A Scholar's travels with a Witcher

At first I didn't believe him when he told me that the first things that would notice us as we approached the village were the cats followed by the children. It just seemed so ridiculous to me that this would be the case. In any village there are people out working in the fields, working on the homes or on the fencing or on the roads. Hunters with bows trying to find a meal, trappers, fishermen, mill-owners, ramblers, horny couples that have escaped prying eyes for a quick tryst. But no, apparently none of that was the case. The first things that would see us coming were the cats, followed by the children.

“Why the cats?”

“Damned if I know,” he said as he was cleaning some dirt off his armour. He was fastidiously cleaning every piece of his equipment until it shone. “I once met a Sorcerer who claimed that it was because cats can see the eddies of magic. I have no idea if that's true or not but they do react oddly around monsters and they seem to hate me so...” he shrugged and got back to work.

“Why not dogs?” I asked. I had wondered if I should clean myself up as well, but he had told me not to bother, that the people in the village wouldn't be looking at me and so I was cooking breakfast.

“Dogs are just dogs. They'll react to anything if the wind is in the right direction. But cats...” he hawked and spat into a piece of leather. “My personal view is that the damn things are just so evil and monstrous that they can feel a monster slayer coming.”

“Cats aren't monsters.”

“You say that again when they've clawed your wrists apart, or when you've accidentally walked into a pair of them rutting in the street.” He spat again and scrubbed vigorously “Cats were only put on this continent to remind us all that something so small and cute can also be utterly and completely evil.”

I laughed at him. I felt we had come to a bit of an understanding. We weren't friends, at least not yet but I had high hopes for the future. We were in a strange kind of place, neither of us were entirely sure of our positions with the other or where we stood with each other so we were sort of feeling our way through the world.

There had been another load of instructions that morning about how I was to behave in the village that we were going to. Where I should stand and how I should hold my horse, how I should behave. He had warned me that I was going to be introduced as his apprentice. He would say that I was a war orphan, that I wanted to become a Witcher and that he was trying to dissuade me by showing me the horrors of what I would be going up against.

He had also asked if I could change my accent to sound less educated. Unfortunately that was beyond my rather humble acting abilities and I said so.

We arrived in the village of Treaton in roughly midmorning. Apparently this was so that the maximum possible number of people could see him coming. When he was finally satisfied that his equipment was properly arranged and prepared we rode up the track and into town. Just as we got to the first row of houses he turned his horse aside onto a small piece of grass land and just sat there. Not moving.

Now I'm not a poet. I tried it a few times in vague and vain attempts to woo a few pretty girls but I always found that my sense of humour gets in the way of such things. I have much more skill with limericks and as a result, the audience that I was intending to get to cry, end up rolling around with laughter which is not the desired effect.

But this time, the sight of the Witcher, his sword and the metal fixtures of his armour gleamining in the sunlight, sat there on his horse perfectly still made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It was a peculiar feeling and I found myself wondering how many times he had done this, sitting here on the edge of a village waiting for someone to approach, wondering what the job would entail and where it might lead. Would this be the job that finally killed him? Where would he go after this, would he be injured? would he make friends? Enemies? a lover?

I thought about how many times this little ritual had been played out throughout history. A lone man with a sword on his back and bulky saddlebags comes out of the woods and along the trail, grim faced. stern looking with stark terrifying eyes that seemed to see everything despite the fact that they were just staring straight ahead.

I found the image haunting. It had a mythic quality to it and a storied history that I found myself drawn to. I tried to think about other images that might be similar to this. I thought of a knight in full armour riding off to battle with the sun glinting off his armour and banners snapping in the wind. But despite his lack of armour, or maybe because of it. The Witcher just seemed that much more dangerous. I thought then of the churchman that my mother had once taken me to see in an effort to give me some kind of inspiration towards doing something with my life. He was obviously a few meals short of proper health, had no money to speak of, his red cassock was dirty, patched and faded and his symbol of the Eternal fire was made of wood rather than metal but his passion had inflamed the crowd and sent me home with dreams that I did not recognise.

It took me a while to find my passion and much to my mothers disappointment it hadn't been where she had wanted it to go.

But that lone priest, declaiming the righteousness of the eternal flame before the oldest oak tree in the local area had nothing on the Witcher.

