The Fear of Witchers

The ghastly visage hung in the air across from Alayna. The two circled each other in a deadly dance. Her thin silver blade spanned the distance between them and kept the otherworldly other at bay. The specter vanished. Alayna wordlessly twisted her hand in the Yrden sign and threw it at the floor, allowing the magical trap to disperse in a small circle. The witcher of the griffin closed her eyes and trusted her other senses to alert her to the next attack. The chill of night swept across the back of her neck. She spun, slicing her blade through air where a moment before the wraith had been. It was gone. Yet she felt no fear.

                She did not fear the wraith because her training had prepared her to fight the wraith. Nor did she fear werewolves, fiends, wyverns, endrega, or any other monster that prowled the land. The life of a witcher was spent surrounded by death, but Alayna was not bothered by that. The fear of witchers is not death. Death is the dance partner of witchers, and though the dance may have beautiful steps it is still an ugly dance. Those who hire witchers do not see the steps, for they are only witness to the bows at the end; the blacksmith and the herbalist, the tracker and the farmer: their sole encounter with the witcher in her professional duties is tainted by the smell of carrion and the musk of oils and potions. The fear of witchers runs as deeply as the fear of monsters.

                Alayna closed her eyes again and searched the room with her senses, while still pouring a slow stream of energy into the Yrden trap. Then to her left there was something. She did not feel the specter, but she felt its conspicuous absence where there ought to have been something. The griffin medallion hummed on her breast. She angled the blade so that, like a compass, it pointed to the heart of her foe. The wraith materialized with a sudden spectral flash, but the silver flash of Alayna’s witcher blade was there to meet the attack.

                The soldier must stand over the corpse of his foe and wonder if he was truly evil. He sees the face of the fallen and sees a brother, a cousin, one who is not so different from himself. The knight must stand before the Scoia’tael, those guerilla freedom fighters, and wonder if he fights on the side of justice. Even the jailer must wonder if the man behind bars could be reformed and rejoin society. The witcher has no such qualms. The fear of witchers does not lie in the ethical dilemma of slaying monsters, for unlike the soldier or jailer she is presented with an unconscionable Evil. The witcher is free of dilemma so long as she faces Evil.

                Alayna stood over the crumpled specter, and blew a breath of the Igni sign to illuminate the silent torches in the tomb. The undead lay dying, and on the floor, it shimmered away into spectral dust. This she collected and walked from the catacombs beneath Vengerberg to collect her pay from lady Raquel Hus-Roy, of the Hus-Roy family in whose crypt she now crept. Heretofore she had been offered contracts only in backwater villages from peasants who stank of mud and crawled with lice. The city of Vengerberg stank of sewage and crawled with rats, but its denizens were at least somewhat better arrayed. A particularly large rat scampered across her shoe, and with a stray thought she sent it running with a short flame from the Igni sign.

                She wished she could have done the same to the lice-infested villagers in Ban Glean.

                Stifling a short giggle, more from nervous exhaustion than black humor, Alayna watched the walls turn from a dark grey to a brilliant orange as she exited the catacombs into the dense twilight of Vengerberg. The light did nothing to aid her vision – she could see perfectly well in dim conditions – but the wash of vibrancy brought her mind from death and tombs back into the land of the living.

**********

                Vengerberg was a city of six thousand people. As Alayna stood outside the quiet crypt and looked out at the streets, it seemed that all six thousand of the city’s residents were out. Alayna had heard of sorceresses who could become invisible with their magic – on the streets of Vengerberg, Alayna was invisible without any magic. Even with twin blades slung over her shoulder she could disappear in the crowd, for there was an older witcher who often visited Vengerberg. She began the long process of forcing her way through the crowd – some coming from market, most simply leaving their jobs and returning to their homes – in the direction of the Hus-Roy manor.

