.XXXI. The Path: .II. A Rivian's Dilemma.
'Doctor...I need some medicine !', screamed the patient, restless, eyes bloodshot, palms sweaty and lips dried up, tugging on the chain with which he was tied to the bed. 'I'm burning up ! Please !', he continued accompanied by the continuous rumble of the chain.
Near the room, or rather cell the patient was housed in, beyond the doctor's desk, on a creaking chair sat an individual, resting his legs onto the right side of the table, browsing through the old pages of an 8th century Medical Encyclopedia, he found on the bookshelf which stood, more of leaned on the wall behind, two steps left of a staircase leading to the basement. From which one could hear the clink of metallic objects being placed on a tray, followed by footsteps...
'Nurse !', a man's raspy muffled voice came from the basement, accompanied by approaching footsteps. 'Esther ! Dammit, you snoozing again ? Esther !', he continued, coming up the stairs. 'Esther ?'.
'She's not here.', the man sitting at the desk said, closing the book he perused upon, startling the doctor. 'I've sent her to the market.'.
'And you couldn't come down and tell me ?', the doctor said, after he took off his mask.
'You know I don't like the smell down there...'.
'What smell, alcohol ?'.
'Alcohol...', the man replied with a chuckle, taking his feet off the desk, while placing the book on it. 'One would get quite drunk only on the fumes down there. You think I don't know why you wear the mask ?'.
'As I recall, you're no stranger to holding your booze.', the doctor said, grabbing a mug from the desk.
'True. However, it's quite early in the day...', the man replied, while the doctor removed the lid off a bucket containing water. He filled the mug, then drank.
'Why are you here, Beau ?', he asked turning toward his pal, with a sigh, then refilled the mug.
'Have you managed, yet, to examine the corpse that the guards pulled out of the gutter this morning ?'.
'I did not. Been busy doing the autopsy on a priest. His wife was quite insistent upon it being done 'As quick as a Wink'...'.
'From what I recall, priests don't take wives…', the doctor's friend said, meticulously examining a small specimen of what he suspected to be a Zerrikanian scorpion. As it moved within a jar containing sand on the right side of the desk.
'Well, rumors say that this particular priest, frequented the inner circles of an esteemed governor back in Nilfgaard. And as for being a Priest, it seems to have been a mere title...'.
'A priest from the motherland...', Beau sighed. 'What was he doing in Dorian ?'
'Nothing. He stopped here on his way to Vizima about two days ago. The wife mentioned he fell ill a few days after they passed over the Alba. His condition took a turn for the worst three days ago. Thus, they decided to stop here, in Dorian. They were lodged at the Plundered Inn. Where contrary to his wife's wish, he refused to be seen by a doctor, and requested that a witch or at least a herbalist be brought to him at once. Which by his wife's sayings, helped ease his ailment, but to no avail, as he passed away early this morning.', the doctor answered.
'Hmm. Your search for what caused his death, was it fascinating ?', Beau asked sarcastically, while the doctor grabbed a chair.
'Not in the beginning...', the doctor replied, aware of the sarcastic tone in his friend's inquiry. Yet, as he did enjoy to bore him with his dull life, he proceeded to explain. 'But it got a whole lot more intriguing, when I found that he had syphilis. Which adjoined by a preexisting precarious heart condition, led to death...', the doctor resumed, with a bored tone as if the highest point of his day, was this very conversation.
'Hmm. intriguing indeed...', Beau said, resting his head on the chair's backrest, as the doctor placed a chair on the other side of the table and took a seat. 'Which do you think had an affair, the priest or the priest's wife ?.
'Oh. We're doing this again ?', the doctor replied, taking a sip from the mug. 'The wife ?'.
Beau chuckled. 'You know what I find interesting ?'.
'What ?', the doctor asked, leaning forward.
'You always choose the wife.'.
'Title or not, he was a priest.'.
'So ? I say he was a man, who still had his cock and balls. And as long as a man has those two, one should never be ruled out of being unfaithful. No matter his occupation, creed or race. For a man is a man.'.
'Still, you generalize.'.
'I might...'.
'You really believe there's no man that would refrain himself from such temptations ? How about you and Edda ? Is she tempting you ?', the doctor asked with a subtle smile.
'Every day... And there are other kinds of temptations, besides sexual.'.
'Doc- Doctor !', yelled the man behind bars. 'Give me some medicine ! I b-be-beg of you !'.
'I've been meaning to ask...Who's he ?', inquired Beau.
'You don't know ?', the doctor replied, slightly surprised, that Beau was just as uninformed as he was. 'Edda brought him in here. Tossed him in that cell, said I should give him another bucket of water at noon, then locked the door and left.'.
'Well...That's one of many other things she tempts me with.', Beau said, raising from the chair, and looked at his friend who was awaiting further clarification. 'Curiosity.'.
