By: Istredd 109
Later it was said that the stranger had arrived from the north and come through the roper’s gate. He marched on foot and led his burdened horse by the reins. It was late in the afternoon and most of the shops were closed, and the road was empty. It was warm, but the stranger was wearing his black coat thrown over his arms. He attracted attention.
He stopped in front of the inn “The Olde Narakort”; he stood for a moment and listened to the sound of the voices coming from within. The inn, as usual for this time of day, was full of people.
The stranger did not enter “The Olde Narakort”. He pulled his horse further, down the street. There, was located a second, smaller inn, it was named “Under The Fox”. This one was empty. The inn did not have the best reputation.
The innkeeper lifted his head from a barrel of pickles and measured the new guest. The stranger, still in his coat, stood in front of the bar, stiffly, without moving, he was silent.
- What’s your pleasure?
- Beer - said the stranger. His voice was unpleasant.
The innkeeper wiped his hands on his apron and filled up a clay mug. The mug was chipped.
The stranger was not old, but his hair was almost completely white. Under his coat he wore a worn leather doublet, laced under his neck and on the arms. When he removed his coat everyone noticed that he had a sword on his back. There was nothing strange about that, in Visima almost everyone bore arms, but nobody wore a sword on their back like a bow or a quiver.
The stranger did not sit at a table, amongst the sparse clientele, he stood further apart near the bar gazing at the innkeeper with his piercing eyes. He drank from the mug.
- I’m looking for a room.
- None left, - muttered the innkeeper, looking at the stranger’s shoes, filthy and muddy. - try at “The Olde Narakort”.
- I’d rather here.
- None left - the innkeeper finally recognized the stranger’s accent. He was Riv.
- I’ll pay - said the stranger quietly, as if unsure of himself.
And that was the beginning of the whole dirty affair. A tall acne-covered boy who, since the stranger’s entrance had not let him out of his unfriendly sight, stood and marched up to the bar. Two of his companions stood up behind him no further than two paces back.
- There’s no room here you bum, you Rivish vagabond – spat the acne-covered boy, standing right beside the stranger. – Your kind isn’t welcome here, in Visima. It’s a decent city!
The stranger took his mug and moved away. He looked at the innkeeper, but the innkeeper was avoiding his gaze. There was no question he would defend a Riv. After all, who liked Rivs anyway?
- Every Riv’s a thief, - continued acne, reeking of beer, garlic, and anger. - Did you hear me, you twisted bastard?
- He can’t hear you; he’s got shit in his ears - said one of his companions, and the other one laughed.
- Pay up and get out! - screamed acne.
The stranger only looked at him now.
- I’ll finish my beer.
- We’ll help you - hissed acne. He knocked the Riv’s mug out of his hand with one arm and at the same time grabbing him by the arm, he dug his fingers into the belt going down to the stranger’s back. One of those at the back raised his fist in preparation for a blow. The stranger curled up on the spot knocking the acne-covered one off balance. The sword hissed in its scabbard and flashed briefly in the lantern light. Panic ensued. A scream. One of the remaining guests bolted for the door. A chair collapsed with a crack and some dull thuds signaled falling mugs. The innkeeper - his lips quivering - was staring at the terribly mutilated face of the acne-covered boy, who, with his fingers dug into the bar counter, was slowly sliding downwards as if drowning. The other two were lying on the ground. One was still; the other was twisting and shacking on the ground in a quickly growing dark puddle. The air was vibrating with the thin, high-pitched scream of a hysterical woman. The innkeeper shivered, twitched, and began to vomit.
The stranger backed into a wall. Crouched, tense, attentive. He held his sword and trailed through the air with the edge of his sword. No one moved. Fear, like cold mud stuck to the face, squeezed at the throat, and paralyzed.
The guardsmen fell in to the inn with a smash and a bang; there were three. They must have been nearby. Their leather-covered batons were at hand, but at the sight of the corpses they quickly reached for their swords. The Riv braced his back against the wall; he was pulling his dagger out of its scabbard with his left hand.
