When they are out of the woods, on the open road between the fields, for a moment he thinks they'll make it peacefully. The thugs that lay spread out underneath the tree seem drowsy with the wine and food and they barely notice them at all. Keeping his head low, Eskel casts them a brief, cautious glance. Deserters, runaways or mercenaries, he thinks, looking at their rigid forms and the bleak tattoos peeking from underneath the torn shirts and musty jackets. It also looks like luck hasn't been on their side for quite some time. They are all gaunt and filthy, some of them more like beggars than ruffians. They almost manage to pass the band undisturbed, but then Eskel feels a gaze creeping up his back, curious and tickling like a crawling bug. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder and immediately finds the man who's watching him so intently. No doubt the band's leader, a small, broad-shouldered man with a mane of dirty, tangled hair and a long, bushy beard. Eskel considers his options for a moment. They might urge their horses and ride straight to the next village before these thugs make up their minds whether to bother them or not. Has he been alone here, that's what he would probably do, but there's a kid in the saddle next to Wszebora. Children tend to be rather fragile, especially when they fall off of a horse in full gallop. Aside from that, he doesn't really want to lure them to the village he intends to spend the night in. It would cause a much greater mess. He clenches his jaws and pulls his reins a little, waiting. Wszebora casts him a brief glance, but remains silent.
"All alone in the big bad world, eh, brother?", a jovial voice calls after them. Eskel looks back without saying a word and sees the chief who's clearly made up his mind to try and rob them. He's approaching them now with a sway to his feet and the rest of the band follows him like a pack of wolves on a hunt. He grins, baring his rotten teeth. Eskel pulls his reins back.
"Back off", he mutters quietly, when they're close enough to hear him. The chieftain's grin grows even broader as he tucks his thumbs behind his belt.
"Something nice and shiny you've got there, brother, I can tell."
"Nothing there for you", the witcher says with cold composure. "Let us go."
The chieftain scratches his tangled beard, unaffected by the witcher's warning. He oggles their bags curiously and then whistles with contentment.
"Scanty bags, aye, but the horses are fine", he claims. "Some jewels you've got there, brother, or precious perfumes. Mind if I check?"
As he's speaking, he reaches out towards one of the bags, but the witcher's voice stops him in his tracks.
"Back off or else I'll chop your hand off by the elbow", he hisses sharply and the thug looks at him, blinks and then roars with laughter.
"'s that a threat, brother?", he asks, looking over to his comrades, who lurk readily behind his back. Eskel gets off of his horse and stands in front of them. Looking the chieftain straight in the eyes, he pulls his cowl off.
"It's a warning", he declares quietly.
"A fucking witcher." The brash smile on the chieftain's face vanishes. He spits and bares his teeth with anger. "Nevermind. Let's go, brothers. Witchers carry the coin on them too, aye. And if there's no gold, we'll have our fun with that lassie over there." He points to Wszebora with his chin as she stares at him with cold contempt..
Eskel unsheathes his sword and takes a few steps back to lure them away from Wszebora and Miron. He clenches his jaws and shakes his head a little. He really wanted to avoid the bloodbath.
Before they can get to him he draws a sign and a wave of energy bursts around him and spills in circles over the ground. The bandits charge right into this magic trap and then they stop, disoriented, like people suddenly thrown into deep water. Their movements abruptly become slow and languid and they blink and look at each other with confusion. Eskel crouches down, circles his blade and lunges forward.
It's hardly even a fight. In the span of a few heartbeats he slays them all, one by one. With the magic tethering them to the ground the bandits pose no more threat than the dummies in the courtyard of Kaer Morhen. He knocks them down with calm precision and watches them fall, gurgling and cursing hoarsely. He deliberately avoids their organs and arteries, so none dies from his blade. At least for now.
Sheathing his sword, he shakes his head lightly once more and then looks around, watching the battered and bloodied ruffians sprawled at his feet. Without saying a word he mounts his horse and urges him forward, never glancing back at the band he's just beaten. As they ride, Wszebora keeps silent. He doesn't immediately notice. The silence is not something out of ordinary for them. They often travel without saying a word to each other, but now he realizes the silence is different than usual. It hangs heavily in the air between them. As they reach the next village and sit with the tumblers full of beer at the tavern he watches Wszebora cautiously, trying to understand the change in the mood. She props her elbows on the table and leans a little bit forward, sulking at him. There's that crease between her brows that he knows all too well and her jaws are clenched tightly, which makes the scar on her cheek dwindle and shrivel. Eskel gulps down half of his beer in one go and puts his tumbler back on the table, sighing heavily.