                The city was a good place. Perhaps it might be good to winter here instead of at Kaerhen du Loc, which would be lonely; she could still take contracts in the city and yet not be so alone. Lady Hus-Roy had been very good to her. Alayna decided that she would ask her about accommodations at the manor. As she left the main streets behind, the crowds thinned. The houses were more richly adorned now and stood further apart from each other. Some even had small plots of grass that sported trees or flowers. One industrious house, crawling with vines, had rows of grapes growing on a trellis in front of the house. Alayna furtively snatched a handful as she passed by. The plump fruit only further endeared her to the city.

                The Hus-Roy manor was a stately building, one of only six private buildings in the city to have three levels. Outside the gates, which were adorned with steel wyverns, two guards absentmindedly barred the entrance. One, old and stout with a gut like a keg, was swaying in a way that made Alayna believe he had recently spent time at a similar keg. The other guard was young, about her age, with a fair face and clear blue eyes that smiled at the corners.

                Unsurprisingly, it was the gut who spoiled the silence, and not the deep blue pools. “Toll f’r th’ gate, mester…” he eyed her swords, “…witcher. Ten duc’ts. Mebbe elev’n.” Unsurprisingly, the image of a keg was as appropriate as she had imagined.

                “I have fulfilled the contract for your mistress, Lady Raquel. She will be displeased if I am barred entry.” She silently pleaded with the blue eyed boy, who held his pike as stiffly as she imagined he held a girl at a dance. He sidled close to the older man.

                “Say, Harry, she don’t have coin yet. She gots to get paid first, yar? Toll ken come later.”

                There were several moments of quiet reflection from Harry, during which Alayna suspected that he had fallen asleep. Only his hand twitching on his tightly wound crossbow prevented her from simply walking by. Then Harry stirred.

                “Aye… s’pose she ken pay th’ toll on’er way ou…” With spittle still hanging from his lower lip, he slipped back into the happy dreaminess from which they had disturbed him.

                The young guard unlatched the gates and let Alayna through, who muttered a quick word of gratitude and flashed a smile at the boy. His face lost its color, as though she were seeing it in the dark with her witcher’s eyes that were attuned to shape but not color. She was a witcher, after all. The fear of witchers runs as deeply as the fear of monsters; yet the fear of witchers runs deeper still in cities. Vengerberg had built tall walls to keep out the monsters, but witchers strode through the gate unchallenged. Witchers protected innocents from the monsters, but who protected the innocents from the witchers? That was what the boy’s face communicated in the span of a breath.

                Just as suddenly as it had paled, his face snapped back into a weak smile. Perhaps his expression had merely been reactive, like a wolf shying away from a torch. Maybe the city was a good fit for a witcher after all.

                The manor was dimly lit in the transitory space between twilight and nightfall. Servants bustled about with candles, lit and unlit, livening the manor for the evening. Impulsively, Alayna gently twisted her hand in the Igni sign and lit a tray of candles with a single breath of flame.

                The servant jumped and nearly lost the tray in her surprise. From an upper level a clear, accented voice rang out.

                “My, what a delightful trick. You would do wonders as my new housekeeper, darling. But I suspect that is not why you have returned.” Alayna craned her head to catch sight of the grand woman who descended the staircase. Her silky green dress trailed lightly over the curtained steps, clinging to the woman’s curved legs; her padded shoes were noiseless. Were it not for the shifting of her knees beneath the dress, the sight suggested the illusion that Lady Raquel Hus-Roy floated rather than stepped down the staircase. Here was another sort of magic. For a moment Alayna imagined herself in a cream blue dress with her hair bound up in an elaborate coiffure, but only until she remembered her matted hair and scuffed elbows. No, this was magic reserved for the highborn, whose inner grace was abetted by the hereditary sums of ducats and crowns and orens that they passed from each generation to the next. This was not the life of a witcher, who passed ducats and crowns and orens from one bawdy tavern to the next. Alayna bowed clumsily.

