If only that had been the end of the day.

If only.

I lay back in the grass and concentrated on getting my breath back to a semblance of normal pace and rhythm along with my heart beat. I had thought I was relatively fit and healthy. I had done all the prescribed exercises at the university and I had been on the road, with all of it's trials and tribulations for the last 6 weeks or so but I was dismayed at how utterly exhausted I was. I had also begun to shake uncontrollably. I felt detached from my body as though it was completely beyond my control and that I was just watching from an outside observers point of view. I literally remember thinking that I should try and stand up and drink something sugary which was when I remembered that the Witcher had given me a small cup of mead but it suddenly felt so far away as though that would be such a huge effort that I simply could not bring myself to perform. My arm felt like it was a tree trunk as well as being miles away from my head.

I had also forgotten that I had closed my eyes.

After forcing myself to lift the giant cloth curtains that had covered my eyes otherwise known as my eyelids, I realised that my arm wasn't as far away as I had first thought. Unfortunately the other problem was that trying to drink while lying flat on your back, although not impossible, is extremely difficult. Especially when you are shaking with shock. With great effort and no small amount of concentration I sat up and sipped at my cup of mead while I waited for the greyness at the edge of my vision to clear up. It was taking it's own sweet time to do so too.

The Witcher had vanished off somewhere doing whatever it is that Witchers do after they've killed a monster or three. I would later find out that that generally amounted to cleaning the monster blood of their weapons as it's often corrosive, harvesting alchemical bits from the corpses in question and having a look round to see if any secondary burrows had sprouted up in the absence of this singular burrow. At that point he was running around peering at the ground and occasionally freaking out the locals by bursting into their houses and throwing himself flat on the floor to listen to the floor-boards before leaping to his feet and running off. Not that there were many people to disturb as by now most of the town had gathered outside the house at the end of the row that was still smouldering.

Dimly I could hear that there was an argument taking place near the small house about whether they should let the house burn or whether they should put it out. There were arguments about it on both sides and I soon zones out of it completely thinking nothing in particular.

There was a growing buzzing in my ears anyway that sounded strangely hypnotic.

I continued to sip my mead and do my best to follow what was going on around me.

The family that up until that afternoon had lived in the hut on the edge of the road with the foxgloves in front of it were being lead away now. The woman had screamed hysterically for a while before a group of women had taken her over and to my eyes seemed to feed her something, after which she was able to be lead away. The father of the house with the foxgloves seemed to have himself well buttoned up, put a brave face on it and took his children in hand. He put me in mind of a lecture that I once attended on the still infant industry of explosives in the world.

A lot of Alfred Nabel's inventions and discoveries died with him when he blew up his own workshop to keep those secrets hidden but some things have since been rediscovered, one of the things that stuck in my mind was that explosions need to have an outlet as all that explosive force needs to go somewhere. Therefore if you want to blow up a wall you bury the explosive underneath the wall rather than placing the explosive next to it.

As I looked at the young farmer leading his somewhat smaller family away, I remembered this lecture and I remember hoping that there was someone who would keep an eye on that family in case the young man would explode randomly and at an undeserving target.

My ruminations as well as my long slow movement towards getting over my shock at recent events were shattered as a person who was by no means small grabbed me by the collar and did it's very best to haul me to my feet.

Unfortunately for him he did this incorrectly and as a result only succeeded in tearing at my clothing, much to my bemusement.

Then it turned out that he had some friends to help him who grabbed me by the arms and levered me to my feet. When they got me to my feet someone started to shout at me, in my face but then they let go of me and I was unhelpful enough to collapse back to a sitting position again. Then I started laughing.

For those of you reading who have any kind of medical history or training, yes, I was in shock and dangerously close to hysteria and no, I had no idea about that at the time. Strange how you don't think that you're in shock while you are actually in shock.

I got a kick to the face for my trouble.

I didn't stop laughing though which unfortunately made my assailant even angrier and I got another kick.

“Get up,” Someone said. I blinked at them stupidly, “GET UP,” they screamed again before having me hauled back to my feet.