'Ah...', the doctor murmured.
'Have you looked at him ?', Beau asked approaching the cell, and chuckled. 'She didn't mention by any chance why she had him chained to the bed ?'.
'Not a word, I told you what she said...'.
'And you didn't find it odd ?'.
'I learned not to ask or consider things when it comes to you two.'.
'And I don't blame you...', Beau replied, carefully inspecting the man's condition. 'Judging by the excessive sweat, red eyes, soreness, scratching and Edda's involvement, I'd say he's ailment is withdrawal from fisstech.'.
'That seems to be the case. But, why bring him here ?'.
'I can't be certain why, but if I am to guess, she did so to keep him sober.', Beau said, and with a click of his tongue he headed back to the desk. 'Nothing we can do. So, where were we ? Ah, temptation...How about you and Esther ?'.
The doctor snorted, as he was about to take another sip of water from the mug. 'Esther, my nurse ?', he asked then coughed.
'Yes. Do you know another with that name ?'.
'I know her since we were children. There's no temptation there...Just friendship and a healthy workplace etiquette.'.
'Still. She is-'.
'Quit it. I know what you're trying to do...', the doctor interrupted, then gulped down the rest of the water he had left in his mug.
'I've no idea what you're talking about ?', Beau chuckled, as he hid his smirk beyond the book's cover.
'You're trying to tempt me. And, since you know me and Esther for almost as long as we know each other-'.
'I would know, you used to fancy her...', Beau added, as his eyes moved to look beyond the book he hid his smirk beyond. 'Yes, I've noticed.', he continued, placing the book back on the desk. 'And I know that such emotions developed by someone during childhood don't just disappear...'.
'I tend to forget of how you used to point that out to other folk, resulting in you being punched in the face...'.
'Me too...', Beau replied with a sigh. 'So ?', he continued leaning forward.
'So what ?'.
'Are you going to punch me in the face ?'.
'No, sadly, I'm not going to punch you in the face.', he replied, as he stood up and fetched himself another mug of water.
'Good. You never knew how to properly punch anyways. I saved you from an embarrassment.'.
'Very funny...', the doctor replied, dipping the mug into the bucket.
As then, the door violently opened, and just so it was slammed shut. 'The bastards, they're coming for you !', spoke Edda, breathing heavily, while Beau jumped on his feet.
'Where are they-', he inquired before being cut short.
'Beaumont J. Yaalvond du Vengerberg ! Step out of the household currently used as a temporary morgue at once ! Unarmed and with your hands up !', yelled a man, with a adenoidal voice as he was approaching the door, accompanied by the clinking of plates, the thud of his boots, and the loud knocks he gave to the door. 'We know you are in there. If your desire is not to be harmed, I advice you and your associates to step out at once ! Unarmed and with your hands up !'.
'Witcher.', called a wealthy merchant, covered by a crimson cloak which, would reveal from time to time a fancy doublet, a dark leather satchel, and a knife opposed to it.
'Yes ?', Gerd answered, turning his back as he sat on the driver's seat, leaning on the backrest, laying his eyes on the other individuals, women and children, sitting in the back of the wagon. 'What is it ?'.
'Anything ahead ?', the merchant vaguely inquired.
Gerd chuckled. 'By anything you mean torched huts ? Severed heads laid into spikes on the road's side and bodies hanged by trees with signs nailed onto their torso, on which is written in blood, 'Traitor' ? Then no.'.
'What else ?', the individual asked, nervous, attempting to raise himself enough to see what laid ahead. 'This damned toddler like tantrum, affects all small businesses out of Temeria. And I had to leave mine- My shop ! My home and all my wares behind so that I wouldn't be flayed alive alike a witch, hanged as a thief or beaten alike a dog, by a kings army to which I've done close to naught, but being a fair and law obedient citizen. I've no taxes left unpaid, no fines, no complaints. I am a model citizen of both Temeria and Rivia, dammit ! All I've done wrong is that I was born in one country, and chose to live and do business in both !'.
'That's war, friend. Marginalizes foreigners, and colors enemies out of decent folk. A world turned onto itself.', spoke the gray haired temerian driver sitting next to the witcher. 'Wars aren't our fault, my friend, nor do we have a saying in such a matter. Nor are they fought to serve our wishes. But, those of the one wearing the crown...'.