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                “To be the housekeeper in the Hus-Roy manor would be a delight. But I come as a witcher having fulfilled my contract. The troubles in your family crypt have been dispatched.”

                “And was it a difficult job? What was it that haunted the tomb?”

                Alayna paused, remembering the fears of the nobles. “It would be best not to mention what was in the tomb. Regardless, it is gone, and I have some proof of its passing should you wish to have it verified.”

                Lady Raquel waved the suggestion away as she might with an ornery gnat. “Nonsense. You are a professional, I trust that you have your standards as my hairdresser has hers.” Alayna looked admiringly at the long amber tresses that adorned the woman. “You must see her. I’ll have one of my servants bring you her name.”

                “I would be delighted, but…” Alayna hesitated.

                “State your fear, my darling. In Vengerberg we speak our minds, from the highest lord to the lowest pauper.” She paused, a wry smile across her face. “Though as a witcher you are regarded as somewhat greater than a pauper.”

                Alayna’s relief must have been evident to Lady Raquel, for she chirped with laughter and waved for her to continue. “I was only wondering – for you have been so very kind – if you might recommend a place that I might stay for some time. I am delighted with the city and the offers of work, but do not want to cause any alarm among the inns or taverns.”

                Lady Raquel was positively offended. “My darling Alayna! An inn?! I would not hear of it. I shall house you for the evening in the servant’s quarters.” For a moment a flash of embarrassment ran across her face. “I regret that we cannot afford to house you in a guest room, but…”

                “But the smell of the highway is my companion and my matted hair would not rest well on silk sheets. The servant’s quarters in your manor are nobler housing than I have been afforded by those who could have offered better.” Walking to the fireplace, she kindled it with the Igni sign. “My signs and potions are not fit for your world of nobility.”

                The Lady was relieved. “Then I shall see to it at once. And to your pay, of course.” Then a twinkle entered her eye. “You must know that there is a witcher residing in Vengerberg now. The White Wolf, who beds with our resident sorceress.”

                “I have heard of him, but we have not met. I am of the school of Griffin. It is a rare thing to see him so far north, for I hear he travels often to Cintra and hails from Lyria.”

                “Rivia,” the Lady corrected her. “And he is well traveled. We are fortunate to have him, doubly so to have yet another witcher in our fair city.” And with a smile and a mellifluous flurry of skirts, she left, leaving Alayna alone in the grand hall with no direction and only a parlor trick.

                The hall was too grand for one witcher to stand alone. For all the kind words of Lady Raquel Hus-Roy, Alayna might as soon have been a brigand with her two swords slung across her shoulder and boots still muddy from the city. She glanced down and saw the faint tracks across the plush carpet. Perhaps only a witcher’s mutated eyes could see the dirt, or perhaps it was eyes sharpened by the guilt of intruding in a world that would never belong to her. The dainty skirts of these ladies were not patched and rent, and their tiny ankles fit in the heeled shoes that were so unfathomably fashionable. No, her calloused hands were not fit to stroke silk or hold a teacup. They were fit only for the blade.

                She would slink away to the servant’s quarters and rest where it was proper.

**********

                Exiting the front door was as unceremonious as entering it had been. Yet as Alayna closed the door behind her she saw the warmth that effused from the manor, with lit candles and kindled chimneys now inviting her back against her better judgement. The fire bright manor blazed a stark contrast against the thick night of the smog and dust of the city. With difficulty and regret she turned away and passed back through the gates. Straight past the guards.

                “All passage tax’d by ord’r of King Demawhosit, third of ‘is mname.” This from the keg, still swaying with his loaded crossbow. “Yer th’ bitcher… witcher, beg pardon, what passed hence twenny minnus er so. Yar?”

                She passed by the murmuring drunk without addressing him, looking about for the servant’s quarters where she would pass the night. Hopefully in solitude.

                “Yar?” He repeated hopefully. Then again with a tone that suggested his crossbow was pointed at her back. “Yar!” She turned: her suspicion was confirmed. The younger guard, still tightly gripping his pike, was wider in the eyes than even she surely was. The drunk stumbled over his words, which no doubt sounded fair and noble to lesser men.

