A Scholar's travels with a Witcher

“So,” I began as we rode down into the valley.

“Oh hell,” The Witcher responded, smiling crookedly. “All of your best questions start with that look and that word.”

“I don't know what you mean,” I protested, hoping that I was simply radiating innocence,

“You know exactly what I mean you lying dog. First you ride along in silence for a good long time staring at a point around two inches above your horses head with this kind of frown on your face.”

The Witcher demonstrated in an exaggeratedly comical way which I expected was a lot closer to the truth than I was strictly comfortable with, “Then,” he continued, “You look up at me and open your mouth as though you're about to speak before you think better of it. Then you strangely tilt your head backwards and forwards, from side to side while you consider various different ways to start a conversation before you eventually give up and just decide to come out with it and ask the question.”

“I do not,” I protested even though I was lying through my teeth and we both knew it.

“I will bet you the price of tonight's dinner that you were about to ask me a question and that you were uncomfortable asking it.”

I said nothing.

“Hmmm?” He prompted arching his eyebrows at me.

“No bet,” I muttered.

“Ha!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

We had been travelling together for some time by this point and although I would hesitate to refer to the two of us as friends we had come to an understanding. I would suspect that the correct word for it was companionship. We tolerated each other while at the same time having enough empathy for each other to know when to stay out of each others way, when to crack a joke and what was likely to make the other person smile or bring them out of whatever dark mood that they had fallen into. I had discovered that the Witcher was a lot more genial than our initial weeks together would suggest, but at the same time and by his own admission he had a tendency to sink into black moods for days at a time where he couldn't really be talked to at all for any reason. When these moods would overtake him, the best that I could hope for was that we would find a job for him or by him a large bottle of whatever apple fermented spirit could be found in the local area. The stronger the better is how he liked it. Oddly though, in these black moods he became a better teacher.

We would train every morning and every evening, Strength and stamina exercises in the morning as well as balance and footwork and in the evening there would be some work on the spear.

Occasionally he would declare that he needed me to do some drills for him so he could work on his own sword work. He would direct me to perform a series of jabs with the spear at various heights followed by two massive sweeps. He would then parry and leap about, avoiding the spear and would claim that it was some kind of monster drill. I can't speak for that but I do know that my quarterstaff and spear work improved in those first weeks on the road than they ever did under professional tutelage at Oxenfurt.

We had taken part in three hunts since the first one involving Nekkers. The first had been a Shepherd who had a problem with a griffin sneaking off with some of his sheep. The Witcher had told me that this would be too dangerous for me and ordered me to stay in the shepherds hut for two days and that if he didn't return then I was to go home. Needless to say he did.

The second was for a noble who had a problem with a ghost in one of the outbuildings of his grange. While not being particularly dangerous as I was standing in a circle of salt and Iron shavings, the first time I saw that that thing it must have taken years off my life. Nothing like the sight of a woman with no head feeding a baby at her breast that was slowly eating her to give you nightmares.

We also had a run in with a suspected werewolf who turned out to be a badly treated dog, trained by it's owner to attack anything in front of it. There was a land dispute and a local legend of a demon dog and the dogs owner thought that he would get away with murder by hiding it with the local legend. We figured it all out, killed the dog, restrained the owner and delivered him to the town council. They were still debating what to do as we rode away, money in hand.

To my surprise the Witcher had turned down two contracts, one involving a Golden dragon, because apparently there's no such thing as Golden Dragons and he also turned down a contract that was about bringing another nobleman a Succubus, because the Succubus had betrayed him. The Witcher had tried to explain to the lecherous old dog that such things were in the nature of Succubi and that as the thing hadn't killed anyone and wasn't particularly dangerous, the Witcher wouldn't hunt it. After some complaints the Witcher made some kind of comment along the lines of the fact that the old fart should consider himself grateful that the Succubus had taken any notice of him at all and we had left with the threat of hounds being set on us. I had noticed that the Witcher stopped to talk to a local herdsman though when we were heading away from that area.

