A Leshen Contract

Geralt awoke to loud footsteps on creaking wooden boards and shouts of ‘Raise sails’ and ‘Ship oars’. Stumbling to his feet, he staggered briefly against the rocking of the floor beneath him before regaining his balance and beginning to pull his armor on.

Stepping off the boat onto the docks, Geralt nodded his thanks to the captain and began making his way through the thronging crowd towards the fortress looming over the city of Kaer Trolde. As he reached the entrance, the two guards crossed their axes in front of his path. “State your name and business.”

“Geralt of Rivia. I’m a witcher. Here to see Queen Cerys,” Geralt said.

“In you go, you’re expected.”

Looking around the Entrance Hall, Geralt tried to recall the way towards Cerys’ chambers. Just as he finally settled on a direction, someone called out for him. “Geralt!” a burly, redheaded man with a large axe strapped to his back, shouted from across the hall.

“Hjalmar,” Geralt said as they shook hands heartily. The queen’s brother laughed.

“Why so dry, Geralt? Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“A hotheaded Skellig? Thrilled,” Geralt said.

“Ah, you’re no fun. Come on, Cerys is waiting for us.” Hjalmar led him through the stone corridors to Great Hall. A slew of advisors and warriors were clustered around a table at the far end, with Cerys, the square-jawed Queen of Skellige, presiding from a chair on a slightly raised platform.

As they entered, Cerys looked up from the table. “Where have you been, Hjalmar? The meeting started an hour ago.”

“Sorry,” said a very unapologetic Hjalmar. “But hey, I brought someone,” he said, gesturing to Geralt, who bowed stiffly.

“Don’t bother, Geralt, you look like a bear trying to do ballet,” she interrupted, before turning to the men and women around the table. “You lot carry on without me while I brief Geralt on our leshen problem. And Hjalmar, try not to fuck anything up.”

Cerys gestured for the witcher to follow her into a side chamber of the hall as the advisors resumed their discussion. Shutting the door behind him, Cerys sat down on a barrel, and Geralt followed suit. “So it’s a leshen, then. Where?”

“You’re not big on small talk, are you?” Cerys laughed.

“I prefer to chat after stopping whatever’s killing people,” he said. “So where is it?”

“Fair enough. It’s been working its way north from the looks of it – Fornhala, Sund, and most recently Fayrlund. Mostly it’s been people going missing in the woods, but the patrol Hjalmar sent a couple of weeks back was decimated. Only two survivors, from twenty of our best.”

“Should’ve hired a professional.”

“Why do you think you’re here?” Cerys muttered. “Even the other witcher we sent nought but a week back hasn’t returned.”

“What witcher?” Geralt asked, his voice raising in pitch by a semitone or two out of interest.

“A woman, brown –”

“There aren’t any female witchers,” Geralt interrupted. “They don’t survive the Trials.”

Cerys shrugged. “She had cat’s eyes, and she sure seemed like a witcher. Anyway, be careful. Seems like a vicious bastard.”

“Hmm.” Geralt tapped his chin, thinking. “What’s the pay?”

“Don’t suppose the gratitude of the Queen of Skellige’s enough?” Cerys smirked, and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Ah, didn’t think so. 500 crowns, and a room for as long as you’re here.”

“Done."

Geralt sat on his haunches and studied the bloodstain carefully. Human blood, less than a day old. The sharp roots protruding from the ground made it clear that this was the site of a leshen attack, although the lack of any bodies was unnerving for Geralt. Either the leshen disposes of its prey – not likely, but possible – or whoever fought this thing survived. His thoughts briefly flitted to the female witcher Cerys had mentioned.

Geralt began following the trail of blood. Whoever this was, they’ve lost a lot of blood. As he walked, his footsteps silent amongst the wet undergrowth, he pulled out his silver blade and began smearing relict oil along its length. The sharp, sour smell made Geralt’s nose wrinkle slightly.

The trail continued for around half a mile. Geralt couldn’t help but be impressed at the strength of whoever this was; despite having lost so much blood, they had managed to make it to the mouth of a cave. Then his gaze was drawn to something on the ground. In a puddle of mud formed by the recent rains, there was a single imprint of a very thin, very inhuman footprint. Leshen tracks. It followed them.

Geralt quickly drank a swig of Cat potion and instantly his eyes narrowed as his vision became sensitive, the sunlight blinding him. He drew his sword and walked into the darkness of the cave. As soon as he entered the cave, he could see the broken roots that indicated another leshen attack. One of them was leaking sap. Fresh. Good.