                “Th’ tax… fer entry, an… an fer nonhuman sorcerous witchin ways! Erryone knows witchers cast spells ‘n fuckin’ shite.” He spat and continued with the spittle dripping down his chin and onto his shined breastplate. In a no doubt rare moment of lucidity, he spoke clear enough to be understood. “Witchers ain’t like us folk. Witchers ain’t folk at all.”

                Coolly, Alayna chose her words carefully. But not carefully enough. “That matter will have to be taken up with Lady Raquel, your benefactress and mine.” At this, his face burned with rage.

                “Thas Lady Hus-Roy t’ ye, sorc’ress bitch!”

                Alayna saw his finger twitching on the trigger, which was aimed at the griffin medallion swinging on her breast.

                Alayna reached for her sword, knew there was no time to deflect the bolt. She extended her hand and reached instead for the first sign to come to mind, the last sign that she had used.

                Alayna watched the sign erupt from her outstretched hand and consume the old drunk guard, watched his alcohol-stained jerkin erupt in gouts of flame.

She watched as her Igni sign snapped the crossbow string, which clattered harmlessly to the ground by its former owner. The man was dead.

                She watched as the young guard with beautiful blue eyes was caught in the conflagration. He had tried to wrestle the crossbow away from Harry as she had thrown her sign. He had sought peace while her instinct tended to death. Now he writhed on the ground besides his dead companion, burning, burning.

Chaos and Order, Good and Evil; witchers fancied themselves protectors of Order, the last bane of Chaos in a world by which it was overrun. Yet Alayna found herself in a situation which every witcher eventually found themselves in: though she might have spent seventeen years in service to Order, still her instinct tended to Chaos. For chaos is the unconscious action of mankind, a rule from which witchers are not exempt. Alayna stood over the corpse of one guard and the writhing form of another, and she could not tell if the dead man had been truly Evil. And as she stood over the corpse, Alayna was not free of dilemma.

It was at that moment that Lady Raquel Hus-Roy emerged from the manor. She was greeted by the stench of burning flesh and the groans of the young guard. He burned and burned, and Alayna could only watch in horror as he rolled in the slop and the mud. All of this Lady Raquel Hus-Roy saw, and in her eyes,  Alayna saw fear.

The Lady stepped daintily down the front steps, fixing her eyes on Alayna so that she did not have to see and believe what had undoubtedly happened. Alayna met the fearful eyes, set in a pale white face with drawn lips, and stammered an explanation.

“The, he… guard. Too much to drink. He shot, and I…” She stopped and looked down at the wreckage. The young handsome guard rolled onto his back and looked up at her with a cry of agony. The left side of his face was crossed with a network of red lines that would scar horribly. Alayna could not meet the eyes of the guard, but neither could she meet the eyes of the Lady. She turned away, knowing there was no explanation that would cover her shame.

With all the graciousness of nobility, the Lady attempted where Alayna had forsaken herself. “I am sure that this can be explained. You need not go, darl… Alayna. We will fix this.”

For a moment, Alayna believed her. She turned and met the eyes that had been so kind and gentle and accepting before. She met the eyes and saw something different. Pity. Horror. Fear. The fear of witchers ran deep in the heart of the Lady, who gripped a coinpurse with white knuckles.

Alayna took the purse, set it gently on the chest of the young guard, who would bear the mark of her mistake for the rest of his life. And she turned and left Vengerberg, never to return.

**********

The Lady, the Guard; both their faces would be forever seared into the Witcher’s memory, just as surely as the young man’s face would be forever marred by her carelessness. The fear of witchers is not death, nor is it dilemma. The fear of witchers is that one day they will make a deadly mistake and become indistinguishable from Chaos itself. The fear of witchers is that they are no better than the monsters that they hunt.