I found that I was enjoying myself although I was beginning to be concerned that I wasn't going to be writing one book, that I was in fact going to be writing several and that it would take more than one outing with Kerrass to get all of the material that I wanted. From our first hunt with the Nekkers alone I could think of several essay titles to warm the cockles of my Lecturers hearts and the material was just stacking up.

But there was one subject that I needed to broach. A subject that wouldn't be easy to discuss, but it needed to be discussed.

There was no doubt about the matter. My companion was a mutant and we needed to talk about that.

“So,” I began again.

“So,” he said, mockingly.

“So you're a mutant.” I decided to just come out and say it.

“Yes?” he prompted. When I struggled for words he carried on “Have you only just noticed that? I thought it was fairly common knowledge that Witchers are mutants,”

“What's it like?” I blurted, berating myself for being extremely lacking in scientific method and lack of preparation with my questions.

“I don't know, what's it like being human?” he answered promptly. I got the feeling that he got asked this question a lot and that this was a rehearsed answer.

“You know what I mean. You were human originally.”

“Yes, but only mostly,”

“What does that mean?” I asked. I sensed a defensive wall going up between us and I needed to get past it before the wall was finished.

He sighed and gave me a good hard glare for a moment. “I'm from the Cat school of Witchers.”

“So?”

“What do you mean so?”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” I asked

“Doesn't it?” he accused

“Lets say it does. Lets say I know everything there is to know about the Cat school of Witchers. This due to the famously public nature of that school where they took regular tours of their keep and invited many scholars to inspect their cellars and their techniques, inviting...”

“Yeah alright alright, fair point,” The Witcher held up his hand in the agreed sign to say that I had scored a point during training. He was smiling I was glad to see

“Even if I knew all of those things, I would still like to hear it from you.”

The Witcher thought about this for a moment taking a drink from the wineskin that hung at his pommel.

“I was always taught that the Cat school was different from the other schools for two reasons.” He began, “The first was the fact that it was founded by Elves, or so our history told us. For some reason this means that we can only recruit those with elven blood. Not that that's some kind of snobbery, it's just that the formulae and herb combinations that we use, only seem to work on those with Elven blood to some degree. It doesn't seem to matter, to what degree but this would prove that somewhere in my ancestry an Elf got curious.”

“What happens to those children who don't have elven blood?” I asked.

“They die, screaming in agony,”

“Oh,” I said feeling a small wave of nausea rise in the pit of my stomach. “In other questions that I may not want to know the answer to... What's the other thing that makes the Cat school different?”

The Witcher looked at me for a moment. “There seems to be a flaw in our mutations that means that although we may survive the mutations perfectly well, there is a significant chance that we may become psychotic.”

“Good to know,” I said faintly.

“Still want to travel with me?”

I shrugged. “You haven't killed me in my sleep yet.”

“That's because I'm waiting for the doors in my soul to open and for the little demons that live on the other side of those doors to tell me to.”

I tried to nod as though this made perfect sense, while internally I was just hoping that he was teasing me.

“So you have some Elven blood in you somewhere?” I prompted.

“Yeah, so I'm not sure I'm that different from what I was. I was still separate although I don't remember knowing that. I went to the Witcher school when I was eight as my family could no longer afford to feed me. They tested me to see if I had Elven blood in me, I did and I was subjected to trials.”

“Yes, but you are a mutant. Doesn't that feel different”

“Contrary to popular belief it doesn't make that much difference other than the fact that I can see much easier in the dark than I remember being able to do when I was younger. The main changes are invisible, to you and to me.”

“Sterility, Strength....”

“Immunity to disease and so on. The ability to take what is essentially poison and become faster and stronger, Yes.”

