The Witcher

A SHARD OF ICE VIII

The blow fell unexpectedly, the club whistling softly through the dark, so fast that the witcher very nearly didn't have enough time to protect his head as he instinctively raised his arm to block the blow, deflecting it with a nimble twist of his body. He jumped back, dropped to one knee, rolled forwards and got to his feet. He felt a movement of air as the club fell again, evading the blow with a graceful pirouette, spinning between the two dark silhouettes that closed in on him in the darkness, reaching over his right shoulder for his sword.

He had no sword.

Nothing can take away my reflexes, he thought as he lightly leapt back, Routine? Cellular memory? I'm a mutant and I react like a mutant, he thought, again falling to one knee to dodge another blow, reaching towards his boot for his dagger. He had no dagger.

He gave a wry smile and was promptly struck on the head with the club. He saw stars as the pain shot right down to his fingertips. He fell to the ground, limp and still smiling.

Someone fell upon him, pressing him into the ground. Somebody else tore his pouch from his belt. His eye caught the flash of a blade and someone knelt on his chest, tearing the neck of his shirt and pulling out his medallion. They immediately let it fall from their fingers.

"By Beelzebub," Geralt heard a gasp, "It's a witcher..."

The other cursed, wheezing. 

"He doesn't have a sword... By the gods... It's cursed... Stay away from it, Radgast! Don't touch it!"

The moon momentarily shone through the thinning cloud. Geralt glimpsed an emaciated face above him; male, rat-like, with shining black eyes. He heard footsteps disappearing down the alley that reeked of cats and burnt cooking oil.

The man with the rat face slowly withdrew his knee from Geralt's chest.

"Next time..." Geralt heard the clear whisper, "Next time, when you want to kill yourself, witcher, don't try to get others to do it for you. Just hang yourself by your reins in the stables."