"Spill it out," he asks her quietly. She keeps silent for a while, nibbling the jagged edge of her cup with her fingers. Finally she raises her sullen gaze to him.
"Why did you do that?" she asks him harshly and he frowns, not understanding.
"What exactly did I do?" he asks.
She snorts, losing her patience, and rolls her eyes at him.
"You went to fight all of them on your own" she clarifies and he looks at her in confusion.
"What else was there to do? You wanted me to let them rob us? I did what needed to be done is all" he states, his voice hollow and tired. He still looks her in the eyes and they're dark and sullen, but he doesn't miss the way she clenches her fists. He still can't understand her anger. There was no danger for her or for her child. He made sure they were not harmed. He did what he was supposed to do.
"There was no need," she mumbles sharply. "We could have gone away."
He takes his tumbler and drinks, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugs lightly.
"Sure, and they could have followed us. They could have tried to shoot the horses. They could have come to this inn and made an ugly fucking mess." He shakes his head and casts her a serious look. "Didn't want to risk it."
She glares into her cup silently, with a deep frown on her face. He tries to lure her eyes to him and fails.
"Why are you so mad anyway?" he asks finally, growing impatient with all of this. "I didn't put you at risk. Nor the kid."
She finally raises her gaze to him and to his surprise there's no anger in her eyes, just sadness.
"You put yourself at risk," she whispers hoarsely.
"So what? I promised you that…"
"You promised to take care of us, not to risk your damn life," she interrupts him sharply. He shakes his head and snorts almost involuntarily.
"Perhaps you haven't noticed yet, but I'm a witcher. Putting my life in danger is not exactly a first," he mumbles with indifference in his voice. She frowns and tucks a lock of hair away from her forehead.
"You're not well yet. Think I wouldn't notice that you still limp? That I don't see that grimace of yours when you climb a horse? You drink those wretched potions that make your guts boil and you pretend everything is fine. You're not well and yet you charge into some fucking brawl…"
"So that's what this is about?" Now he is the one interrupting. He's tired and frustrated and just one step away from letting a harsh, cold anger overtake him. "You were afraid that I would kick the bucket and leave you with all that mess."
She pierces him with her gaze for a moment, flushed with anger, but then she closes her eyes and sighs heavily. When she opens them again, her gaze is calm and sullen. She leans over the table and reaches out to grasp his wrist tightly.
"I was only worried you would get hurt," she whispers hoarsely, looking him straight in the eyes. Her words catch him off guard and he finds himself unable to reply. She sighs again.
"All I want is a comrade, witcher," she declares decidedly. "Not some little knightboy on a white horse to plunge into battle for me. You've got nothing to prove. And you won't die for my sake."
He keeps silent for a long time. Finally he raises his eyes to Wszebora, who's watching him intently, waiting patiently for his response.
"My horse's not white," he mumbles, then drinks the rest of his beer. "Next time I'll just leave the fuckers alone with you. And then they can start to worry about their asses."
She snorts. He puts his tumbler away and looks down at her small, ravaged hand that rests calmly on his forearm. He lifts his gaze and meets hers. Slowly, she draws a small circle on his wrist with the pads of her fingers. He stands up from the table and she does the same. They go up the stairs, to the room they paid for. They make love that night, slowly and languidly, and when they finish, he doesn't let her go to the other bed, where the kid sleeps. They lay in cold, pleasant silence, listening to the muffled sounds of a feast that come from underneath the floorboards. He strokes her bare back and looks at the ceiling. As his gaze moves languidly from one wooden joist to the next, another ceiling comes to his mind, one he's woken up under not so long ago, adorned with bundles of herbs and horns and smelling of the forest. The memory of that smell is fresh and palpable. The woman laying next to him smells like that too. He scoops her a little closer and closes his eyes. When he falls asleep, for the first time in a very long time his dreams are silent, there's no fire and no blood in them. He dreams of nothing at all.