“How does it effect you socially?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you aren't human, but nor are you an elf or a dwarf. I've seen you in towns, people don't trust you,” I shrugged an apology at this truth, “But they don't hate you nearly as much as they hate outright non-humans.”

The Witcher scratched his chin while he thought.

“Truth to tell, I've never really thought about it. I suppose.... I suppose it gives me a certain amount of perspective. I am separate from society. I'm part of it, but at the same time I am separate from it. It gives me a different point of view that makes it easier to look at the big picture rather than just whatever the locals seem to think.”

I thought about this as we continued to ride.

“Yes I can see how that could be useful in your line of work.”

“You're thinking about the thing with the Hound.”

“I am.”

At first we had travelled East when we had met, but gradually we had shifted southwards and as we did so, the rains of spring started to turn into the bright and warm of Early summer. The villagers were still busy and there was a tension in them now as they watched their new crops growing. Would this crop succeed? would it fail? With all of the people that have died, will this be enough for the village to survive? Would all the mouths be fed? They were almost watching the crops grow, their mouths hanging open and their stomachs audibly growling in some spaces.

The signs of the recent wars were obvious in the number of deserted villages that we were passing. To be clear, calling some of those places villages was probably even a little bit ambitious. They might only have been a few houses gathered together to mind the meeting place where the farm traffic was driven through. We would knock, and call out to see if we could buy a fresh loaf of bread or something as any change from trail food is always welcome but we were always met with silence. We would shrug and move on.

There were also bandits in the area. Not many but they were definitely there. We rode through and the Witcher would point out the signs of them. A flock of birds swooping in to land on a particular set of trees before veering away at the last minute. Deer standing out in the open where it shouldn't be. After a bit of this I spent a bit more time with my hand resting on my spear and spent some time training that little bit harder, much to Kerrass' amusement.

“If they're out here.” He would say, “If they're out here then they've been chased off from the jucier pickings on the main roads. They're probably sick, starving, wounded or a combination of the three. Slowly they'll either drift home, integrate into the local areas, starve or head back to the busier highways where they're more likely to find a juicy merchant. We are both armed and any decent bandit will be wondering whether or not it's worth his while.”

I was not reassured however so I trained and worked harder.

The Witcher continued to be amused but took advantage of my zeal by training me and working me harder.

That day the sun was up, the birds were singing and there was a town visible below us with a small keep up on the hillside that looked in fairly good repair. Most of the houses were thatched with straw, but one or two had tiled roofs and the place looked in good repair. We were still some distance away though and we were looking forward to a properly cooked meal where neither of us had to do the work, a soft bed in safety and Kerrass was hopeful of a wench. The following day we would call at the castle to see if there was any work for a Witcher in the area and if not we would re-provision and continue to head south.

For myself it had been too long and although the town was small, after the thatched and muddy villages that we had been spending too much of our time in recently, the picturesque town with the river running through it and a water mill gently splashing looked like heaven. I heartily hoped that Kerrass would find some work and that we could spend a couple of days here. I wanted to write my mother and my tutor to let them know how we were getting on, maybe tidy up the notes I'd been keeping and put some thoughts down on paper before I forgot some of the observations that had run through my head since the Witcher and I had started travelling together.

Needless to say that it didn't go according to our plan.

Not that you'll be surprised by that dear reader but I think it's important to know the mindset that we were both in as we got to that point in the journey.

We rode down the side of the valley, the road snaking backwards and forwards so that nearby farms could still take their goods to market on the back of a wagon. We were chatting and mocking each other and laughing and doing those things that people do when they've been travelling together for a while, telling each other about how much they snore and how much their body odour was beginning to take on a chisel like quality.

Eventually we came to a bridge. It was an old stone bridge, probably dwarven in manufacture as they tend to be the kind of folks who build that particular kind of lasting feature on the landscape. It was almost certainly the reason that the town had been built up there. It was also, unfortunately, obviously in some state of being halfway through some repairs. We travelled across the bridge, taking our time and riding our horses carefully to ensure that they didn't lose their footing.

