He hits the ground feet first. The fall is hard, but not deep. Reflexively Cahir rolls into it, easily absorbing the shock and using the momentum to carry him back up onto his feet. Nothing hurt. That is something. Far better than a sprained or broken ankle or leg. He looks around in the near darkness that is scarcely illuminated by the faint shine of the candles from the room above. It seems he is in a huge, empty cellar. The opening is too high up for him to reach. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He starts to curse under his breath. A trap after all, damn it, and damn him for his stupidity. How did he not notice the trapdoor? Well, it was hidden effectively under the rug. Nevertheless, he ought to have sensed something fishy and checked before walking onto it. Hell, but how could he? Everything, the house, the woman, the whole scenario appeared to be so inconspicuous, plausible beyond any doubt. Nothing at all hinting at anything out of the ordinary. Damn, and his first hunt without Geralt went so well. Now Cahir wishes he had not insisted on going alone. Too late for regrets. He has stupidly - and quite literally - fallen into the woman's trap. Which leaves the one big question: What the hell is this supposed to mean?
Why the fuck is the woman doing it? Is she a criminal of sorts who kidnaps people to rob them? It is possible, Cahir assumes. He does not have any money to speak of but she does not know that. And his horse and swords are worth a good amount of gold. Now they are in her hands. Or is she mad as a hatter and it is her perverse hobby to trap lonely riders in her cellar? Not a single soul knows that he is here, she could let him starve or torture him to death and nobody would be the wiser. Shit, that is not the end he has hoped for, no.
What if she is not a human at all but some kind of monster? A shapeshifter, perhaps? A werewolf who likes to keep fresh meat around for full moon nights? A werecat? Werebear? Even a wererat? Or not a therianthrope but an antherion, like a vixen? No, the fox creatures have red hair and the woman's is dark brown. Well, she could have dyed it, of course. Then there are dopplers, but they are gentle and kind in general and would not trap anybody in a cellar, would they? They are highly intelligent, cunning creatures that can transform into any human or animal that is similar in size and acquire not only their physical traits, but also skills, mindsets and characteristic behaviour. The perfect copy. What might be even more astounding, dopplers can change parts of their bodies into clothes or equipment. They would make supreme assassins or thieves as their transformation is a real metamorphosis that cannot be broken with a spell or detected with magic, like a Witcher amulet. Fortunately, dopplers lack the aggression, ambition and necessary greed for such occupations. No, a human thief is a lot more likely. Probably she works together with her husband, whose business it is to sell the stolen goods. Well, he will see sooner or later, Cahir suspects, not at all sure which of the possible scenarios he would prefer.
He is not given much time to ponder on the different possibilities for long. First Cahir can hear the floorboards creak, then the woman's face appears in the opening above him.
"Poor Cahir, caught like a mouse in a trap. That was easier than I expected." She cackles maliciously. Although the woman looks no different than before, the contrast to her friendly, dimply smile is like worlds apart. "Here, something to enlighten you about who I am. Looking around a bit might give you an idea," she adds and, with another cackle, she drops a burning torch down the hole. Cahir quickly jumps out of the way so as not to get hit in the head by it.
What the hell was this? How does the woman know his name? He never mentioned it, right? He rarely does. It is not very probable that anybody would recognise it as the name of a wanted Nilfgaardian war criminal, however, in the north it is quite uncommon and people might ask where he comes from then, and all kinds of other questions. No, he prefers to keep his name to himself and avoid people as much as he can in general. He definitely has not told her. Does she know him from before? Maybe she is holding a serious grudge against him for something he has done? He does not remember anything, but from what Geralt and Yennefer told him, he must have led the attack on Cintra and Sodden Hill and ordered refugees to be slaughtered. Is it possible that she has found out his name somehow and recognised him? Damn, if that is the case, he can even understand why she would trap him. And, presumably, plot a terrible death for the former black knight of Cintra. However, she could not possibly have foreseen that he would travel through these particular parts of Aedirn and prepared her trap just for him. Hell, he himself did not know he would pass by this swamp when he woke up this morning. He could easily have taken a different route back to Kaer Morhen. This is getting more and more mysterious.