'Well...The imbeciles wearing the crowns, are fighting a losing war. Lyria and Rivia, have naught to claim, but their freedom from being vassal states of Temeria. And to give ground for their skirmish, they concocted this drivel that the prices and taxes imposed by Temeria on temerian goods are far to high, as King Cedric and his collaborators swindling of the Rivian and Lyrian citizens must come to an abrupt end. Which a vast majority of folk took as fact and armed themselves with ignorance, howling from their bowels that this abuse has to end, proclaiming war to Temeria.', the merchant replied, as he almost turned red with fury, if he hadn't taken a sip from the bottle of vodka he kept near. 'And as for the taxes...The cretins raised them themselves overnight. Certain that it would hurt Temeria's export of goods. But it achieved no such thing. Only prove the Temerian's right, who at the beginning of this inane conflict, argued that Rivian and Lyrian mouths will be left unfed and along with the harsh winter we just had, will result in a widespread hunger. To which our revered monarchs scoffed, and deemed as condescending, erroneous gibberish. Stating that both Rivia and Lyria have more than enough to feed it's populace...', the merchant continued with a lengthy sigh, then remained silent as his voice was replaced by coughs and sniffs coming from behind, as well as by the rattling of the wagon, snorts of the horses, and the spat of the driver.
'There's nothing we can do, friend. But bear this plague they unleashed onto us.', the driver added, with a sniff, as his eyes of a bright blue surveyed the sides of the road.
'Alright...', the merchant muttered as if insulted. 'Are we to bear too, when the others alike Aedirn side with Temeria, and shut their borders and commerce to us ? What are we going to eat then ? Grass ? Sticks and bloody stones !?'.
'Whatever we have, friend. Whatever we have...', the driver added calmly, whipping the horses, while the merchant fell on his bottom and leaned silently against the side of the wagon, taking another sip from the bottle.
All the while, Gerd watched the clearing in which the convoy of wagons was, narrow down, as the grass and bushes turned into small trees. While the front of the convoy had already entered the tall woods which covered the hills ahead.
'Seeing something out of the ordinary ?', asked the driver, clearing his throat.
'Nothing yet.', Gerd replied, tirelessly inspecting the road ahead. 'But, we are closing to the spot where the attacks happened...'.
'That we are...', the driver validated, then spat. 'Would it be to much perhaps, for an old man such as myself to hope that we'll make it to the other side of these woodlands safe and sound ?'.
'I'd suggest, not to-'.
While from the back of the wagon the merchant introduced himself in their discussion. 'Attacks ?! What attacks ?', he inquired, with a forced whisper.
The driver grunted, laying his eyes on the concerned merchant. 'Something, attacked two wagons as they passed through these woods, about four days ago. The damned thing went after the backside of the convoy as it passed the woods ahead. Sent one of the last two wagons tumbling and crash into the trees as if it was nothing, and flipped the other one ahead onto it's roof. By some luck only one man survived that ruckus, a driver, and one of his horses. Hence, why me and a couple of other drivers chipped in and hired the witcher.', the man answered, while the merchant gasped. 'I wouldn't worry if I were you-'.
'Wouldn't worry !', the merchant burst, compressing his lips. 'I- left Temeria out of fear to not be killed by soldiers, and you tell me not to worry- Witcher. Is there any chance we wouldn't be attacked ?'.
Gerd turned to the driver, who looked back at the merchant, then nodded. 'Depends. On whether it's hungry or not...'. He responded, while the merchant turned pale and took a jittery sip from his bottle. 'Then, there are the chances that it would attack this particular wagon...'.
'Whi-Which are ?', the merchant murmured.
'Not in our favor.'.
The merchant sighed. 'Pox...'.
'What's your name, friend ?', asked the driver, tilting his head towards the merchant. 'Mine's Merle, and the young witcher's called Gerd.'.
'Ziven...', the merchant replied. 'Pleased to make acquaintance. Even though, I would've preferred to do so in better circumstances.'.
'We all would, Ziven, we all would...', Merle replied, moving aside on the bench, making space in the middle. 'Sit with us...'.
The merchant nodded, grunting as he climbed over the improvised backrest, and sat on the bench, beside Merle and the witcher. 'So...', he said, making himself comfortable. 'Did anyone manage to get a glimpse of the attacker ?'.
'No.', Merle responded, compressing his lips. 'No one did. For none wanted to stop, slow down nor go back. Some, out of fear of whatever attacked the last two wagons. And as for the others, they were afraid that if the convoy would stop or go any slower, the soldiers will catch up.'.
'There were no attacks before ?'.
'I wouldn't know. And nor would any other man in this convoy. This route hasn't been traveled in the last couple of years. As most would choose the route south of here. The one that forks both north an south, as you head west from Scala. For no other reason, that during spring the rainfall makes this route awful to trek. Fortunately, we've had hardly any rain this year. Thus, this route is passable, and considering the reason we're here, I pray to the gods to spare us of bad weather for a few more days...'.
The merchant sighed, and remained silent for a while, checking the sky for clouds. 'By the looks of it...', Ziven began, as he stared at the blue sky, devoid of any clouds. 'We just might.', he continued, lowering his eyes towards the wagons ahead. 'And with none of the wagons ahead attacked, this far...'.