I giggled again.

“Where's your friend?”

“Who?” I asked.

It was not my wisest moment.

My head snapped forward as a fist thundered into my guts and I tried to curl around the pain as though it was some kind of baby that I wanted to protect with the rest of my body. Unfortunately in letting my head go forwards I met the fist coming up in the uppercut.

It wasn't a particularly hard punch but it did make me bite the inside of my lower lip causing a small blood spray.

Once you've been beaten up though, pain takes on a kind of different meaning.

But now they had made me mad and as they did so, they pain just kind of went away.

But I needed to wait my moment.

I sagged into the men's hands.

“Where is your friend?”

“Which one,” I answered. “I have many friends.”

They gut punched me again. I found myself wondering if there was a reason that people tend to hit other people in the stomach for a reason rather than hitting them in the face.

“Get the fuck off me,”

Rutherford was struggling with someone. I couldn't tell who as the mead that I had drunk earlier was trying to come up through my nose.

“This man is harbouring a fugitive. A fugitive that assaulted me and my friends in broad day-light. I demand justice and if no-one else is prepared to provide that justice then I will find it myself.”

I was still slumped in the other men's arms. But now I got one leg under me. I felt someone grab me by the hair and tilt my face into the light.

I saw Rutherford's face. He was flushed and angry. One eye was half closed with what was going to be a truly awe-inspiring black eye and the other was wild eyed and blood shot. He also had a cut along one cheek but mostly I was looking at his nose, all big, red and with those tiny little purple veins running through them. Those little ones that you hace to be really close to a man's face to be able to see. For all the world it looked like a boil or a blister that needed to be popped.

It was a favour really. He would thank me for it later.

I had the one foot planted now and used that legs strength to launch myself up like one of those fireworks you can see around the noble quarters in Oxenfurt, driving my head as directly into his nose as I could.

The effect was rather satisfactory but by the eternal fire did it hurt.

For a moment my head swam and white light exploded behind my eyes. But on the other hand there was liquid running down my face and my enemy was reeling away from me clutching at his face.

“Bastard,” he roared. “Bastard, you've broken my nose.” He howled in pain and rage as he tried to talk through his increasingly busted up face.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

He seized a bottle from a nearby villager and drank a large amount from it before whimpering in pain and hurling the bottle at the crowd as he turned his murderous face back to me.

“Bring me rope.” He ordered. “I'm gonna string you up so that your friend can see it,” he snarled at me as it began to occur to me that head-butting this vodka fuelled maniac was possibly not the wisest course of action that I had ever taken.

“WHERE'S MY FUCKING ROPE?”

Rutherford screamed at the crowd, spittle, blood and snot spraying from his lips and the ugly mushroom that had taken over his face. I felt a giggle scrabbling at the bottom of my throat. I don't know why but I managed to strangle it before it properly managed to take hold.

“Yes,” came a cold and hard voice, “Where is is his fucking rope? It will save us all time later,”

The words were spoken quietly but at the same time there was a power to them that carried them over the rest of the crowd and into everyone's ears.

If this had been a story then the crowds would have split apart providing an oh so convenient path for my rescuer to walk down. Then my rescuer would have intimidated my captors into letting me go, but this was not the case. The crowd spent a good amount of time looking around to see who had spoken.

“Show yourself you cowardly mutant freak.” Rutherford spat in his hate.

“I would,” came the Witcher's voice “but I can't seem to get through which is fortunate for us both I think.”

It wasn't an alley that formed, it was more the mob version of self preservation. People just started backing away from each other until there was a rough circle around us all as people filed into the gaps between houses, others ran into the houses themselves, calling for children to come inside lest there be trouble.

Children being children, they of course ignored this and either climbed out windows or onto roofs to see the street theatre, entertainment being rare in those parts.

As a result though I could finally see my rescuer. He had been busy it seemed as he was holding the corpse of another Nekker by the foot having dragged it towards the village. The corpse was nearly cut in half in the midriff with only a few inches worth of skin and muscle holding the two halves together with other stringy entrails spilling out behind it.

