Chapter 48: That's it Freddie. That's the entire story

Frederick's note: Kerrass went outside for a bit after that. I've never seen him in tears or even close to outright being overwhelmed with any kind of emotion other than Fury but I think that was as close as I'd ever seen him. I sat there for a while, Sarah brought over a couple of tankards that she set down without comment and avoiding eye contact. I know that she heard what we had been talking about. Kerrass had made no particular effort to lower his voice and the village's feelings towards him mean that what had happened must be general knowledge. But what do you say to that?

“Sorry” just doesn't seem to cut it really.

Kerrass came back in, his hair was wet and I guessed that he'd gone to the well or horse trough to dunk his head in the water.

I spent the time tidying up the notes. Shorthand is an interesting technique but can sometimes be prone to ink splatter, especially if your subject is a fast talker, which Kerrass is not, but by the same token, it's better to be safe than sorry and I wanted to check it while the narrative was still fresh in my mind.

Kerrass sat opposite me and nursed his drink, waiting for me to finish. I selected a new piece of paper, dipped my pen and gave him a nod.

“That's it Freddie. That's the entire story.”

I laughed at him.

But he wasn't joking.

“No, no it isn't.” I said after staring at him in astonishment for a moment or two. “No, you can't leave it there. What did you do? What happened? You can't tell me that you just left it there I wouldn't believe you.”

Kerrass raised an eyebrow in answer.

“What do you think I did?”

“I think you burned the place down. I think you sought vengeance and painted the countryside red with blood but that's not the point. I know you. There are plenty of people out there who do not. People who maintain that Witchers are unfeeling monsters. This...” I pointed at the paper in front of me, “is what we use as evidence to point out that you are not. That you are as alive and as...fuck it, as human as the rest of us.”

“I've met elves that would take that as an insult.”

“And they're more human than most. What's the line from that elven poet “Prick us do we not bleed?” I know he meant to say that as an excuse for everything the non-humans were doing at the time but all he did was point out how similar we all are.”

“I always took that line to mean the opposite.”

“It means both at the same time and from all perspectives. That's the beauty of the work. But we're getting off topic. This is history. Whether you, I, or the people here like you for those events. They happened. We need to learn from those events. We need to remember them. All of them. Even the things that we don't like or would rather forget because otherwise we won't learn from the mistakes that our fathers made and our children won't learn from the mistakes that we make.”

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“I'm a Witcher. I can't have children.”

“That's beside the point and you know that.”

“Yes I know....”

Kerrass sighed and I knew that I had won this argument. I'll hand over to him here.

What happened next?

Nothing happened. Nothing at all. I went back to the room where we had all made camp and I went to sleep. I honestly wish that it was more complicated than that.

We stayed in that castle for maybe three days before the Prince decided that he'd had enough. Before he decided that he had gathered enough of his “fruits of love” and we turned for home. I don't remember much of that return journey though. I don't remember saying anything or doing anything. Either while we rode or while we were still camping there.

I didn't go back into that hall again so I didn't see anything else that happened. It all seemed a little gauche, a little distasteful to me. I know that the guards had enough self-control after that first flurry of activity to take it in shifts so that there was always at least one of them that was with the prince whenever he left his “bride”. Erick hardly left though. I seem to remember someone telling me that he didn't even leave to relieve himself and I just shook my head.

Even the so called “priest” got in on the action after much cajoling and pressure from the other men.

I stayed out of it and no-one tried to pressure me. I don't know why. Thanks for reading on ManaNovel!

But we left after several days. We came out of the valley with relative ease and it was a rather subdued party that returned to Castle Bertrand. Erick wanted to go back and nearly came to blows with one of the guards before the Prince coldly informed him what would happen.

“Did you see those villagers as we rode back through?” he asked.

“What about them?” Erick sneered. Something had shifted in his character to make him more loathsome. He sweated almost constantly and his eyes had become blood-shot and furtive. Like a fiss-tech addict when they've gone without a fix for a few days.

“Did you not see it? It was in their eyes Erick. Always in the eyes.”

“Fuck their eyes. I'm going back.”

“Then you will die. They hated us Erick and their hate was so strong it was like we were being beaten with sticks as we rode back through.”

“Fuck 'em. They won't do anything. They're cowed, the lot of them or they would have done something there and then.”

“Maybe they are cowed but you mark my words. You go back and you die. I would hate to lose a talented tracker and huntsman.”

We rode in silence for a little way. Erick rode with a deepening scowl.

“Did you see that corpse?” The Prince asked after, I don't know, maybe a mile. “The one that had been tied to a vine?”

“I did,” said one of the guards I think it was Gottfried but I could've been wrong.

“It had been tied on Eric. Tied on with one of the thorns through the chest. Who do you think did that? Those villagers have been living and working there for forty years. They won't harm us when we ride together because they know how tenuous their hold is and attacking a royal party will cripple them. But a lone man. A lone hunter? They know those tracks better than you do and you will simply go down there and not come out again.”