'Just so, nor did any of them, the last four times we've passed through here...', Merle added, then spat. 'You better not jinx us, Ziven.'. The merchant awkwardly grinned, squirming. 'Been with the witcher all those times too.'.
'Yet, there must be several theories regarding what had attacked the convoy ? Aren't there ?', the merchant asked, turning to Gerd, who didn't reply. 'There aren't ? Gods help us...'.
'Besides the blood soaked ground, there wasn't much to identify it.', Gerd said, after a few moments. 'It could be anything with horns, claws or sharp teeth...', he continued as the wagon they were in, slowly began the descent of the hill's barren slope.
'Blo-Blood soaked ?', asked Ziven, still squirming about.
Merle nodded with a sigh. 'Me and a couple others returned here shortly after we reached the town of Hearton. We found nothing beside the wrecked wagons. No corpses, nor human or animal. Just blood...', Merle answered.
'What could've done that ?'.
'Only the gods know...', Merle answered, biting the left side of his lip. 'But, I wouldn't worry, my friend. We'll be the first to find out.', Merle joked, all the while Ziven turned pale.
'We ? Wait...There's only one more wagon behind us...', the merchant murmured, pale as snow. 'Witcher...', he continued, turning to Gerd. 'Could it be, that you believe- It attacked the backside of the convoy on purpose ? Do you ?'.
'Mhm.', murmured the witcher.
'Wha-What about the people-'.
'Well...', Merle interrupted, taking a long breath. 'We intended to leave with the wagon empty. But, as there were many people left...I-'.
'Decided to murder us all ? Men ? Women and children ? Myself included ?', Ziven uttered, then scoffed. 'You have no idea of what would attack us-'.
'The witcher-'.
'The witcher knows shite !', Ziven burst. 'He's only a few years older then the brats wrapped in their mothers arms, sitting behind us.', Ziven continued shaking his head with indignation. 'For if the beast attacks- He- We- We'll all perish alongside him-', the merchant attempted to continue his line of thoughts, before Merle interrupted.
'Listen !', Merle began nudging the merchant. 'You are not wrong. But you aren't right either. If you want to go back, I won't stop you. However, Ziven, we both know, you don't want to go back. So, if you don't want to go forward nor back, what's there left to do ? You cannot stay here. For if you would, you'd give in to fear. Fear of what ? Eh ? Death ? We all die at some point, my friend. Fearing the inevitable is ridiculous. At this moment, you either dare or give up. That's all the control you have. So ? What are you going to choose ?'.
It took the merchant a while to answer. 'I- don't want to go back, and I'm certain I don't want to remain here. You're right...', he sighed, staring at his boots. 'I am not used to this particular kind of daring. For I just don't want to perish in the middle of nowhere. With none of my kin knowing of how I died and by whose hand.'.
'So, you're family is in Rivia, then ?'.
'No...', the merchant puffed. 'Temeria. I've left my wife and children with my brother in law. Whom I instructed to take them to Dorian, where they'd have to wait out this ridiculous quarrel.', Ziven continued with a shivering groan.
'Then how come you're heading into Rivia ? Why didn't you go with them ?'.
'My sister.', Ziven answered with a sniff. 'She and her family live in Hearton. I just couldn't flee to Dorian, and let her and her family starve to death. For who knows how much this senseless schism is going to last...', he continued, as he raised his eyes from his boots, letting out a deep sigh. 'I mean, since a week ago, when both Rivia and Lyria sent troops beyond the Mahakam Mountains, to butcher and burn villages. Temeria didn't just pound their hinds, but has almost surrounded them, as Aedirn answered the call to arms, and while Sodden is still maintaining it's neutrality, and Angren stated that they don't want to be dragged in their conflict, I've little faith that Rivia and Lyria will call for a truce any time soon...'.
'They're stubborn.'.
'More foolish, than stubborn it seems. Setting off a damned war during spring, after the rough winter we just had...', Ziven scoffed. 'Heed my words, Merle. The temerians, they'll starve most of Rivia and Lyria to death...'.
As the convoy lazily advanced downhill, Merle and Ziven grew silent. All the while, Gerd, hadn't seen nor heard anything out of the ordinary. Nor did he hope to be able to, as he knew that if the monster would decide to attack their wagon or the one behind, he could do very little to prevent it. However, he was aware that his presence is not to prevent the attack, but rather make sure it won't happen again, for his job was to ensure the long term safety of this route. As to his surprise, the folk in the backside of the wagon, were rather calm, and the same could be said about the people in the wagon behind. For none left when Merle told them about why he and the witcher wanted the wagon to be empty, but argued that they cannot be left behind, to be beaten or killed by temerian soldiers, that they'd rather die trying to flee, then waiting around. Yet, he didn't knew whether their tranquility was because of his presence, or that they had so little hope for survival, if an attack were to happen, that they made peace with the possibility of dying.
