A Scholar's travels with a Witcher

In the end we managed to get away from the village in the early part of the afternoon after much complaining and moaning on the part of my new companion.

Every time we would be ready to go he would find some new dire instruction to give me that, if not followed, would result in death for at least me and probably him during the journey. To my mind they were full of little picky things like how tight my saddle was strapped to my horse, the type of shoes that she was shod with, how long my stirrups were, how I held the reins and so on. At one point we spent a good ten minutes discussing how we were going to set up camp in the evening with everything being laid out for me so that I would know exactly how everything was supposed to be placed when we stopped for the evening if we found ourselves away from civilisation. He actually stopped down to the ground and used one of his knives to draw a diagram in the mud which included such things as how far we were to sleep from the road, where my bed roll would be situated, where his bedroll should be situated. How the horses should be tied up, where the camp fire should be dug and how and where a watchman should stand and move to ensure that we weren't being attacked during the night.

At first I asked some questions about the importance of the various instructions that he gave me, things like why I needed to have my stirrups a lot shorter than I would normally have them when I rode, only for a torrent of abuse and ridicule to come from the person that was going to be my travelling companion.

Again the thought occurred that this was possibly a lot more trouble than it was worth and that I should turn tail and head for home.

When all was said and done we left to the ironic cheers of some of the people working in the village and I couldn't help but smile to myself as the innkeepers wife had secreted a small bottle of apple brandy in the provisions that were carefully arranged in my saddle bags with an instruction not to share it with him. I had chuckled a little to myself and it was this that galvanised me to keep to the original plan.

After this, I don't think we spoke together for a week. I won't deny that it was tough going. The Witcher set a hard and fast pace which the horses complained about nearly as much as my aching muscles did. We kept to byways and game trails for the most part, avoiding the main roads with their deep ruts and potholes and therefore the gossip and traffic that goes with them. I couldn't detect any particular pattern that we were travelling by other than the fact that we were travelling vaguely eastwards.

The routine was that we would ride until early evening when I would see the Witcher take his eyes from the path ahead of us and start looking around. This was my signal that we would be making camp soon. When he had picked somewhere, often the dampest, wettest, coldest, most exposed patch of dirt and mud that he could find we would set about making camp. Well I say that we would set about the camp. In truth, I, would set about making camp while he tended to the horses and glared at the surrounding undergrowth. I would dig a small hole where I would lay the fire, occasionally sheltering the fire from the elements with a pig skin that had been purchased for that very purpose. Then if it was dry I would arrange any damp clothes that needed airing around the fire before starting to cook. Food at that point was generally a kind of barley stew with a few pieces of dried and salted meat thrown in for good measure. It was filling enough, and occasionally I was able to flavour it with some wild garlic that I found while wandering about. After the food was ready I would arrange the sleeping areas, again stretching a skin over the top, and digging a rain gulley if required before going out in search of firewood. Again the type of wood I was looking for was drilled into me by my travelling companion.

When dinner was ready I would eat, clear the pots away and curl up in my own bedroll while the Witcher kept watch over us both. I doubted that we really needed to set a watch as we were still relatively close to civilised lands at that point but I kept that opinion to myself. Anyway, better to be safe than sorry.

The Witcher would wake me up at some point in the night and it would be my duty to keep watch for the rest of the night. It wasn't easy at first but getting into the swing of things I used the time to take care of some of my own concerns. I made some notes about our early meetings as well as a lot of unimportant observations about the journey so far. I had a pretty good guess as to what was going on with my travelling companion but had decided that keeping my own council was the best thing for us both. I would collect some more firewood, do some exercises, some quarter staff drills, deal with some personal hygiene issues that would creep up every so often. It was pitch black outside the camp as the moon was waning at the time and my ears were more reliable than my eyes at keeping watch. It also meant that I could prepare the two of us a decent breakfast which I would give the Witcher when it was ready.

The only particularly relevant thing to say about him in this period is the way that he slept. Always he would sleep on his back, left leg right leg bent with his sword on his left hand side. I yearned to ask him about that but kept my silence in the meantime but every night I would watch him through my bleary state of half-sleep as he carefully arranged himself and his weapon just so until he was satisfied. When he was satisfied he fell asleep almost instantly.

He snored like a dwarf.

