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Geralt’s stomach growled as he marched down the forest road to whatever town or village was next down the path he was on. It didn’t matter, really. Any destination was as good as the next because the road was now his home. He kicked a pebble with the tip of his boot, sending it sailing into a nearby tree trunk with a thud.
“Idiot witcher,” he cursed angrily. “Bloody daft fool,” he continued. “Think yourself a knight, do you?”
He kicked another rock into the bushes and hefted his satchel higher onto his shoulder; its weight was starting to wear on him after walking for so long.
"Thought you’d get a reward for saving his daughter, did you?”
He shook his head, remembering how the young girl doubled over, spilling the contents of her stomach at the sight of the mangled and decapitated corpses of her would-be attackers. Then she looked at him and his viper eyes, screamed and proceed to faint.
“Serves you right! What’s one monster over another?"
A hunger pang rippled through his stomach, making him clench his teeth; it was one in a long series that haunted him for the past three days. He never thought he’d miss the keep so much and so soon. And he definitely never thought he’d miss the food there. The meals at Kaer Morhen had never been more than functional and always slightly less than he needed to feel full, but at least he never starved. He stopped in his tracks and heaved a sigh, knowing that rummaging through his satchel wouldn't earn him anything more than some additional frustration. His meagre supplies had ended a while back and he had yet to find a paying contract. Maybe he should try his hand at hunting, though his only weapons were the witcher swords on his back and a small dagger tucked in his boot. Neither would be very effective. Maybe the dagger could work if he happened upon a hare or some other small forest creature.
In the silence of the empty forest path, as he internally debated his choices, the babble of a slow brook reached his ears.
Fishing! It suddenly dawned on him that Eskel had tucked some fishing line, led and cork into his and most of the boys' bags before setting out.
"You never know when it might come in handy and it doesn't take up much space. Don't scoff at me, Geralt. If you don't end up using it by the time we see each other next winter, I swear by Lebioda's wrinkled ballsack that I'll eat the…" He didn't get to finish that sentence as Vesemir slapped him over the back of his neck for cussing, then sent him to polish every sword in the armoury as punishment.
Well, regardless of the unknown end of that sentence, Eskel wouldn't be eating anything come winter, but if luck was on Geralt's side, he'd be having fish for dinner. All he needed was a hazel branch as a makeshift rod.
A little while later, he had found a suitable not-too-crooked, not-too-thin branch of hazel he cleaned, then set out to assemble the fishing pole. He strained his memory trying to remember how Eskel did it, but while his brother fished, Geralt was busy testing how deep he could dive and how long he could hold his breath underwater without potions, so it took him a few tries until he got it right. Well… right-ish, at least. He held the rod in front of him and tilted his head to the side with a grimace.
"It'll have to do."
The brook was nearby and the water was shallow. Underneath the clear, sparkling surface that still glinted in the reddish light of sunset, little silver fish swam, huddling near stones before flitting away. It looked promising, all he needed was bait, so he set himself to the undignified task of digging through the dirt, looking for worms. He caught the first and lifted it by one end.
"This better fucking work because if the fish don't eat you, I might have to," he said grimly, looking at the wiggling creature and silently praying to the gods he didn’t believe in that they might see fit to grant him a proper meal instead.
It was a little after sunset when he perched himself on a smooth rock and threw the line in. It didn't take long for the first fish to bite, but he reeled it in a little too early and eagerly and ended up empty-handed. He repressed the urge to curse, remembering how Eskel had always chided him for being loud enough to scare the fish. He didn't know if that could actually happen, but he wasn't willing to risk it. His stomach was painfully empty as his last meal had been three days prior.
"One doesn't rush with the ladies, just as one doesn't rush when fishing," Eskel wisely preached. "You have to make sure the hook is in before you reel them in."
"Look at you, being the ladies' man! Had your hook in many or are you talking out of your ass again?" Gert challenged him and although Geralt stayed silent, he knew as well as the rest that Eskel was just boasting. The only women anywhere near Kaer Morhen might be the water hags spawning in the mire, though even those had moved on to better hunting grounds.
He hooked another worm as bait and cast his line again, fighting with his impatience when the next fish tugged on the hook. This time he waited until it was fully committed and then reeled it in. He looked at his catch with what could only be described as disappointment. It was no larger than his ring finger. At this rate, he’d have to spend the entire night fishing to fill up his belly. With no better options in sight, he sighed and hooked another worm.