The entrails steamed in the air. A couple of people shrieked at the sight.

I kind of wanted to gasp or something but the blows to my stomach had robbed me of breath.

“Drop your swords,” Rutherford crowed in gleeful triumph at the imagined surrender of the Witcher.

“Why?” The Witcher responded sheathing what I recognised as his silver sword.

“Because you assaulted me,”

“Yes, I know why you want me to. I also know that hanging me is an overreaction according to the local law for assaulting a cretin in self-defence.”

“Drop your swords, or we'll kill your friend.”

The Witcher nodded.

“Go ahead,” He marched forwards to within about ten feet of us all. I noticed that his left hand was on his sword strap and that the steel sword was on his back. I felt a trickle of cold sweat run down the back of my neck and I shivered.

“Frederick,” The Witcher said, “I'm sorry, but you can rest assured that you will be avenged shortly.” He was talking to me but he was looking at Rutherford.

“You're insane,” Rutherford sounded like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over him.

“No, I'm quite serious. If you kill him then you will have lost your shield. You will not have time to reach for a weapon yourself because by that point your head will be sailing from your shoulders in a most impressive arterial spray. Your colleagues will be too busy being shocked that they will die in relatively short order after that.”

“You're bluffing.”

For answer Kerrass grinned nastily. “Try me,”

The tableau was set. It was like a scene out of a play.

“I am a member of the village council and I am placing you under arrest.”

Rutherford drew his sword and stepped away from the other two.

“Ah, said the Witcher. I find that interesting. Release my companion first before I answer,”

“There is no answer for your actions you mutant fuck, you are guilty there are witnesses.”

“I have a defence,”

“There is no defence.”

“Yet I will make one which is the right of anyone. If you try to stop me I will assume that this town is lawless and act accordingly.”

My companion really did have an amazing talent for smiling hideously. I had heard the same about the White Wolf and wondered if it was something that they taught in Witcher school.

“Where is the Alderman?” Kerras asked. “He is the authority here that I recognise. He hired me and as such I will explain myself to him.”

“Put up your sword,” Rutherford demanded.

“I have done,” The Witcher snarled in response. “I notice that you have not.”

“I have the right,”

The Witcher managed to sneer and smile at the same time. A feat that I had previously assumed that only my father could perform.

“Where is the Alderman?”

“I am here Master Witcher. Nursing my own injury in the pursuit of Justice.” The old man was helped out of the crowd by the Dwarven smith looking as though he had aged ten years in the last two hours. I didn't blame him at all after what had happened in the cottage on the edge of the village but then I noticed the cut on the old man's brow that still looked as though it was seeping gently down his cheek.

I felt exhausted then, and more than a little sick, just wanting to find a small and dark hole to crawl away into until the world started to make sense again.

I think. I couldn't swear to it and I never asked Kerras, but I think that that was the moment where he decided what would happen next.

Kerras' lips thinned, just slightly at the sight of the Alderman staggering towards us. Even the Dwarf who had looked jovially dwarven was red with some suppressed emotion.

“Alderman,” Kerras spoke kindly but let his words project. “I would ask how the law is enforced in your village?”

“It's never really come up before,” The old man looked so sad then and I wondered if he knew, “If crime is committed a crowd of us get together and meet out punishment. More often than not it is to be cast out of the village and that is generally enough for our purposes.”

“And murder?” The Witcher asked.

“Never in my memory. It last happened in my Grandfather's time and the killer was caught and hanged.”

“I see.” The Witcher turned back to Rutherford and it seemed to me that his yellow eyes began to glow.

“Alderman, this man and his companions sought to prevent me from performing the duty for which you hired me. They threatened my companion and I with violence and death if we did not obey.”

He was speaking to the mob now. I had been to see plays, sermons and recitals and you can always tell when a performer has the audience in the palm of their hands.