Cahir picks up the burning torch. Mysteries are there to be solved. Time to explore the cellar. Perhaps it is not altogether empty after all? He holds the torch up and glances around. It is just a smallish stick with a piece of cloth wrapped around it which will not burn for long. As expected, the flickering light of the flame is not sufficient to illuminate the entirety of the huge room. Cahir can see the empty centre from where he is standing and the closest wall, but a lot of the space is left in the dark. Cautiously, he walks toward the opposite end of the cellar. In the shine of his torch, a tall shelf appears in the darkness. It covers the complete breadth of the far wall. The sturdy wooden structure is filled with glass jars of different forms and sizes. Is the cellar used to store preserved fruit from the orchard? But how would canned pears and peaches give him any idea as to who the woman is? Other than a fruit merchant? Puzzled, Cahir takes a few more steps toward the huge rack. And stops dead in his tracks. It is not peaches and pears that he can see floating in the amber fluid filling the glass jars. Cahir's stomach gives a lurch at the disgusting display right in front of him. Gods, this is so not good. He closes his eyes for a moment and swallows down the bile that has risen to his mouth. Strangely enough, he feels like he has seen this before. Déjà vu, that is what it is called, isn't it? A faint and unsettling memory at the edge of his conscience that is just out of reach, that gives him the creeping horrors, making his heart rate speed up and causing him to break out in a cold sweat all over. Taking in the grisly sight, Cahir swallows again. Ears, both human and elven. Fingers, complete hands and feet. A jar filled to the brim with the sightless eyes of at least ten people. Male and female genitalia of different sizes and skin colours. A cabinet of terrors. Who would do something like this? A mentally disturbed human? A monster? And how on the continent has he seen this before?
"Remember me?" she asks and jumps through the opening down into the cellar. Almost spooked out of his wits by the display of pickled organs, Cahir has not heard her coming this time. Totally caught off guard, he flinches at the sound of the female voice and swivels around. She is standing there illuminated by the bright shine of a big lantern that is now dangling from a hook in the ceiling next to the trapdoor, an awful, evil grin plastered across her face. To his utter surprise, it is not the woman he expected to see but a young girl. The light of the lantern casts an unearthly shimmer onto her ash-blond hair. Ciri. The Lion Cub of Cintra. Yes, Cahir remembers her. He shrinks back, horrified. How is this possible? How can she be here? Ciri has forgiven him, hasn't she? Both Geralt and Yennefer assured him she had. Repeatedly. She would not trap him here, no matter how much he might deserve it, right? And she would certainly not have a collection of pickled body parts hidden in her cellar, no. Perhaps he is hallucinating? Or going crazy?
"Remember me, I ask!" the girl hisses, advancing on him, her strikingly green eyes glowing in the dark, her face twisted into a hag-like grimace of hate. Cahir flinches back violently, hitting the shelf in the process. The jars rattle ominously. With a clang a big one from the top shelf falls. Just so missing Cahir's head, it shatters right next to him, its disgusting content splashing all over the floor and his trouser legs. The unpleasant smell of strong, but cheap alcohol spreads through the room. However, paralysed with dread, Cahir barely notices any of it. The flickering light from the torch in his shaking hand throws sinister shadows across her face as Ciri comes ever closer. She growls at him, not at all happy with the loss of her precious preserves.
"Perhaps you'll remember me more easily like this?" she then says, her face barely more than a hand's breadth from his. To his utter horror, her features start to shift, to transform in front of his eyes, to morph into a mirror image of himself. Cahir gasps. Even the chain with the Wolf medallion is there. He must be having the most dreadful of nightmares, there is no other explanation. He digs his fingers into his palms as hard as he can until it hurts, but the image does not disappear. Instead, a spiteful grin flickers across the face of this perfect copy of himself. The sense of déjà-vu becomes so overwhelming all of a sudden, it takes Cahir's breath away and turns his legs to jelly. He staggers and has to grab the shelf for support with his free hand.
