Chapter 143: I see my mother in them

As some of you may know, I am doing my best to shift the way I'm thinking back to an earlier version of myself. This isn't being done maliciously but I've realised that I've changed over the years that I've been following Kerrass around, and now he follows me, and I don't like all of the changes that this has brought about. So I have decided that I need to go back to that earlier form of myself.

Don't get me wrong. Many of the changes that have been brought about are for the positive. I like to think that I have lost a lot of my trained and learned arrogance that being a nobleman's son teaches. I like to think that I understand the villagers, merchants, townsfolk and craftsmen that much better than I did when I set out. I look back on interactions that I had with some of the castle staff and the locals of Oxenfurt town and I wince in memory of my naivete.

Obviously there is the thing that I am most grateful for which is the opportunity to meet and fall in love with a wonderful woman who challenges me to improve in every way. So that I can be the best version of myself in order to reward her trust and decision to choose me over the other decisions that she could make.

Also there is the thoughts of the knowledge that I have gained. The prestige that I have attained as well as the skills and experience of the world that has helped me, in my own small way, to make the world a better place. Both on the micro scale with helping my family to root out a years old evil in our midst, but also on a world wide scale. Everything that I can do to help lift the load on the Empress' shoulders is a good deed. I can also be proud of waking up the Sleeping Beauty of legend as well as waking up the young lady that that legend refers to.

In my own way, I can be proud of the fact that I have informed, even a little bit, the people in the world around me as to how it all really works.

I am pleased and proud about these two things.

What I am not pleased about is my worsening worlds view. The increasing bitterness that I have felt that the world is the way that it is. My anger and growing disdain for the world. Whereas before, when I came across ignorance I would try to argue my point. To shift that person's understanding of the world, even a little bit and I could feel that I had left the world a little brighter than the one that I had found.

Now, I simply decide that the person cannot be helped. That they are ignorant or stupid and that they will always be that way. There are some cases where this is true. An old person is going to struggle to get over prejudices that they have held for decades, that were taught to them when they were children. But the same can't be said for all.

I must relearn this behaviour. I must relearn how to change people's minds by both showing them a better way, but also by giving them a better way. It is not enough to write something down in my own travel journals and hope that they will reach the people there. I must show them the better way, in my acts and deeds as well as in my written word.

To that end, I am reminding myself about my original mission statement. That statement being that I intended to teach the world about the life of a Witcher so that they wouldn't be lost. The reasons that they do things, even if they won't tell me the actual methods. I wanted to show people what it was like to be a Witcher. To walk the path of a Witcher and to live in the world as a Witcher. To make their living as a Witcher and to behave like a Witcher. Things did shift, early on, into also talking about some of the things that Witchers have to deal with on a daily basis. But I didn't feel as though that was too far a diversion as I was still talking about Witchers and so I felt that this was allowed. The way that this used to work was that I would pick out stories from our travels that would address different aspects of what it was like to be a Witcher and how that worked out in the real world.

I have lost sight of that somewhere. Although I have still been teaching people about the world in which they live in, I have drifted off topic and have ended up simply recording what is going on around my person.

What I have been doing and although my readers tell me that this is also something that they want to hear about. To hear about how I survive on the road. It is not my mission statement.

So, I have decided that I need to go back to talking about the Witcher a little bit more. To that end. I offer this first in a series of brief discussions. I promise that I will return to our travels and the results of Kerrass' and my search for the cultists that created the so-called Hounds of Kreve later in this piece. I offer it as more a talking point at the beginning of each chapter.

What is the most important tool in a Witcher's arsenal?

I also promise that this topic of conversation will also be relevant.

This is a question that I've been thinking about recently. Think about a Witcher. I've described Kerrass and his various tools in some detail now along with the way that he uses them on the various hunts and activities that he gets up to and I've been thinking about which ones are most important to him. Thinking about which one is the most important. Without which Kerrass and the rest of his people, the rest of his fellows, would be utterly useless. Which one is the most important and the most useful? The one that he uses the most above all other tools.