There was a conviction there, a surety and a focus that I found disturbing at the same time as being reassuring.

I understood why Master Dandelion had decided to write his sagas on the subject of a Witcher then. Indeed I was surprised that no-one else had ever done it before.

I cursed my romantic soul and did my best to copy his stillness.

Now, sometime after the fact I find myself wondering what the pair of us looked like standing our horses together on that lonely mud track on the edge of a village. A significant part of me thinks that I probably looked more than a little ridiculous while my companion looked even more dangerous and heroic by association. But part of me hoped and indeed still hopes that someone in that village looked out at us and felt their hearts lift a little.

Unfortunately the effect was rather spoiled by the small child who ran at us, obviously goaded by a group of friends, and hurled a large chunk of cow shit at us, most of which landed on my companion's cloak.

Then a local cat hissed at us and spat

He sighed theatrically.

“Gerroudofit.” Someone shouted. “Go on, clear off you bunch of mongrels, go on. Or I'll have your parents tan your hides like the monsters that you are and that we all know you to be.”

An older man came out waving a large stick and made an heroic one man charge against the “miscreants” and “vandals” that had stood jeering at the pair of us. The mongrels broke before the fearsome sight and fled, laughing and hooting out into the fields.

I was watching for it so I managed to see Kerrass' mouth twitch towards a smile just briefly as the miniature battle played itself out in front of us. As a piece of theatre it lacked something but was nonetheless entertaining and spoke of much rehearsing.

The man approached, only slightly leaning on his stick which was old, gnarled and shiny as though polished with much handling.

“Greetings my Lords,” he called to us as he approached, “Greetings and welcome and Greetings again. I hope long life and health bring you to our humble little village.” There was a light in his eyes that warned me that this old man was no-one's fool. My eyes flickered from one man to the other. The Witcher had told me that a lot could be decided in the first few moments of contact between him and the “client”.

“Greetings,” The Witcher's voice had changed a little. Normally he spoke with a flat, rasping voice without accent. It was a voice that sounded as though it was bored and resented the fact that it had to leave the lips at all. Now he had an accent that I couldn't place but was familiar as though it came from just over the hill from anywhere. “I saw the sign a few days ago. Do you still have need of some specialised services?”

It was interesting that neither man spoke about a monster.

The old man scratched at his chin, obviously looking a little uncomfortable.

“The truth is master that I don't know. We have problems, same as any village and no more or less mysterious than any tale or night time circumstance that they can talk about over yonder or a little was through the forest when they bother to come a-callin'” he tugged at his beard.

“In truth I am a little concerned that you've come here for nothing.” He finished shifting his weight from one foot to another.

The Witcher nodded sagely and with sympathy. “I understand completely my friend. Tell me, do you have a blacksmith in town who can craft a blade.”

“We do master, we do at that. Any man who can swing a hammer in these parts can craft a blade after, what is it now? three wars in living memory?”

“At least,” my companion added easily dismounting.

I was astounded. His entire manner had changed, he seemed relaxed, friendly, approachable, his voice and manner was transforming before my eyes to one more suited to the village. The tall statuesque figure of just moments before had vanished.

“Well,” continued the old man. “We're lucky enough that a Dwarven refugee came through towards the end of the last war. The smith had been drafted into the army like and the although the man's daughter was doin' 'er best. The simple fact was that she just didn't 'ave the experience like.”

The Witcher motioned me to dismount and follow as he lead his horse into the village and chatted with the older man like a long lost friend.

“So now, the dwarf, the ugly little fucker, teaches Cait the Younger, what her father didn't have time to learn 'er and now we stand ready to have the best smith here abouts.”

“Superb sir, superb. In which case I have a proposition,”

“A what?”

“A proposal, a bargain if you will.”

“Alright, I'll listen.”

We came into the village as the two talked and as I wasn't really required for the discussion I took the time to have a good look around.