"Ah, poor boy has lost his memory! Who would have thought? How interesting! And how convenient, too. Chumming it up with your former enemies! Do you really believe they have forgiven and forgotten what you've done? How deluded can one single person be?" the other Cahir asks, jeering and mimicking not only his facial expressions spot-on, but also the sound of his voice, his intonation and his almost unnoticeable southern accent. "Tsk, tsk. Humans. We'll never understand the likes of you, no matter how many of your kind we've shifted into." With a sudden, swift movement, the shapeshifter - for that is what the creature must be, there is no other explanation for it - wrenches the torch from Cahir's trembling hand and flings it onto the floor, just out of reach. With incredible speed it then snatches the dagger from his belt and holds it to its captive's throat. Shell-shocked by the events, it has not even occurred to Cahir to draw his weapon. Now it is too late.
"Arms above your head!" The doppler barks with his voice. Then it grabs Cahir's black shirt by the seam and pulls it up, exposing his left side. "See that? The scar? We gave you this," it continues with an all too familiar smirk. "We two did have a fun fight. Too bad you don't recall any of it. We ran, so you kind of won, we must admit, but still one of our most exciting memories." It lets the dagger slide slowly along Cahir's scar, drawing blood. Then its index finger glides across the bloodied blade. The doppler lifts its finger to its nose and inhales deeply. "Ah, your blood smells nice. Wonder what it tastes like." The doppelgänger sticks its finger into its mouth and licks off the sticky red substance. "Mm, we knew it would be delicious," it purrs. "And spicy. Wonder if that's the Witcher blood? Perhaps I should sample a real Witcher one of these days?"
After having licked the finger clean with obvious relish, it points it accusingly at Cahir who is leaning heavily against the shelf, pale as a sheet. "You, you slaughtered all the peasants in the bakery then, believing it was us. We heard their screams from across the alley and the terrified peasants' tales thereafter. How many were there? Six? Eight? More? Several of them women, too. And you say we're the monster!" The doppler spits the words into Cahir's face, which has gone even paler at the creature's last words and taken on an almost greenish tinge.
"You hired us to do your dirty work in the first place, remember?" the doppler then asks. "Oh, sorry, you can't, we almost forgot. Good thing we're here to remind you of it, right? We've waited for years to give you in particular a piece of our mind. After all, you called us a freak, an abomination and swore to kill us. Think of all the horrors that we promised you we'd bring in return for the insult. But, to our chagrin, everybody seemed to believe you were dead. Can you imagine our surprise at seeing you alive and kicking today in that marketplace, looking for something to eat? You did not even notice us following you out of town so busy were you with your pastry. Of course, you could not know that there is a short-cut through the bogs. And we were certain you would not let a damsel in distress call in vain." It grabs Cahir by the chin with one hand and strokes across the long, ugly scar in his face with its other, sending cold shivers up and down the young man's spine.
"You see," it continues after a moment, "We know you to the core, better even than you know yourself. This one here is new, too." It traces the scar next to Cahir's right temple with the dagger's tip, then points it at Cahir's eye. Cahir freezes, not even daring to blink or breathe. "Ah, yes, we like those pretty blue eyes of yours. The tiny amber specs are very peculiar, another effect of the Witcher blood? They'll look nice in our collection. A true rarity. We might consider giving them their own jar so they won't mix with all those dull green or boring brown ones." The doppler slowly lowers the dagger, letting the tip of the blade glide along Cahir's cheek and down his throat. Then, with a swift movement, it cuts Cahir's shirt open. Its slender, but strong, terribly familiar fingers trace along the scar from the almost fatal stab wound inflicted by Leo Bonhart, giving Cahir goosebumps all over.