So fatigue turned into boredom, boredom turned into monotony, monotony turned into a strange kind of reflective thoughtlessness. It felt a lot like falling asleep only without the actual sleeping process. I dreamed up so many things, imagined conversations with my father, mother and various other family members. Remembered conversations suddenly had extra scenes that if I had said just said a slightly different thing at a slightly different time then I would have gotten away with everything. Talked that impossibly beautiful girl into bed. Finally gotten my father to up my allowance. I looked at the man who always rode in front of me and imagined the two of us travelling the lands and righting wrongs and other such romantic nonsense. I had erotic daydreams about every girl who had eventually said no and self righteous dreams where I won every argument and won every competition.

I had come through some kind of barrier into a land of kind of strange and absent enjoyment. It was fun watching the Witcher becoming more and more frustrated with me. Watching as every single time I did something without giving him the opportunity to yell at me went home into a deep part of his soul like a dagger made of glass although I carefully hid my smile for when he was asleep or when I was buried into my own blankets for the night.

In the end we had been travelling westwards for ten days give or take an hour or two when the Witcher jerked his reins and his horse turned around with a wicker of protest.

“In the name of everything, what are you still doing here?” He was absolutely furious. Not properly, about to commit murder, furious, but he was still pretty angry. The other thing was that I was roughly half asleep.

“What?” I blinked stupidly at him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke again. Much quieter this time.

“Why are you still here?” he said. “This situation is intolerable.”

I stared at him for a moment as I tried to remember how to speak.

“Umm, you remember, my research project? I'm paying you to let me follow you around?”

He stared off into the distance. For a long moment.

“You really aren't going to change your mind on that are you?”

“No,” I found that I was trying not to smile again. “Do you know how hard it is to find a Witcher in this day and age?”

“I do. It's too hard. Certainly too hard for those people who actually need us.”

He stared at me again for a moment. Exasperation and frustration warring on his face, eventually giving way to wry amusement and resignation.

“Let's camp early tonight. I need to exercise, we both could do with the rest and to talk a bit more.”

He walked his horse on and we rode for maybe another hour. It was early afternoon at this point.

He eventually found us a little alcove up against an embankment that almost made the place into a cave. It was sheltered from the wind and the rain and there was plenty of room for both the horses and ourselves. I begun arranging the sleeping areas until he stopped me, directing me to put the blankets up against the embankment because they would be more comfortable.

“You know how to make tea?” he asked me.

“What?” I asked stupidly

“Tea, do you know how to make it?”

“Umm yes. The chancellor gets it in from Zerrikania and has a thing about inviting us all to help him drink it. I always thought he was showing off.”

“He was,” he said with more than a little irony, “getting it from Zerrikania at any rate. He was probably lying to you about that as well. Anyway, whatever it was it will be similar to this stuff.”

He produced a waxed paper packet from one of his bags and tossed it to me along with a jar of honey. “Make us some up along with a good sized lunch. We'll be at a village tomorrow and can get more supplies there.” He gathered up his sword and the strange, long wooden box that I had seen him with at the inn. “I like my tea hot, strong and with plenty of honey. Build us a nice big fire tonight.”

“How big?”

“Big.” He answered with a slight smile. “If you get into trouble, shout. If it gets really dangerous, scream.” He loped off at a gentle run.

I set to work building the big fire and gathering firewood, I made tea and settled in to wait.

By the time he came back several hours later I had my notebook out and was sketching.

“Those are pretty good,” he said sitting down on his own blankets making me jump.

“It's just something to pass the time.”

He nodded. The silence lengthening into awkwardness. “Do you know how to roast a rabbit?” he asked suddenly.

“I do as a matter of fact,”

“Good, because I ensnared three.”

I will not deny that my mouth started to water at the prospect. War affects things. First there was the war. Then came the disease, carried by all of those corpses. Then it was the famine due to the utter lack of people to work in the fields. Rabbit was a rarity.

“We both need to rest tonight,” he continued. “Can you clean them up and get them ready while I make sure that we can both sleep tonight?”

I nodded, took out a knife and got to work while he had taken a large ball of thread and started winding it around the trees and branches.

There was a faint jingling coming from the threads as well as little golden glints of light.

He came back with a satisfied look on his face.

“We didn't need to set watch at all did we?”

“Nope,” he grinned evilly.

“Bells on string around the camp?”

“Yes,”

I laughed at that and hurled the rabbit offal out into the woods.

“So how long have you been regretting your decision to let me tag along?” I asked as I started to thread the rabbits onto sticks over the fire.

“Roughly speaking? Since shortly after I said that you could. I don't know what possessed me, I really don't. Like most of us Witchers and mutants, I'm not used to being around people and it kind of made things difficult for me.”

“Why didn't you just tell me to leave?”