'What else are you saying ?', Ziven asked, after a good amount of time spent in silence, as the wagon was almost at the bottom of the two hills.
'Not much.', Merle added.
'I for one, have a strange craving for a pint of beer...', Ziven began, clicking his tongue. 'Believe it or not, but there's some good ale in Hearton. Apparently, it's flavour is unique, or so the tavern owners pride themselves over the famed recipe. Which is, as you would expect, a stubbornly kept family secret...', Ziven continued, all the while Gerd raised from the bench looking ahead.
Merle chuckled. 'Now that you mention, I wouldn't mind a pint myself...'.
'We've a problem.', Gerd said, turning to Merle.
'What ?'.
'There's a wagon ahead stranded on the right side of the road.'.
'Dammit, we're supposed to be the last two...', Merle replied lifting himself up, to see what laid ahead. 'Dammit, it's Ismur.'.
'The dwarf ?', Gerd asked, while Merle nodded. 'I'll go ahead and see if I can help.', the witcher continued, then jumped from the wagon.
While Gerd hurried towards it, from the dwarf's wagon, which used to be among the fourth or fifth in the front, from the side facing the woods, only swearing and curses could be heard, along with a couple of clangs. 'Fuckin' shite !', yelled the dwarf as he kicked the back wheel.
'Stop swearing and cursing' !', a woman wailed, climbing down from the wagon. 'What good's that gonna do ?'.
'Ah ! Shut it !', the dwarf replied, kicking the wheel again. 'Unless you aim to help me fix this damn thing...'.
'Why did you think I got out of the wagon for ?', the ginger haired woman asked, standing near the dwarf, who was trying to push the rear wheel back into place. 'For laughs and giggles ?'.
'Unless you can lift this piece of shite ! Laughs and giggles is all you're good for...', the dwarf replied, as he then noticed the witcher approach his wagon. 'Ah ! Gerd ! Praised be the sweet bosom of Melitele !', Ismur continued, as he was then swiftly nudged by the woman. 'What ?! Isn't that cunt the patroness of nature and love ? For the damned nature is what fucked us !'.
'How is it ?', asked Gerd, walking past the back of the wagon.
'Fuckin' stuck ! That's how...', the dwarf responded, hitting the wheel with the side of his fist.
'Then we better fix it, before the last four wagons go past us...'.
The dwarf's thick brows frowned, settling over his wide opened eyes accompanied by a grunt, as he nimbly grabbed onto the wheel. 'Then fuckin' help me lift this hunk of shite !'.
With the help of the witcher, Ismur did manage to mend the rear wheel of his wagon, yet contrary to their hopes, they failed to do so just before the rear end of the convoy would catch up. Thus, by the time the reparations were done, the back of the convoy was almost disappearing beyond the thickets at the top of the hill. And as Gerd expected, Ismur wouldn't calm nor try to until they'd reach the back of the convoy. For by the time he was back aboard his wagon and fiercely whipped the horses, he had successfully cursed half of the gods in the northern pantheons.
'Shite !', the dwarf began, accompanied by the rattling of the wagon, leaned forward, watching as the rear of the convoy disappeared beyond the hump of the hill. 'At this rate, by the time we reach the top, we'll be fuckin' sledding down the other side !'.
'Then slow down !', the ginger haired woman yelled from the back of the wagon, with a couple of groans.
'We're barely moving ! If we go any slower, we'll be fuckin' still !'.
'Then don't go through all the wretched potholes !'.
'The whole fuckin' road is littered with cursed potholes !', the dwarf replied with a puff. 'Shut it !', he resumed, as the woman, aided by a rope attached to the side of the wagon, stopped behind Ismur.
'I remember telling you to quit talking to me like that in front of strangers !', the woman said with a hiss, slapping Ismur's shoulder. 'Is that the example you're trying to set ?', she continued while the dwarf replied with a murmur. 'If so, Ismur my dear, you're an ill-mannered little man. And I pity you for it...', she added, as Ismur muttered something under his breath. 'So, witcher...', she said, with a poke to his upper arm. 'I've heard you were hired to slay the beast which attacked those wagons a few days ago.', she resumed, sitting in between Ismur and Gerd. 'Did you find anything ?'.
'Very little.', he answered, tilting his head her way, as her bright blue eyes absorbed his, with an intimidating efficiency. Then, she proceeded with a squint and softly puckered her rosy lips, as if she desired the young witcher's undivided attention. Which, she gained without much effort.
'Hmm...', she murmured, then softly smiled. 'I'm Tasia, by the way.'.
'Gerd.'.
'I know-'.
'Leave him be, woman. He's to be vigilant, not distracted by the likes of you.', the dwarf said, a wee bit calmer as the road conditions got better, as they were ascending the hill. 'Just don't look her in the eyes, lad...', the dwarf continued, further cutting the growing tension between the two. 'For Tasia here, is a cruel woman.', the dwarf continued, as she nudged him.
