Well, this was certainly the place. Following the river’s course had, as expected, led him exactly where he needed to be. A couple of minutes ago he’d reached a small stream flowing into the larger body of the river and he’d traced it to the mouth of a reeking cave. He could clearly hear the sounds of rent flesh and the crunch of bones; the drowners were feasting, it seemed. What sorry bastard had they got this time, he wondered? Could be a sheep or a cow, as well, but from what he’d seen there were no other villages around, so it was probably some unfortunate traveller that had wandered too close to their lair.
Veles crept up to the opening and peered into the darkness beyond. He was able to distinguish six figures gathered around a large, dark mass. A horse, perhaps? The cave’s gloom was almost too much for his eyes to pierce. He glanced at the potion pouch fastened to his belt, debating whether he should make use of its contents. A Cat potion wouldn’t be needed, but perhaps something to enhance his reflexes? Veles shook his head, disregarding that notion.
When he had set off on his Path, he had been all too eager to employ the various concoctions known to him, even when the situation didn’t call for it. Though vile tasting and poisonous to all but a witcher, there was something intoxicating in the potential they unlocked within him. He’d savoured that feeling at first and who wouldn’t? With the right formula you could push your body beyond the limits, adapt to any situation - that was the very essence of being a witcher. No power came without a cost, however. In his case it was the dreams, they grew worse and even more twisted after imbuing most potions, likely as a result of the toxins flowing through his blood. That is why he had grown weary of using witcher's brews in recent times, instead relying on his swordwork and knowledge of beasts.
It was more than sufficient for this sorry bunch, at any rate. His hand went to a small crossbow at his hip; a favourite of his School, the crossbow was meant to be fired with one hand at a relatively short range, but required two to reload properly. In practice, this meant that you could only use it once during a fight, usually at the start. Coupled with the fact that the hides of most beasts were so thick that the bolts barely pierced them, it had often occurred to Veles that it was a tool far more useful against other humans, which was a line of thought he didn’t want to go down…
Drawing his sword, Veles moved into the cave, causing the drowners to turn towards him as one. He immediately identified the leader, bigger and uglier than the others – a drowned dead. Though very much a drowner, what separated these beasts from the lesser variety was their malice and strength. The legends held that these were particularly evil men, who returned from their watery graves to torment the living, ambushing them near rivers and lakes. Whether that was true or not was beside the point, for a witcher this only meant that they had a tougher fight on their hands. He’d leave that one for last.
As the ravenous pack surged forward, he fired the crossbow at the nearest drowner, stopping it in its tracks with a bolt firmly embedded in its skull. Then they were upon him, coming from all sides at once, their feral cries screaming for blood. Veles whirled between them, dodging and slashing when the opportunity presented itself. He swept his blade in wider arcs, which was risky, but effective versus a larger group.
The cave itself was cramped and there wasn’t much room to maneuver, every misstep could be his last. Instead of causing fright, that thought only empowered him – the closer he was to death, the better he seemed to fight. He flowed through the forms, every move precise and immaculately timed; unlike the fight at the riverbank, there were no mistakes here.
Each slash across a drowner’s neck or torso was accompanied by a shriek and a gust of foul-smelling blood that sprayed across the witcher’s clothes and face. Not long after, the group lay in crumpled heaps on the ground, dead or dying, severed limbs around them. Only the leader remained, injured and bloodied, yet still standing. The beast lived up to its reputation – it was stronger and significantly faster than a normal drowner; Veles had fought a few drowned dead before, but this particular specimen was one tough bastard.
It avoided his strikes with ease and its claws came precariously close to him on more than a few occasions. There was no point in trying to parry or perform some fancy trick, Veles was certain that it could rip the sword out of his hands if he let it get near it. Instead, he kicked it away as they clashed, putting some distance between them.
A momentarily lull in the fighting followed, giving Veles enough time to come up with a plan. The beast’s milky, bloated eyes seemed to study him, almost as if sizing him up. That was not true, of course; while they possessed some base form of cunning, drowners were not intelligent creatures and even though this one was quicker and sturdier, it was just that – a dumb beast, driven by instincts. The success of his plan hinged on that notion.
When it next threw itself at him, Veles didn’t move out of the way or try to catch it with his blade, which is what the creature would be expecting. Instead, he extended his left hand and formed the Sign of Aard with his fingers. His hand jerked as a wave of force erupted from his fingertips, sending his assailant flying backward into the cave’s wall. The following events occurred so swiftly that they almost seemed to happen at once.