“It was a contract. I'd said yes and we'd shaken on it. Therefore a contract is a contract is a contract.” He scratched the back of his head as he poured himself some tea. “I'm under no illusions. I'm essentially a hired sword, a mercenary if you prefer and all we ever have is our word.”

“Isn't the stereotype of mercenaries that they aren't trustworthy?” I asked,

“That is indeed the stereotype, but if mercenaries start going back on their contracts, who is going to hire them next time?”

It was not an invalid point. He winced at the tea and added another spoonful of honey.

We lapsed into silence again. I was trying to contain my excitement as he was visibly relaxing in front of me.

This time he broke the silence.

“Why haven't you asked me any real questions yet?” he asked me.

“Would you have answered them until now?” I countered. “This is not the first time I've had a subject to study that involves interviews. You will answer questions when you are ready. My job is to ask the right questions at the right time.

He thought about that for a moment.

“Fair point. Do you want to ask me a question now?”

“If you don't mind?”

“A short one then.”

“Why do you carry your sword on your back and why do some Witchers that I've heard of carry both at the same time?”

“A short question I said,” His lips turned up a little in the ghost of a smile. “To be honest I don't really know. It's just that that's how I was trained to carry my swords. The plural thing of carrying both swords at once has always struck me as a bit stupid. Especially in times like this. People know Witchers carry a silver sword. People hear silver and think that that equals money. Money equals food and safety and if I were to carry it openly then it's inviting trouble.”

“Also is there any danger of drawing the wrong sword in a fight.”

“That would never happen. They weigh differently and we are trained in those movements from the moment we are brought to the school. As for carrying both, we all have different methods. Some of my fellows might argue that having both means that you are prepared for anything. This idea has merit, but personally I would argue that you should never be surprised and you should always know which sword you should be carrying. For me the only time you might need both is when you are hunting in a bandit infested area.”

“What about when travelling in an area with bandits and monsters?”

He grinned nastily. “Depending on the situation I might have to see who is faster, the monster or my horse,”

“Is it not harder to draw a sword of that length from your back rather than your side?”

“There's a trick to it. Again, if you've been trained to it then a side draw seems inefficient.”

“Can you demonstrate?”

He thought for a minute and then stood up.

“Watch carefully. Give me a cue as to when to draw as though something was jumping out at me.”

I nodded. He stood, easily and relaxed with his hands at his sides.

I shouted and his sword was in his hands before I had finished shouting.

“Did you see it?” he asked.

“No, could you do it again only slower?”

“Not really, the trick requires speed. Watch again.”

The process was repeated with my being none the wiser.

“Nope, sorry.”

His eyes twinkled. “You're watching the wrong hand. Watch what my left hand does.”

The process was again repeated.

“Can I see it again?”

He did at a final time and I smiled.

“You tug the strap,” I felt rather pleased with myself. “It makes the sword leap forwards and out.”

“Yes, you need a specific sheath for it and the blade must be shaped and oiled correctly for it to work. It also requires hours of practice.”

He subsided again and poured himself some more tea.

“As for, “why on the back.” The honest answer is that I don't know,” he scratched his armpit. “But if I had to guess, there are a couple of possible reasons.”

“Go on,” I prompted.

“Firstly, It tells everyone who I am from a distance. Yes, as I get closer you could see my eyes or my medallion when I have it out on my chest. But from a distance?”

“Stay clear of that guy,” I said putting on an artificially scared voice, “He's a Witcher coz he's got his swords on his back.”

“Exactly. Another reason is that my work takes me to some inconvenient places, up cliffs, down caves, into sewers, down wells and things. I could imagine that doing so with a sword at your waist, swing there, that sword could get in the way, or clang into something warning the monster in question that I'm coming.”

“Good reason,”

“It's also a balance thing I suppose. If you carry a sword on your hip there's a lot of extra weight there which you would naturally compensate for, both with your body and your natural movement. Eventually one side would be stronger than the other putting your body out of balance. I don't know enough about the body so I'm just guessing here, but it makes sense.”

I nodded my agreement. I'd studied anatomy at one point and it wasn't entirely incorrect.

“But my training and sword forms depend on balance and movement. If my muscles don't react exactly to my requirements then I am dead and gone, and whichever monster I'm hunting is free to kill more peasants.”

He took another drink. “Does that answer your question?”

“I think so,”

“Good,”

He finished his tea. “Right then. If you're going to watch me work, I need to be able to trust that you know what you're doing. Go and fetch your quarterstaff.”

“You ready?” he asked when I got back. He was holding a quarterstaff of his own that he had presumably earlier. His sword was propped up against a nearby tree.

I nodded.

