Summary: A Witcher stops in a port town. Chaos ensues. A short story told in two (now three) parts.

THE LESSER KINDNESS

Part 2

I

The forest shuddered awake, and a deep, unnerving groan reverberated through the trees. All at once, the dead wood gained some life, as a deer burst through a canopy of bushes up ahead, nipped at the heel by a pack of five wolves. Harry and Ron observed as the wolves gave chase over dirt, and fallen branches, and roots of trees until the rowdy crowd came to the silent brook. It was here where they made their move; the closest wolf lunged through the lazy stream and grasped onto the leg of the deer, and the canine behind him rushed to the side as the poor beast fell. Both witchers heard a sickening crack as a femur broke, and the overlapping wolf bared sharp teeth before snapping them at the throat.

The unfortunate buck fought back with an anemic struggle, the crest of its branching horns swiping weakly at the fiendish crew that surrounded him, but all danced away like fire in the wind. The only thing the stag bought for itself was a harder, tighter grip on its throat, and its lifeblood ebbed away into its hunter's mouth, until the struggle became the quick spasms of one's death-throes. Soon, the hunt was capped off by a series of long, grieving howls.

Harry couldn't help but smile thinly; perhaps this was their way of honouring their fallen prey. He looked to Ron, who also grinned back. They had been much too jumpy. Still, neither sheathed his respective sword, exercising the utmost caution. Soon, it was rewarded.

The wind whistled through the trees, and the branches bent backward and forward, cracking and creaking as an oppressive force seemed to settle upon the canines. At once, their movements lost their fluidity, and they trotted about herky-jerky, all in a manic hurly-burly.

"That's odd," murmured the other witcher quietly, "does that remind you of anything?"

Harry nodded. "Axii," he grunted.

It indeed looked as though their actions were no longer their own. A wolf's ear pricked, and its neck turned from its downed prey, in the same, jerky fashion, to face the two witchers and settled on its haunches. Harry felt distinctly as though two sets of eyes were watching him at once.

"Three witchers in the same area at the same time? Two is pushing it, three is not a coincidence," Ron said.

The wolf bent low, grasped the stag by the throat once more, and, still gazing upon the two intruders, dragged the corpse back into the cover of the bushes. Harry shook his head:

"I don't believe in coincidences," he said shortly, fingers once again curled round the jittering bear medallion, "whatever's going on here, we're being watched. And I doubt the watcher's friendly."

"A monster, then. Any ideas what kind?"

"Not yet, but we're bound to find some clues the further we go into the forest."

"After you."

The two witchers melted into their roles seamlessly, with Harry once more taking point, and Ron keeping a weather eye out for any dangers lurking among the trees. The crossed over the stream as the Wolf School witcher wrinkled his nose at the mess of blood the wolves had left:

"Hm," he said, "pleasant. Should we follow their tracks?"

"Best lead we've got," replied Harry, squinting at the ground. "Found them. Light prints but the carcass should be easy enough to follow."

Ron, too, found them quickly. "Yeah, not a particularly difficult track."

Blood led to blood, track-to-track; the witchers crept by with cautious pace around the bushes, through trees, up a natural formation of dirt and stone, and into a glade. The rain had returned during their long sojourn through the forest, but neither of the two noticed, for they were too occupied by their noses. Up ahead, strange formations of gnarled, twisted wood sprouted up from the ground, bearing no fruit or leaves, but the acrid scent of rotting flesh.

They advanced forward, taking note of formation after formation.

"There must be at least twenty here, if my count's correct," Ron said.

"I've seen these before," said Harry. "If I'm right, we ought to be very careful."

The Wolf School Witcher's eyes widened. "You don't think it's-"

"I do."

Ron's mouth clamped shut and remained that way until they reached the first mass of roots and branches. Entwined within them was a week-old corpse, squashed and mangled. around the roots were a few broken plates of stone, covered in dried, nearly black blood.

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Hm. Looks like a teenage boy. Crushed by the roots which seemed to grow out of the ground, despite..."

