again and again.
The young man seemed to quiet down. But they could not tell if it was by God's protection or if he had simply ran out of energy. Either ways, it was a good sign.
As dawn approached, the priest let out a sigh of relief.
"It seems like devil has been driven out of him."
He slowly wiped the sweat off his forehead.
"I shall go the inn and take a rest. But umm… I shall be back tomorrow, if necessary. To see what else I can do."
And so Father Francis went away. Martin and Andrea were left to attend to their son, who seemed to have fallen asleep. Soon, they too, fell victim to their exhaustion as they lay by their son's bedside.
Dawn was approaching.
But the night still lived.
The air grew colder and colder. The stalks of wheat around her began to wilt, rippling through the field in waves. His medallion began to humming in earnest.
Her voice grew more and more shrill.
"No…Sasha is with me. That girl ran off into the woods…she should be home. I went out to find her. Here she is, I've found her. Now I won't let her leave me again…"
The fingers on his left hand slowly formed a sign.
The sign of Yrden.
"Your daughter died five years ago. You were killed by wolves while you were searching for her. Since then, you've haunted the fields…searching for children –"
"No!"
Her voice cut through the air like blade as a gust of wind erupted through the wheat. He was hit by the full force of her cry, but he held firm. Now his silver sword was no longer hiding behind his right arm.
It came out in a half swing as he sprung back to readjust his footwork. Now both of his hands on the grip, with his knees slightly bent and the tip of the blade facing the midnight wraith.
The young witcher could attack, but it would be no use. She would simply return the next night. He needed to cut the last ties she had from this world.
"Your daughter is dead," he continued, "you are finding other girls to replace her. Can you not understand that you're killing innocent children?"
The wraith threw her head back in howl. Her gaunt fingers pointed at the night sky.
"Look! The stars are the same as they were that night! The same moon hangs in the sky. It is the same sky under which I am still waiting for Sasha…so what difference does it make what night it is?"
He popped a small vial and quickly doused his silver blade with the oil, allowing it spread evenly across the fuller. The witcher advanced slowly.
"You've had a family. Your son is grown now. Your husband still mourns you. You've lived your time. If you really want your daughter to be well, then why should you repeat it again? That girl in your arm has a mother as well…"
At his words the midnight wraith began to howling with chilling shrieks. The pale girl in her embrace began to weep silently. The voice grew stronger and stronger as the witcher closed in with his silver blade.
Thirty paces.
Twenty paces.
Ten paces.
The wraith vanished. He sprung forwards. The blade danced and danced under the moonlight.
Only flashes of silver and death followed.
He reached out his hand to night sky.
The stars are not the same.
Indeed, the constellations were different. As he stared up at the black canvas, he realized that he was no longer under the same sky. The stars were different. The moon was different.
He saw the black silhouette of his hand slowly opening and closing.
He could feel them.
He was alive.
Vague images of a life past came to him. Images of flashing silver and death in the darkness. Of blood, steel and fire. A life spent wandering on the Path, where there were only his two swords to keep him company.
From one contract to another. Monster to monster. Death to death.
You've lived your time.
The ashen-haired girl's cocky smile came back to him. He remembered how he first met her outside the crumbling fortress's gates. A thin, scrawny and underfed little girl. He remembered the first time she managed to complete a proper circle on the Pendulum.
He remembered how she had grown to become a proper, young woman with a blade on her back.
He remembered the gauntlets around his neck.
I died.
He closed his eyes and tracked his approaching footsteps. One last moment to savor the feel of grass on his back. Finally, the footsteps stopped – a man's footsteps. The man was looking at him from behind the fence.
He rose from the grass.
The man staring at him was middle-aged with rough hands. Blacksmith's hands. Yet judging by the way he held himself – square shoulders, straight neck, piercing eyes – he could tell death was no stranger to him as well.
There was concern in the man's eyes.
The concerned eyes of a father.
I've lived my time.
I have no right to take from another.
He nodded to the man – the lad's father, no doubt – and slowly walked towards the house. It was a small blacksmith's home with a linden tree in the backyard. The blacksmith followed him.
He found a woman lying beside the bed, fast asleep. She must be the young man's mother.
He turned back to the blacksmith once more, who was silently gazing at him. He nodded and gave a small, apologetic bow.
It's not my life to live.
Dawn was here.
Andrea woke up.
It was already midday.
She found herself still at her son's beside. The young man was fast asleep. He was even snoring. The old woman couldn't help but wipe some stray tears away from her eyes. But where was Martin?
She got up and found her husband silently sharpening his sword.
Just like he would do all those years ago, before the dawn of a big battle.
"Martin, what are you doing?"
He looked up briefly but said nothing. He went back to sharpening his sword.
Andrea frowned slightly but before she said anything, she heard a knock on the door. She opened it and found the Father Francis on the other end.
"So, how's Henry? Is he getting better? Has he awakened?"
Just as Andrea opened her mouth to speak, she heard something from the bedroom.
It was a yawn.
Then her son appeared at the doorway, sleepily rubbing his eyes. He rubbed his neck and stretched his arms before taking a look around.
"Good morning Ma," said Henry, "I'm really feeling quite hungry. Do you have breakfast?"
Author's Notes:
Hi and welcome to this crossover story.
Originally I wrote it based on a whim when I was trying to grind out stats during the Skalitz prologue. It was always satisfying to be able to kill that first Cuman guy running after you. I'm sure we've all dreamed of being able to kill all the Cuman attackers during the prologue.
As the author, I need to make a disclaimer for the readers. This story will NOT be about a power fantasy of Vesemir completely taking over Henry's story and killing everyone.
This story is about BOTH Vesemir and Henry. They will help each other along the way and grow together – yes, even for an old wolf like Vesemir. I understand that the summary might have been misleading so I've edited it appropriately.
This story will be mainly following the Kingdom Come: Deliverance main quest mixed with some light fantasy elements involving Czech folktales and mythology.
Thanks for reading!