The White Werewolf || Season One: Ties That Bind

Chapter Two

Vizima, 1239

She knew they were starving because of the slavering howls that filled the air around her. A full necrophage, though it would still try to eat, was quiet and sluggish. These had clearly not had a meal in a while, and her sudden appearance must have whipped them into a frenzy.

Before she could even take a full breath, though, something grabbed her arm. She was about to scream when a deep, hoarse voice growled, "Where did you come from? Stay behind me."

She didn't catch a glimpse of the man's face before he turned back around, but she didn't have to to know who he was. His white hair billowed around his shoulders as he swung his silver sword in an arc, knocking back several of the necrophages.

The blade glinted in the moonlight as he brought it back to his chest. "Come and get me!" he roared.

His voice was powerful. A shiver ran up her spine and she blinked. Somehow, her crude spell had brought her directly to Geralt of Rivia. She could only guess that her desire had been strong enough to override the magical obstacles. Magic was primarily creative in nature, and a good imagination could skip over a lot if one also got a little lucky.

She blinked again as several necrophages shuffled in front of her. She felt Geralt shift, lowering his stance. A quick glance told her that there were more in front of him too. They were surrounded.

"Fuck," Geralt muttered.

She was inclined to agree. Even though she'd really never been in a fight, she knew how to take care of herself. Melcedem may not have been the best teacher, but she was proficient, at least.

She turned sideways, throwing one arm around the witcher to raise the bodies of the necrophages he'd already killed and direct them against the others in a disorganized wave. With the other, she shot a gout of fire at the necrophages approaching her, burning them into cinders.

It was a risk to reveal that she could perform necromancy and fire magic, since both were forbidden schools to practice, but she was hoping that the witcher wouldn't care, given the circumstances.

He pushed forward, dispatching the rest of the necrophages easily while they were distracted. Robin relaxed, realizing that they were the last ones. That hadn't been nearly as bad as she'd thought it would be.

She immediately noticed, however, that Geralt wasn't relaxing. She swallowed nervously and tensed, opening her mouth to ask a question. The words died on her lips, though, as he raised a gloved finger to his own to ask for silence.

"They're not what I came here to kill," he mouthed.

As if on cue, there was suddenly a rumbling noise that shook the ground. Geralt wasn't fazed as Robin stumbled, and he turned to face what appeared to be the source of the sound, a partially collapsed crypt on a small, sagging hillock nearby.

She managed to stay on her feet, flinching as the rumbling grew louder and the crypt suddenly exploded. A gigantic creature staggered out, roaring immediately as it saw them both. Robin recognized it, thanks to drawings she'd seen. It was a cemetaur, the largest and most dangerous of necrophages. A challenge to defeat, even for a witcher.

"Fuck," Geralt said again, reaching into the pouch attached to his belt and grabbing a small bottle of thick black liquid. "You need to run and hide," he ordered. "If you hear it stop, I've won. If it eats me, good luck."

Instead of doing what he said, Robin stepped up beside him and raised her hands. The cemetaur roared again and lunged at them.

"Get out of the way!" Geralt snapped, lifting the bottle to his mouth and preparing to pull the cork out with his teeth.

But he hesitated as the cemetaur suddenly stopped, seemingly frozen in place. He turned to Robin in surprise, clearly impressed with her abilities, even though she was sweating and trembling with the effort of casting the spell.

"If you're going to do something, do it now," she said through gritted teeth. "I can't hold it for long."

He nodded once, slipping the bottle back into his pouch and striding forward with his sword. A few calculated strikes later, the cemetaur's head hit the ground and Robin's arms fell to her sides as if they were made of lead.

Geralt sheathed his sword and strode back over to her. She lifted her chin, though the effort the movement took felt monumental, and looked up into his dark amber eyes.

He stared right back. "Who are you, where did you come from, and why are you here?" he asked.

"I was looking for you," was all she managed to say before she passed out, her knees crumpling beneath her.

Geralt reached out and caught her before she could hit the ground. He looked at her lolling head and slack jaw and knew she wasn't going to be waking up for some time.

"Fuck," he sighed.

He put his arm under her knees and swung her up against his chest, then began making his way out of the swampy graveyard.