“It would be worth it.” Muttered Erick.

“Only if you got to the castle first Erick but I don't think you would get that far. Tell you what. I do intend to go back. We know what to look out for now so there won't be that much difficulty in getting back to the castle. We'll go back and you can come with me. How does that sound?”

Erick nodded his agreement and started to relax.

We made it back to Castle Bertrand without further incident. I took my pay which was handed over with a firm reminder that I should remember my promise regarding discretion and I went on my way.

(Frederick's note: Kerrass stared into space sometime after that. I didn't know what to say to get him started again so I kind of just left him to it. When he spoke again it was like a statue just suddenly starts moving again)

I didn't think about this entire situation then for... I don't know, I think it was about a year. A whole year before I finally had my first psychotic break.

That's what they're called you know.

The Feline school of Witchers has actually spent quite a long time studying the subject of mental...illnesses.

We had to you see so that we could spot those brothers who were having troubles and take them aside and either put them out of their misery or help them gain the tools that they would need in order to be able to survive out there in the real world. New Witchers are watched like Hawk's or indeed...heh... like cats looking at a mouse for any sign of mental...issue. I know that at least one medical journal was published by a Cat Witcher writing under an assumed name on the various problems, or things that can go wrong with a persons brain.

In many cases there are supposed to be warning signs that things might be wrong. The patient might start complaining about voices in their head or that normal background noise is like the crashing of thunder from inside their brain or like being stabbed in the eyes with knifes of liquid fire.

Yes I know that makes no sense and that is kind of the point.

Some people react violently to even minor stimuli or react passively to things that would get anyone else into a fit of temper.

Or they might sit there. To outside observers they are otherwise perfectly healthy but they feel as though their world is coming to an end and that it all weighs heavily on them and them alone.

This is not funny under any circumstances and the pain that these people have is very real and anyone that thinks differently can answer to me for it.

My problem was with temper and occasional bouts of the deepest, hollowest depression that I cannot even describe to you.

I had thought that I had escaped the curse of my school. I am not a particularly religious man as it seems wrong to me that we should give thanks to an unseen Godhead in return for our shitty lives. If our lives were easier and full of ease, pleasure and plenty then I could see the cause for it but I remember that one of the few times that I have prayed is after one of the times, during my novitiate, when it was my responsibility to help look after the “Lost souls of the Cat school.”

I saw those poor men in their cells, staring out of the darkness at me with those eyes, so similar to my own but lacking in any kind of real intelligence as they howled for my blood. Or the man who was highly educated and read every book that was brought to him. Indeed he taught many classes at the school on the subject of alchemy but he used to beg for the taste of human flesh and if he thought that he was in with a chance of a “tasty morsel” then he would become the most unhinged gibbering madman that you would ever wish to avoid.

But worse were those men who would plead with us, plead for us to end their miserable lives. They would beg for anything, poison, a blade, a rope, anything so that they could put themselves out of their own misery.

I remember one day after one young novice had been careless when feeding the Alchemy tutor and had still been alive as he saw his own liver being eaten raw. I had helped clean up and restrain the teacher who was weeping in sorrow at what his own brain had forced him to do while at the same time trying to get at my leg so that he could take a bite out of me. I remember calmly putting away the mop and bucket after cleaning them with some scouring sand before leaving the cave and going to the stone circle that is nearby. I fell to my knees and thanked every power that I could think of, including some that I possibly made up out of the hallucinations that go with the mutations. I thanked all of them that I was not so afflicted as my brothers.

For my brothers they were.

But it seems that some mischievous God was listening to my prayers.

I've wondered often if I there were any warning signs for what was to come. The only one that I can think of was that I started to get sloppy. I started being just a tad too hasty, just a little bit too rushed with my preparations. One or two monsters that should have been relatively easy pickings, got closer and closer to ending me. I knew it was happening too and berated myself constantly for the sloppiness. But still it crept on, little mistakes. An oil not being as potent. A dodge just being a bit too slow.

After the Bertrand contract I started to work my way north. I didn't have any particular goal in mind but I was roughly intending to work my way overland, through what is now the empire and back to the Northern realms for the winter. As it turns out this was a bit of an ambitious goal and I ended up spending the winter in the company of an agreeable Lord who had hired me to rid his vineyards of Arachnomorphs. It was a large job, he knew it, I knew it and it needed doing or his following year harvest would have been even worse. He couldn't really afford my proper rates for the job so instead I told him that I would do the job in return for food and lodgings for the winter months while all the passes were closed. He agreed readily enough and I got to work.

Come spring I was back to meandering slowly north again. I was taking my time. I wasn't looking forward to having to explain some of my new scars to my teachers back at feline keep and I found that I was enjoying the life at that point. If you had asked me at the time, I would have told you that I was happy with my lot.