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It is not an easy question to answer. If you can imagine a Witcher in your mind, they almost seem to be a collection of tricks, of techniques and equipment that makes them uniquely suitable to being able to do their jobs. They were created this way of course and in more recent times, they have been trained in these pieces of equipment and skills. These tools of their trade.

To clarify, while thinking about my question, I shall compare a Witcher to a blacksmith. What tools does a blacksmith have that he uses. And which one is indispensable. The one thing that without which, you can't really call yourself a blacksmith. Is it the anvil? The hammer? The fire? The buckets of liquid, clean water, salt water and oil respectively for the purposes of quenching. Is it the expertise, the ability to trade with the people that might require your services? Some people might argue that the most important part of the blacksmith's trade is the strength of arm so that they can bring the proper application of force onto the metal in question.

Now compare this list of qualities to the Witcher and the list of things that he carries with him. I will start with the most obvious pieces of equipment. The things that probably leap into mind the first time that you consider this question. I will start with his swords.

A steel sword, made from iron. Some stories claim that the steel sword is forged from star iron, the kinds of things that fall from the sky but I've spoken to Kerrass about that and he laughed at the prospect.

“A sword forged from star-Iron?” He chuckled. “Preposterous. The sheer amounts required to forge such a weapon would render it absolutely impossible. For a start, it would take a man a lifetime to be able to track all of it down to properly forge a sword out of it and secondly, should the iron be found, then it would be almost impossibly heavy to lift.”

“But the legends say....”

“Why do people write the legends Freddie? Consider that.”

I remember he sighed. This conversation happened relatively early in our acquaintanceship.

“You have to remember that Witcher's are in it to earn the money that is required for their own keep. Food and drink is more important then most other considerations. So what you have to do is to ask yourself, how do we get the villagers or the nobles to hire us. Why us over some kind of wandering band of mercenaries? Why us and not trying to get your own soldiers to do the job, or getting a group of townsfolk together to poison a sheep in the hope that the monster falls for the trap and gets sick enough that a rake will be able to pierce the things hide?”

“Because a professional like you is more likely to get the job done.” Thanks for reading on ManaNovel!

“True, but the argument is flawed from their perspective. First you have to get the noble to hire you. Many of the mercenary companies that are hired to kill the monsters are much cheaper than a Witcher and much easier to understand. Alsom their own soldiers and the mercenaries could also be considered professionals as well, regardless of their competence. So what we have to do is we have to sell ourselves to the people that we deal with. We have to put across the idea that we know more than our competitors do.”

“Which you do.”

“Naturally. But you also have to give the client a sense that they are getting what they are paying for. For the vast majority of the villages that we have dealt with together, you don't need to bother that much on the grounds that those self-same villagers are far too grateful for any kind of help that they will take what they can get. Witcher's are less likely to @@@ all the women and steal all the food than a wandering band of mercenaries after all. But to the discerning nobleman. They have to feel as though they are getting something special. Something....otherworldly.”

“Oh....I see.”

“Really?”

“I think so. A story is spread about the mysticism of the swords of a Witcher. Meaning that the noble thinks he's hiring something special.”

“While also providing a suitable story to make people less keen to stealing the swords and making off with them if they think that they are enchanted and therefore cursed.”

“So what are they made out of?”

“Steel and silver.” He answered quickly and with scorn. “How would I know? Do I look like a blacksmith? I spent all of my early years learning how to be a Witcher. I didn't have time to learn about sword smithing.”

He did give me some more information over time. Everyone knows about the two swords of a Witcher. The works of Dandelion the bard have made this famous. One sword is steel and the other of silver. The first for men and the second for monsters with the response of every Witcher ever on the subject resulting in being told that both swords are for monsters.