Wasting no time, Veles dashed forward, ramming three feet of Meteorite steel into the creature’s throat before it had a chance to regain its footing. Almost at the same time a thundering rumble caused the entire cave to groan, he had to steady himself on the wall to keep from falling. As the last of the noise dissipated, the world went dark.
It took him a moment to realise what had happened, after which he uttered a few choice words. The rockfall, for that is what it must have been, had blocked the cave’s opening, shutting out most of the light so his surroundings were as dark as a moneylender’s soul. Veles used the mental image he had of the place to find his way back to the entry point, which was now heavily obstructed. Most notably, a huge boulder stood between him and the outside world, surrounded by a number of smaller rock chunks that it had broken off.
“Oh, fuck it!” he kicked angrily at the rock. A futile gesture, of course, it didn’t bulge.
He’d pushed too hard, he knew that. Too much effort into the Aard, he’d just needed a small nudge to send the creature off-balance, but instead he’d shook the foundations of the cliff he was under. Ploughing great, that’s what it was. He extended his arms and looked up, toward where the sky would normally be if he were outside.
“You just hate me don’t you?” A cry directed to the Gods, whoever or wherever they were. “It can never be easy, eh? You always find some new way to fuck me over! Well you know what?! I don’t even believe in you, you bastards!”
If not for the circumstances, he’d laugh. What he said didn’t make any sense, but he spat on the pile of rocks for good measure, in case there actually was some God watching from above. The medallion at his neck was still – there were at least no drowners to worry about nearby.
Eyes squinting, the witcher looked around, but there was too little light even for his enhanced eyes. Well, it seemed like he’d have to use the Cat after all. With a sigh, he gulped down the small vial and closed his eyes, his body shuddering as the potion coursed through him. When he next opened his eyes, his surroundings were composed of varying shades of grey and black.
Apart from the corpses, there was only one other thing of note – a crack in the far wall from which a steady stream of water flowed. That was a problem in itself, as it would likely flood the cave before long; he doubted the water had enough force to break through the rockslide and he didn’t want to wait to find out. While thinking on what to do next, he moved between the drowners methodically, taking the proof he needed. Lastly, he severed the drowned dead’s head, which was different from a drowner’s even to an untrained eye and placed it in a burlap sack that he tied to his belt.
He then walked over to the drowners’ supper. It was a horse, as he had initially suspected, though he was now able to make out the remains of a man as well. There was not much left of him, save for a leather jerkin, gnawed bones, some shapeless lumps of meat and a pair of boots. What drew the witcher’s attention was the crest sewed onto the jerkin – a hunting horn crossed with a sword on a field of blue, a noble’s mark. So, this was no ordinary traveller, but a lord’s man. Maybe he belonged to the local baron? He could ask in the village, but it was usually better to keep such information to yourself; many people were willing to accuse strangers, especially if it meant they wouldn’t have to pay for the services rendered.
A little to the left, near the crack, he saw a pile of bones. He didn’t need to examine them closer to know who they belonged to, from the smaller size it was obvious those were the children’s. It was a sad thing that their lives had ended so early, but maybe it was for the best – war was looming on the horizon and children were usually the ones that suffered the most.
Apart from the blocked exit, there seemed to be only one other way – through the crack, which would hopefully open up into a bigger chamber. There had to be some other exit from this damned place. While travelling through the area he’d seen a number of caves, so he was hopeful that this one would connect to at least one other. The alternative would be…well, there really wasn’t much of an alternative. He thought of trying to use Aard again to push through the rocks, but he doubted he was strong enough to do it, plus he might make things even worse. He wouldn’t even be in this mess if he’d used his head before casting it the first time.
Through the crack it was. Sheathing the sword, he moved closer to see if he could squeeze through. Yes, it wasn’t that tight and thankfully Veles was a slim man, he’d be able to get to the other side, though the enclosed space seemed to stretch on into the darkness for quite a while. A wave of claustrophobia washed over him, but he pushed it down. He was far too angry to be scared right now.
All he ever wanted from this night was to return to the run-down tavern in the village, knock back a few by the fire and then collect his bounty in the morning. Was that too much to ask? Apparently it was. Now, he'd have to content himself with wandering through the damp, stinking caves in search of an exit. Funny, when people told stories or sang ballads of witchers, you'd hear about all manner of beasts and epic confrontations, yet none of them bothered to mention the countless hours spent wading through the mud and shit.
Probably didn't sound very heroic, but so far Veles had found that a witcher's work seldom was.
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