I would like to say that I saw what happened next. I would like to say that I saw him go from a neutral standing position with the quarterstaff resting on the floor at his feet to a full staff extension with the end of the staff impacting, hard, against my forehead.

I fell, feeling more foolish than hurt.

Now there is something that, in my own defence, needs to be said again. Yes I'm a student. Yes I've spent a good portion of my life crouched over desks and musty tomes. Yes I'm gangly and not particularly well muscled. But I'm also no slouch.

If you've ever pursued any kind of athletic pastime in a group yourself you know that the range of ability is like a curve. Us scholars like to be condescending and describe it as a bell curve. The vary best athletes who are both talented and well trained are at one end and the least talented and least trained are at the other end. The vast majority of people come in a clump together in the middle. I would tend to find myself towards the front of that clump. What I'm trying to say is that I'm not a terrible waste and that I have some martial skill.

The other thing to say is this. At Oxenfurt I studied fencing as well as the quarterstaff and a little bit of wrestling. My talents were not in fencing as I tended to over-think that discipline when to be any good you need a singularity of focus that I lacked. I was OK at wrestling providing that my opponent was either my own weight or was feeling overconfident. If they were overconfident I would win a point shortly before getting pounded into the dirt.

But I liked quarterstaff fighting. I found that there was always something you could do and that there was always more than one option. A parry or a block could be turned into a strike which could then change into a jab, a strike, a sweep, a grapple or any combination of all of these things.

I also, vividly, remember the first time I fought someone I knew I couldn't beat. That I would never be able to beat. Even if I trained each and every day then I just wouldn't be able to beat this guy. I remember being terrified for just a moment. I remember thinking to myself that if this person wanted to, he could kill me, or seriously cripple me. I could be done for life. My entire existence could end here on this practice field.

I remember realising this after maybe the first exchange.

That guy was nothing compared to the Witcher.

I would actually like to have seen that fight now that I come to think about it.

But right then and there I wasn't worrying about that. I had just been walloped over the head with a heavy lump of wood and feeling very foolish.

I began to sit up and realised that I'd bitten my lip, and I spat blood.

Then I heard the sound. It was a kind of whistling sound. It's a distinctive sound that you learn quickly when you use a quarterstaff. It's the sound of the air being split apart by a quarterstaff moving far too quickly towards your head.

Now, one of the first things they tell you when you're learning to fight with either a staff or a sword is that the floor is not your friend.

I rolled.

Towards the whistling sound.

Towards the Witcher who had gripped his staff by the end with both hands and was bringing it down with immense force towards the area that I had occupied only a moment before.

He'd braced himself for the two handed swing at me and the angle of the staff meant that it mostly hit the floor while I was rolling towards his legs.

He kicked me in the ribs for my effort. He pulled back for another kick and I managed to catch the leg this time and heave upwards.

He didn't fall, instead he spun away hurling his staff away as it had broken when it hit the floor and reached his sword drawing it smoothly. He shook his hand as though loosening it from a cramp.

Fortunately I had taken the opportunity to regain my feet and settle a stance as he did so.

We faced each other then across the little clearing. A matter of seconds had passed. My sides ached, my mouth was sore and the side of my head was thumping.

I was furious.

I spat blood as a red curtain of rage filled my vision.

He attacked as I did so, but I had expected it.

I charged forwards with a shout, ducking under his stroke driving my staff into his midsection.

But he wasn't there. He had spun away, which meant that he probably had an open view at my back. I spun myself. He was right handed which meant that the strike should land here and so I put my staff there which directs his sword down like so which means that my staff is now over his sword which means that I can swing like this and he should move away to give me some room.

I had forgotten that I was screaming.

He didn't move away, instead he shoulder checked me and I fell backwards staggering. My foot landed on a stone or a stick or something damned inconvenient and I felt myself falling.

I landed hard and the breath whooshed out of me. The Witcher rose above me, his eyes blazing like the sun. His lips drawn back into a snarl. I would swear that I saw fangs in his mouth, his hair streaming about his head in a shadow and it was absolutely terrifying. He brought his sword round in a mighty strike and I did the only thing I could think of, attempt to knock the blow aside with my staff and try to roll aside.

It's hard to do that when you can't breathe.

I heard splintering wood and just for a moment I thought it was the sound of bone splintering and that I was dying.

“OK, that's enough.”

I opened my eyes, I didn't remember closing them.

The Witcher was standing over me, holding out his hand to lift me to my feet. He was smiling faintly His eyes had returned to normal, his hair was back to being tied up.

