The Witcher

A SHARD OF ICE IX

It had rained during the night.

Geralt left the stables, rubbing his eyes and brushing the blades of straw from his hair. The rising sun shone on the wet roofs and glittered like gold in the puddles. The witcher had an unpleasant taste in his mouth and the bump on his head throbbed with a dull ache.

At the gate to the stables sat a black cat, fastidiously washing its paw.

"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," called the witcher.

The cat froze and glared at him angrily, folding back its ears and hissing, teeth bared.

"I know," nodded Geralt, "I don't like you either. I'm just joking."

He unhurriedly loosened the buckles and laces of his jacket, smoothing out the creases in his clothes and checking that nothing would hamper his freedom of movement. He sheathed his sword behind his back and straightened the hilt above his right shoulder, then he tied a leather bandana across his forehead, pushing his hair behind his ears. He pulled on long gauntlets, bristling with short silver studs.

Once again, he looked at the sun, pupils narrowed into vertical slits, and thought to himself, What a beautiful day. A beautiful day for a fight.

He sighed and spat, then walked slowly through the streets, lined with walls that emitted the sharp, piercing smell of wet plaster and lime.

"Hey, freak!"

He looked around. The Cicada, accompanied by three suspicious-looking, armed individuals sat on a pile of logs arranged along the ditch. He got up, stretched, and went to stand in the middle of the street, carefully avoiding the puddles.

"Where are you going?" he asked, placing his narrow hands on his weapons belt. 

"None of your business."

"Just to make things clear, I don't give a damn about the alderman, the magician or this whole shitty town," The Cicada said, slowly emphasising each word. "It's you I'm interested in, witcher. You're not going to reach the end of this street. Do you hear? I want to see how good you are in a fight. It's keeping me up at night. Halt, I say."

"Get out of my way."

"Stop!" shouted The Cicada, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Didn't you understand what I said? We're going to fight! I challenged you! Soon we will see who's the best!"

Geralt shrugged his shoulders, not slowing his pace.

"I challenge you to a fight! You hear me, weirdo?" shouted The Cicada, again blocking his path. "What are you waiting for? Get out your iron! What's this, are you scared? Or maybe you're only bothered by those, like Istredd, who've screwed your sorceress?"

Geralt carried on walking, forcing The Cicada to awkwardly step backwards. The armed men accompanying The Cicada got up from the pile of logs and started to follow them,

maintaining a certain distance. Geralt heard the mud squelching under their feet.

"I challenge you!" repeated The Cicada, reddening then going pallid in turn. "Do you hear, damned witcher? What more do you need? That I spit in your face?"

"So spit."

The Cicada stopped and took a deep breath, preparing to spit. He was staring into the witcher's eyes instead of paying attention to his hands. This was a mistake. Geralt, still not slowing down, swiftly punched him in the mouth with his studded fist. He struck without pausing, only using the momentum of his stride to follow through. The Cicada's lips cracked and burst like crushed cherries. The witcher hauled back and hit him again in the same place, this time stopping briefly, feeling his anger dissipate with the force and vigour the blow carried. The Cicada, spinning on one foot in the mud, the other in the air, vomited blood and fell backwards into a puddle. The witcher, hearing the c***k of a blade being drawn behind him, stopped and turned fluidly, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Come on, then," he said, his voice trembling with rage, "Try me."

The one who drew his sword looked into Geralt's eyes. One second. And then he looked away. The rest began to withdraw; slowly at first, then with greater urgency. Gauging the situation, the man with the sword also fell back, his lips moving silently. The man furthest back turned and ran, splashing through the mud. The others froze in place, not attempting to advance.

The Cicada rolled over in the mud and sat up, propping himself up on his elbows, babbling incoherently, spitting out something white with a large amount of red. Walking past him, Geralt casually kicked him in the face, breaking his cheekbone, the man floundered again in the puddles.

He walked on, not looking back.

Istredd was already at the well, standing there, leaning against the wooden shaft next to the moss encrusted winch. On his belt hung a sword. A beautiful, light sword with a swept hilt, the tip of the scabbard brushing against the cuff of his shiny riding boot. On the magician's shoulder sat a black bird.

A kestrel.

"And here you are, witcher." Istredd, equipped with a falconer's glove, gently and carefully placed the bird on the roof of the well.

"Here I am, Istredd."

"I didn't think you were coming. I thought you'd left."

"As you can see, I'm still here."

The magician threw his head back and laughed long and loudly.

"She wanted to save us..." he said. "Both of us. But that's beside the point, Geralt. Draw your blade. There can be only one of us."

"You're going to fight with a sword?"

"Does that surprise you? You also fight with a sword. Let's go."

"Why Istredd? Why a sword and not magic?"

The magician paled, his mouth twitched nervously.

"En garde, I say!" he shouted. "No time for questions, that moment has gone! Now is the time for action!"

"I want to know," Geralt said slowly. "I want to know why you choose the sword. I want to know where you got that black kestrel. I have a right to know. A right to know the truth, Istredd."

"The truth?" the magician replied bitterly. "Well, maybe you do. Yes, you do. We have equal rights. The kestrel, you ask? It arrived at dawn, wet from the rain. It brought a note; so short that I know it by heart: 'Goodbye, Val. Forgive me. I cannot accept your gift, as I have nothing to give you in return that will adequately express my gratitude. That's the truth, Val.

The truth is a shard of ice.' Well, Geralt? Are you happy now? Are your rights satisfied?"

The witcher slowly nodded. 

"Well," replied Istredd. "Now I'm going to exercise my rights, because I cannot accept the news this letter brings me. I can't be without her... I'd rather... En garde, damn it!"

He twisted and drew his sword with a quick, graceful movement, exhibiting great skill. The kestrel squawked.

The witcher remained motionless, hands at his sides.

"What are you waiting for?" barked the magician.

Geralt slowly raised his head, looked at him for a moment, then turned on his heel.

"No, Istredd," he said quietly. "Goodbye."

"What do you mean, damn it?"

Geralt stopped.

"Istredd," he said over his shoulder, "Don't drag anyone else into this. If you want to do it, just hang yourself by your reins in the stables."

"Geralt!" shouted the magician, his voice cracked suddenly with a note of hopelessness that grated on the ears, "I won't give up! I'll follow her to Vengerberg. I'll go to the ends of the earth to find her! I won't ever give up on her! Know this!"

"Farewell, Istredd."

He stepped into the street without looking back. He walked, paying no attention to the people who hurried out of his way, quickly slamming doors and shutters. He paid no heed to anyone or anything.

He thought about the letter which was waiting for him at the inn.

He accelerated his pace. He knew that at the beside, a black kestrel awaited, wet from the rain, holding a note in its curved beak. He wanted to read it as soon as possible.

Even though he already knew its contents.