Chapter 1: Fancy a Round of Gwent?

Heroes? Witchers aren't heroes. Never have been, never will be. That's a bard's fancy, not our trade. We take on the filth, the guts, the jobs that'd make a knight piss his polished armor – long as the coin's right and they don't expect us to break our one solid rule: humans we don't touch; monsters, we gut. Simple.

From the moment they cook us up in those cursed labs, our bodies ain't human stock anymore. Different make, different function. Means we don't catch the pox or the shivers, which sounds grand until you hear the rest. Most of us don't even see our first winter. The Trial of the Grasses, they call it – a fancy name for agony that’d make a grown man scream for his mother, and they put babes through it.

Survive that, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll make a passable Witcher. Don’t? You pay with your life. Only three in ten, maybe, crawl out. The rest? They die choking on resentment and god knows what else.

The Trial’s a butcher’s bill, and no wonder. They pour all sorts of foul decoctions down your throat. For a normal man, it’s straight poison. For a whelp? Same damn thing. Heart stutters, organs give out, brain feels like it’s boiling in your skull. The mutagens scour you, and only if you’re too damn stubborn or too damn lucky to die do you get ‘stronger.’

And the little parting gifts? Those charming cat-slit eyes, for one. A brand that screams ‘freak’ to every peasant with a pitchfork. To anyone watching, it looks like they’re just trying to kill you slow. Swallow the first vial, still breathing? Good. Here’s the second. That doesn’t finish you? Fine, bottoms up for number three. Kids, barely ten summers old, forced to gulp down poison after poison and then somehow claw their way back. That’s the ‘easy’ part. Most don’t make it past the first cup.

Zeilin – that’s me – was one of the lucky three. Still wonder at the sheer bloody luck of it sometimes. One in ten brats makes it through training to even be called a Witcher. And of those ten…

Some meet their end during the trial for their medallion. Some on their first contract, finding out the world’s a damn sight nastier than the training yard. The ones who live long enough to see grey? You could count 'em on one hand and have fingers left over. Most end up as monster bait or with a blade in their back, courtesy of some grateful local.

Aye, folks ain't exactly friendly to our kind. Hostile's more like it. But when some ungodly thing crawls out of the swamp and starts dragging off their kin, suddenly we’re their dearest friends. Funny how that works.

"So, you’re the one who nailed this… artful piece of parchment to the post?" I found him in the village tavern, the air thick with stale ale and unwashed bodies. The man himself reeked of cheap booze, a rough brown linen shirt clinging to him, its cuffs stained dark from seasons of spills. His deep green trousers were caked with field muck, the bottoms tied off with hemp to keep the mire out.

My voice cut through his stupor. He fumbled his tankard down, head wobbling as he turned.

"You Sigi? Village elder?" My eyes – these Witcher eyes – took his measure. Standard Northern peasant stock: hands like gnarled roots, thick with calluses. The spark had long since been leached from his eyes by hard labor, his shoulders stooped as if under a perpetual yoke. His face was a map of wrinkles, and he had the lean, hungry look of a man who’d seen too many winters. "Name's Zeilin. From Temeria. Saw your notice."

"Oh! Oh, Master Witcher! A blessing to see you, truly!" The moment his gaze fixed on my eyes, then dropped to the Griffin medallion at my throat, Sigi scrambled up, all fawning fear. His drinking mates? Vanished from the table like morning mist, putting as much wood and air between us as they could manage. Wasn't just them. The whole damn tavern seemed to collectively shrink away, as if I carried the bloody Catriona plague. I could feel their fear, sharp and sour as bad wine. Their disgust, too.

Didn't blame them, though. Hating what's different is practically a continental pastime. Humans hate elves. Elves, especially those Scoia'tael folks, hate humans right back, probably with more fervor. Dwarves get spat on as second-class citizens in most human towns; they answer that contempt with their own stubborn pride. Goblins are mostly just tales to scare children now. As for dopplers, succubi, and the like? They keep their heads down, if they've got any sense.

And it ain't just other races. Your common man loathes mages and sorceresses, calls them ill omens, schemers, the hidden hand behind every war. There's even that charming bunch, the Eternal Fire, hunting them down in the name of ‘protecting’ humanity. Witchers? We were human once. But the changes… they’re enough for most folk to call us mutants, freaks. Can’t say I entirely disagree.

"Your notice says there’s something in the woods nearby…" I glanced down at the contract, the ink smudged. Re-read it, just to be sure. "A wraith? You certain of that?" My tone was flat, professional.

In my experience, clients rarely knew a barghest from a barn owl. Not just peasants; I’ve had nobles, supposedly lettered, who couldn’t tell a nekker from a particularly ugly stump. Monster lore? That’s our trade, not theirs. More than once, I’ve had some trembling sod swear blind a demon was making off with his sheep. Turned out to be a few ghouls, drawn by the stench, enjoying an early supper.

"Master, I saw its shadow, I swear it on my mother’s grave!" Sigi insisted, hand fluttering up as if to ward off disbelief. "Saw it flash through the trees, many a time. Didn't dare get close. Master, you know how wraiths are – kill you as soon as look at you. If I died in those woods, my old woman would keen for a month, and who’d feed the young’uns? So, when I saw that shadow…" His face went a rather fetching shade of beet. "I… I didn't linger. But believe me, Master, others in the village saw it too. That's why we scraped together what coin we could, hoping someone could deal with the damned thing."

