Humans were idiots and you didn’t need a degree from Oxenfurt to know that. Aye, some could claim being educated and intelligent, but those were usually the exception, not the norm. On the whole, people were about as smart as a bag of rocks. A self-destructive, ignorant and xenophobic bag of rocks. Take for example those fools from the village that had hired him. About a month ago they’d caught a group of local brigands and instead of slitting their throats and burning the bodies like normal, sensible people, they had tied stones around their necks and had thrown them in the river. The villagers probably felt quite pleased with themselves at the time, but as usual had failed to see farther than their own noses.
Three weeks later the first casualties were already reported – two young boys, ages eight and seven, had gone missing near the river’s bank, some miles north of the village. A hunter had gone looking for them, but had also failed to return. Some of the braver men had gathered and travelled upstream, only to turn back when they saw what they claimed were drowners on the far bank. The village elders explained it with surprise in their voices, as if shocked. Well, what did these illiterates expect when they dumped the bodies of criminals in the waters? Now their foolishness had cost three lives, as well as the coin they would need to gather to pay for a professional to sort out the mess.
Veles wasn’t one to complain, after all it was people’s stupidity that provided most of a witcher’s work. Still, their complete disregard for common sense continued to amaze him. Glass-Eye had warned them that they would be in for a lot of surprises, but this wasn’t quite what the young witcher had expected.
He sensed his quary before the cat’s head medallion around his neck began vibrating. Between the stench, the noises and the unmistakable silhouettes in the distance, it was not hard to locate the group of drowners. With a practiced motion Veles slid the steel blade from its sheath. Contrary to popular belief, not all monsters required a silver sword. Drowners, for example, were pitiful creatures, susceptible to conventional weapons, as such it was pointless to waste the delicate silver blade on them. There was still some distance to the shore, so he used the forest as cover, darting from tree to tree in the darkness. Veles had set off from the village with the setting sun - drowners were cowardly and preferred to come out after dusk, which was the perfect time to start hunting them.
When he was a stone’s throw away, he halted for a moment to assess the situation. Four drowners, their scaly skin glinting in the moonlight, were feasting on a rotting corpse. From the tattered attire, Veles summarised that this was likely the missing hunter. They had dragged him to the river and left him in the water to rot. The bastards enjoyed that, to them it was like marinating a steak. The fact that they were sated enough not to devour the corpse outright indicated that they had likely gotten to the children already. Veles nodded to himself, pleased. He tried to keep the situation and his surroundings constantly in mind, just as his mentors had ceaselessly reminded him.
Four drowners were easy prey, but he had to take care not to get surrounded. Their claws were sharp and if left to attack at once they could tear even an experienced swordsman to shreds. Right, it was time to go – he took a deep breath and stepped out of the forest’s shadows, approaching the drowned men.
Their pale, inhuman eyes focused on him at once and the one closest to him let out a guttural cry. Veles smiled, dropping into a half-crouch to keep his centre of mass low. For a small group like this, the Addan Anye style was best. It was the hallmark of his School, devised by elven swordmasters based on their observation of wild cats – the goal was to stay mobile and to strike as quickly as possible, keeping your opponent on the defensive. This made it particularly effective against agile, but frail monsters such as drowners. He held the hilt of his sword loosely with both hands, the style relied on a lot of work with the wrists, so the grip couldn’t be too strong.
The witcher felt a familiar sensation as the adrenaline began surging through his veins. Time seemed to grind down to a halt and his senses grew even sharper than usual. He could see the individual drops of water on the drowned men’s faces, the pieces of flesh stuck in their teeth; he heard every rustle of the wind and the creaking of the trees behind him. Damn it, it felt good. Veles lived for this – the thrill of the hunt was unlike anything else he had experienced.
As soon as the nearby drowner lunged at him, Veles sprang into action. He spun to the side, bringing his sword down across the creature’s neck as he did so. The steel bit into its slimy flesh, cleanly severing the artery he was aiming for. Withdrawing his sword, he sidestepped just in time to avoid a clawed hand. With a twirl, he spun the sword close to his body and sliced off the hand that had reached for him, then kicked the maimed drowner away. The remaining two drowners showed a modicum of intelligence and attacked him from both sides at once.
