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Izzy crouched down in the grass, wiping drowner guts off his sword. His silver medallion thrummed against his chest, which meant there were still more of the bastards lurking nearby.
He wouldn’t usually bother to go out of his way to kill drowners, like all necrophages they multiplied faster than you could kill them. Not worth the trouble unless someone was paying, and people rarely paid for drowners.
But these ones had come out of the swamps, attacked him as he’d walked through the forest, forcing him to kill enough of them to drive the rest back into the water. Now the swamps stank even worse than they normally did, the stench of rotting necrophages hanging thick in the air.
His witcher medallion trembled again, but if there were any drowners remaining nearby they weren’t stupid enough to show themselves.
A branch snapped behind him and Izzy whirled around, standing up and bringing the tip of his sword to the throat of a very tall stranger.
Izzy regarded the man in front of him. Yellow eyes. Dark, curly hair. Silver cat medallion around his neck.
“Another witcher?” The stranger used the leather clad back of his hand to push Izzy’s sword away from his throat. “The dead drowners around here your work?”
Izzy gave a short nod and lowered his sword.
“Nice.” The other witcher flashed him a lopsided grin, and Izzy noticed then that he had a lute strapped to his back, along with his two silver swords.
“You headed for Red Port?” the other witcher asked. “Or…maybe leavin’?”
Izzy narrowed his eyes. “What’s it matter to you?”
“Curious is all,” the other witcher replied. “Don’t see many of our kind on the path.” He stood up a little straighter and added, with a hint of pride in his voice, “I’m cat school. From your medallion I can guess you’re wolf.”
Izzy nodded.
The other witcher stared at him expectantly for a few seconds. When it became clear that Izzy wasn’t planning to add anything further, he cleared his throat and rubbed his hand along the side of his neck.
“Ah, I was also wonderin’ if you knew of any contracts in the area? Been looking for work for a while.”
Izzy looked at the other witcher again. Dressed more like a bard than a witcher. He had sharp ears like an elf, but there was a gaunt look to him that Izzy suspected wasn’t just down to his elven heritage. He looked young, too, like he hadn’t been on the path for very long.
“Haven’t been to the port yet,” Izzy admitted. “Looking for work myself.”
The other witcher nodded and gave Izzy another grin. “Don’t suppose you’d wanna head there together? Reckon it’s another two nights of travel, and I’d sleep better knowing there’s another witcher watching my back.”
Izzy wasn’t really one for company. His medallion trembled against his chest again.
“I’m Frenchie, by the way,” the other witcher said. “You got a name?”
Suddenly a high pitched shriek came from overhead, followed by a fierce gust of wind as an enormous winged creature swept out of the sky and landed several feet away from them.
Izzy leapt backwards and raised his sword, putting himself between the beast and the younger witcher.
The monster screeched, flaring its wings and Izzy reached for a golden oriole potion on his belt. He’d come across this sort of creature before; a cockatrice, venomous and viciously aggressive.
“Wait, wait, hang on!” Frenchie stepped between Izzy and the cockatrice, holding his hands up. “This one’s with me.”
Izzy narrowed his eyes. “What?”
The cockatrice came up behind Frenchie and Izzy thought he was about to see the half-elf get disembowelled, when instead it gently nudged his hand with its beak and made a soft clucking noise.
“Isn’t he beautiful?”
Izzy scoffed. “Is this why you’re out of work? Witchers are supposed to kill monsters. Not fucking befriend them.”
Frenchie turned around to stroke the cockatrice’s neck. “I’ve had Buttercup since he was an egg. He’s not a monster.”
“Buttercup? You named a fucking cockatrice ‘Buttercup’?”
Frenchie smiled as the cockatrice chirped at him and then trotted over to the drowner corpses. It sniffed one of the bodies and then started to peck at the flesh, tearing scraps off and swallowing them hungrily.
“You don’t mind if he—” Frenchie broke off and grinned sheepishly at Izzy. “He’s hungry all the time.”
Izzy shrugged. “I wasn’t planning on eating them, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Frenchie laughed. “Aye, can’t say I’ve ever felt the urge to nibble on necrophages either.”
Izzy sheathed his sword and started to head back towards the dirt tracks that led out of the swamps. Frenchie had been right about it being another two nights of travel to Red Port and Izzy wanted to be long clear of the swamps and any remaining drowners before nightfall.