'Cruel ?', Tasia scoffed.
'Aye.', the dwarf replied, scratching his auburn beard.
Tasia softly chuckled. 'Aren't you jealous, by any chance ?', she said, as Ismur gave an awkward smile and a giggle, while maintaining his eyes ahead. 'You're awfully simple to read. Even with all that fur covering your silly mug.', she continued, .'Besides, what exactly are you jealous for ? I'm not your wife nor your lover. For-'.
'I fuckin' know what you do...'.
'And that's why I'm cruel ?!', Tasia asked, slapping Ismur's ear. 'That's how I make my coin, how I earn my living ! Blaming or shaming me for it is as if I would taunt you for being short.'.
'Which you fuckin' do...'.
'Yet, I am merely teasing you.'.
'And how is it the same ? I cannot will myself to be taller-', Ismur said as he was then interrupted by Tasia's scornful chuckle.
'And should I will myself to be what exactly ? A wife ? A mother ? A mere object, appreciated for two exact things, both related to each other ? A thing a man can shove his dick into whenever he wants ?'.
'Isn't that what-'.
'No !', she promptly replied with a hiss. 'As I am no ones property. It baffles me that folk think a woman's purpose in life is to marry a dimwit, give birth to his children then take care of them. How's that not as degrading as what I do ? As in my opinion, it is the most demeaning thing a woman could choose to do, and all is because of love ? Fuck love ! And all who foolishly believe in it. For if that's the sole purpose a woman should live for, then...', she scoffed, while the dwarf fell silent. 'I'd rather not live at all.', she resumed, with a sigh. 'For Ismur, my dear, despite you're rough looks, you are indeed a sweet, good man. But, also a helpless fool...', she continued, with a gentle brush of her fingers to his cheek.
Ismur cleared his throat, then sniffed. 'Witcher...', the dwarf said, as his brows descended above his eyes, while a neigh was heard from ahead. 'Isn't that ashen horse, your mare ?'.
'It is.', Gerd replied.
'Then who's the rider ? And how come she didn't buck him yet ?'.
'Merle.', the witcher answered, as the temerian approached. 'That's Merle.'.
'Witcher ! Ismur !', Merle shouted waving, as he stopped and awaited them on the right side of the road, then rode alongside them. 'Thank the gods you're fine ! We thought something else happened to you, after we lost sight of your wagon.', Merle resumed, with a cough, while laying his eyes on Gerd. 'Well...As the road ahead is still in good condition, the convoy made it out of the woods, and is almost in Hearton by now...'.
'So no attacks...'.
'No, we are fortunate.'.
'It seems so...'.
'You seem disappointed, lad ?', Ismur said with a chuckle, then spat. 'Is it so bad that the convoy wasn't attacked ? Perhaps, that damned thing fucked off somewhere else...'.
'I doubt it.', Gerd murmured. 'I've traveled this route almost five times already. And nothing happened then either. But, whatever attacked them then, will attack again.'.
'Hah ! I bet you're the only one that wants the convoy to be attacked. Don't fuss, just take it as it is, and lighten up. What's there to care about anyway ? They pay for your food and lodging. So lad, once we reach Hearton, get yourself something to drink and eat, then sleep till tomorrow. When, you'll have to trek this damned route again...'.
Gerd replied with a couple of nods, as he then set his eyes on Merle. 'By the way...', he said with a subtle sigh. 'How far are we going tomorrow ?'.
'Same as today.'.
'How many wagons ?'.
'Half.', Merle answered as Gerd remained silent, certainly due to the frustration his current contract caused him. For at the time he took the contract, which he expected to be but a brief detour on his journey to Beauclair, proved to be five dull days he spent mostly by sitting in a wagon.
'Why ? Are the others fleeing into Angren ?', the dwarf asked with a snicker, while Merle nodded. 'We should head back to Riedbrune as well...'.
'I guess...', Merle muttered, then spat. 'There's not much left we could help with, before the Temerian banners will flood the borders...'.
Although, the news regarding the convoy's uneventful journey back to Hearton had been welcomed by Gerd, whom, in the morning, before their departure, anticipated yet another monotonous trip. And at the same time, despised the following days, which he presumed to be just as damp and futile, at least as far as his trade was concerned. However, as they were passing through the woods at the top of the hill where the attacks happened, all of a sudden the witcher raised from the seat, staring intensely into the woods, and then jumped from the wagon. 'Do not stop !', he yelled as he jumped. Alerted by the increased trembling of his medallion, he unsheathed his silver sword. As from the woods, a gush of wind accompanied by the croaking of crows followed by a slim figure. It's torso made of contorted wood with roots extending outwards from within it's chest. It's shoulders layered with moss, and mushrooms. Arms and legs of a rough grey and musky bark, cracked and rugged, worn by the wind and rain. It's neck composed of roots, some alike sinews, while his head, but a deer's skull, with sharp antlers the size of one's arm. Revealing itself from amidst the woods, as if its his meeting with the witcher had been planned, and very much awaited.
