"Dornhardt", said the darkness beyond the dancing shadows of the fireplace. Slowly, as if it was thinking hard, while it was speaking. "Yes. Dornhardt of Kaer Morhen. Also known as Thorn." A single low laugh followed the last word."I wonder where you earned that name."
Thorn, who had been leisurely greasing his sword beside the fire, sitting against what remained of the old manor's walls, looked up, mildly surprised. There were two glowing spots in the dark that hadn't been there a second ago. About seven metres away from him and at least two metres high.
Despite his seemingly relaxed demeanor, Thorn had been waiting for his prey to find him here. Normally he would have attacked at once, but this time something held him back. Never before had the prey talked to him in comprehensible words. Gnarling, roaring, hissing and spitting was what he would get most of the time, sometimes mingled with rudimentary language barely recognizable as such. But this one was interestingly different. Not only did it speak in an educated manner, it also seemed to be quite good at guessing people's names. Or, more likely, reading their minds.
"I know, who you are and what you are, witcher," continued the dark shape that was barely visible in the shadows, even for Thorn's improved eyesight. The voice was deep, calm, reasonable, only the last word had come out hissing, as if it was an insult. "Don't you want to know about me, now?"
Thorn cleared his throat. "No, thank you. You're a monster. That's all I need to know."
He realized that this night's work would be a little more difficult than he had expected it to be. At Kaer Morhen, he had been prepared for the possibility that the strange aberrations he would be hunting for a living might be fitted with the most unlikely traits, such as the ability to breathe fire, shriek in high tones that could render you deaf, confuse your mind with illusions, or maybe even to read your feelings and thoughts. Yet, this was the first time Thorn actually had to face a thing like that. This would complicate things a bit...well, actually a lot - but there were ways to work around the problem. All in all, his chances were that the monster's emphatic or telepathic ability was only rudimentary and that it could read no more than the subconscius mind..
Without a sign of fear or haste, Thorn brought the blade of his sword up in front of his face, breathed on it and began to polish it with a sleeve. He looked at his mirror image in the hardened silver of his witcher's sword - long, dark hair, hard, oblong face, a chin that was in bad need of a shave and those eerie witcher's eyes, once called "dead beast's eyes" by the same girl that had given him his nickname. Strange thing that he had to think of her now.
"A monster, indeed," repeated the dark shape thoughtfully. Sarcasm was another thing you would hardly expect from a witcher's prey. "Sounds a bit harsh, but for the time being, it will do. You're the witcher, I'm the monster. I see."
In spite of what he had been taught at Kaer Morhen, Thorn decided to continue the conversation. After all, the thing was too far away for him to reach it with a single, well placed thrust of his sword. Sure, maybe there were other monsters creeping up on the witcher while the two of them were talking, but judging from what Thorn had learned from the carefully hidden tracks and traces in the old manor ruin, this one lived and lurked alone. And while they were exchanging niceties, Thorn thought, it might just happen that he managed to infuriate his prey, so it would make a final, lethal mistake.
"Why should I care for what you are?" the witcher said in a seemingly light-hearted tone. "You cause fear and death. You don't belong here, my friend."
"Good thing you told me that. Now will you at least tell me your conclusions as to what kind of monster I am? I have seen you sniffing around my old home like a hound dog. So you must be able to try some educated guess..? Humour me, will you?"
Thorn sighed. "Alright, as you wish. Unfortunately the description given to me by the villagers was not very specific: man-like shape, moving silently, like a predator in the dark. Sometimes, glowing eyes were seen, but never anything more conclusive. No beastly stench, that's what puzzled me most. Never hunted a monster that fancied hot baths and perfume. And then I found out a few things about you, when I discovered your hiding place here. Pretty obvious, by the way, but I like the view. Old manor ruin on a rocky hill, overlooking the fields, as if you were one of them locally bound, brainlessly wailing ghosts or a wraith with a romantic attitude. But you leave tracks, so you must be physical. And you're not bound to the place... There is an old legend about some curse here that could have led to the birth of a monster. But that was over a hundred years ago, whereas you cant't have been here for longer than a year, I guess. At least that's when the disappearances started..."
"Is that all?"
"You hunt only by night, if I'm not mistaken. But you don't take the blood of your victims, so you're probably no vampire...although that would explain your rethorical skills. Actually I thought you were some shapeshifter. Like a Werewolf, only less smelly. Until you came up here and began to speak right now, that is."
"Werewolves don't speak?"
"Not the ones I have met, at least not in their bestial form. Their transformation makes it kind of difficult, I guess. Sometimes they try to, though. When they realize they can be defeated."
"What if I just haven't transformed yet?"
"Nah. Never met a werewolf who could control that. Besides, they don't fancy bathing, as I said. I would smell you from here."
For a second, the darkness remained silent. Then it said, "Shame. I was really hoping you could tell me more. Myself, I have been trying for some time now to find out about the nature of my...of this sickness I have. Back in my travelIing days, I asked sorcerers, priests, sages and witches. I read books on the subject. "On Monstres and Aberrations", ignorant witcher's stuff like that. I even tried to find others of my kind. All in vain, of course."
"Well. You know, I'd really like to help you with your taxonomy problem. If you just came a little closer to the fire and showed yourself. My eyes are really good, even in a cloudy night like this, but strangely enough, I still can't seem to see you."