I will forever regret the words that came out of my mouth when I reached the other end of the bridge. I still, to this day, shiver in regret as I remember that bright, sunny morning with the gentle breeze carrying the scent of fresh bread and cooking meat came from the town houses. I shudder and squeeze my eyes shut in an effort to keep the image from crossing my vision.

“Well, it looks like somebody's already done your job for you.”

There are explanations as to why I said those words. There are reasons but, here I sit, at my desk in the warmth of Oxenfurt university and I know, with absolutely no sense of self delusion that those same reasons do not excuse me. I was using humour as a reflexive defence against the horror that was there. That I hadn't expected such a horrible sight to greet me on so lovely a morning. Yes, I was, and I suppose that I still am, racially inclined to be prejudiced in certain areas. This is a problem in myself and I need to work on that problem but at the same time... Those words were said, they were in the air and my ears were registering it even as I said them.

The Witcher looked at me with a look of utter disgust and disdain.

There are moments, if you're lucky you get the chance to see when they happen and to know the mistake you made but there are moments when you drop several rungs in someone's estimation and you can see it happening before your eyes.

“So it would seem,” he said coldly, “but there is never any reason for this kind of cruelty.”

He dismounted and threw his reins to me negligently.

Bile rose in my throat. He was right of course. Absolutely right.

Tears welled in my eyes.

Dammit.

I dismounted myself, and staked out the horses as the Witcher would need my help and I deserved the penance.

There was a tree at the end of the bridge where the path to the right led towards the town and the path to the left led up towards some light hills sparsely covered with some trees. The tree was huge, obviously used as a kind of meeting spot for various reasons and for some stalls to be placed on market days. Pedallers would come here and hand out odd sorts but there were no pedlars today.

Instead there was the corpse of a troll. Still relatively fresh enough that some of the fluids glistened slightly and it was attracting flies in reasonably large sized numbers. It had also been mutilated.

Horribly.

It had been nailed to the tree by the wrists and the ankles as the head, hands and feet had been removed and placed, mockingly at the foot of the corpse. The head was particularly grotesque, it's eyes had been put out, the sockets burned and you could see that the tongue and ears had been cut off. It's teeth shattered. And it's genitals rested on the top of it's head. There were tracks of moisture running from the eye sockets that were not blood.

It had been crying.

It was a pitiable sight that brought tears to my eyes.

But this was not the worst thing.

The stomach was opened by a huge hole from which it's entrails had spilled but there were lots of small cuts and discolourations which I assumed were bruises.

“A troll could have survived that,” The Witcer said, pointing at the hole in it's stomach. His voice was soft, “They nailed it to the tree so that it couldn't protect it's soft stomach and chest with it's harder carapace on it's back.”

He took a breath and looked at me.

“Then they tortured it to death. For fun.” he said coldly.

I sobbed then. “I'm sorry,” I managed to squeek out.

He nodded and looked away from me.

“Look,” he said, pointing at a blackened patch of grass, “They set a fire to help them and to cook some food.” He used a boot to kick out a chicken bone before sighing and covering his eyes. “It probably took him all night to die.”

“Who did this?” I asked.

“Probably a knight of some kind. That's a lance hole in his stomach.” He was moving round the ground, peering at it closely. “Or a group of them. This was their idea of sport.”

He spun and moved to me quickly, grabbing me by the lapels. “You came out here wanting to know about Witchers and the way we live?” He yelled in my face, spittle flying.

I gulped, unable to answer.

He dropped me, the rage leaving him just as suddenly as it had overtaken him.

“We do a job. It's a nasty job and it's not too much to say that we are professional murderers and killers. But there is no joy in it unless we save someone directly or occasionally when we avenge children or a pretty girl. But we never torture the monster. Our job is to kill it. It is their nature to be monsters. It is their nature to kill people and to hunt the byways and lanes, sewers and alleys for their quarry. It is our nature to protect ourselves from such things and that's what people like me do, by hunting them down. But I never take joy in killing a unique, if different creature.”