For a start it was busier than I had imagined. I had always imagined that, well, I hope you, dear reader forgive me this prejudice but I'm noble born and sometimes my thoughts betray me. I had always thought that peasants went out to work on the land and then came back in the evening. But here there were work yards, I could see a man working on a series of planks, sanding, shaving and topping. I saw another man hard at work on making furniture, true it was only a bench but it was still a man working at furniture. A group of women were gossiping despite the sweat that stood out on their skin as they worked at scrubbing on a set of clothes while another older woman was chasing children around, half in a game to occupy them and half in an exasperated attempt to keep them all in one place. All over this was the constant music of the hammer and saw, most often on

wood, but sometimes on metal.

There was an industry here and it left an undertone of almost frantic proportions as though they were working too hard and too quickly. It astonished me that they could keep up the pace. It was not the first time that I found myself thinking that maybe it was the city folk, the churchmen and the nobility that were the lazy people.

I was also surprised to see that we were not universally welcomed. A group of men were unloading a cart on the edge of the central village green area that made no pretence of hiding their dark looks and muttered asides.

“As I say, my apprentice here is in need of a proper weapon to suit his hands and his size.” The Witcher's comments brought me back to the conversation. “So I shall speak to the master smith about the requirements then I shall listen to your problem in return for some food and an ale and then we can decide where we go from there.”

“Yes but...”

“Rest assured my friend, if there is nothing to worry about then I shall say so and we will pay for any other food and drink while we wait for the smith's work to be done.”

I could see the conflict in the other man. He was afraid of something and I didn't really know what it was but he wanted to be persuaded.

“Well I don't want to put you out of your way.”

“My friend have you ever heard of the Witcher's code?”

The old man shook his head but I could tell that he was excited at the prospect of some kind of mysterious code.

As was I for that matter.

“We don't take money but for honest work. In this case the removal of the threat, should there be one and, depending on the circumstances, food, drink and lodging's while the work is carried out. If this is not to your satisfaction then we can be on our way leaving you and whatever it is to work out

the problem for yourselves.”

“So just a chat?”

“Yes, and I imagine a walk around and a chat to some other people and I can tell you whether or not you need to be concerned.”

The old man visibly shrank in on himself.

“Then the blacksmith is over there,” he pointed to where some steam was coming from, “and then join me in my hut which is that large one on the end.”

My companion nodded and held his hand out with an easy smile.

The old man hesitated a moment before taking it.

Have you ever had one of those times where you feel as though you've gotten lost somewhere. This is a lot harder to describe than I thought it would be but the best I can do is to say this. It's the kind of feeling where you're kind of separate from yourself as though your body went one way and your mind went another as though both parts of you made completely separate choices and then they both try to catch up with each other. It was surreal and part of this was due to the absolutely contrary nature from what I expected was going to happen versus the reality.

My gruff, taciturn companion had transformed himself into a happy, smiling, friendly, people person. He waved at the villagers, paid compliments and exchanged self-derogatory jokes with old men who were sat smoking about the problems with having an apprentice. That these jokes were aimed at me ended up going completely over my head. Several times I caught myself shaking my head in disbelief as though I was waking myself up from a not entirely unpleasant dream. I had expected a village under the cloud of fear and oppression with the Witcher arriving like a knight errant to free the people from the oppression that was all around them. Instead it seemed that the village life went on as normal and the Witcher was more one of them than I was.

The first stop was the Blacksmith's where we were met by the most stereo-typical dwarf that I've ever seen. Complete with long chain-mail, horned helmet, broad Mahakaman accent, hammer in his belt, Long beard and bushy eye-brows. The sounds of hammering came from within the forge.

“Ah a Witcher.” He said cleaning his hands on an already filthy cloth which he then used to mop his brow and the inside of his helmet before putting the cloth inside the helmet and placing the helmet back on his head.

“Indeed,” The Witcher was smiling slightly and I felt that he had gone back to the man that I knew for a little while.

“It's the sword on the back, it gives it away.”

“Then I must compliment you on your observations.”

“Thank you very much.” The helmet came off again as the dwarf scratched his head.

“As a thought,” my companion continued, “Doesn't it get a little hot in that helmet and chain-mail in the forge.”

I thought I heard a slight pause in the hammering.

“Aye, it does. A little warm I must admit but ehhh...” The dwarf looked up and down the alley quickly. “The locals expect a certain...” his hand moved in a circle as he strained for the right word.

“Quality?” The Witcher offered.

“Aye, a certain... quality from a dwarven Blacksmith.”