Ron stomped the ground and was greeted with the sound of boot scraping rock. "Despite the fact that this patch of ground is mostly rock and gravel. A poor place for plants to grow."

Both witchers grimaced, their fears confirmed:

"Leshen," said Harry.

Ron nodded somberly. "Leshen."

They walked slowly through the killing field, inspecting several more of the makeshift wooden sepulchers, and found more dead men ensconced within them. Harry clucked his tongue:

"Well, that explains what happened to all the men who went out looking for the girls."

"Still doesn't explain what became of the lasses, however," replied Ron.

"True enough."

"It looks like the trail of bodies lead back into the forest," Ron pointed out the opposite end of the glade, where the murky wood began once more.

Harry nodded resolutely. "Good. We need to look for any totems. Whether it's Harbreg or not, a leshen's a leshen, and it seems to be killing the lads who go looking for the missing girls. And if it's got a totem, then we need to be thorough in making sure it will never come back."

"No complaints here," replied Ron.

The two made their way to the edge of the glade, where the darkness of the wood swallowed them whole once more.

II.

The attack was sudden and merciless.

It had come soon after the two found a totem pole, crudely fashioned out of stone, wood, and human bones, centred in a tiny mound of dirt in a shallow pond near the forest's edge.

It had been a sign that the leshen in these woods was very old, and very dangerous, but before either witcher could voice anything to one another, a song, high and breathy, came whistling down the trees, and a wind picked up.

The witchers, even with their enhanced senses, barely dodged the cracking and groaning of wood rushing toward the two, eventually culminating in roots bursting out from the ground and closing into those same gnarled tombs Harry and Ron had passed by earlier.

Both dove to ground, but were up in an instant, facing their enemy. Large and horned, the silhouette of a deer attached to a hulking, giant of a man shambled toward them, as a sibilant creaking noise emanated from its snout.

A quick tap upwards of a scabbard and Harry's steel sabre was sheathed, soon replaced by the more commonplace design of his silver sword. He looked to the other witcher, who nodded back, and then they moved.

It's said that a watching a witcher use a blade is about the closest thing to art that an instrument of butchery can allow, and such was the case when Harry and Ron grasped the tools of their bloody trade. Despite having met only earlier that day, and hailing from different witcher schools entirely, the Bear and the Wolf blade-danced their way to their grotesque quarry, all the while avoiding roots and crows summoned by the leshen, with the sort of grace and understanding one might expect only two long-time comrades could share.

But Leshens were powerful monsters, usually ancient, and tied to the place they inhabited, often by means supernatural. By no means would it give up its home to two interlopers after a shared 100 ducat reward, not easily, at least.

The first clash came between Ron's sword and the leshen's beefy forearm; the blade cut through the wood like it would butter, until about halfway through, catching as it would in the trunk of a tree. Growling, the leshen observed Ron, who vainly tried to pull his blade from its arm, and shook him off as he would a fly. The wolf school witcher stumbled back, but the monster pressed its advantage, making to swipe at the vulnerable mutant, only to be rebuffed moments before rearing its arm back with a persistent jet of conjured fire searing its back.

Harry dispelled the sign of igni as the hulking beast faced him. He readied his blade, having used Ron's distraction to down several potions, not the least including a Blizzard Potion, which sped up his senses and increased reaction time.

He circled the beast, drawing its attention long enough for Ron to rejoin the fray. They came at the beast from either side, sweeping low to cut at the thinnest parts of the legs. The beast lunged and found itself grasping nothing but air, before it toppled over, legs severed from the rest of the body. Crashing to the ground, it thrashed and howled, whether in pain or pure rage, Harry couldn't tell, but the wail beat at his skull like peasant drums and reverberated as though someone had blown the battle horns at Kaer Trolde into his ears. Harry and Ron both stumbled back, taken aback at the sudden assault of noise, only looking up in time to see the leshen disappear into a puff of black smoke.

And in its place came the baying of wolves, rushing through the glade, back into the forest, and toward the two witchers.