- Drop that! – screamed one of the guardsmen in a shaken voice - drop that, murderer! You’re coming with us!
The other guardsman kicked down a table, thereby preventing the Riv from taking him from the side.
- Run and get backup Treska! - he yelled to the third guardsman who was staying closer to the door.
- There’s no need - said the stranger, lowering his sword - I’ll come quietly.
- You’ll come, you son of a bitch, but on a rope! - screamed the shaken guard - Drop you’re sword or I’ll break your skull!
The Riv straightened himself. He deftly caught the hilt under his left arm, and with the right, facing the guardsmen he drew a quick, complicated sign. The silver buttons on the stranger’s sleeves flashed in the limelight.
The guardsmen jumped back instantly covering their faces. One of the guests stood up, another bolted out the door. He woman screamed again, savagely, horribly.
- I’ll come on my own – repeated the stranger in an echoing, metallic voice. - with you three in front. Lead me to the sheriff; I don’t know the way.
- Yes sir - blurted out the guardsman, lowering his head. He made a move for the exit. The remaining two followed after, hurriedly. The stranger followed, sheathing his sword and dagger. As they passed the tables the customers hid their faces behind their sleeves.
II
Velerad, Visima’s Sheriff, scratched his chin, and thought for a moment. He was neither superstitious nor cowardly, but he did not thrill at the idea of remaining alone, face-to-face with the stranger. Finally he made up his mind.
- Leave - he ordered the guards. - And you sit down. Not here, over there if you please.
The stranger sat down. He no longer had his sword, nor his coat.
- I’m listening - said Velerad, toying with a heavy mace lying on the table. - I’m Velerad, Visima’s sheriff. What have you to say, mister criminal, before you go to jail? Three dead, attempted spell casting, not bad, not bad at all. That sort of stuff will get you impaled in Visima. But I’m a fair man; I’ll first hear you out. Speak.
The Riv opened his doublet and removed a piece of white parchment.
- On crossroads and in Inns you post this – he said quietly - Is it true what’s written?
- Ah - said Velerad inspecting the runes written on the parchment. – So that’s your game. I should’ve known. Yes, it’s totally true. It’s signed: Foltest, king, lord of Temeria, Pontar, and Mahakam. Absolutely true. But decrees are decrees, and the law’s the law. Here in Visima I keep the peace! Murder I won’t allow! Understand?
The Riv nodded his head to show he understood. Velerad gasped in anger.
- You’ve got a symbol, Warlock?
The stranger reached yet again into his doublet, he pulled out a round medallion on a silver chain. On the head of the medallion there was the impression of the head of a snarling wolf.
- You got a name? It can be anything, I’m not asking out of interest, just to ease our conversation.
- My name is Geralt.
- Geralts’ fine. From Rivia, I take by your accent.
- From Rivia.
- Yes. You know what Geralt? – Velerad slapped the blade with his palm - about this; forget about it. This is serious. This, my friend, is not the same the thing as cutting up some lowlifes.
I know sheriff; it’s my profession. It written: three thousand orens reward.
- Three thousand - Velerad pouted. - And the princesses hand, as the rumor goes, though this our good Foltest did not add.
- I’m not interested in the princess - answered Geralt calmly. He was sitting unmoving with his hands on his knees. - It written three thousand.
- To think I’d see such times - sighed the sheriff – Such a fucked-up time to live in! Just twenty years ago, who would of thought, even drunk, there’d be such a profession? Warlocks! Wandering basilisk-slayers! Household slayers of dragons and zombies! Geralt? In your profession, you’re allowed to drink?
- Of course.
Velerad clapped his hands
- Beer! - he called - And you Geralt, come closer. What the hell.
The beer was cold and foamy.
- Hard times - declared Velerad while draining his mug. - A lot of shit’s been breeding. In Mahakam, in the mountains, it’s crawling with Bobowaks. In the forests it used to be the wolves that howled, but now; wraiths, some kind of mushroom and shit, you can’t spit without hitting a werewolf or some other crap. In the villages nymphs steal children by the hundreds. Diseases no one has ever heard of, horrible. And to top all that, this! - he pushed the parchment across the table. - No wonder Geralt, that there’s so much demand for your services.