His next fish was a slightly larger roach, giving him hope. By his tenth, he had caught three decent-sized fish, all of them roach. Not that it mattered. He gutted them and struck up a small fire to cook them. The little ones he could stomach raw, but only if he was pressed to.
That night was the first one he slept with a full belly after stepping out of Kaer Morhen’s main gate. For the next ten days, he travelled down the path parallel to the river. Each day he’d stop in the evening by the small stream and throw his line in to catch his dinner and as the days passed, he got better at fishing, but he also grew frustrated.
“Is there no other fish in this gods forsaken stream?” he cursed as he caught yet another roach. “One more fucking roach and I’ll start eating tree bark instead!”
Thankfully, he reached the next village and when he smelled the mouth-watering scent coming from the tavern, he nearly cried, his reason twofold - it was the first not-fish smell on his journey and he had nary a crown to his name. The copper pieces in his pocket weren’t nearly enough to buy him a meal, so he headed for the noticeboard, hoping to get his first witcher contract.
He was in luck. There was one notice posted. Thus it read:
“To those passin’ through, be wary there’s a fiend lurking in the woods beyond the chapel. Unless ye mean to feed it, give the woods a wide berth.
If any witcher or knight be brave enough to rid us of the beast, there’ll be a handsome reward for ye with Hartind, the alderman.”
With sure strides, he walked up to the alderman’s cottage and knocked, summoning his most professional expression and posture. A middle-aged scrawny man with bushy brown hair and a moustache opened the door and gave him a once-over look. He was clearly not impressed by what he saw and Geralt couldn't exactly fault him. He had no knight's armour, only padded trousers and a leather vest over a white linen shirt and the swords on his back.
“Wha’cha want, laddie? You one of those whatchamacallits…” He tapped his bottom lip, searching for the right word.
“Witchers? If so, then yes, I’m a witcher and I’m here about your notice,” Geralt replied, hoping he’d spare himself more needless conversation. "You’re Hartind, I suppose.”
“You suppose right, laddie. Witcher, you say? I thought you was one of those albinos or whatnot. Ain’t’cha a little young for that white hair of yours?” The alderman narrowed his eyes at him. “Ah, but you do have those cat eyes, so I s’pose you must be one.”
Geralt cleared his throat, swallowing the rude curse that was about to spill out.
Just make it through the conversation, agree on the reward and go kill a monster. Then finally get a good bloody meal that isn’t fish.
“The notice mentioned a fiend?” he asked instead.
“Tha’s what we thinks. People been disappearing in the woods. Hunter went out and got ‘imself killed. Nothin’ but a leg and part of a torso left, both were gnawed on.”
“Alright. I’m willing to rid you of the problem for five hundred crowns,” Geralt said, doing his best impression of stern old Vesemir.
He was met with a burst of laughter from the alderman and a slap over his shoulder, so he stood there with a raised eyebrow until Hartind was done shaking with mirth.
“A fiend is rarely cause for such humour,” he said, sternly.
“I’m sorry, laddie, but five hundred crowns? Don’t know around what palaces you’ve been sniffing or if all witchers are off their rocker, but that’s half this whole town put together. Nay, laddie, best I can do is fifty crowns.”
Fifty?!? If Geralt hadn’t been so desperate, he’d have told the man exactly how he could roll those fifty crowns into a nifty stack and then shove it so far up his asshole that when Hartind opened his mouth, gold would glint. But he was desperate. And hungry.
“A hundred,” he tried to haggle. At least a hundred would cover his meals for a little while and maybe some repairs if needed. “Anything less than that isn’t worth risking my life for.”
“Nay. I said fifty, it’s fifty.”
“Then I’ll be on my way, and maybe I’ll come through these parts in a moon or two. Then you can let me know when you’ve scraped together a hundred crowns… That is if the fiend hasn’t razed your village by then. You do know they grow fast, don’t you? If this one didn’t finish its meal, then it’s still small… Manageable… For a fiend that is. They’re cattle size when they hatch, so they’re never too small,” Geralt explained and watched the alderman swallow thickly as sweat trickled off his brow.
With his jaw set and a nasty smile, the witcher turned his back, ready to walk away.