Harry readied his sabre just in time for three hulking white wolves to come bursting into the clearing where the leshen had just disappeared, and unseamed the first from head to tail as it lunged for him. The other two saw their companion easily dispatched and halted their attack, instead waiting for the right moment to attack, by the edge of the trees. Their plan fell apart when one of the two wolves began trotting jerkily, head lolling to-and-fro, before perking up and falling upon the other wolf, each tearing at the other. Harry looked back to see Ron just finishing the sign for Axii. In the end, the canines were a quick clean-up for the two monster hunters.

"Ugh," Ron grunted, as he cleaned the blood off his steel bastard-sword, "the bastard got away."

"It's alright; we wouldn't have been able to kill him, anyway," replied Harry.

"What do you mean?"

"That leshen is old, powerful. Even if we had cut its head off, it would probably come back. Something that ancient is bound to have marked someone living in the settlement. And then..."

"And then, what?"

"Then there's the matter of the song. The one we heard right before the leshen attacked."

Ron blinked. "You heard it, too? Good. I was starting to think it was just my imagination."

"So, we've at least found out what Harbreg is. Perhaps it's time to go back and inform the ealdorman?" Harry suggested.

"May as well," agreed Ron, "there's nothing else we can do out here for now. Best head back to town and prepare for our next meeting."

"Your Harbreg is a leshen," deadpanned Harry as soon as they crossed the threshold of the ealdorman's home, "an especially ancient one."

Evening had come, and perhaps the ealdorman had been expecting better news after the two witchers' lengthy investigation:

"A leshy? Here?" he gasped.

"Yeah," answered Ron, "looks like it's been in the forest a while, too. It's the monster that's behind the disappearances of the lads who have gone into the forest looking for your missing girls."

"Found quite a few dead; the leshen's work for sure," said Harry.

"And the lasses?" asked the town leader, running a nervous hand through his obsidian hair. "What news of the lasses?"

"None yet," replied Harry.

"We haven't found anything about them. No prints, no bodies, no tracks. We've only found the boys," Ron elaborated, crossing his arms as they moved from the foyer to the modest sitting room.

"Ah, lads are lads; they knew what they was signing up for. But you've found nothing on the girls?"

"Nothing at all."

"Why haven't you killed the beast, yet?" the ealdorman asked, looking and sounding more wearied than annoyed.

Ron looked to Harry, indicating for him to drop the news: "It can't be killed, not conventionally, at least," Harry obliged.

A pained expression briefly flitted across the ealdorman's face, as though he'd been hit with something hard. "What does that even mean?"

"We believe that your leshen has marked one of the people in this town, and that so long as that person lives here, the leshen will always regenerate any wound it sustains. Even if you were to kill it, it would reborn in a matter of days," explained the black-haired witcher.

The ealdorman looked troubled. "So, what? A mutant's to denounce one of our own and then I'm to execute them on your order? Do you truly believe that, even had I wanted that, the others would abide that?"

Harry shrugged.

"I don't think you need to kill anyone," said Ron. "Exile seems a greater kindness."

"Pah! Exile!" the town leader practically shouted with incredulity. He then visibly restrained himself, gripping the small kitchen table they sat at. "'Ave you found the person I must proclaim this nasty decree upon?"

"Not yet, we thought it best to inform you before looking for the marked one," said Ron.

"I see. Well, it's getting late. Most people have retired to their homes for the night. You'll have to begin your search tomorrow, after I decide what to do with the information you'll tell me. Asha!" he called. From the other room, a small bedroom, emerged the ealdorman's fair daughter, a book in hand:

"Yes, papa?" she asked.

"Fetch the witchers and I something to drink whilst we discuss matters, will you? The Red, if you please."

"Yes, papa," she answered demurely, set her book down, and walked to the trap door that would lead down to the larder. Presently, she returned with an old wineskin and emptied into a finely-made carafe that Harry would have thought out of the ealdorman's budget.