“Oh, we leaving already?” Frenchie jogged along behind Izzy until he caught up to him. “Don’t worry about Buttercup, he’ll catch us up.”
Izzy didn’t bother telling Frenchie that he certainly didn’t care about his over-sized pet chicken. He did want to point out that he hadn’t agreed to them travelling together.
“I didn’t agree to—”
“You never told me your name, by the way,” Frenchie interrupted. “If we’re going to be travelling together it would be handy to know that, at least.”
“I didn’t agree to us travelling together,” Izzy said, ignoring the way Frenchie’s smile faltered briefly. “I work better alone.”
“Oh. Right. Well, sure, that’s—that’s yeah. Totally understandable. Me too, actually.” Frenchie glanced over his shoulder at the cockatrice, that was still tearing into drowner corpses. “Buttercup gets a bit jealous sometimes too, so, probably for the best.”
Izzy was very sure he didn’t want to see what a jealous cockatrice looked like. “Good luck on the path,” he said, giving Frenchie a short nod and continuing along the track up the hill.
“Yeah, sure. You too, mate.”
After a few seconds, Izzy realised Frenchie was still walking beside him. Izzy stopped walking and so did Frenchie.
“What are you doing?”
Frenchie grinned at him. “Well, if we’re both headed to Red Port, we’re going in the same direction, aren’t we? So, we will sort of be travelling together anyway…”
Izzy gritted his teeth. “Fine,” he muttered. “Just don’t get in my way. And—don’t talk so much.”
“Yeah, ‘course!” There was a spring in Frenchie’s step as he continued alongside Izzy. “I get it. You’re the strong, silent type, right? I respect that. Keep your cards close to your chest. Is that a wolf school trait? Feels like one.”
Izzy sighed. It was going to be a long walk to Red Port.
*
~*~
*
They stopped and made camp in an abandoned and crumbling old fort on the top of a hill, once the sun had set and the moon was hanging bright in the sky.
‘Buttercup’, the cockatrice, flew up into the tallest tower of the fort and settled down for the night, disturbing a flock of disgruntled pigeons and a pair of owls as he did so.
Three quarters of the fort’s walls were still standing, but the southern side had fallen down entirely, giving a good vantage point over the forest and fields beneath them. In the far distance, Izzy could see Red Port. A small, smokey speck on the horizon.
He went for a quick walk around the outside of the fort, picking up dried twigs and logs from the ground. Izzy brought them back to the main room and placed the armful of tree branches into a pile on the ground before casting igni to set them alight.
Frenchie crouched down beside the fire, holding his hands out against it and then rubbing them together.
“Thanks,” he said, as Izzy went over to his pack and rooted through it, taking out a tin of dried fruit and half a loaf of bread.
“Your turn to get the firewood next time,” Izzy replied, coming back over to the fire and sitting down. He tore off a piece of bread and chewed on it slowly. He could feel Frenchie’s eyes on him as he ate.
He sighed.
“Do you not have any food?” Izzy asked, unable to keep the growl from his voice.
“Gave it all to Buttercup,” Frenchie replied with a sheepish grin. “I can’t say no to him. He’s got these big brown eyes and—”
“—and he’s liable to eat your face if he gets hungry,” Izzy finished for him, taking another mouthful of bread. “Or an arm. Or a leg. I reckon he’d swallow you whole, though.”
Frenchie laughed. “Buttercup wouldn’t eat me. But…if he gets really hungry he might eat someone else. Can’t have that.”
Izzy sighed. He passed Frenchie a piece of dried fruit. “Here.”
“Oh? Thanks! Very kind of you!”
Izzy didn’t know what to make of Frenchie sounding quite so surprised and grateful to be given a single piece of dried fruit. He might have considered it sarcasm from someone else, but he wasn’t sure this half-elf was capable of sarcasm. He was remarkably cheerful for someone of his kind. And of their kind.
Izzy had only met witchers from other schools briefly in passing. Normally they’d had an unspoken agreement to avoid one another—too many witchers in the same area meant lower pay for contracts, and it wasn’t like witchers earned a fortune as it was.
Not to mention, cat school witchers had a bit of a poor reputation. Too many had got involved with king killing and assassination, or had simply become spies or blades for hire, the pay being slightly better than the business of monster hunting.
