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“That sounds like a job for a Witcher,” he’d said when the alderman had brought him a drink and described the issue.
“Are you not a Witcher, then?” the alderman asked, confused.
“No,” he said, ignoring the weight of a medallion against his breastbone, hidden away under his shirt. He wanted nothing to do with whatever was happening here, and he refused to be sucked back into a world he’d left behind years before.
Somehow he’d ended up here anyway.
Whatever was in the ruins hadn’t harmed anyone, yet, but the village was small, and poor, and couldn’t afford to lose any livestock to whatever it was that had taken up residence there. Berengar was a softer touch than he’d thought, letting them talk him into this. As far as they knew, he was just some mercenary with freakish eyes. What they needed was a Witcher. One who hadn’t thrown aside everything he’d been taught.
Without potions, he had to rely on a torch to see him through the dark. Whatever it was he was looking for, it would know he was coming. It wasn’t a position he liked being in, but he’d come all the way out here already. The least he could do was figure out what was hiding in the ruins.
The flickering torchlight made the shadows dance across the wall as he raised his torch high, the light playing tricks on his mind. Behind every shadow was something unknown, something waiting to catch him unawares. He took a deep breath to prepare himself before he stepped into the ruins. Whatever was here, he would find it. Whether he could handle it without a silver sword, or any of the equipment he once hunted with, was another matter entirely.
He didn’t even notice the noise at first.
It started as a low keening, far enough away and quiet enough that it went unnoticed under the sound of the wind and Berengar’s own breathing, slow as that was. As he moved further into the ruins, however, he caught it reverberating across the crumbling walls. It was only the enhancements to his senses, brought on by his mutations, that allowed him to hear the terrible, pitiful sound.
He crept toward a hallway, searching for the source of the noise. It was a tortured sound, like an animal caught in a trap. Whatever it was, Berengar was sure it should be dealt with. Whether something living that needed to be put out of its misery, or something already dead that held a grudge, Berengar would have to do something about it.
As he moved down the hall, his torch lighting the way, his boots scuffing quietly against the rubble, the sound changed. The keening became a whine, high pitched and panicked. It seemed increasingly likely that it was a living thing trapped somewhere in the ruins.
The closer he got to the source, the more signs of life there were. Something had been living in the ruins for a while, coming and going through the hallways. There were no footprints to follow, but there was evidence of recent movement. Spiderwebs that had been disturbed, and rocks turned over by something passing by. It wasn’t a small creature that resided somewhere here.
He reached a set of stairs, leading down into a lower level. They seemed stable enough, and the noise came from below. Berengar had always believed himself to be a pragmatic man. He wasn’t one to take risks without expecting any kind of reward. Whatever was down there might attack him on sight, and he would have none of the advantages he was used to in a fight. No Cat or Blizzard to enhance his skills. No Kiss or Swallow to mend his wounds if the creature harmed him. He should turn around and leave; let the village hire a real Witcher to handle whatever this was. He hadn’t accepted any payment yet; he wasn’t cheating them out of their money by promising something he wouldn’t deliver.
He stepped onto the stairs.
As he made his way down, the whining stuttered. When the torch light bled into the hall, Berengar heard the whine cut off with a gasp, then begin again in a higher, more frantic pitch. The creature was aware of him then, and afraid. That was a bad combination.
He crept forward cautiously, drawing his sword with his free hand.
Something shifted in the corner, and he spun to face it. There, huddled in the corner, was a figure, trembling in the shadows. Its whining was even worse up close. It sounded like it was dying.
Berengar stepped closer, and it yelped, pressing itself against the wall so hard that it must have hurt.
He stepped closer, debating the merits of axii. He’d have to either sheathe his sword or drop the torch in order to make it work, but that sound was terrible.
Another step closer, and the torchlight revealed a bald, humanoid head, the face turned toward the wall. The figure seemed to be entirely humanoid, actually. It was bare from the waist up, but had a ragged, dirty cloth wrapped around its hips.His hips, Berengar thought, inspecting the figure a little more closely.
The figure was shaking so hard Berengar worried he would knock his head against the wall, the way he was jammed up against it.
“It’s alright,” Berengar said, sheathing his sword. It might not have been his smartest move, but there was no way to calm the figure with a weapon in hand. “It’s alright, I’m here to help. I’m going to help you. Can you understand me?”
The whining didn’t stop as Berengar crept ever closer. Whoever this man was, he didn’t seem to understand what Berengar was saying.
Berengar slowly reached out a hand. He couldn’t see anything trapping the figure, nor could he see any obvious injuries that might be causing the figure pain. He was covered in scars, however. Shiny silver patches and rough, jagged slashes. It was a wonder he’d survived most of them.
“It’s gonna be alright,” Berengar said, his hand almost close enough to the figure to touch him. “I’m gonna get you someplace safe.”
It was only his years of training that kept him from shouting in alarm as a shaky, bony hand shot out to catch his wrist. The grip was bruisingly tight, holding his arm in place with seemingly no effort.
The figure turned his face toward Berengar, and the sight of red, cat-slit eyes was enough to make Berengar’s blood run cold. This man had been a Witcher, once. Once, but no longer. Something had changed him.
A silver medallion was clutched in the figure’s free hand. A Cat, by what Berengar could see.
“No good. No evil. Only pain,” the figure rasped, eyes wide. “Only pain. Only pain.” The figure’s eyes darted around the room, searching for something. “No good. No evil. Only pain. This is not the end.”
Berengar could hear nothing else in the ruins, not even rats. Though, the bones he could see nearby told Berengar that the figure had likely been subsisting off the vermin living in the area.
“You’re alright,” Berengar said, fighting the urge to snatch his hand away from the figure. “I can’t promise no more pain, but I want to get you out of here. Get you someplace safe.”
“Seems you are bleeding,” the figure said, red eyes roving over Berengar.
He wasn’t bleeding. Nothing had touched him, besides the figure, and the Cat’s hold on his wrist hadn’t broken the skin.
“This is not the end,” the figure said. There was something he was trying to say, but Berengar couldn’t figure it out. “No good. No evil. Only pain.”
“No pain from me, Cat,” Berengar said. “That I can promise you. I’m getting you out of here.”
The figure released his wrist, eyes locked with Berengar’s. Perhaps he recognised him as a fellow Witcher. Perhaps he was simply too exhausted by pain and fear to continue on.
“This is not the end,” he said, holding his medallion out.
Berengar nodded. “This is not your end,” he swore. “You’re gonna be alright, Cat.”