Asha made her way to where the men sat, offering each witcher a clay-baked cup and her father one of pewter. The ealdorman nodded at the carafe of dark red wine:

"Finest from Beauclair, my only bottle. But when else shall I drink it, but now? Go on, have some, before the open air ruins the taste." both witchers complied, to keep from offending their employer, if nothing else. The ealdorman spoke again: "Speak to me true: these leshys of yours... why can't you kill them? Why must I send a neighbour out into the wilderness at your word?"

Ron took a long gulp of his wine, not even bothering to savour it. "Leshens have bodies, big oak-mangled things, but they don't truly inhabit them."

"Huh?" responded the man intelligently. "What on earth does that mean?"

"It means that the leshen is actually a spirit, not a corporeal thing. In many ways it's like a wraith, or a phantom. The only way to truly kill it is to trap it inside a body being killed, without anywhere to escape to," said Harry. "So long as the leshen marks a person who lives, it cannot be killed."

"I see," said the ealdorman. "I also see why the marked one must die; I don't follow why I should exile this marked one."

"I can answer that," replied Ron, "the leshen is tied to this forest. That forest is its home. And I'm certain it's been there for a long time. Tell me, sir, people have gone missing venturing into those woods before, haven't they? Before the girls went missing, I mean."

"Aye, people have gone missing and died before, but we'd always reckoned they'd been set upon by wolves. Or perhaps hunted by them ladies of the woods."

"Ladies of the woods? Dryads, you mean?" Ron asked, and the ealdorman nodded.

Harry's brows furrowed. "Are we that close to the Brokilon Forest?"

"Not close, nay," replied the town leader, "but no' far, neither. Perhaps two days hard ride from here?" The Bear School witcher nodded at the man, and folded his arms together in contemplation, as his canine companion continued his explanation:

"Anyway. Since the leshen can only reside here, sending a marked individual away essentially stops its ability to regenerate, since it can no longer rebirth itself in its own territory. So, until it can mark its next victim, which is usually a slow process, the leshen is mortal."

"Ah. I see," murmured the ealdorman, looking troubled, "Well, I must retire. Think about this, some. When you two are finished, call for Asha, she will let you out."

III

Ron retired from the ealdorman's house first, citing a long overdue rest at the town brothel; Harry stayed behind for a time and spoke at length with the ealdorman's daughter about the town and its history, particularly concerning bandits and any attacks on the town, of which the girl had no real recollection. When he left, night had risen high and the rain had picked up once more.

Despite that he would end up all the wetter for it, Harry lollygagged his way back to the inn. The clouds clashed, flashed, and rumbled overhead, and seemingly no one remained on the muddy path through town but himself.

It soon became apparent, however, that he was not alone, for a merchant stood aways down the path, on its side, hawking his goods loudly and, as the witcher discovered by looking around, at no one. Resolving to ignore what must have either been the world's worst merchant or a lunatic, the witcher crossed to the other side of the road as he passed by. Perhaps he had hoped the man would simply ignore him, or that he would continue shouting into the wind, but such was not the case:

"You there, Master Witcher!" he called out in a baritone to Harry and beckoned the witcher over, "fancy a look?"

Harry surveyed the merchant, who wore cloak of black with hood shadowing most of his face, though he could make out a showman's smile upon the hawker's lips. Deciding a look at the man's wares was harmless, Harry turned his gaze toward the cart standing by the cloaked man, and blinked as he saw himself through a moistened glass, darkly:

"You are aware that these rust, right?" he asked.

The merchant nodded casually, as if he expected the witcher to ask that. "Yes, I'm well aware."

"You know rain causes rust, right?"

"Of that I am also well aware, Master Witcher. But I must ask you: are you aware?"

Harry's dark brows furrowed. "Of what?"

"Of what manner of monster truly lurks in that wood? Is it merely a leshen? Or is it something lesser, something greater?"

Suddenly, this hawker no longer seemed as mad as he had before. There was madness still, to be sure, but it was now a controlled chaos: there was intelligence in his eyes, and menace in his smile. And that he knew it was a leshen in the forest, when Harry and Ron had told no one but the ealdorman and his daughter, was even more intriguing.