I was somewhere south of Cintra when the bandit's attacked.

There were six of them all told. Not that many for a bandit group but still more than average. They must have been either particularly stupid or particularly desperate to try and mug me as they were all on foot and I was obviously armed. Most bandits in that part of the world were fairly reasonable people as a whole who were only markedly different from your average tax collector in that they were able to negotiate their fee with the people that they were mugging. As I've said before though, attacking an obviously armed man is a risky prospect for a group of bandits as it is almost certain to result in injury or death for at least one of their number and they're more likely to wait for a fat merchants wagon or pedlar who is more susceptible to “We'll just throw a lit torch into your wagon and you can watch your livelihood burn. Or you can pay us.”

Regardless, experienced bandits never take everything from a traveller as otherwise people will just walk around them or hire guards to protect them. It's just good business sense to encourage people to just pay up without conflict. Things should only get bloody during wartime when supplies and commerce are scarce or when the bandits in question are particularly desperate.

I don't know what was the case here because the first think that happened... The first time I realised that something was wrong was when my horse was shot out from under me.

Two arrows in the side. Thunk, thunk. The poor thing reared and I kicked free.

I remember rolling back to my feet and running back to the horse who had fallen and was trying to get up. A voice said “Ah well. Horse meat as well tonight lads.”

There was laughter.

“Give us yer money.” Said the voice again from somewhere behind me.

Have you ever lost your temper? I mean really lost it?

It was as though the world shrunk although I stayed remained the same size. The surrounding area seemed to press down on me, pushing down on my skull to the point where I thought that my head was going to explode. My breath started to hiss between my teeth and there were noises with it as I looked down at my horse that was whickering in distress.

I remember turning.

I don't remember anything else.

People talk about their vision going red when this kind of thing happens. I can't answer for that. This was the first time it had happened to me so I spent a long time afterwards trying to get to the bottom of that gap in my memory. I remember flashes. A man with a spear lunging at me. Another man who's blood was spraying from his neck in such a way that it actually made a kind of whistling noise.

I remember laughing.

I woke up, I don't know how much later but it wasn't that long. I was kneeling in a drainage ditch amongst the nearby fields. Up to my waist in water. My sword was still in my hand and I was covered in blood. Nearby was the horribly mangled corpse of what had once been a man. It was spread eagled, massively broken with it's limbs every which way. Parts of it were smouldering and as I say, it had been mutilated to the point where it was barely recognisable as a man.

There was a stench in the air of burnt crops, burnt meat and human waste.

A man was calling to me from a short distance off.

“Sir?” He had the attitude of someone who was prepared to run at any moment and he was holding a pitchfork as though he was ready to use it to defend himself.

“Sir?”

I was breathing hard and fast and my head was pounding. I tried to regulate my breathing in the way that we had been taught since the moment I joined the Witcher school.

It was the first time in years that this simple exercise did not come easy.

“Sir? We saw what happened. I sent my boy Johann off to fetch the guard Sir.”

It was not lost on me that the man had sent his son out of harms way.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

I laughed. Not the most politic thing that I've ever done but it sobered me up quickly as even in my shocked state I could hear the edge of hysteria that had crept into my voice.

I tried to stand to find that my joints had kind of seized up.

“Sir, do you need help?”

I managed to turn my head to look at him. He must have seen something there that began to overcome his perfectly justified fear of me. Holding eye contact with me he carefully turned the pitchfork over and pushed it into the ground. Slowly, so slowly he edged closer to me, licking his lips nervously he climbed into the water. All the while he was talking as one would talk to a frightened animal in an effort to calm it. Soft words that mean nothing but at the same time are so reassuring to the animal that is hearing them.

“Right, can I get you to let go of the sword?”

I just looked at him helplessly.

He was an ageing man. Still hale and hearty given his years of working in the field. He was tough as well, like old boot leather. Beard and hair were long and more grey now than the black that I guessed they had once been. As I looked at him he must have seen something else.

“Yes, I had a friend like that once.” He went on, “Fought in the war that time the Old Flower's lot decided to invade.”

(Frederick's note: I have no idea what war this refers to. I take the reference of “Old Flower” to be someone's heraldry and guess that it was some kind of border skirmish between neighbouring nobles. The term “war” has taken on new meaning since the three great Nilfgaardian wars and as such what this old man might have considered a “war” would be laughable by any modern standard.”

“He came back, hung his shield and sword above the hearth and refused to talk about it.”

The old man gently took my hand and helped me un-prise my hand from the hilt. I had been trying to do the same thing for what had felt like hours. He had to physically peel the fingers apart to get at it. I couldn't decide whether or not to resist, protest or help him. In the end though I decided to take him at his word and let him help me. In all truth he could have quietly drawn a knife and slit my throat in a leisurely sort of fashion and I would have been too weak to stop him.