A low groan reached his ears, which pricked up. Female, in pain. A moment passed, and then there was another groan which quickly turned into an agonised scream.

Throwing caution to the wind, Geralt charged down into the tunnel, and rounded a corner to a gruesome sight. A woman with shoulder-length brown hair was suspended by a network of roots and vines. She was clad in leather armor and had two scabbards, both empty, hanging from her belt. A silver sword lay on the ground at her feet. Roots were digging into her sides and back as blood leaked down them. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and her features were contorted in pain.

In front of her was possibly the largest leshen Geralt had ever seen, its arms raised towards the woman. Hearing him rush towards it, the leshen turned to him and jerked its hand, and Geralt dived out of the way as roots shot out of the ground and pierced the space where he had just been. Damn, this thing’s fast. He quickly rolled to his feet and sliced at the leshen, catching its arm.

The leshen recoiled and swung, catching Geralt right in the chest. All the air left his lungs as he flew through the air and slammed against the wall of the cave. Roots quickly sprouted and pierced his stomach, and he grimaced in pain. Forming the Igni sign, flames burst from his hand and burnt through the wood, and he struggled to his feet.

As the leshen raised its uninjured arm, a sudden **** of crows flew at Geralt out of nowhere, and he had to roll again, barely avoiding the sharp beaks. They wheeled around, and just as they reached him his fingers formed Aard and air blasted them in different directions. He quickly whirled around and ducked as the leshen’s arm swung over his head, barely avoiding the heavy blow. A swift slice across both its knees made the leshen stagger, but in anger it swiped at him, catching him in the side of the head.

Geralt stumbled as stars exploded in his skull, and instinctively sidestepped. Another volley of roots shot up from the ground and scratched his leg. Shaking his head, he whirled his sword around him and brought it down in an overhead swing. The leshen blocked it with an arm, and splinters flew. Geralt struck again, and was deflected again, before its foot swung into his chest and he was knocked to the floor.

This time he wasn’t quick enough, and roots restrained his arms before he could burn them. It loomed over him, raising its arms, and suddenly its chest split open as a sword burst through it. A terrible screech rent the air, and the leshen collapsed. Behind it stood the woman, who had dropped her sword and crumpled to the ground as soon as the blow was struck.

Geralt grunted and managed to wiggle out of his wooden bindings before kneeling down next to her. “Hey, can you hear me?” he asked, feeling her neck for a pulse. She was alive, but her breathing was haggard. Opening her eyelid, he raised an eyebrow. Definitely witcher’s eyes.

As the small boat bumped against the jetty, Geralt stepped out and wrapped the rope around a mooring post before lifting the **** witcher from the boat and carrying her along the docks. Her torso was covered in makeshift bandages, and her veins were grey from the toxicity of the Swallow potion that Geralt had resorted to. Even still, she hadn’t woken since killing the leshen.

“You!” Geralt pointed at the nearest dockworkers. “Help me with her.”

Together, they brought her to a room at Kaer Trolde; the guards were unsure at first, but Geralt convinced them to let her in to the fortress and give her a bed in a servant’s room, and Cerys arranged for a physician to tend to her.

“What’s her name?” Geralt asked Cerys as they ate. They were alone in Cerys’ chambers, and he had just finished explaining the events of the previous day.

“Theora,” Cerys replied through a mouthful of chicken. “Oh, almost forgot.” She slid a coin purse across the table. “You’ve earned it.”

Geralt hefted the pouch. “So did she,” he said thoughtfully, before sliding it back. “Give her half.”

Cerys smirked. “I figured you’d say that. That’s why there’s only half in there.”

Geralt laughed. “Glad to see you value my services.”

“Of course I do. Besides, it’s nice having you around.” Her eyes briefly flitted down to Geralt’s chest. It was so quick that he barely noticed. Glancing at the mead bottle, he noted that it was close to empty. Despite this he could barely detect any slur in her words. Either she can really hold her drink, or she can act like she can.

“Appreciated.”

“Having said that, we’ll need to move you to a different room – there’s a Koviri delegation arriving, and out of political courtesy we’re putting them next to Hjalmar,” Cerys smirked.

“Some political courtesy,” Geralt said dryly.

“Anyways, we can put you up in a servant’s room or something, if you want to stay a while.”