The Fire of Malice || The Witcher

Chapter One

The hours whiled away until the bartender finally plucked up the courage to kick Geralt out, saying he didn't want any trouble. He seemed a little wary of Geralt though and his tone was more polite than it probably would have been with anyone else.

It didn't matter. Geralt knew word would spread.

As he somewhat unsteadily strode down the cobblestones, a street urchin ran past him, snatching his coin purse and taking off in the opposite direction. "Hey!" Geralt called as he chased the boy.

Just his luck.

The kid turned down an alleyway, Geralt trailing behind. Every time he seemed to catch up, the boy would take an unexpected turn and pull ahead. Not to mention Geralt wasn't exactly in any shape for running after his afternoon at the tap. Geralt felt like he had chased the boy across half the city by the time he finally caught up to him. The little urchin had run into a dead end. Not very smart for someone who lived on the streets. Cornered, the boy turned, a panicked look on his face.

"Just hand me the purse and I won't give your hide the tanning it deserves," Geralt reprimanded, reaching out his hand.

"Sorry, mister. I had to try." Defeated, the boy tossed back Geralt's coin and dashed past.

From the weight of the purse, Geralt knew some of the coin was missing. He swiveled around. "Wait!"

But the boy was gone.

Geralt grumbled as he stowed the pouch at his side.

"I hope you weren't really going to hurt the boy, Geralt. He was only doing as he was told." A woman with flaming hair stepped from the shadows, removing her hood.

"Triss. I should have known."

"You could have been more subtle, you know. Half the city knows you're here and I'm pretty sure most of the taverns will refuse you entry on sight."

"Sorry, but I was in a hurry."

"Why?"

"I'm looking for Ciri. And I need your help."

Triss grew concerned. "Of course. What do you need?"

"I have a broken phylactery that belonged to Ciri. She left it behind when she disappeared from Novigrad. She was trying to get it fixed herself, but obviously failed. If I can repair it, it may help me find her."
Triss shook her head. "I'm sorry, Geralt, but I'm afraid I wouldn't know how to fix something like that."

Geralt was crestfallen at the words. He didn't know where else to turn other than Yennefer, but she was all the way in Skellige.

Sensing his mood, Triss added, "I may know someone who could help, but you're not going to like it."

"Who's that?"

"The Lodge."

"I'd rather not get them involved." After a moment's consideration, Geralt scowled. "But I don't really have any other options here. How soon can you contact them?"

"I'll contact them straight away. Are you planning on staying in Oxenfurt?"

"No, meet me in Novigrad. Zoltan's holding on to the phylactery for me. Figured it would be safer with him than traveling the countryside."

"Alright. I'll meet you after dusk tomorrow, at the Kingfisher."

Geralt nodded. "Be careful, Triss. I hate to put you in harm's way, but—" He trailed off, not really knowing how to express the gravity of the situation with Ciri. Fortunately, he didn't have to.

Holding up a hand, Triss cut in. "It's my choice to make. Besides, I want Ciri to be safe just as much as you do, Geralt. She's always been like a little sister to me."

Nodding again, Geralt replied, "Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow then."

They both went their separate ways and Geralt wasted no time in leaving the city. Triss was right, he probably wouldn't find anywhere that would willingly provide him lodging anyway. So he decided just to head for Novigrad.

He hadn't made it very far before darkness had fallen and he had had to make camp for the night. Although camp was a generous term. He had simply found a comfortable spot a suitable distance from the road and lain down to sleep, his swords carefully placed beside him on the grass.

Hopefully tomorrow he would have some answers. And would finally be back on Ciri's trail.

~~~

Something on the edge of Geralt's consciousness woke him. Boots—multiple pairs. Heavy footsteps—men in armor. Drawing his sword, Geralt jumped to his feet, instantly ready for an attack.

"Easy there," a dark-haired man called out, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, "We only want to talk." Judging by the comparative quality of the man's armor, the sword at his hip, he was in charge. The man had a hard look about him and the graciousness in his voice belied the cold face, the calculating stare.

Geralt knew it was a lie. A squad of fully-armored men—Geralt counted five—didn't sneak up on someone in the middle of the night just to talk. He didn't lower his sword, eyes roving from man to man.

Something hardened in the man's eyes and he let his arms fall to his sides, voice dropping all pretense of civility. "Can't say I didn't try."

Geralt squinted in confusion. Then he heard it, the slightest whistle from the left. There was no time to think. Pure instinct brought Geralt's sword swinging to the left, turning the flat of the blade away from his body and deflecting a crossbow bolt inches from his head. Geralt actually stumbled back a half step in shock, amazing even himself at his deftness. But there was no time to recover.

The man who had spoken came at Geralt, swinging his sword. A sloppy parry carried Geralt backwards a few more steps, ready for an attack from behind. But none came. The others were only watching, waiting. Geralt shifted his focus back to the man in front of him and charged. The two of them engaged in a tense, albeit one-sided battle. Geralt could tell the man was a great swordsman, but he almost seemed to be holding back. It didn't make any sense. The man was easily holding his own, yet he would never press any advantage, instead letting Geralt make every advance and simply blocking it away. Only when Geralt closed in a little too much did the other men step in and force Geralt to alter his attack. Their only function seemed to be keeping him at bay. The skirmish continued in such fashion for a few minutes until Geralt's and the dark-haired man's swords clashed and held together between them, each vying to break free.

Then the man smiled. It was too late.

Another whistle came from the same direction as before. Locked as it was against the other man's own, Geralt couldn't bring his sword up fast enough to deflect, nor could he dodge in time. The bolt found its mark in Geralt's temple, but it had been blunted, meant to incapacitate, not kill. The blow sent Geralt sprawling on his side, his sword falling limply from his hand. The world faded as Geralt struggled to keep his eyes open. The last thing he saw was the man approaching. Then darkness.