'Finally...', Gerd grinned, as he watched the beast steadily reach the side of the woods raising it's arm, as slim as the branch of a tree, with sharpened claws, turning white towards the tips. Then, with a growl and the croaking of the crows, it vanished into the woods, as if it invited the witcher to enter its domain.
'Witcher !', Merle shouted, from a few meters away, as further down the hill, was Ismur's wagon.
'Leave my mare and go !', Gerd replied, approaching the side of the woods, while Merle climbed down from Yyn's saddle, petting her neck, and with a bow of his head, he quickly left towards Ismur's wagon.
All the while, Gerd further advanced through the forest. Which, as he proceeded deeper within became denser and taller, its age nearing half a century. Whereas, on some trees he noticed etchings, lines and scratches, some new, others old. The freshest, made by the master of those woods, as if it left them to guide the witcher towards its lair. For with each step he made, following the marks left by the spriggan, the air felt heavier. The silence ever deeper. Ever confusing. Almost deafening. For, after a long time spent in almost complete silence, Gerd, reached a glade, in the shape of a circle, brimming with stumps of great trees. Which upheld by roots and moss, corpses. Human and non-human, several encased within the boles of the trees, while the animal remains were laid on the ground, covered with moss and roots, in between the others. All posed alike statues, while from their corpses and the roots holding them, branches extended outwards.
As Gerd inspected the corpses, he discerned that some had been taken alive, and had been strangled by the roots. Several died due to the pain their bodies were positioned into, as most were twisted and curled in horrid positions. Others, had roots growing through their bellies, chest, neck, eyes and ears. However, he later deduced due to the paleness of their skin, that those were old, most coated in layers of tree sap. Some, still showcasing the pain and terror which they experienced...
And as for the fresh ones. They were impaled, or held by the blood soaked branches of a dead tree, sitting in the middle of the glade, beneath which was the spriggan's totem.
'This is no ordinary leshen...', Gerd murmured, as he carefully advanced towards its totem. Which was surrounded by about a dozen of axes, knives, swords and crosscut saws, all drenched in blood, both human and animal. His sole source of information, was the many beastiaries he read as a pupil, and the stories told by Mousar, regarding beasts a witcher ought to be always mindful of. As among the spotted wights, basilisks and kikimora, had been the Ancient Spriggans, Leshens, spirits of the forests. Thus, by the words of Mousar, the most effective defense and offence against one is endless patience and vigilance, along with proper discipline of the mind and body, signs and potions. Yet, even a witcher with a mastery over those, must be ever so alert, for these creatures are highly intelligent, and powerful.
Thus, with a snort, he took out two potion vials from his belt, pulled their corks out, and gulped their contents one after the other, as he then continued with a few grunts and a long exhale. All the while his medallion's trembling intensified, as from behind the tree in the middle of the glade, the master of the forest appeared, accompanied by a deep growl and the cracking of the trees and roots, while Gerd already had taken his stance, holding his sword high with both hands, pointed towards the leshen, letting out a couple of slow breaths.
'So...', Gerd began with a shudder, caused by the toxicity of the potions he just took. 'Folk cut down your trees...', the witcher continued, while the leshen let out a deep guttural sound, then tilted its head to the tree behind, along with a wave of its right arm. 'That's them ?', he asked with a grunt, as the leshen extended its left arm outwards, then moved it to the right. 'All of them...', Gerd resumed with a sigh. As then, the forest grew silent once again, all the while Gerd felt a burning stare coming from the leshen and at the same time he sensed a couple of weak vibrations beneath his feet. For a split of a second later, he dodged right, as roots burst out of the ground, and shot an arrow from his crossbow, aimed toward the leshen's chest, which stopped in the branches the leshen raised from beneath the earth. Then with a growl, it disappeared. Leaving Gerd to move in a circle, clueless, of where it shall show up again. While the air within the glade grew heavier, as if the trees turned it thinner and thinner. At the same time the metallic scent of blood raised from the ground beneath his feet covered with moss. For then, as he made a half turn, the leshen revealed itself, right in front of the witcher, striking him with the back of its arm right into the chest, throwing Gerd into one of the corpses held by roots behind, which as soon as he struck against, attempted to wrap themselves around his left forearm. Which he quickly pulled away from their grasp and rolled right, as the leshen attempted a diagonal slash, which to Gerd's surprise was followed by another of its other hand, that he strived to deflect with his sword and turn the momentum given into a diagonal slash himself. Yet, contrary to his strategy, he did not appreciate the distance from the closest tree, nor did he know how much the roots could extend outwards. Thus, he only noticed them with the corner of his right eye, as he then felt the need to roll the opposite way, which meant he would be slashed by the leshen's clawed left arm. Therefore, he promptly casted Igni, towards the leshen, and rolled left nonetheless, expecting it to back away. It didn't.