When a Witcher needs to have a sword replaced from the original one that he is given, he goes to the best smith that he can find and has one made to his requirements. The length, grip, weight, width and everything are made to the Witcher's exacting specifications. If the smith claims to be unable to do this then the Witcher thanks him for his time and moves on. Mostly this is only to do with the steel sword as for reasons of the world at large, it is the steel sword that see the most use.

That says something about the world I suspect but I leave it to the reader to theorise as to what that actually says.

Contrary to what Kerrass said. Meteorite Iron is occasionally used as part of the forging process but nearly always as an alloy forming part of the greater sword. This does occasionally provide the sword with strange, almost supernatural qualities but this is just as likely to be that the sword holds an edge a bit better than normal swords or that it is always slightly warm to the touch in spite of local climate rather than it glowing in the dark when monsters are near. A catastrophically useless benefit if you ask me. What if you're trying to sneak up on the monster in question and they spy this glowing sword in the darkness?

The silver sword is much harder to make but this is very rarely a problem. Generally ,the only time it comes up is when a Witcher is unlucky enough to have his sword stolen whether by nefarious or under the auspices of so called “Law and order”. From there it is actually easier to find a replacement for a Witcher's silver sword than it is to have a new one made.

Apparently this is because there is an occasional fashion to carry silver swords. Normally occurring whenever The bard publishes a new epic on the subject of the White Wolf of Rivia. Also those noble orders of knights that take it upon themselves to try and tackle the monsters of the continent will sometimes equip themselves with silver blades in order to help them to this purpose.

The quality of these blades, for obvious reasons, is rather variable and although it might be expedient to simply get a replacement blade, it is often better to make the effort to hunt down a dwarven or gnomish smith to have a proper one made according to your specifications.

So we're talking about the weapons of a Witcher. Those things that he uses to directly slay the monsters that he is hired to destroy.

But are they indispensable?

Ooh, I should also say that I'm counting the crossbow that some Witchers carry as part of this category of our discussion. As Kerrass has told me, traditionally it's only been the Cat and the Bear schools of Witchers that have trained their students in the study of the crossbow but since then, many of the other Witchers have started to see the practical things that a crossbow can provide. They all, including the feline Witchers and the bear Witcher that I have met, agree that a crossbow is not something that can be depended on but people are increasingly beginning to insist that it is an important tool.

But let's return to the central question. Are they indispensable. Is a Witcher, still able to be a Witcher if you take his weapons off him? I'm using the use of the term “Witcher” to mean the profession of being a Witcher for the purposes of this debate.

My argument here is that the weapons are not indispensable. That a Witcher can still do his job without his weapons. Without those weapons, a Witcher can still use the signs of which I have spoken. A monster can still be blasted with Air, onto a spike or out of the air. The creature can still be burnt at the hands of a shower of sparks while an assailant can be confused or escaped from while the blows of the enemy, no matter the form of that enemy, can be turned aside with the golden shield that those signs can generate. I have also seen Witchers being consulted on the proper methods of dealing with infestations. I've seen advice given. I've seen Kerrass aid in criminal investigations when there has been the suspicions of monster or magical effects there and I've also seen Kerrass dismiss spectres and other ghostly figures by the use of rituals. Curses broken where possible as well, all without swords (or crossbows) being used.

If anything, in certain situations, Kerrass has expressed a conviction that the used of swords would actually be a failure in certain situations. That they are the last possible recourse for what was happening and only used in the last resort when it made the difference between saving his own life or the lives of others or lifting the curse.

So I will argue that the weapons of a Witcher are not essential to the being of being a Witcher.

I will come back to this subject at a future date, I promise.

-

We actually spent a couple of days around the rock, camping in that little enclosure. I woke up the morning after that first night with my body being as stiff as a plank of wood and I doubt that I could have gone much further that day anyway. I made another decision then which was to stop dancing round the subject and to start thinking of Sir Rickard as a friend. He had been moving that way in my mind anyway but I had just been a little hesitant to take that leap into trusting him with my deeper inner workings of my mind.