"And who are you?" the witcher asked, folding his arms.

"For now, I am merely a wanderer who has heard many a tale of the old times."

"And your name?"

"Nameless, I'm afraid" smiled the other man, "I renounced it when I took upon the life of an itinerant merchant, much like you did when that sorcerer dropped you off at Kaer Almhult as a babe."

Harry blinked quickly. How did this man know that? He opened his mouth to speak, but the merchant raised up a slender hand for quiet:

"Like I said, Master Witcher, I know many a tale. Including yours. But I'd rather discuss another one."

"And what other one do you have to tell me?" Harry asked, turning away and inspecting the road.

"A simple one. For as long as we can remember, men have branded their neighbours enemies, and have created lasting hatreds as a consequence. Some of those hatreds are as vicious and timeless as monsters themselves. Follow the flute, Master Witcher, and you'll find the girls."

"The flute? What are you talking-?" Harry turned back to the merchant, only to find rain, and mud, and the cold air. Whirling, he looked about in all directions, but the merchant had disappeared into the night.

Harry stood a while, then shook his head and laughed to himself. He was turning into a madman.

Sighing, the witcher turned back down the path and made his way back to the inn. Ron hadn't yet returned, likely still buried face-first in a whore's bosom, so Harry merely paid the innkeeper (who turned into a nervous wreck as the mutated swordsman approached) for a room, and collapsed on the straw bed moments after he entered the room.

That night, the witcher slept like the dead.

And in the morning, he was awoken by the light sound of feet just outside the door. Years of training and no small amount of paranoia had the witcher reaching for his blades, but as the door opened, the innkeeper waddled in, followed by a casual, bare-chested Ron. Harry suppressed a small grin; the wolf school witcher had likely gone to the innkeeper that way to scare him with the crisscross of scars that littered his chest and shoulders.

Judging by the simpering expression on the innkeeper's face, it had worked.

"Master Witcher, kind sir, your companion had told me you were in need of breakfast, and I, I came by to see what you'd like," he clapped his hands together in supplication, expression kindly and smiling, but the tone of his voice made it seem more like the man felt as though he were trapped in the lion's den with no escape. Harry took pity on the man:

"Cook's choice," he grunted quickly, "I'm not picky."

Quickly, for a man his size, the innkeeper hurried out of the room and fled down the hall, leaving the two witchers behind. Ron shuffled over to a roughly-constructed desk and plonked down upon the hard-backed chair that accompanied it:

"I see you're no stranger to a monster's claws, too," said the redhead, pointing at Harry's own scarred torso.

"Courtesy of the Basilisk of Ban Gleán," Harry said, indicating a long, thin scar from one end of his stomach to the other, "damn thing near disemboweled me."

Ron laughed. "Got a similar scrape on my back from a cockatrice some fifteen miles from Cidaris."

Harry pointed to a bite mark on his shoulder. "Bruxa in Nazair."

"Serial-murdering doppler," Ron said, indicating a ragged slash down the length of his right forearm. "But..."

"But what?"

"I'm more interested in the one above your heart. Whatever monster did that, got you good."

Harry reached to his chest, just above his heart, and felt the smooth scar tissue there. "It wasn't a monster that did it."

Ron looked up, interest piqued. "Really?"

"It was ten years ago, maybe. You remember the war?"

"Against the Rose of Shaerrawedd? It wasn't much of a war, from what I can recall."

Harry laughed dourly as he stood and made his way toward a small closet, and threw on a rough-hewn shirt. "Yes, more of a massacre, than anything. But the bloodshed was enough to destablise Redania just as I'd come to the Gustfields looking for work. I ended up picking up a contract from a minor nobleman and leader of a mercenary troupe named Radomir von Everec, to investigate the suspicious disappearances and deaths of young men and women in a small town a ways out from Oxenfurt."

"And so?"