My companions eyes narrowed slightly.

“Well, before we start, I don't mean to sound insulting but my life depends on the answer to these questions... Do you have experience in making and maintaining weaponry?”

“After three wars any local blacksmith, including me, has been commandeered by at least two different armies to make and maintain weapons and armour for them. It's almost quicker and easier for me to make a sword than it is to make a scythe-blade nowadays.”

“Then can you work with silver and meteorite alloys?” The Witcher's eyes narrowed again.

Again the helmet came off and a more vigorous head scratching moment.

This time I knew there was definitely a pause before two rapid hammer strikes.

“Aye, I can manage that.”

“Excellent.” The Witcher smiled happily removing the sword from his back. Then I need this blade sharpening and oiling while I wait and this...” he moved towards his horse and removed the long narrow box that I had seen before in the inn where we first met. In daylight it looked old, almost black with age. Again I found myself expecting a creak from the hinges but they were obviously well oiled. The Witcher carefully produced a sword wrapped in a cloth which shone in an extraordinary way in the light of the sun. I have no idea as to the aesthetics of a sword. I've seen swords that looked beautiful before with design work, etchings and studded with jewels that swordsmen scoffed at, but I've also seen swords that have been proven to have lasted for centuries that still look dangerous but look like the most boring sword imaginable that you wouldn't look twice at if it was stuffed through the belt of a peasant bandit.

This sword was beautiful. Sharp and hard. The blade was shaped with an ever so slight leaf pattern and the hilt and cross-guard were ornamented with strange grooves that both drew the eye and repelled it.

“This needs sharpening as well. I will come for it before dark.”

“Alright, well I'll just take the Steel one into the back and...”

“Why?” my Companion asked. “The sharpening wheel is right there. I'm staying here to wait for it so why do you need to take it into the back?”

“Errr, well it's to do with... The heat, yes the heat.”

“The heat has nothing to do with it. Can you work it or not”

I noticed that the hammering stopped.

“Of course I can work it but...”

“But what?”

The dwarf sighed and looked up and down the street again before pulling a curtain around the outside of the shop.

“You'd better come out,” the Dwarf said in a much more normal voice. I would have put the accent as coming from somewhere north of Novigrad.

A giant came out of the forge, heavily muscled and short-haired enough that it was to my shame that at first I thought that the figure was a man.

“I can work it,” she said and I started with surprise. The pitch of the voice gave away her gender. She examined the plainer steel sword in the light from the forge. “This needs more than just a

wheel” she informed my companion.

“Yes,” he said, “It will.”

The girl with the frighteningly large biceps stalked back into the forge clutching the Witchers sword as though she was going to use it as a club to beat mountains to death. The two of use then turned towards the dwarf who was standing there, bright red and holding his helmet in his hands, turning it round in exactly the same way that a peasant does in those comedy plays when he's being beaten up by his betters.

In the end, the poor dwarf couldn't take it any more.

“It's like this. I'm a trader that had most of my goods commandeered in the form of taxes by the crown. That girl in there has forgotten more about metal crafting than I have ever known but the locals round here knew her from when she was little, so they just don't trust her. Then I come here on my way away from the war zone having lost everything that I own and suddenly I'm being asked to give the girl a few pointers. Leaving aside the fact that she can literally pick me up and bend me in half.”

The Witcher nodded, his eyes were glinting strangely.

“So the two of us came to the arrangement that she would do the work. I front the shop and because it's “dwarven craftsmanship” we can charge more.”

“A dangerous game.” I commented.

“A little, but have you seen the size of her?”

The Witcher's eyes glittered. “She does look as though she could flex and cracks would open in the ground.

“Precisely.” The dwarf nodded.

The curtains opened and the girl handed the sword back. I noticed that she did so so that the blade could slide straight into the scabbard and that neither the Witcher, nor herself had to touch the blade.

“Tell me miss.” The Witcher said, still smiling slightly, “Are you in the position to take orders?”

“If the money's right.” She said as she picked up a water-skin and squirted some liquid into her throat.

“I don't think money will be a problem. I need a metal pole with a short blade at the end. The blade needs to be longer than a spear head and made for slashing as well as stabbing.”

The girl nodded.

“How long does it need to be?”