But I needed to take into account what Kerrass and I had discussed about my growing isolation and I decided that one of the things that I needed to start changing was that I needed to make more friends. He was obviously extremely curious anyway about what Kerrass and I had been talking about for so long the previous evening and so I ran the entire thing past him.

He clapped me on the shoulder and squeezed my arm firmly in support and an expression that I took for sympathy. His eyes searched my face for a moment before he turned away.

“Well, what I think we should do,” he began. “Is to get you laid. A good hard shag, that's what you need. Or alternatively. To get so utterly, perplexingly drunk that crawling is too much like hard work. Where all you can do is locate the ground and hold on for dear life unless you might fall off. That's what you need to do.”

“To get drunk.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely. Alcoholism. It's good for what ails you.” He grinned at me as though he had just given me the most divine wisdom. The type that is given to you by a hermit that sits on top of the mountain.

You know the one. The one that was chosen by the previous hermit to be his successor. That one.

“But still, it sucks.” He said after a while.

“What do you think I should do?”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He stared ou at the trees for a moment before answering.

“I'm the wrong person to ask.” He said. “I never knew my father but for a while my mother took up with a man that I decided might have been my father. I was four so you have to understand that the reason I liked this guy was because he was a tough man who wouldn't take any shit from anyone without punching them in the face. He would come round to visit mother and she was always, always happy to see him. I mean that genuinely. She would be happy to see him which meant that he wasn't one of her normal marks which she would always greet with this kind of fixed expression of forced delight. It was all in the eyes you see. She liked this man. I suspect that she even loved him.”

He scratched at his stubble.

“She would always send me into another room of course. Can't have the baby watching while you got your brains fucked out by a stranger can we? That would be immoral.”

There was a certain savagery to his voice.

“I remember looking up to that man. I taught myself to walk like him, to talk like him and to act like him. I even got him to teach me to fight and show me some tricks with the knife that he always carried. I still use some of them on the battlefield and you can still see echoes of him in my character if you know where to look.”

He hawked and spat, an impressive line of sputum that splattered on a nearby rock.

“Turns out that the bastard had a violent temper. His method of getting rid of his temper tantrums was to beat on my mother. It got worse and worse over the years as he realised that my mother loved him like the fool that she was and so she put up with him rather than taking one of her, many, knives that she would have readily used on any other punter that might have tried such a thing.”

“What happened?”

“I found out.” He shrugged. “I was getting bigger and meaner myself by that point and had learnt how to lift a latch. I was, eight I think when I had a dagger of my own. Given to my by that splatter of diseased Prick Dribble as it happens. One day when it happened and I could hear the sounds of blows landing I lifted the latch and saw what he was doing. So I stabbed him with my dagger.”

He grinned briefly at the memory.

“I didn't know what I was doing though, not really and all I did was to hurt him badly. Then my beloved mother came after me with a knife. He'd rebroken her nose, her body was covered in bruises and her eye was blackening and she came at me with a kitchen knife.”

“Fucking hell Rickard.”

He shrugged. “I ran away and never went back. Still furious with both of them. My mother and that bastard. I did hear that he'd finally gone too far and choked the life out of the stupid bitch at one point.”

He chose that moment to pick his nose a bit and flick whatever he found out into the shrubbery.

“This was a couple of years later. There was a while there after that, where I saw his face in the face of every belligerent drunk that I fought, every watchman, every guard and every arrogant, superior bastard that thought he could tell me what to do and force me to do something that I didn't want. I still see that face sometimes.”

For a moment, looking at him as his voice turned savage while he described his mother and his fury at the way that she had behaved. The savagery with which he spoke was more eloquent than the actual words that he said and I thought, just for a moment, that I could see the horribly wounded child that lurked just beneath the surface.