"When a so-called monster does your bidding, you high and mighty humans are okay with whatever atrocities we commit," the doppler eventually goes on, holding the blade to Cahir's throat again. "But don't we dare turn on you. You try to hunt us down and destroy us like we're evil incarnate and you the noble knights in shining armour." It huffs with ill-concealed contempt. "So, what about a rematch, noble knight? Before we cut you into pieces and add you to our collection. We promise to do it with extra care and you'll have a prominent spot on the shelf and only top quality jars for your remains. We might not be averse to keeping your form for a while, too. We do love your body. Tall, slender, well-proportioned, everything in perfect working order, except, maybe, the brain. But that won't affect us." It sizes Cahir up once again.
"Hm, the scars we like not so much. You did look more handsome when first we met, but still. We could go to Kaer Morhen, pay those Witcher friends of yours a surprise visit. Tell them a few more of your secrets. For we have not forgotten a single one of your memories. How you shot King Eist of Cintra through the eye, for example. Brilliant shot. Your Ciri will be eager to hear all about it. Although, come to think of it, we appreciate the quiet life here in the countryside. Those villagers are so stupid. Blame the disappearances of people on the will o'the wisps in the swamp. Every enlightened person knows that the ghostly lights are caused by bioluminescence and other, natural phenomena. If they only knew that the nice, friendly merchant wife and her husband are long gone, their delicious flesh eaten by a so-called monster." The doppler chuckles, clearly revelling in pleasant memories while pressing the sharp dagger so tightly to Cahir's throat that blood starts to drip down his neck.
How fucking ridiculously crazy to stand face to face with yourself, staring into your own eyes, but hardly recognising your counterfeit for the insanity, the cruelty, the abysmal evilness in every word, every gesture - and the truth. The ugly, undeniable, hard to take truth of what it is saying. Damn this freak, this abomination - He is not anything like this monster, is he? In spite of everything? The thought alone that he might have something in common with the creature makes Cahir's stomach roil. At least, thanks to the doppler's chattiness, Cahir now knows how he got himself into this tight spot. Not that this will help him one bit to get out of it, but still, what a cruel fluke of fate to happen upon this monster from his past by pure chance. Or is it destiny that is catching up with him? He probably deserves this, after all. If not for what he did to Ciri, then for murdering the peasants in the bakery. He shudders at the idea that he did something as depraved as this. The doppler could be lying, of course, but somehow Cahir knows it is not. He slaughtered those people. And more. Damn, the freak is not wrong. He is a monster, too. Still, in contrast to this abomination who has stolen his face, he has changed. He is killing monsters now to protect people. Monsters like the one before him. Monsters who lure innocent peasants into their house to cut them up and devour them. Thinking of the real merchant woman and all the people whose body parts are displayed on the shelf for the monster's pleasure and pride, a feeling of boundless fury suddenly takes over Cahir's mind. He has to destroy it, no matter if it kills him, too.
With an abrupt upward jerk, Cahir rams his knee into the doppler's crotch and throws himself to the side. Taken totally by surprise, the monster gives a yelp, crumples up in agony and lets go of its weapon. But not without grazing it across Cahir's throat in the fall. Cahir clutches at the wound, his hand soon dripping with blood. Fortunately, he can breathe normally and the blood is not gushing from a main artery. The cut must be superficial, not deep enough to injure the windpipe or any major blood vessels, but it is scary enough. Far more scary, however, is the prospect of being sliced into pieces and eaten by the monster, ears and eyes and perhaps some other choice parts ending up pickled as trophies or for laters, who knows. Quickly, Cahir jumps to his feet, remembering the silver knife in his belt. He draws the weapon. Then he attacks.