“At that moment we heard a woman scream. I am a Witcher and I made to run and see how I could help as that is both my duty as a Witcher and my right as a free thinking individual. What kind of a world would we live in if we ignored the distress of another.”

It was not a question and I saw other villagers nodding.

“But this piece of shit,” Kerras snarled and again I would swear that I saw fangs. “prevented me bodily from rushing to aid the stricken. He and his companions struck out at me with clubs, swords, feet and fists.”

He paused and lowered his gaze for a moment.

“I fended them off as best as I could, and when I was free I ran to where the scream came from. I would also note, that the gentleman struck the child that brought your message to me. A message that might have prevented the tragedy that happened later. But in physically restraining me he delayed me.”

He looked back up, at me this time.

“Fortunately I was not alone and my companion was able to win free and race to assist the stricken. Where, barely trained as he is...”

I smiled at that. It seems that I can find humour in the strangest and most tragic of circumstances. My blessing and my curse.

“He managed to save, by my count, at least two children by himself as well as helping me save the mother and her daughter. That is at the very least of this man's deeds today.”

He paused before turning back to Rutherford.

“Alderman, I am told that the family lost one son today. A tragedy that no family should ever have to endure. A tragedy that is all too common in this modern era. I would ask you whether or not that son could have been saved if the message had got through as intended and if I had not been restrained so that my companion and I could do our job.”

The Alderman didn't answer.

Rutherford did though.

“This is preposterous,”

I wondered if he actually knew what that word meant. That sense of humour problem again.

The Witcher ignored him.

“In my eyes, that makes this man,” gesturing at Rutherford, “a murderer. Not only that but rather than helping with the effort to prevent more tragedy he kidnaps and assaults the true hero of these circumstances. The one person here who actually definitely saved a life today without being helped by anyone else. That includes me by the way”

“He is tainting the issue Alderman,” Rutherford splutters.

“Yes I struck him but I did so in the pursuance of saving another life.”

The alderman pushed himself away from the dwarf's support so he could stand on his own two feet.

“I agree master Witcher. You are free from blame.”

Rutherford spluttered a bit but The Witcher wasn't done.

“Good,” The Witcher said, “And the other matter?”

The old man tried to speak again but couldn't get the words out. The air was thick with a tension that I had only just noticed. The old man nodded and kind of shrunk in on himself.

“Excellent,” said the Witcher drawing his sword almost leisurely. “In that case, as that rope hasn't turned up.”

He took two quick steps,

“Now just a minute...” It seems that Rutherford couldn't resist a cliché,

I heard the blow rather than seeing it as I had closed my eyes. It was like... No, I was going to say that it sounded like a cleaver cutting meat, or a pair of scissors cutting silk. But it didn't. It sounded like someone having their head cut off.

Many people screamed.

At least two people vomited.

The Witcher hadn't joked about the spray either.

“Let him go,” he said quietly to the two men holding me. I rather think that they were still holding me in shock rather than with any intention of harming me. They certainly dropped me as though I had suddenly become as hot as a newly forged sword.

Kerras crouched next to me,

“You Ok? Can you stand?”

I nodded.

“Good, I need your help if you can give it. I could probably manage but I would rather trust you than some of these people.”

I levered myself to my feet. It took much longer than it should have.

“Now,” said the Witcher, addressing the crowd again. “This village has Nekkers. I don't know how many but Nekker swarms tend to be between six to as many as fifteen. I have killed two. It is vital, absolutely vital that tonight, you lock and bar your doors and shutter your windows as it's getting late now. In the morning I need every person able to swing a pick or a shovel. Bring food and water for yourselves as we must work hard and quickly if we are to make your village safe again. In the mean time, if you hear a sound like stones on a hillside or, strange as it may sound, like bacon frying in fat. Then run. Get everyone out of the area and find me, my companion or the Blacksmith and say what has happened. Don't grab anything, take no belongings, and above all don't go back until I, and I alone tell you that it is safe. Your lives depend on it. If you do this then you will all be safe. I promise.”

Strange as it may sound. For a man who had just butchered another in full view off everyone, we all believed him.