"Inspected the bodies, realised quickly that it was a vampire. Alp, to be precise. Found her among the nonhuman quarter. At first she claimed to have no idea what I was talking about, but when I pressed her she admitted to having drank blood, but claimed to have killed no one. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt..." trailed off the Bear School witcher. "But, the evidence was stacked against her; in the end I had to," Harry made a chopping motion with his hands, "but somehow, the humans found out, and immediately assumed the nonhumans were sheltering the alp and coordinating attacks on the common folk. Came to the nonhuman quarter with pitchforks and torches, and a regiment of Death Eaters, as well."

Ron's expression turned ugly in an instant. "Death Eaters," he spat. "I remember them. Vestibor made a mockery of himself allying with those cutthroats against Elirena."

"Cutthroats, aye, and terribly cross with elves, too," said Harry. "They came rushing in and tried to smoke the elves from their shacks; von Everec and I were the only ones able to defend them. Five rushed me and four him, and while we dispatched them easy enough, a longbowman managed to get me with a broadhead dipped in poison. The moment I relieved him of his head, I began to feel the effects. In a matter of moments, I'd fallen on the ground, and the rabble from the village regained their bravado, throwing stones at us."

"Then what happened?"

"The elves sheltered us, but had no way of healing me. I'd have died had not a sorceress come through that town on her way from Aretuza to Novigrad, with her elven protege. Perhaps the elf heard the story and took pity, or perhaps the sorceress herself did; they were gone by the time I awoke, and was left only with names: Ilona Laux-Antille was the sorceress who saved me."

"And the elf?"

"Hermione."

"Strange name."

"Par the course for elves, isn't it?"

The pair of mutants chuckled lightly.

"Ah, but they're names," said Harry, "just names. Meaningless without faces to attach them to."

"Master Witchers! The innkeep called from across the hall, "your breakfast is ready! Do come out when you're ready."

"Aye," said Ron. "Names are meaningless, but you at least of some inkling of who to thank. That should be more than enough. Come, we'll eat then search for the marked one. They can't be far."

Harry nodded quickly to other witcher, who soon left him to finish dressing.

Author's Notes: I had originally planned for this to be a two-parter at just about 10,000 words total, but I think I underestimated how long it was actually going to be, especially with all the dialogue between our two witchers. So, there will be one additional chapter that will wrap up the Leshen contract, explain what the merchant meant by the flute and the girls, and continue to unravel the histories of our protagonists (we got a lot Harry in this chapter, and we'll get more Ron next).

Chapter Notes:

Elirena/Rose of Shaerrawedd: Alternate names for Aelirenn, an elf-woman who led a fruitless uprising of elves against humans some two-hundred years before the witcher books. Yaevinn will mention her during the bank robbery in The Witcher 1.

Vestibor: King of Redania, and father of Radovid II, King around approximately this time since the "Seven Years War" between Temeria and Redania is said to have occurred in the 11th century, and Vestibor was king during that era. Since Vestibor is King of Redania during this period, it can also be assumed that Goidemar is king of Temeria.

The Merchant: I think I might have been too obvious with who he is, but if you're confused, and don't mind spoilers, go back and read exactly what the merchant was selling and it'll become pretty clear.

Ilona Laux-Antille: Grandmother of Margarita, from the original series. If Ilona was anything like her granddaughter, I'd imagine her to be a bleeding heart enough to save one lowly witcher at the cusp of death, as she'd be (like Margarita) one of the select few magic users in the series who aren't completely self-serving. Which is why Rita will always be true best girl. Come at me, Triss/Yenfags.

Hermione the Elf: Hermione is elven to parallel the muggleborn stigma she faces in HP canon. Most muggleborn characters in the series will be portrayed as elves (with a few notable exceptions), and even though it isn't mentioned explicitly, Harry is half-elf because of Lily. Though I'm just going to go with "mutations make him look more human".

Radomir von Everec: Made-up ancestor to our favourite David Beckham doppelganger, Olgierd.

Thanks for reading,
Geist.