The doppler, though, has recovered from the kick a lot faster than any human would and easily dodges the slash of the dangerous knife, a broad grin on its face. Victims that defend themselves are so much more fun to kill than a snivelling simp pleading for their life. Not that it expected anything different than a fierce fight from Cahir. That it took the former Nilfgaardian knight so long is surely owed to his curious memory issues. Could be a bit much for the most fearless warrior to be confronted with your past misdeeds like this. Well, let the real fun begin now! The doppler shakes its arm. Within a split second, a long sword grows from it. Not silver, of course, but one shaped exactly like Cahir's silver sword. It could have taken the knight's real steel one down into the cellar with it, too, however, having it grow from its own body tissue has the big advantage that it will remain attached to the doppler's hand, no matter what. It cannot lose the weapon. Neither can its adversary disarm it as long as it avoids the silver knife. Which will not be that hard with the sword's much longer range. This time there is no way Cahir will get out of this alive.
Swinging its blade, the doppelgänger charges, and ferociously so. Cahir ducks, rolls and springs to his feet behind the doppler, but the shapeshifter swivels around too quickly for Cahir to stab it in the back. He has to duck and roll again to avoid losing his head from the wide, vicious swing of the doppler's sword. Fuck, that was close. There is no way he will be able to get near enough to his adversary as long as it is in possession of the sword. And without getting it into contact with silver, it will be impossible to disarm the monster. He could throw the knife, of course, but chances are that with its quick reflexes, the doppler will evade the missile, and then he will have lost his only useful weapon. If he managed to get back his dagger, he could cause an injury with it too, but dopplers can heal themselves within the blink of an eye if the wound is not inflicted with silver. Damn it. Why the fuck did he leave his silver sword with his cloak? That is a mistake he is definitely not going to make ever again, Cahir swears to himself. If he gets out of here alive, that is.
The doppler attacks again and again, twirling and swinging its long sword, obviously enjoying the fight. It is not difficult for Cahir to anticipate the movements - hell, they are his movements, after all - and leap to the side or duck or evade the deadly blows in some other way, but it is taking its toll. He is panting, a lot more so than his opponent, and sweat is dripping into his eyes. Damn, he either has to risk everything and throw his knife, or he needs to think of something else, and quickly so.
Another roll to evade the monster's blade brings Cahir close to the eerie shelf once again. He grabs one of the jars and hurls it at the doppler with all his might. The freak evades the first one, but the second and third hit home. They are not deadly weapons, far from it, but they at least stop the doppler's attacks for a minute or two. More or less mechanically throwing one glass jar after the other at the monster finally gives Cahir a moment to catch his breath and think, too. He grabs another jar with his left hand. With his right he opens his belt pocket and reaches inside. Cahir is not sure he will find what he hopes for, what he needs, however, it is the only plan that has come to mind that might save him. His only shot at escaping a certain and ugly death.
Enraged beyond measure over the loss of so many of its precious specimens, the doppler roars with fury. Wildly brandishing its sword it gets ready to charge at Cahir for the umpteenth time in a row, and this time not to play but with the clear intent to kill.
Suddenly, it gasps in pain. A sizzling sound can be heard and a roundish burn mark appears in the centre of the doppler's forehead, right between the eyes. The sword falls from its hand, hitting the floor with a clang. Its features dissolve and, within the blink of an eye, it morphs into its hideous, true form. Its sword has transformed, too. The monster stares at the bluish heap of amorphous pulp on the cellar floor that was a part of its body only a second ago. Next to it lies a silver coin. Damn that devious human! The doppler roars again, and, bereft of its weapon, runs at Cahir head first. Swiftly, Cahir jumps to the side. The very moment the monster crashes into the shelf, not able to stop its wild attack in time, Cahir embeds his silver knife in the creature's back. Up to the hilt. The doppler screams in agony, its flesh around the deep stab wound smoking and sizzling. However, the sound is drowned out by the clatter of breaking glass and the creaking of wood as the wall of shelves comes crashing down on both the monster and the monster slayer.
Cahir ducks, trying to protect himself from the falling rack and the glass jars raining down on him. But the heavy wooden frame, together with some of its disgusting content, hits him hard in the head and back, knocking him flat on the floor. 'Fuck' is the last thing he can think before everything goes black.