“Wait! Wait! Sir witcher, sir!”
Geralt stopped, but couldn’t suppress his satisfied smirk. It took him a second to school his features before turning to see what the new offer was.
“Yes?”
“Sir witcher…”
“Geralt.”
“Sir Geralt, in sooth we don’t have a hundred crowns, but if you’d be willing to accept something else… I have this mare, she’s a beaut. A little unruly, but if you’d best a fiend, what’s a mount to you?”
Geralt thought for a moment. A horse was nothing to scoff at. All the walking he had done since he had left the keep had lost its charm after a couple of days. A mount would mean getting faster to the next village and being able to carry supplies, not to mention that he could rub it in Eskel’s face when they met in winter.
“Fifty crowns and the horse and you have yourself a deal.”
“Aye. Come back with the fiend’s head and it’s yours.”
With that said, Geralt headed to the spot where the alderman said the hunter was found. His pupils dilated, eyes focused on the area with witcher precision, looking for marks or other signs of the beast. Sure enough, there were faint tracks and just as he had told the alderman, by the size of them, the beast wasn't too large. He drew himself straight and followed the prints the monster left.
Normally, if he were to follow Vesemir’s teachings, he’d have to prepare bait to lure it out to more favourable ground, but he wasn’t going to do that. He was in a hurry, so he intended to find its lair and kill it there. He had always been the best out of his class of witchers. His additional mutations had made him the fastest and strongest, surely it would be enough to dispatch with the tedious preparations before a battle. Although there was one bit that he needn't skip. He rummaged through his satchel. Relict oil. He coated his blade in it, knowing it would seep into the beast’s bloodstream and slow its natural rapid healing.
He also had a small supply of potion vials, but he wasn’t willing to cut into it unless it was absolutely necessary. Melitele’s temple and Nenneke were far away in Ellander and otherwise, the supplies he needed could only be purchased from alchemists for a pretty crown.
While following the tracks, he kept his witcher senses alert. Eventually, the trail led him to a damp cave. Scents of moss and rotting vegetation intermingled with human decay. A little further ahead he spotted the remains of a human femur, broken in half and polished of any remaining flesh. He kicked the bone with the tip of his boot; the marrow had been sucked out of it. This was definitely the lair he was looking for.
With cat-like grace he advanced in silence, not knowing if the monster lurked deeper within or was out hunting. He was hoping for the latter and as luck would have it, he got his wish. The rocky tunnel ended with a large chamber, containing more human and animal remains gathered in several piles, but no fiend. The cave’s ceiling was broken in places by tree roots that had burrowed in and between them, a little light made it through.
He smiled confidently as he surveyed the cave and in the end, he settled on a carved-out niche that could fit a person. It was a perfect place to wait for the beast’s return, so he huddled into it, careful to remain hidden in the shadows.
He didn’t have to wait long. Judging by the light coming in, the sun was still high in the sky when the fiend returned. Geralt smelled it before he saw it. He also smelled the metallic scent of fresh blood; the beast was coming home with a fresh kill.
The soft thuds of its paws got gradually louder, echoing off the rock wall until it came into view. Between bloody teeth, it had a small doe, hanging limp with a broken neck and gashes in its side.
At least it’s not another villager. It would have been hard to explain to the alderman how he should still pay me when someone got killed with me here.
The fiend stopped near Geralt’s hiding place and dropped its prey before placing one clawed paw on it and tearing a bite from the doe, ripping both fur, flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. The witcher grasped the hilt of his silver sword, and took one small step forward, readying himself to strike. Perhaps if he was fast enough, he could drive the sword through the third eye and either kill or maim the creature.
He advanced another soft step. And another. Then a small crunch of a leaf caught under his boot. He grimaced as the fiend stopped its feasting and pointed its attention his way.
Fuck…
He barely ducked under the paw that swiped over him, thrusting the tip of his sword under the giant limb before rolling away. The wound was shallow and a little dark blood dripped down the side of the fiend, but it was enough to infect the beast with the effects of his relict oil. The witcher sidestepped a few times to put a little distance between them, but found himself dangerously close to the cave wall and the fiend was pawing at the ground, getting ready to barrel down on him.