Veles threw himself forward, transitioning into a graceful roll just before hitting the damp ground of the riverbank. His sudden shift in position caught them unware, giving him enough to slice through one of the drowner’s legs. The last drowner whirled toward him, but the witcher was faster – he positioned his sword directly in its path, skewering it on the spot. The creature went limp, slumping forward and causing Veles to lose his footing in the mud.
At the very same moment, he heard a sound behind him - he’d forgotten!
Witchers were quick, but so were drowners, especially ones driven into a frenzy from the loss of a limb. Thanks to his uncanny reflexes Veles was able to turn around and take off the drowner’s head, but not before it raked his cheek with its remaining hand. He felt the warm blood flowing down his face, but no pain – it had been beaten out of him long ago. Cursing his carelessness, he moved over to the legless drowner and put it out of its misery with a thrust through the neck. It was done.
First, he checked on the man, who indeed seemed to be a hunter. There was not much left of him, the limbs were mostly gone and his face was half-eaten, clearly the work of the drowned dead. Veles tore off a piece of the hunter’s clothing and used it to wipe the blood from his sword, after which he returned it to its sheath.
His job wasn’t over yet. There were four dead drowners here, but the elders had told him that nine men had been sent to the river’s bottom on that fateful night. Sorcerers and sorceresses had given no definitive proof that every drowned criminal returned as a drowner, but Veles wagered that there were at least a couple more of the beasts lurking around. This little group would never have dared to venture so near the village on its own, plus drowners usually stored their food deep in their territory. He was certain there was a lair nearby, likely further up the river.
The witcher walked to the river’s shore, then went to one knee, leaning in to inspect his wound in the water’s reflection. Moonlight shone directly behind him, providing enough illumination to see himself clearly, though with his eyes even the tiniest light source was usually sufficient.
My eyes… Even after – what had it been now, a year? Even after a year since he’d passed the Trial of Gasses and left his School to wander the Northern Realms, the sight of these cat-like eyes unnerved him. He could see why village folk looked at him the way they did and, honestly, he couldn’t blame them. Veles had always known what was waiting at the end of his training and had taken it as a given, but still…it was strange, unnatural.
Thankfully he wouldn’t need to waste time cleaning the wound or worrying about the blood, it was all below eye-level so it wouldn’t hinder him in a fight. Standing there by the river, it dawned at him that he hadn’t looked at himself in a long while. Sure, he’d seen his reflection in puddles and watering holes almost daily, but he hadn’t really looked.
Veles’ face was more or less as he remembered it – gaunt and narrow, with low cheekbones and a mouth seemingly twisted in a perpetual scowl. He kept his head cleanly-shaven, in contrast to his face and neck, and had a scar running across the bridge of his aquiline nose, passing down to his cheek. Like most witchers, his clothing was well-worn and riddled with bloody blotches of varying colours. Those of the Cat School favoured mobility above all, so Veles didn’t have much in the way of armour. He wore a grey shirt under a studded leather vest, which might turn a blade, but would offer little protection against a monster’s claws. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing the witcher’s sinewy arms, while he wasn’t as big as most swordsmen, it was clear he kept himself in peak condition. A pair of dark trousers and supple leather boots completed his attire, along with the two swords sticking from behind his back.
That was about it – a sight he’d seen many times. And yet…there was something different about his face, though he couldn’t quite figure out what. Was he getting older? Without a doubt, but he was sceptical he’d grown that old in just a year...no, there was something else. Well, he’d have ample time to dwell on that with a bottle of vodka in hand once he got back to the tavern, for now he had a contract to fulfil.
There was only one thing left to do – he took out a knife from his belt and cut off the drowners’ tongues, he’d need them as proof to collect his bounty later. If he had learned one thing about his profession so far, it was that everyone tried to cheat you out of your pay. He understood why the bastards did it, as everyone in this de facto no man’s land enclosed by the four kingdoms feuding over the Pontar was fucking poor, but Veles wasn’t much better off and he, at least, really worked for his coin.
With that done, Veles turned north, surveying the river. He thought he saw a ford a few miles up; he would cross there and then examine the area for any signs of drowners. The peasants had seen them on that side of the river, so he was fairly certain he knew where to look.
He was eager to get it done, despite the coming spring there was a chill in the air and the prospect of a warm meal by the fireplace spurred him onward…
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