He was talking to the ground now, almost speaking to himself.

“Trolls especially. Unless they're rabid, which by the way is a disease that effects humans as well as trolls, they can be reasoned with, take an active part in society...”

He stopped himself mid rant.

“They may have needed to kill him.”

He looked back at me. I was stunned by how cold and emotionless his face was. How still it was.

“But they didn't need to torture him to death.” he said flatly.

“I know,” It seemed so little to say. So little and so pointless. “I'm sorry. I spoke in ignorance.”

He waved me off. “You're forgiven. I'm just angry and you're a nearby target.”

He sighed again.

“Come and help me bury him off the road so that when he rots he doesn't poison the river.”

It took us a few hours to do the work. We didn't have the tools to bury him properly but there were enough loose stones that we could erect a decent sized cairn over the body before we rode into town at a point where it must have been early afternoon.

We smelt, we were covered in gore, I was shaking like a leaf with emotion. We were a grim sight. More than ever I wanted a bath to scrape the world off my skin and an urgent need to drink myself into unconsciousness.

We were not in a good state.

But even allowing for that I was not prepared to be spat at by a man doing some maintenance on the town gate.

His eyes followed us as we rode up, beady, glittering eyes from underneath a thunderous brow until we rode past which was when he hawked and spat.

I was still feeling a bit shaken and I didn't react other than to know that it had happened. To all intents and purposes, the Witcher ignored him.

We continued to ride in, nice and slowly.

More and more people came out to see us. Glaring with sullen eyes. I had seen this before from the absolutely poor and starving villagers who saw our clothes and goods, they had regarded us with hungry eyes and hated us because we had things that they did not. But these people. There was only hate there. Hate and anger.

“We don't need your kind here,” Somebody yelled from the safe anonymity of the crowd. A few other people murmured their agreement.

The Witcher continued to ignore them, lost in whatever chain of thought that had caught him up.

We came to an inn, a large building with a courtyard and we dismounted to walk the horses through the gate. The groom stopped shovelling the muck out of the stables and watched us with sullen eyes.

Our reception inside was no better.

“We're full.” The innkeeper told us.”

The Witcher sighed loudly and placed some money on the table which the innkeeper glanced at briefly before looking back up into the eyes of my companion. An impressive feat that most people couldn't manage for any kind of real length of time.

He slowly shook his head. Slow and firm.

“We're full.” he said again flatly.

I had been training with the Witcher for a bit now and I noticed that the Innkeepers right hand was under the table. I also noticed that the bar wench had left through a back door, probably to get some help.

“Really?” said the Witcher, looking around the all but empty common room. “There were no horses in the stable that I could see.”

“Let me be clear.” The innkeeper said. The man was clearly apprehensive but something glittered in his eyes that told me that he had no intention of backing down. “If we were completely empty, if we were starving and my children were shedding tears of pain at the hunger pangs that kept them awake at night. Even if my inn was basically a barn with rats piss to drink and dung to eat. Even if all of these things were true. There would be no room for the likes of you.”

I expected an explosion, I expected extreme violence or a display of temper from the Witcher but nothing happened. I saw him consider things. I saw him check the windows, the doors and the other people in the room. But in the end he nodded, shrugged and took his money back.

Outside, the afternoon sunlight was reflected from the armour of the dozen or so guards that were waiting for us. I couldn't help but notice that the armour was particularly shiny, as were the crossbow bolts that were pointing at the pair of us.

“Now this, Private Clayton, is what we call “pre-emp-tive Law-keeping.” A man in slightly more ornate armour stood forwards from the group, his chest-plate in the stylised heavily muscled form. It was burnished to a bright sheen which spoke of many hours with scouring sand and armour polish. It also had several scratches and scars that glittered across the surface. He took his helmet off as he spoke and allowed his long, braided dark hair to fall down his back. He spoke with the same accent as the innkeeper but his angular, almost feminine facial structure as well as the sharp points on his ears spoke to his mixed blood.