The tips of its claws, white as bone, slashed Gerd's right arm and shoulder, breaking the chainmail and the plates, sinking into the flesh, tearing through it, with a screech. And as he regained his balance, as the pain began to sink in, as the blood started to trickle down his forearm, hand and break off from the sides of his fingers, down the grip of his silver sword, and then drip on the moss covered ground. He let out a grunt, tightening his hold onto the sword's handle, whilst with the grinding of his teeth he raised the blade, as he placed his other hand on it. And proceeded to cast Aard, which managed to push the leshen backwards, followed by a horizontal slash, another cast of Igni, which this time didn't fail, a half turn and a diagonal slash, succeeded by a lunge which was stopped by the leshen with a shield composed of several roots that it manage to pluck from the earth right before the tip of the blade would sink into its torso. All of which, had rendered the right arm of the leshen useless, held in place only by a piece of bark, whilst its chest lost most of the mushrooms and moss covering it, most still aflame.
As then, covered by its shield of roots, it vanished once again, leaving Gerd to guess where it'll strike this time. The back, he guessed, turning, as the leshen summoned a couple of roots to impale the witcher alike the men and women in the tree branches, but Gerd rolled left, casting Aard, which unsuccessfully didn't nudge the leshen, whose roots moved towards the witcher, with haste. Which Gerd managed to out run, as he charged towards the leshen, whose claws slashed diagonally missing Gerd's head by a few fingers, who dodged left, and cut the legs of the leshen clean off, causing it to fall on it's back. For Gerd proceeded, and successfully stabbed it in the skull, then swiftly turned and casted Quen, as he was struck by the roots.
As his shield exploded, he was hurled head first into a stump a mere few steps away, while the leshen released a loud deep growl, which shook the nearby trees...
What followed had been dreams. In them he made it out of the woods, despite the pain in his back, head, right arm and chest. He managed to reach Yyn, and even climbed in the saddle, and then the dream ended, and then played again from the beginning. As then besides the dream he felt thirst, a pulsating pain in his right arm, head, and chest, along with coldness, shivers and a dry throat a few thuds and then warmth.
'-He smacked his noggin pretty nicely, I see...', said a man with a raspy voice, which Gerd believed to belong to the dwarf, Ismur.
'Shut up !', a woman's gentle voice followed, along with the drips of water as she wringed a piece of cloth, then placed it on his forehead. The cloth, it was cold, refreshing. 'He's waking up...', she continued, with a puff.
'Don't move, friend.', another said, it was Merle.
As then Gerd sluggishly opened his eyes accompanied by a couple of grunts. 'Where am I ?'.
'Hearton.', another man said with a modulated voice, it was Ziven. 'You don't remember anything, do you ?', Ziven added as the witcher laid his eyes on the merchant.
'How did I get here ?', Gerd inquired, licking his dried lips.
'On the back of your mare, lad. Half dead...', Ismur answered.
'Do you need water ?', the woman with a gentle voice asked, it was Tasia's. Gerd softly nodded, as she handed him a tankard filled with water.
'I don't even remember getting out of the woods...', he murmured lazily laying his eyes on the people within the room, of what he could perceive thus far to be his room at the Inn. Considering the quality of his sight, which was really poor, however it was getting less foggier.
'Well...', Merle began, with a puff. 'You managed to, and that's all that matters.'.
'Sides, you slayed that fuckin' beast too...', Ismur continued, then drank from a tankard he held in his right hand. 'Brought its damned head and all. What ? I thought he wanted to know that too.'.
'He needs to rest. Get out ! All of you !', Tasia said, as she replaced the piece of cloth she previously placed on his forehead with another, then raised from the stool she sat on showing the others out, towards the door right of the room, then as all besides her got out, she looked towards the corner of the room, next to the door, right of Gerd. A side to which his neck pain didn't allow him to look. 'You too !', she said, quite insistent.
'No.', another woman replied, stepping towards the bed's end. 'Now that he's awake. I need to talk to him.'.
Tasia scoffed. 'So be it.', she said, then left the room, closing the door. While the other woman walked to the left side of his bed, sitting on the stool.
'Witcher...', she said with a sniff, leaning towards him. 'I don't know if you remember me, but-'.
'Edda.', he interrupted, then attempted to reach for the tankard containing water. 'What happened ?'.
She sighed. 'Let me...', she added, while helping Gerd quench his thirst, by bringing the tankard to his mouth. 'I need your help. Beau and I need your help...'.