For that moment, my trials and problems seemed to be so insignificant next to what this man had gone through that I felt guilty for having brought them up and made a huge deal out of it all.

“How did you deal with it?”

He grinned, all signs of hurt and anger left him and he was back to being the genial, charming and funny man that I had travelled with.

“I joined the army.”

He laughed at his own joke and I suspected that it was an often used punchline that he used when talking with his friends.

“Seriously though.” He said after his own mirth had died down a little. “I've taken out my anger on a lot of bastards over the years. Small people out on the battlefield that utterly deserve it mostly. But also....why do you think I hate rapists so much?”

I didn't say anything. Thinking it better that I just let him speak.

“The truth of the matter is that when I see a woman XXXX, I see my mother in the face of the woman and the bastard that killed her in the face of the XXXX. When I can, I find the families of the woman and offer them, or the woman if she is able, the chance to take their revenge. If I can't then I take their revenge for them. I figure that it's the least I could do on their behalf.”

He grinned at me again. “Not for nothing. But I suggest that you find a different way to express your rage than the one that I found.”

“I don't think I would do well in the army.” I said after some thought.

“Oh, I don't know, we could always use a decent quartermaster.” He grinned and seemed disappointed that I didn't rise to the bait. As it turns out, being referred to as a Quartermanster is considered an insult in certain parts of the armed forces.

We were quiet for a while.

“Also, not for nothing.” He said suddenly. “But have you talked to your intended about this?”

“No.” I shuddered. “I don't want to trouble her with it.”

He stared at me for a long time.

“I read your accounts too you know.” He said. “You know that the biggest problem that the two of you had, according to your own accounts, is when you didn't talk to her. Just a thought.”

He was right, and I knew it.

“I....I'm ashamed.” I admitted. It took a great deal of effort to say those two words.

“Don't be.” He said, more kindly than I deserved. “It's what you do with your feelings that have the grounds to make you ashamed.”

He left shortly after that to go and see to the disposition of the sentries. He was taking the opportunity to run some drills including having the Sergeant take a group of men up the mountain for some “High altitude training” whatever that means. Kerrass was off doing whatever it was that Kerrass does when he's not hanging around making my life more awkward and so I returned to the cave and sat for a small while staring at the fire. I don't think that I was there for too long before I shook myself, pulled a blanket around my shoulders and pulled the cloak on on top of that. I was only wearing my shirt and trews and still had my boots on. The problem was that I was feeling the cold rather keenly.

But I pushed back out into the cool air. Not unusually there was the feeling of dampness in the air and I suspected that it would rain in a not short amount of time.

But Rickard was right. I chose a direction and I walked for a while until I found a small patch of ground under the spreading eaves of one of the larger trees in the local area. The ground was nice and dry and a cushion of woodland detritus provided a softish cushion that was still uncomfortable enough that I wouldn't fall asleep but soft enough that I could sit there for a while and be undisturbed. I leant back against the tree and took out the flame amulet that Ariadne had given me, not even a year ago. It felt as though it was part of my body by this point that I almost had to think about it to remember that it was there.

But I took it out and held it out before my eyes sot that the weak sun light could shine through it. Beams of red light shot through the red jewel and I stared into the brightness.

I wasn't looking forward to this bit. I took a deep breath and called out.

“Ariadne?”

I had a feeling, the sense of heavy paper and leather bound volumes as well as the very distinct odour of the chemical that they treat old manuscripts with in order to preserve them and the sharp, nose-stabbing scent of ink. There was something missing though and I decided that it was the smell of dust and unwashed student that was missing from the overall scent.

She was in a library.

Communicating through my pendant was always a little odd. I always had the strangest feeling that she was right next to me or just behind me, as though I could reach out and touch her. I could almost smell her, but at the same time there is this sense of incredible distance which leaves you with the overall impression that she is both nearby and at the same time, incredibly far away. At first, the sensation left me feeling nauseous and dizzy and we could only communicate in short bursts. It was another one of those instances where I always tried my best to keep my eyes open. When I had first used the thing I had taken it into my brain to close my eyes as though that might be better in the long run.