“Hello my friends,” he called to us. “Are you here for the troll hunt?”

His face and voice were friendly, but he stood in amongst his men that still bristled with armaments. They looked a little more competent than I would normally expect from town guardsmen and handled their weapons as though they knew how to use them.

Kerrass stared at this man for a moment, again looking at the entrance to the courtyard. I saw his gaze flicker towards the stables, the post where our horses were tied and a stack of boxes that were next to a low wall.

“Who asks the question?”

“Sarge,” said a younger voice, “Why don't we just arrest them Sarge?”

The elf-blood smiled before addressing one of his men.

“Because he's a Witcher, Clayton. Good as I am, I doubt I could match him one for one. Hence the crossbows,”

“But why Sarge?”

“Now that's an interesting question Private Clayton. The man is aware that he is a Witcher and he knows that I know that he is a Witcher. I know this, how Private Clayton?”

“Sarge?” Came a young voice from one of the armoured faces. The boys helmet was open and the face wore a scraggly and uneven beard.

“Think about it Clayton,” he turned back to us, “Apologies for this but I need to bring the new lad up to speed.”

“Oh no, please go ahead,” The Witcher intoned, crossing his arms. A gesture that hid the fact that his left hand had was holding his sword strap. For some reason I was fairly confident that the gesture was not lost on the half blood.

“Come on Clayton?”

“Sarge, the sword on his back Sarge.”

“And?” The Sergeant prompted, not taking his eyes off my companion.

“Err, his eyes Sarge.”

“Good lad. Now don't take your eyes off him. Later I'm going to question you on his appearance and what he's doing. Now, Mr Witcher. My name is Sergeant Gult of the town and castle guard. Charged with defence and law-keeping of the local area.”

“Unusual to see a mixed blood in such a position.” I couldn't tell without seeing The Witcher's eyes as to whether or not he was amused.

“Call it an hereditary position if you like. My father accidentally knocked up an elf woman when one of those commando units came through here 30 odd years ago.”

“I don't understand,” The Witcher commented, “Did he trip over something?”

I felt myself shift. He was trying to diffuse the situation with humour. I noticed that the other guards posture didn't shift though. Neither did my Companions.

“I like you Witcher.” said the Sergeant. “He told me that to avoid banditry by the commando he was assigned as a guide, to take them through the area, missing the military patrols and avoiding the richer areas. There seemed to be this ritual amongst them and one night he offered to partake.” The Sergeants armour rattled as he shrugged. “Nine months later, the woman arrived at the castle gates with me in a basket. Father insisted that he would have married her and that he even offered to, but she spat at him, hissed like a cat and vanished into the trees and he did his best to look after me. Taught me everything I know. However, I will freely admit that this was only his side of the story. So, now you know my story. What's yours. Are you hear for the Troll hunt? I warn you not to lie to me.”

“Sarge,”

“Shut it Clayton,” The Seargeant said without rancor.

“No,” said my Companion. “I was coming here looking for work, certainly. But it seems to me that the work has already been done. Your doing perhaps?”

“No,” A shadow flickered across the Seargeants face. “No not mine, nor ours either.”

“Good,” The Witcher nodded, “What was done to that troll was despicable.”

The other guards shifted a little.

“Did you take him down?” The Sergeant asked quieter, and somehow sadly.

“and buried him. As much as we could anyway.”

The Sergeant nodded.

“Down weapons lads.”

“But Sarge,”

“Shut it Clayton.”

“Sarge, Sir William said...”

“I don't care what Sir William said. What you should care about son is the fact that I'm here and he aint. Which means what, Private Clayton?”

“Dunno Sarge.”

“Proud of you son.”