He got my sword off me and cleaned it in the water.

“I know that you're supposed to clean your sword though. I remember that. The same way that you clean your butchering knife after you've killed a pig. Otherwise it gets damaged. I could do a better job for you back at the house but for now I'll just get as much as I can off and dry it on my shirt which is little more than a rag anyway. Not that you should tell my wife that I said that you understand. Then, I'll just put that in the scabbard on your back here. There we go. Now lets get you up out of the water before you catch cold or something worse.”

He pulled my arm over his broad, farmers shoulders and levered me to my feet.

“There we go. So that friend of mine that I was talking about. Fought in the war you know. Brought his weapons back and hung them up. Just like he promised his wife.”

He pushed me out of the ditch before scrambling up himself and getting me back to my feet.

“Then he was set on when walking through one of the more risky bits of town. They found him throttling one of the worst cutthroats in the local slums. Died of his wounds though but they say he was screaming his own battle-cry as he went. Later, he asked those men that came to his aid what had happened. Sad really.”

As it turned out it was about ten minutes walk away from the road and where my horse lay. Someone had put it out of it's misery. It took us twenty minutes to get there. There was another cart nearby manned by a couple of boys who looked enough like my rescuer to be his sons. They were busy butchering my horse and wrapping it up in cloth to be carted away. There were also a trio of guardsmen there. No real heraldry and cheap bits of armour that had been put together roughly. They looked like old retired soldiers. The youngest boy was gesturing excitedly to the leader of the guardsmen as to what they had seen.

As soon as we trudged into sight, one of the guardsmen ran over and helped the farmer get me to the wagon where I was sat on the end. With a rough professionalism the guard checked me for injuries while the leading guardsman listened to the farmers story. He approached after the Farmer was done.

“So, Witcher?”

I just stared at his chest.

“Old Whil here tells me that you killed those bandits single handed. Says it was a sight to see.”

I said nothing, still staring at his chest. The guard tugged on his moustache which was long and drooping and sighed, turning to the farmer who was nodding nearby.

“They attacked him first?”

“Yessir. Minding 'is own business he was.”

“Less of the sir Whil. We've known each other long enough.”

“No sir. Not while my lads are watching.”

The guardsmen sighed. “You can teach your lads respect for the law on your own time Whil,”

“Yessir,”

“Well Witcher. You're not to know this but in killing those men you've done the locals round here a service. There is a reward in it for you when you're well enough to claim it. Come into town and ask for Dirick Granger at the chapel and they'll tell you where I am. We're not big enough for us to have a proper watch house.”

“I need to get back.” I said, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Where too Witcher?”

I didn't answer him because I didn't really know myself but explaining that seemed a little like too much effort.

The guard sighed and turned back tot he farmer.

“You alright to take care of him?”

Whil nodded.

“I've seen this before. Get him stuff to eat including some of your wife's honey-cakes if you can and then let him rest until he comes back to himself. Might take as long as a day, you still ok with that?”

“Yeah. I was friends with Gareth too.”

I never found out who “Gareth” was.

“If he's not back in his own head in a day, let us know and I'll send Father Durstan to talk to him and see if we can get him into the cloister to recover.”

“I will.”

“And I'll have one of those horse steaks as well.”

Whil grinned and nodded.

My gear ended up in the wagon nest to me along with the wrapped parcels of horseflesh. Whil put one of my

blankets over me and I just went to sleep.

I remember being almost carried into a bed in the farmer's house. I slept for a few hours, woke and ate that relatively poor family almost out of house and home but I finally woke up and came back to myself in the early hours of the morning. I remember walking out into the early morning air, taking a deep breath and for the first time I regretted being a Witcher. There have been moments since then, possibly moments even more profound than that first one but for the first time I found that I envied that poor little farmer with his wife, his sons and daughters. He knew what he had to do in the morning and what he would get up to the following day. He knew that no matter what else might come the following day, be that war, famine or pestilence that sooner or later. His job would be to make the ground give it's harvest. He wouldn't have to worry about the moral implications of his actions or worry about foreign nobles and their pursuits or what we were going to do about it.

I found my sword, cleaned it thoroughly and spent some time working some of the kinks out of my muscles. My body felt stiff and ungainly, strange pops were coming from my joints that left me feeling un-prepared and I needed to work. I know now that what had happened was that my muscles had all clenched up in that moment to the exclusion of all other things. They had fed off themselves in a way during that brief flurry of activity as they had over-exerted themselves during that exertion. It's the same brief exertion of superhuman strength that means that a mother can lift a beam aside to free a trapped child.

I needed to think and I worked the sword forms for a long time into the morning. Losing myself to the familiar rhythm of the movements. It wasn't the forms themselves that needed the work, it was my mind. I found that I needed to think and think hard at that.

What to do?