Of course, the problem was that once you got a reputation as assassins or king killers, kings and other royalty started to make you as unwelcome as possible in their realms. Izzy had been fortunate that enough of the northern kings had made an exception for wolf school witchers, but it hadn’t stopped the worsening hostility from the common folk and more than once Izzy had found himself facing down the pointy end of a pitchfork from an angry mob.
Izzy watched Frenchie take incredibly tiny bites from the piece of dried fruit, chewing it slowly and deliberately.
He didn’t seem like a killer for hire, Izzy thought.
But rumours were rumours and regardless of what the truth was, it wouldn’t help Izzy’s reputation if he was seen in Red Port with a cat school witcher.
“How long have you been a witcher?” Izzy asked, despite himself.
Frenchie seemed taken aback at being asked. “Oh! Um—” He held out his hands, counting on his fingers before grinning sheepishly at Izzy. “A while, I think. I’m not so good with counting. But it’s been…” He sighed. “It’s been a while, yeah. How about you?”
“I’m asking because you seem green,” Izzy said, ignoring Frenchie’s question. “What’s the biggest monster you’ve killed? Have you faced a vampire yet? A wyvern? Or a water hag?”
“Oh, please, I’m not that wet behind the ears,” Frenchie scoffed. “I’ve killed a water hag before. I’ve—I’ve come across a wyvern. Nobody was willing to pay me to kill it, though, so I left it. Definitely could have killed it, though. Admittedly, I haven’t fought a vampire before. Not had the pleasure. Biggest monster? Probably…probably harpies?”
“Melitele’s tits,” Izzy cursed under his breath. “Harpies?”
Frenchie drew his shoulders up and folded his arms defensively. “So what? I know what I’m doing.” He smirked and leaned forward, looking Izzy up and down. “Bigger doesn’t necessarily mean better, anyway. Thought you’d know about that.”
Izzy scowled at him.
“Look,” Frenchie continued, “just because I’m younger than you doesn’t mean I’m not capable. I—I’m a half-elf too, you know, and we look younger because we age slower—”
“I’m aware,” Izzy muttered. “How old are you, then?”
Frenchie shrugged. “All I know is that I was old when the witchers took me. Never knew my parents, but the local Scoia’tael said they’d take me—even though I was a half-elf. Said they needed people to kill humans, so I did. But I wasn’t very stealthy at that age and I got caught—the local lord was gonna chop my hands off as punishment. Said they were going easy on me on account of being a kid—but a couple of witchers were passing through town at the time and they said they’d take me instead. I was about a foot taller than all the lads where we trained. But that was…” Frenchie trailed off. “I don’t know. Like I said, it’s been a while.”
“Witchers rarely have happy childhoods,” Izzy replied, not surprised by Frenchie’s situation. “Least you kept your hands.”
Frenchie nodded. “Yeah. They rounded up and killed all the elves a few weeks after that. And the half-elves a few weeks after that. Put their heads on spikes outside the city gates, or so I heard.” Frenchie smiled thinly. “I wasn’t allowed to go back there in case they tried to do it to me.”
Izzy didn’t say anything. The world could be a cruel place.
“What about you?” Frenchie asked, taking another small bite of dried fruit. “Here’s me spilling my life story, and you’ve still not told me your name.”
Izzy sighed and handed Frenchie a chunk of bread. “Just call me Izzy. I don’t remember my life before I was a witcher. Been on the path for over sixty years, now. I’ve killed vampires, leshens, endrega queens, werewolves…You name it, I’ve probably killed it.”
“Wow,” Frenchie said, a glimmer of humour in his eyes as he smiled. “Very impressive.”
“Yeah, compared to fucking harpies, it is, actually.”
Frenchie nodded.
“I’ve killed more than one cockatrice, too,” Izzy muttered, peering up into the darkness where Buttercup was roosting. “So your pet better keep his distance.”
Frenchie nodded again. “He understands.”
They ate in silence after that, with only the sound of Buttercup snoring above them and the occasional wolf howling in the distance. Once he was finished eating, Izzy got out his bedroll and curled up beside the fire. He watched Frenchie pick a few stones from the ground beneath him and chuck them into the bushes, before lying down in the dirt.
“Do you not even have a bedroll?”
Frenchie smiled and rolled over onto his side to face Izzy. “I’m good without one, babe. Grass is comfy enough. You’re always welcome to join me here if you want.”
Izzy scoffed and rolled over, facing the other direction.