The half-elf turned back to us ignoring the smirking faces of the rest of his men.

“I take it that the decision to slay the troll was not particularly popular Sargeant.”

“Not really no,” The Sergeant hawked and spat in a manner that spoke of long practice. “Old Tom was a decent feller as trolls go. Not that I've known many trolls mark you. Thing was, he used to be a bit of brigand round here but you could normally plead off by giving him something to eat or a bottle of booze. And he would take any kind of hooch going as well, down in one. But gradually he seemed to get bored of that until me old dad had this idea. He went to the lord of the castle and said

“Why don't we pay 'im to look after the bridge. Trolls like bridges and all. The Lord agreed and the deal was struck. Much to the annoyance of some of the locals.”

He paused for a moment, “Thirsty work this, Corporal Jenkins?”

“Sah,” shouted a pikeman,

“Take Jones and Matthews inside and get a round for everyone, including the Witcher and his companion but NOT for Private Clayton who is too stupid to be allowed to drink just yet. Also, be so good as to tell the innkeeper that these two gents are OK in my eyes.”

“Sah,” shouted the pikeman, drowning out Private Claytons protests.

The beer was produced and was of surprisingly good quality.

“That's better,” said the elf smacking his lips around the rim of the tankard. “Now where was I?”

“Paying the troll,” supplied the Witcher, hiding a faint smile behind his own mug.

“Ah yes, so the troll took his pay, day in and day out for years. The local kids, including me by the way, used to ride on his shoulders during the fair while he demanded his tolls from travellers. In turn he would hand most of the money over to the city treasury and in return we would pay him in food, booze and equipment for him to repair the bridge. Not a bad job he made of it too to be honest and we were always fairly certain that any cheating he did was purely by accident.”

The elf sniffed hugely and stared at the bottom of his mug somewhat forlornly.

“Why don't I pay for the next round?” The Witcher offered, handing a few coins over to Corporal Jenkins.

“Decent of you, my friend, decent of you.” The Sergeant was checking the sun every so often.

“So what happened?” The Witcher prompted gently, surprising gently I remembered thinking.

The Sergeant sighed and seemed suddenly younger, and considerably older as the mask of jovial guard Sergeant fell away.

“The local lord has a daughter. Lady Josefina she's called and by all the Gods above and below you will never see a more beautiful creature in all your life. Gorgeous she is with hair the colour of sunlight, pale blue eyes that can make a man weep if she looks at him from underneath her long lashes.”

The half-elf shook himself.

“Suffice it to say my friend that were I a better poet then I could talk about her virtues for a long time but I would also hide the very real fact of how utterly loathsome she is.”

“Really,”

“Really. I know that my elven blood means that I served the current lords father when he was a lad and the Lord isn't a young man as it is. I've been a guardsman for most of that time and served in all three wars in one capacity or another. I've seen good men do bad things and bad men do good things and every spectrum of things in the middle. Primarily I believe that what a person becomes is as a result of their surroundings but that girl was just born wicked. She's the sort that holds planes of glass, to focus the sun on an ant-hill and pulls legs off spiders.”

I shuddered.

“Yeah see, your friend knows what I'm talking about.” The Sergeant continued taking another long drink. “Anyway, her father, who is quite aware of the problem, decides that as she's just turned sixteen she needs to be married. Not the worst idea he's had but that means that we've attracted every Shit-dick in the surrounding region to court the poisonous little wench.”

“Sarge, I don't think you should be....”

“Clayton, one more word out of your pox filled mouth and I'll have the baby fat flayed from your back.” The Half-elf put some venom in his voice this time.

“He's a good lad really,” he muttered in aside to the two of us, “Just a little young and too ready to believe that beauty equals goodness.”

“I know the type,” The Witcher commented. I thought he did very well not to look at me as he said it.