It was not.

“Betrothed?” She answered. She was trying out various different terms of address in an effort to try and decide what she wanted to call me. She had admitted that she was looking for a term of endearment that made her feel warm and fuzzy inside. Something that she could say, a small name that was between the two of us. Like so many things though, she had set about the task of finding this endearment with the focus and method of a scientist.

Being called “Betrothed” wasn't too bad on the list of things that she had called me. “Future sex partner,” and the variations on that term were a little excruciating while being referred to as “Pet,” was a little worrying.

Fortunately she herself decided that she didn't like that particular term and moved on quickly.

“You know that soon that name will be redundant.” I commented, absently putting off the moment of conversation for as long as possible.

“I know,” she answered primly. I got the sense that she was writing something down and had marked her place in another book. “But I thought I would get as much use out of the term as possible while it is still accurate.”

“I don't know,” I commented. “It's a bit....clinical don't you think?”

“Why? It's a statement of fact along with the fact that only I can call you that. Doesn't that lend it a little bit more....Ooomph?”

“I'm not sure I like it.”

“I see.”

Again that sense of movement as she pulled over a notepad and crossed something out. “I shall endeavour to find something else to call you.”

“Why not just call me Freddie?”

“You don't like it.” she stated matter of factly.

“That's true, but everyone calls me that.”

“That's kind of the point though is it not? Something that I call you that no-one else can.”

“That doesn't mean that you can't call me Freddie.”

I could almost hear her thinking. “Yes, but I want to call you something that you like. I don't want you squirming with embarrassment every time I call your name over a crowded banquet hall or over a drawing room when I'm calling for your attention. I've also been experimenting and I'm not sure I can make “Freddie” sound erotic or sexual in any way.”

I swallowed. “I see.”

“And “Frederick” sounds so formal all the time. I suspect that....” she consulted her notebook. “Yes, I have it down here for those times when I'm feeling irate with you or to attract your attention to something that I find displeasing.”

“Wait, are you looking for a different name for all occasions?”

“Isn't that how it's done?” It was always endearing how much confusion there was in her voice when she was trying to get to grips with a concept. “Anyway. What did you want to talk about.” She made a small note on the piece of paper immediately beneath her fingers before pushing it away and producing yet another notebook.

“I ummm. Saying that I “want” to talk about this is a bit of an exaggeration.”

“I see.” There was no emotion in her voice at all.

“But Kerrass and Sir Rickard both tell me that I should talk to you about it.”

“Go on.”

In slow words, I started to talk to her about the things that had happened since we last spoke. Which I was astonished had been long enough ago that I had to tell her about the defence of the village of the cave.

“Fascinating,” she said with a small amount of relish.

“Wait.” I said, “Are you making notes?”

“No,” I got a feeling of sheepish guilt from the link between us. As though she was a young child that had been caught looking at erotic illustrations in their parents bed chamber or having been caught watching a couple fornicating. I got the sense ( I know that this is a repeated phrase but that's how this works. I don't see what she's doing, or hear it. I get the “sense” of the thing. Of her surroundings and her body language. A bit of her mood and I can hear her speaking. But what I'm actually doing is “getting the sense” of these things that she is doing.) that she was hurriedly pulling other books and sheaves of notes over the book that was in front of her.

“Ariadne,” I did my best to make my voice sound dire and portentous.

“Well, mayyyybeeeee.” She was trying to make me laugh and if I had been in a better mood, she would have succeeded. Certainly it makes me laugh now whenever I hear someone else saying the word so if we see each other in a social context and I suddenly come out in fits of giggles then this is why.

There was a long pause.

“Uh....hello?”

“Hello fiance?”

I breathed out a sigh of relief. “I thought you'd gone.”

“Why would I?” She sounded surprised.