- That’s a royal decree, sheriff - Geralt lifted his head. - You know the details?
Velerad leaned back on his chair and folded his hands on his stomach.
- Details you say? Yes, I know. Not first hand, but from reliable sources.
- That’s all I ask.
- I see you’ve made up your mind. Listen - Velerad sipped some beer and lowered his voice. - Our good king Foltest, still a young prince, back in old Medella’s day, Medella being his father, showed us what he was capable of, and that was something. We expected he’d grow out of it. But instead, shortly after his coronation, right after the death of the old king, Foltest outdid even himself. We were totally shocked. Getting to the point: he impregnated his blood sister, Adda. Adda was younger than him; they always stayed together but nobody suspected, well, maybe the queen… More to the point: just looks, and Adda with a stomach, oh, like this, and Foltest starts talking about a wedding. With his sister, eh, Geralt? The situation became tense as hell, because it just so happened that Visimir of Novigrad wanted to marry his Dalka to the king, he dispatches his messengers, and here, we have to restrain the king hand and foot, because he wants to kill the messengers. It worked, thank god, because Visimir would have torn our guts out. Later, not without Adda’s help, who influenced her brother, the king was persuaded to avoid a quick wedding. And then, after that, Adda gave birth, with perfect timing. Now pay attention, because this is when it begins. That, which was born, few people saw, but one midwife jumped out of the window of the tower and killed herself, and the other lost her mind and to this day is insane. I guess the baby wasn’t that beautiful a sight. It was a girl. She died right away; I’d guess nobody was in much of a hurry to cut the umbilical cord. Adda thankfully did not survive the childbirth. And soon after, my friend, Foltest yet again made a fool of himself. The child should have been burned, or, I don’t know, dumped in the wilderness, not buried in a sarcophagus in the palace catacombs.
- Too late now - Geralt raised his head. – In any case you should have summoned on of the Wise.
- You’re talking about those old farts with the stars on their hats? As hell we did: there were at least ten of them, but that was after it became apparent what lay in that sarcophagus. And what came out at night. But it didn’t come out right away, oh no. For seven years after the funeral there was peace. Until one night, with the full moon, there was a scream, panic, and then chaos! What’s there to say, this is your field, and you’ve read the decree. The infant grew up in the tomb, and it grew well, and its teeth grew as well. In one word: stryga. It’s too bad you didn’t see the bodies, like I did. You’d probably have avoided Visima from afar.
Geralt was silent.
- Then - continued Velerad - as I was saying, Foltest summoned a whole mob of sorcerers. They arrived one after the other, they almost beat each other up with those long sticks they carry around, probably to chase dogs away when they pick up their scent. And they probably do a lot. I’m sorry Geralt, if you have a different opinion about sorcerers, in your profession you probably do, but to me they’re freeloaders and idiots. You warlocks demand greater trust. At least you’re, how to put this, down to earth.
Geralt smiled but offered no comment.
- Now to the point - the sheriff looked into his mug and pored himself and the Riv some more. - Some of the sorcerers’ advice sounded pretty decent. One suggested burning the stryga along with the palace and the sarcophagus; some of the others suggested taking its head off with a spade, others suggested putting wooden stakes through different parts of her body, during the day, of course, while she’s sleeping off her nightly exertions. Unfortunately there was one, a clown in a pointy hat on top of his balding head, hunchbacked immigrant, who made up some theory that this was magic, which can be reversed, and from the stryga we’ll get back the Foltest’s daughter pretty as a picture. All you have to do is spend the night in the crypt, and the problem’s solved. Now Geralt listen to what kind dimwit this guy was, he went to spend the night in the palace court. As you may have guessed there wasn’t a lot left, bar the hat and the stick. But Foltest stuck to the idea like a tick to a dog. He forbade any attempts to kill the stryga, and from all over the country he summoned charlatans to Visima, in order to revert the stryga back into a princess. Now that was a colorful group!
