The Witcher

A SHARD OF ICE I

The dead sheep, swollen and bloated, its four rigid legs raised towards the sky, gave a convulsion. Geralt, sitting on his haunches against the wall, drew his sword slowly, taking care that the blade did not make a sound as it left the sheath. Ten paces away from him, the pile of refuse suddenly swelled and heaved. The witcher had just enough time to leap up and avoid the wave of refuse that had been set in motion and now poured forth violently.

A tentacle with a blunt, tapering end suddenly emerged from the refuse and shot forward to meet him with incredible speed. The witcher jumped onto the remnants of a broken cabinet that lay on top of a pile of rotting vegetables; he regained his balance and struck the tentacle with his sword, quickly and cleanly, severing the suckers with the staggering blow. He immediately leapt backwards, but slipped on the boards, landing thigh-deep in the rotting mass.

The mountain of trash exploded like a geyser, expelling a dense and foul-smelling sludge of kitchen waste, rotting rags and whitish strands of sauerkraut; from beneath there appeared a huge and bulbous body, shapeless like a grotesque potato, lashing the air with its three tentacles and its mutilated stump.

Geralt, still stuck in the sludge, twisted his hips, smoothly severed another tentacle with a broad stroke. The remaining two tentacles, as thick as boughs, fell heavily onto him, driving him deeper into the refuse. The monster's body barrelled towards him, ploughing through the refuse. Geralt saw the hideous bulb split open, revealing a gaping maw full of enormous, jagged teeth.

He let the tentacles grab him around the waist and was pulled out of the mess with a squelching noise. He was drawn towards the beast as it advanced through the refuse, reeling itself nearer; it's serrated jaws gnashed wildly and furiously. When he got close to the strange mouth, the witcher struck at the beast, wielding his sword with both hands, the blade sliding slowly and casually into its flesh. It emitted a choking, sickly sweet stench. The monster started to hiss and tremble; it released its prey, tentacles waving in the air convulsively. Once again mired in the filth, Geralt struck again, body twisting, so that the blade crunched and ground hideously against the monster's snarled teeth. The creature gurgled and collapsed, but then suddenly surged upwards, hissing and splashing the witcher with stinking slime.

Desperately wading through the sludge, Geralt dragged himself forward, pushing the refuse aside with his torso before launching himself outwards. He then struck with all his might, blade cleaving downwards between the monster's two faintly phosphorescent eyes, slicing its body from top to bottom. The monster groaned with pain; it shuddered, spilling forth a pile of waste like a punctured bladder and emitting warm waves of palpable stench. The tentacles twitched and trembled amongst the decay. 

The witcher scrambled out of the thick sludge, finding himself standing on a swaying but solid footing. He felt something sticky and repulsive that had seeped into his boot creep further up his calf. To the well, he thought, so I can clean this filth off as quickly as possible.

Wash myself clean. The monster's tentacles slapped loudly and wetly on the refuse once more, then fell still.

A shooting star flashed across the sky, for one second enlivening the black firmament studded with unmoving bright points. The witcher didn't make a wish.

He breathed heavily, harshly, feeling the effects of the elixirs he had drunk before the battle subsiding. Adjacent to the city walls, the huge heap of refuse and debris sloping steeply down toward the glittering ribbon of the river now looked exotic and picturesque in the light of the stars. The witcher spat.

The monster was dead. It had now become part of the pile in which it had lived.

A second shooting star passed.

"Trash," the witcher uttered with difficulty, "Nothing but muck, filth and shit."