I did think about refusing the hand but on balance, I wasn't convinced that I could make it to my feet by myself.

I stood and staggered a little.

“You alright?” he asked.

“You hit me in the head.” I accused him.

“And the ribs.” he added with a slight smile. “I hope you're not sentimental about your quarterstaff as I'm afraid I broke it.”

“They're not hard to come by.” I had come fourth in one of the Oxenfurt tournaments with that staff.

“Good.” He helped me over to a tree root where he deposited me. He brought back the remains of both our staves and broke them down a little further before adding them to the firewood.

I was astonished to realise that barely a minute had passed.

I was also realising that I wasn't as badly hurt as I thought I was.

“OK,” I said after testing the cut on my lip and gently probing my head injury. I was going to have a lump there. Sure to make me more attractive to the ladies. “What was all that about? Trying to teach me some humility?”

“What did you think it was?”

“You said earlier that you wanted to test me to see if you could depend on me,”

“Correct.” He had taken out a whet stone and was inspecting his sword in the minutest detail.

“But that wasn't just that was it? Wanted to exercise some rage there?”

“Nope,”

“But you were really trying to hurt me.” I protested

“No I wasn't.”

I hissed with pain as my hand came away sticky. I held the hand up for his inspection.

“You weren't trying to hurt me?”

“Well, maybe a little,” I had begun to notice that he didn't really smile. There was occasionally a slight upturn of his lips, but I got the feeling that this was intentional. Instead there was a kind of twinkle in his eye that told me that he was enjoying himself.

“You did well,” he said. “You didn't panic and when I used the sign you didn't freeze in terror or confusion, you reacted with rage which was an interesting response. Something to think about there. Ooh, and while I think about it, I know it helps your adrenaline and things but try not to shout before a strike as it warns your opponent that a strike is coming. Instead shout as you strike”

“A Sign?” My brain wasn't quite catching up.

“ Axii to be precise. A little magic trick to confuse the minds of enemies. Did you see me make a movement with my hand? As I was drawing my sword?”

“Oh that's what it was.” I felt a little silly then.

“Don't be too hard on yourself. From my perspective you didn't freeze in terror confusion which was what I was afraid of. You didn't react blindly. You acted, with some skill I might add. Much better than I expected if I'm honest. I've seen people react much worse to that before now.”

“Was that the test?”

“Part of it. How's the rabbit doing?”

“It's fine. Besides I'm not really very hungry yet. What's the other part of the test?”

He regarded me for a long time.

“A quarterstaff is useless where we're going. Don't get me wrong, you have some skill with it but against anyone that wears anything more than chain-mail, it isn't really effective. Now yes, if we're worrying about human predators then the likelihood of them wearing full plate harness out here is rare, at most they might have a helm that they have looted from some battlefield. But Monsters are a different story. You need something with weight and an edge to cut through thick hides. Something that will put fear into your enemies. You have talent but we have a lot of work to do.”

“Are you still trying to put me off.”

“No.” he said after a moment. “No, I think that that option is no longer viable. If you want to leave then you can, anytime you like in fact. But if you're still determined to come with me then we need to make sure that you're not going to get either of us killed. Do you understand?”

“Yes,”

“I shall give you a series of exercises that you need to perform every day. Do not shirk as it will mean the difference between life and death and I will be able to tell if you don't.”

“I understand,”

“We will be approaching a town tomorrow and there will be a hunt.”

“How do you know?”

“I can see the signs. No I'm not going to tell you what they are.”

I smiled as he predicted my question.

“We'll go in and you need to stay quiet. I will tell them that you are my apprentice. They will understand being apprenticed to a trade, they won't understand you being a scholar.”

“What about my being your squire?”

He shook his head.

“That will make them think that I'm a knight. If I'm a knight then that means that I'm nobility which means that they will clam up and I need them to be comfortable enough to speak with me to do my job. Oh, and write nothing down unless we're given a private room and you're absolutely certain that no-one can see you.”

“Why?”

“Learning and intelligence frightens people. Not just peasants but nobility too. Never give away an advantage if you don't have to.”

I nodded again.

“How's your head?” he asked,

“Sore,” I answered.

He handed over a bottle.

“Peace offering?” he offered.

I took, sniffed and the smell that came out was like a knife slicing through my brain. It left a scent of apples behind. I decided that I was in it now and took a swig.

I don't know what face I pulled put the Witcher did smile then.

“Drink up, it's good for you.”

“Is this the apple brandy that the innkeeper's wife gave me? The apple brandy that was in my pack?”

The Witcher turned back to tend the fire, saying nothing.