So that’s why it’s a bad idea to fight them in their lairs… Should have listened to old Vesemir…
There was very little room to evade it, so Geralt rolled to the side, hoping it would be enough. It was, but just barely. He gathered his bearings again and lashed out with another attack, leaving a deeper gash on its flank. It roared and thrashed, shaking its sharp antlers as Geralt slashed again before the beast turned and tried to impale him. It nearly succeeded. One of its antlers ripped through the witcher’s shirt and scraped a bloody line over his chest as the witcher jumped back.
Even as he regained his footing, the fiend’s third eye had him in its sights and the cave was too small to get out of range, so he improvised. His fingers formed Igni and a blast of flame shot forth, setting fire to a clump of fur and blinding the fiend temporarily. He cast Quen on himself next and ducked under a paw, getting behind the beast, then shot another Igni at it. As more fur was set alight, the beast roared in earnest pain, but Geralt knew it wasn’t enough to slay it. He drew a large breath and ran towards it, gaining enough momentum for a jump that landed him on the fiend’s back. Before it had a chance to shake him off, he drove his silver sword into its nape, severing its spinal cord and ending both their misery. He jumped off, but not before the flames singed his clothes.
He panted doubled over, resting his palms over his knees.
“Never again,” he promised to no one in particular.
The cut on his chest stung, but as he pulled off his shirt and inspected it, he concluded it wasn’t life-threatening, though it would likely leave him with a scar.
A few hours later, he was back in the village, a little worse for wear, but dragging his first trophy behind him. He banged on the alderman’s door, a little more forcefully than was necessary.
“Hold yer horses, there’s no need to break me door!” the alderman answered, looking peeved. His face softened a smidge as he laid eyes on the wounded and singed witcher. “Aye, bloody efficient, laddie!” he said, seeing the severed fiend head Geralt was dragging by an antler.
So we’re back to laddie once the contract’s done.
“I’m a professional,” he replied dryly.
“And like all professionals, you demand to be paid. Aye, I’ll keep me word.”
He ducked back inside for a moment and came out with a small leather purse.
“Here. Fifty as agreed,” he said, handing over the contents of the purse.
The alderman made to turn and close the door, but Geralt planted a hand on it, pressing it open.
“And the mount?” he growled.
“Aye, I’ve not forgotten. Just lemme put on me boots. Can’t be goin’ barefoot into that muck.”
True to his word, Hartind led him to a small enclosure out back. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a while and the horse looked like it hadn’t been fed for just as long. It stood there, huddled in the shadows, glancing from her former master to her new one.
“Thought you said she was a beaut.”
“I also said she’s ill-tempered. Said I’d feed her when she behaves. But the damn thing still wants to bite my head off when I come near.”
Geralt looked with narrowed eyes at the alderman, trying to decide if he should first try to shake him down for more coin or simply beat him to a pulp for trying to cheat him. A faint nicker drew his attention. The mare looked at him with soft eyes, then turned to Hartind defiantly and snorted. The hunger had done nothing to break its spirit and the witcher knew that the alderman would sooner end up killing the mare than feed it, so being no stranger to hunger himself, he took pity on it.
“Where can I get a tack for her and some feed?”
“Market’s down the road. Ol’ Lonseld has everything you need.” He glanced down and the red blood staining the witcher’s shirt. “Maybe has some bandages and ointments too.”
“Alright. I’ll come back.”
Ol’ Lonseld had indeed all he needed. For a price. Forty-nine of the fifty crowns he earned went into the merchant’s pocket, but Geralt got all he needed for his new mount. However, he hadn’t enough left for a meal for himself.
“Guess it’s back to fishing for a while,” he muttered as he headed back to the alderman’s small stable.
The horse stood further back, shrouded in darkness. He pulled a freshly picked apple he had bought. Reaching out slowly to the horse, he offered it. In an instant, it was gone from his hand and the mare was munching down on it. As soon as she swallowed it, she took a step forward, demanding more food, so Geralt obliged. Step by step, she came closer to him and into the light until she was right beside him. He reached out to pet her long neck, soothingly. Her coat hadn’t been brushed in a while, but under the dust, she was a silvery grey with a white underbelly. Geralt smiled, having seen that exact colouring for the past ten days. Only the scales were missing to make the mare the spitting image of the fish that kept him from starving.
“By all the gods, you’re even the colour of hunger!” he said roaring with laughter. “Well, at least I know what I’ll call you… Roach!”