“Anyway, the lady gathers suitors around her like flies on shit. She's under pressure to choose one but she's having far too much fun terrorising people and setting them all against each other. So far their have been, to my knowledge, four death duels that I've had to break up and eight to the first blood, some of which nearly became death duels. There have been nine fights, a still growing number of “accidents” and one poor kid, too young for the arena, tried to hang himself after she lead the others in a campaign of cruelty against him. In short, beautiful though she is, it would have been better for everyone if she had simply been drowned at birth.”

The Witcher took a sip from the beer. I noticed that he wasn't really drinking. A sign that he was getting ready for a fight. I took his lead and offered my beer to the Sergeant who took it gratefully.

“Anyway, it looks like she's found a favourite by the name of Sir William the Ram.”

“I've never heard of him,” The Witcher turned to me and raised his eyebrows. I shook my head to say the name meant nothing to me either.

“I'm not surprised. Arrogant little puke rides around saying that he wishes another war could start so that he could “see some action” as it were. Unfortunately he's good enough that he would probably become famous and poets would sing songs about him. Tall he is, and a wall of muscle. Handsome to go with it as well. I would have thought he'd been coddled but as it turns out, he really is as good as he thinks he is. Fought in a bunch of tourneys down in Toussaint where they go for that kind of thing and got his nickname. They say he's slow to start but once he gets going then there's no stopping him. Seeing him train I can believe it as well. Once claimed that he could knock down a castle gate with his lance and his charger. Can believe it too with the amount of armour he wears. Tried to lift the chestplate once and I could barely stand. And I'm no sluggard.”

The Witcher nodded, having handed his own beer off to Corporal Jenkins.

“Anyway,” The Sergeant continued. “The entire crowd came down a couple of days ago, looking for some sport.” He spat again, his voice had suddenly gone thick. “They came down for some sport and Old Tom, poor Tom. He demanded that they pay the toll didn't he. Poor bastard never stood a

chance. With her shrilly cheering him on, Sir William the Pox-ridden son of a bitch, levelled his lance and ran the poor old bastard down. The entire party then spent what must have been an enjoyable few hours torturing the troll to death until he succumbed to his injuries. In other words, he bled out while being poisoned by his own guts. Poor sod.”

The half elf spat again. I felt sick.

“So then we all get ordered to leave the body where it was left as a warning to other monsters and brigands that the law was governed properly here and that anyone who takes it down should be arrested.”

The Witcher nodded.

“Are you going to arrest us Sergeant?”

“Good heavens no. What for?”

“For taking the body down.”

“I didn't see you,” the Half-elfs eyes were gleaming oddly. “And I would bet you a not inconsiderable amount of money that no-one else saw you either.

“I see,” said the Witcher.

“Sergeant,” I jumped in. “may I ask a question?”

“Certainly squire,”

“If the troll was already dead. Then why did you think we were here for the troll hunt?”

The Sergeants eyes gleamed again.

“There's another troll isn't there.” The Witcher said.

“Saying nothing sir,”

“But Sarge, Sir William said...” Private Claytons voice was cut off by Corporal Jenkins bringing his gauntleted fist down smartly on top of the Privates helmet which made a noise, not unlike the ringing of a bell.

“I know of no other troll Mr Witcher sir,” The Sergeant hadn't reacted to Private Clayton's 'accident' “Nor do I know that if you travel back out of town the way you came but continue on this side of the river that you may come across the hunting party, or at least where the other troll...” He leant forwards with the air of a conspiritor “Or should I say troll's'” He exaggerated the S to almost comic effect. “used to make their lair. Nor will I mention how grateful the local towns folk would be if you could... potentially....”

“I see,” said Keras. “I thank you for the beer and I will think on what you said. I am inclined to pursue the matter anyway, but how grateful would you say the locals wouldn't be?”

“I believe that the going rate for a monster of that side would be a few hundered florins while the Lord is away.”

The Witcher nodded, looked at me with a raised eyebrow and we went to fetch our horses.