“About six feet pole plus another two foot of blade. Oh and if possible I would like the entire thing to be able to be broken down into sections.”

Her eyes went vacant a moment as she sucked her teeth. By my guess she was about sixteen but she seemed far older under the soot and sweat.

“Three days, 246 crowns.” she said flatly. “It won't come cheaper than that so don't bother asking.”

“Done and done,” The Witcher said.

The girl nodded and turned back inside.

“Excuse me miss,” I blurted out without consciously deciding to.

She turned and looked at me without expression.

“Have you ever thought of marrying?” I asked. I still don't know why.

“Whatever for?” she asked looking confused.

I couldn't find an answer for that and she shrugged in a way that eloquently suggested that I was terminally stupid as she turned away.

It was only a short walk from the smithy to the head man's house.

“A spear?” I muttered,

“Not really, think of it more as a kind of pole-arm,”

“Because of course I'm more used to that.”

“You may be surprised. Anyway, we can talk more on that when she's made the thing. Now remember, hospitality is good but don't eat very much at this stage, we don't want to eat too much and make him think that feeding us is too much trouble.”

“Yes, I remember. You told me about that this morning remember?”

The Witcher made no comment about that.

“The old man came out to greet us and presented us with wooden boards that seemed to act as plates, some bread, cheese and some reasonably fresh looking butter. There was also a bowl of fat which the old man smeared onto his bread with relish but I couldn't bring myself to partake in.

There was also a jug of mead and although we both took cups of it, I noticed that Kerrass only took sips of it, barely enough to wet his lips and I followed his example.

We ate slowly, following the lead of the old man.

“So I take it that not everyone approves of your decision to consult a Witcher?” Kerrass asked.

The old man looked surprised.

“How did you know that?”

The Witcher laughed. “It's no great trick. Approval of my presence is never universal. In this case I can't help but notice that that large man with a fat nose and fatter belly keeps glaring at us. I also notice that he has a group of friends to whom he has been chatting.”

The old man groaned. “Oh, I'm going to pay for this. That's Ruthorford the Cooper. Not as much call for his trade now that the last wars have taken a lot of the workforce away meaning there's not as much food coming in for him to barrel.”

“Which of course he blames you for.”

The old man smirked “Well naturally. I'm the Alderman aren't I, head of the men's council and therefore I control the entire world and spend my days sitting outside and smoking my pipe. Never mind the fact that I'm often out in the fields helping out as much as I can these days as well as mending people's roof's. I'm the thatcher you see.”

My companion nodded sympathetically.

“He wants my job as well,” the old man continued, warming to his subject. “I would let him have it as well for all the good it would do him, just to get him to shut up but I'm awfully a-feared that he would just blame me for any problems that crop up and then blame everyone else for the rest. Not the kind of man I would trust this place with. Most folks don't listen to him, but it's always the louder ones, or the burlier ones that like to get into fights that seem to approve of what he's saying. But the women of the place support me so I mostly do OK.”

He took out a pipe and a tobacco pouch and started to fill it.

“I'm not going to hear the end of this in the next meeting.” He sat for a moment looking miserable before he remembered his manners and offered us both his tobacco pouch which we declined.

“Who's the local lord who should be paying for my services?”

“Damned if I know,” The old man lit a taper from a candle that was resting in the window. “What with three wars, Nilfgaard against the north, Aedirn against Kaedwen, Kedwaen against Redania, heh, it wouldn't surprise me if the local lord is off cowering in Nilfgaard or has fled to the distant north to get away from the Empire. Maybe both. It's been a while since we've had a tax man though, so we stockpile what we can in preparation for the day when some soldiers turn up and demand more than what we have for whatever they need it for. Not that they can take any more of our men as we don't really have any.”

“What about those troublemakers?” I asked.

“Heh, Funny you should mention that. For some reason they aren't anywhere to be found when the recruiters come through.” He took a long puff on his pipe and blew out a not unimpressive smoke ring.

“So how can I help?” The Witcher asked after carefully pouring his mead back into the jug when the old man wasn't watching.

“Well, as I say, I'm not even sure that it is a problem.”