"No shame in it. Not every man’s built to face down a spook and live to boast of it." I shook my head slightly, tucking the contract away. "Right. Details. Where’d you last see this… wraith of yours? What damage has it done? Or, let’s start simpler: when did you first notice it? Tell me everything you know. Leave nothing out."

On a contract, any detail, no matter how small, could be the difference between collecting your coin and ending up as monster turd. Only by piecing together the signs – a strange track, the way a body’s torn – could we figure what we were truly up against. Only then could we prepare right. The right oil for the blade, the right potion to swig down to sharpen the senses or dull the pain. Green Witchers often died from guessing wrong. Thinking they’re hunting a fat alghoul, they’d smear on necrophage oil, only to find a bloody werewolf tearing their throat out. For these colleagues, all I could do was hope they were quick with their swords. Two legs never outrun four with claws and a temper.

"Last time was in the woods north of the village. Five nights back. Found one of our cows gone. We’ve only three, and one’s already sickly. Lose another, and our lads’ll be worked into an early grave," Sigi recounted, his brow furrowed. "Followed the tracks into the trees. Found the carcass, what was left of it. Head torn off, a big chunk of meat gone from its side. I was wroth, Master, thought it was some thieving bastard from the next village. These are hard times, anything can happen. But just as I was looking about, thinking to fetch some lads to teach the thief a lesson, I… I saw the shadow. Terrifying thing, Master. Never seen its like." Even days later, his voice still held the tremor of remembered fear. "The monster, it was… eating the beef. Then it saw me. I turned and ran, didn't look back. Prayed to every god I knew. It didn't follow. That’s the only reason I’m here now."

"Maybe it figured your hide wasn't as tasty as the cow's," I said, a dry jest. Elder Sigi didn't crack a smile. Just a couple of forced, hollow coughs. Right. I dropped the pleasantries. Crossed my arms. "I'll head out, take care of your wraith. But before I do, we talk coin. How much is my time worth to you?"

"How much… how much does Master require?" At the word ‘coin,’ a flicker of peasant shrewdness lit his eyes, as if the word itself had sobered him. Nobles chase honor, priests preach piety, but everyone, down to the last beggar, understands the language of coins. An old truth, that one. Time was, I’d have sorted the monster first, talked payment after. That changed after one village decided my services weren't worth the agreed price, and instead tried to turn me over to the Eternal Fire as a ‘marauding mutant.’ Learned my lesson then. Witchers can best a squad of trained soldiers, can cut down beasts that’d make armies break and run. But we still need to eat. Bleed too much, we die. Simple as that.

"Two hundred crowns," I stated. "Half now. The rest when the job's done." My gaze was steady. "You understand. In any trade, an advance shows good faith."

"Hmm… Master, if you can rid us of this beast, we'll pay two hundred crowns." After a moment that probably felt like pulling teeth to him, Sigi agreed. Maybe the fear of the wraith was stronger than his love for coin. Or maybe he figured another Witcher, especially one charging less, wasn't likely to wander by before the wraith took a fancy to him. Assuming, of course, their village lasted that long.

"Good." I nodded, taking the pouch he reluctantly offered. Weighed it. Felt about right. I tied it to my belt. "I'll be back by tomorrow night, latest. We meet here then."

Time settled, I turned to leave the stink of the tavern. Just then, a slurred, angry voice cut through the fug from the far side of the room. "Damn it all, I say that freak ain't worth that much coin! Swings a sword and gets rich? How’s that different from a bloody bandit? Monster killin' monster, that’s what it is! Payin' him’s a waste!"

The voice was loud, raw, drowned out the tavern’s usual drone. I heard it clear as a bell. So did everyone else. Silence fell, thick and sudden. Every head turned, mine included. A big, barefoot brute, sleeves shoved up his meaty arms, drunk as a lord on cheap rotgut. His blue linen shirt was dark with spilled ale, and the stench of him – sweat and stale booze – was strong enough to gag a ghoul. Some of the nearby patrons wisely decided to inspect the woodwork, not wanting to be caught in the splash. A few of his mates tried to pull him down.

"Hold your tongue, Yark! Witchers are killers, man! No guards here. Anger him, and we’re all dead men!" one of them hissed. But their whispers were as loud as shouts to my ears. No difference between their panic and the brute’s bluster.

"Afraid of him? Why!" Yark, drunk enough to be brave, or just plain stupid, shoved them off and staggered towards me. "What're you lookin' at! Got two swords, so what! What else you got that makes you better'n me, eh, freak? Useless, the lot of you, 'cept for swingin' steel! Once the real monsters are gone, it'll be your turn!"

I closed my eyes for a heartbeat, a faint smile playing on my lips. My hand drifted into my jacket pocket. "If you truly believe that…"

"You… what're you gonna do?" The brute’s drunken courage evaporated like dew in the sun. A cold sweat broke out on his brow, sobering him faster than a bucket of ice water. The realization, dawning far too late, hit him: before any grand ‘cleansing’ of Witchers, I could gut him right here, with one clean stroke. And the local watch? They wouldn’t lift a finger to help a fool who’d baited a Witcher. Witchers are sword-masters. The Cat School lads, especially, are famed for their… discreet methods. No commander in his right mind wants a live, angry Witcher as an enemy. After all, if we take coin to kill monsters, who’s to say we wouldn’t take coin to deal with a troublesome human?

My gaze swept the tavern. Worried faces, a few eager for a show. All watching. Waiting to see if I’d break his nose or draw my sword and paint the floorboards red.

"Then…" I drew my hand from my pocket. Not steel. Not a dagger. A deck of cards. "Then let's play a round of Gwent."