“Is that the troublemaker asking?” Kerrass put in. “Tell me what happened. As I say, if it's nothing then I'll say that it's nothing and we'll move on, taking this fine lunch and excellent mead as our payment. I have a commission with the blacksmith but we will pay for any other food that we need. If it is something we will talk and make a deal. If we can't come to a deal then we shall walk on. So why don't you tell me what's troubling you all.”

The old man stared into his mead cup intently while working up a real cloud of smoke. I took the opportunity to pour my own mead back into the jug following Kerrass' example.

Suddenly enough to make me jump the old man moved, took a deep breath and knocked the ash out of his pipe.

“It's like this.” He said, “We lost some cattle.”

“How many?”

“Three cows.”

I nearly said something. Looking back now I am so very glad that I didn't.

“Out of how many?” Kerrass said straight faced.

“Five. We also lost two sheep and a goat.”

Kerrass was staring into space.

“What time of day was this?”

“At night.”

“At the same time or spread out?”

“Spread out over several nights.”

“Any news of bandits in the local area?”

“No sir, not that I've heard.”

“Have any remains been found?”

“No sir,”

“Was the ground examined by a tracker or a hunter afterwards?”

“No sir, we don't really have either but the ground did seem disturbed. Truth be told though, people don't like to gout out to those fields any more.”

“For good reason,” Kerrass muttered under his breath. I could see him thinking, it felt very strange to me. It was the same expression that I saw some professors get when they've been asked an uncomfortable question by a student.

His eyes snapped open.

“Is there anything else going on that's strange. Anything at all that's out of place, no matter how small or silly sounding. I promise I won't laugh. Neither will my apprentice if he knows what's good for him.”

I bit the inside of my cheeks in preparation.

“Well sir, A large number of people have been losing tools lately.”

“Nope, what else?”

“There have been noticeably fewer birds in the woods,”

“Close, interesting but not what I'm looking for. What else?”

“Well, some of the ciders soured quicker than expected.”

“What else?”

“The bee's have been swarming unusually.”

Kerrass sighed. My friend, I am trying to help you. There is something else that you think is stupid and don't want to talk to strangers about for fear that we will think you're mad. What is it?”

The Alderman finished his mead in a swallow

“Well sir it's.... Frying bacon.”

“What?”

“A few people have heard frying bacon out in the fields.”

Kerrass closed his eyes.

“Have you found anything like a hard shell? It would have been dark purple, almost black. Kind of like a large eggshell but much harder?”

“No sir,”

“How about a stretchy substance that from a distance will have looked like cloth but when you get closer, feels like a stretchy animal hide. It would stink of peat and animal droppings.”

“No sir, but as I say, since we've been losing livestock, we've moved what's left into other fields and folk don't go into those others any more so there might be things out there that we haven't found.”

Kerrass nodded and stood.

“Very well my friend. I need a guide to take me out to where the animals disappeared. In the mean time I'm going to have a walk around the village and get a sense of the place and talk to some other people to see if they can shed some more light, some detail that might have been overlooked if you don't know what you're looking for. As well as a guide I would suggest that you pass it around that if anyone should hear the sound of 'bacon frying' then they should move until they no longer hear it. Preferably to higher ground or on top of a rock. As well as that, I should be summoned immediately.”

“Is it dangerous?” The old man asked.

“Oh yes.” My companion nodded. “You have undoubtedly saved lives by summoning a Witcher and you have already served your village well. You have a burrower of some kind but we don't know what, or how many yet which would change how we go about dealing with it. With luck, we should have it all dealt with soon, probably by tomorrow night after which we can get out of your hair.”

“How much will this cost?”

“I'm afraid that depends on the thing that's burrowing. If it's one thing then I need one set of herbs and equipment, if it's the other then I need other herbs and equipment. All of which cost money.

Does that make sense?”

The old man nodded,, looking pale.

“If you could see to the guide and the frying noise and I will speak to you this evening about what I've found? We can sleep in a barn somewhere if there's no inn.”

The Alderman looked up. “No sir, you will sleep in my house. You're serving the village and I won't have it said that our hospitality is wanting.”

The Witcher laughed. “You haven't heard my apprentice snore yet. Don't worry we'll have this sorted soon.”

He turned and walked away to the next house where he knocked on the door.

Which is what we did for most of the rest of the afternoon.