"I'll think about that. How much did the village elders promise you for doing away with me?"
That came as something of a surprise. "Professional secret." Thorn grinned, trying hard not to think of the four men - the village elders of Aarding, indeed - who had sent to Kaer Morhen for help. The mayor, the village scribe, the miller and a rich farmer. Probably, the monster in the darkness was constantly scanning his mind for information like that. "But I can tell you that theydidn't just promise me money. I already got a fourth of the coins."
"Is that so. Well, well. Were they all in favour of calling a witcher to their home village?"
"Nah, not really. One of them was quite obviously not pleased with it. Kept rambling about calling on one monster to fight the other. And who of 'em - of us two, I mean - was the greater evil."
"That would have been the miller, I suppose? Osvaldt?"
Thorn was caught off guard. He hadn't intended to give away any of his contractor's names, but it seemed that it wasn't even necessary. Obviously the prey knew very well about what was going on in the little village of Aarding. Whatever kind of monster this one was, it surely wasn't dumb. Osvaldt, the fat miller had indeed been the one who had spoken against employing a witcher. He had even secretly offered Thorn a good amount of money if he had left the day after his arrival. Not more than the money for killing the prey, alas. Seemed a little odd, but sometimes people reacted that way to witchers.
"You know, maybe you are right," said the dark shape with the glowing eyes. "Maybe you can give a name to what you can see. So you can stop thinking of me as 'the prey'. You are kind of flattering yourself there, using that word for me, aren't you." With that, the darkness approached the campfire like a gust of dark wind. Thorn had been expecting the movement, but for a part of a second, he could only gaze at the astonishingly quick moving shape of his opponent. He jumped to his feet hastliy, sword held high one moment, swinging it downward in a shimmering silver curve the next. The blade would have doubtlessly hit, cut the dark shape in half, had the same not stopped its movement just outside reach. There it remained, standing silently in the dancing shadows near the fire, now in full sight of the witcher.
Thorn realized why he hadn't been able to see more than a dark silhouette. The monster actually was nothing but a dark silhouette, only now it was discernible because it was outlined by the fire. It was darkness come to life in the form of a slightly hunched man at least two meters tall. Everything about the thing was black, even its long cloak. The skin was an ebony black, not brown or dark, as it was said of the peoples living in the far south of the world, but really black, like pitch or soot. And the hair - there was quite a lot of it, as it seemed - looked like fine strands of coal. Once, during his early journeys, Thorn had seen the statue of some elven woodland god, made of ebony and charred all over in some fire. This thing looked strikingly similar, at least as long as it didn't move. Only its eyes - probably like black marbles in the daylight - seemed to be burning as the moisture on them reflected the nearby flames of the campfire
Thorn let out his breath through his teeth with a hissing sound, staring aghast at the thing in front of him. Eventually, he began to chuckle. "Why, look at you," he said at last, laughing out loud, "I know what you are, all right. You're the meanest of them all."
"Yes?" The thing's eyes seemed to flicker as it cocked its head slightly.
"Not to be found in witcher's books, though, hah. More likely in children's stories. Or rather, in stories made up to keep children from staying up too long or wandering into the woods."
"So..."
"Don't you get it? You're the bogey man. Also called Black Tom where I come from. Other names I've heard were 'djybbyok' or 'svartevair', the Dark Hunter or the Blackened One. Stealing children away from their homes, eating them alive. King of the nasties. Lords, I never expected to see you in person. And that's something to say for a...."
"You are mistaken, witcher," the monster said, its eyes blazing. "I know these names." Now at last there seemed to be a trace of anger in its voice. Before Thorn could bring up the sword again, the monster reached out to him with another astonishingly fast movement and struck the witcher's forehead hard with the palm of his black, clawlike hand. A storm of thoughts, emotions and images invaded the witcher's head, as he lost the grip on his sword. All these years of training at Kaer Morhen, all those unnatural reflexes and mutations, yet here he was, caught by surprise while having a good laugh. As the lights went out and he hit the wall behind him to slowly collapse alongside it, Thorn heard the dark one's voice again, sounding tired now.
"You're mistaken, dear friend. There is no name for what I am."
See for yourself.
My father was the last Knight of Aarding. In his youth, he vowed eternal love to a village beauty who was rumoured to have elven blood in her veins. Some people even called her a changeling. She had been crowned may queen of Aarding, a traditional title that goes back to an ancient elvish belief. As her beauty seemed unmatched, she held the crown for many years. Her family was quite wealthy, but not of noble offspring, although, as people said, the pride may queen would often behave as if it had been. With all that spoke for her, the beautiful may queen of Aarding was not considered my father's equal, so when the time came, my old man obeyed the will of his parents, discarded her and married the girl his parents had intended for him, the girl that would eventually bring me into this world. My mother was maybe not half as beautiful as the may queen, but a warm and loving person she was nonetheless. There was never a word spoken about my father's first engagement, and oddly enough, the may queen never tried to win him back. My parents' marriage went on well and soon they had their first child, a daughter. Ten months after that, a second daughter came along. The villagers, always obsessed with rumours about their lords (even if they were just knights without any title), began to whisper about the may queen having cursed my father so that he was unable to beget a son. My father and his family did not pay attention to those stories. But my mother's family was quite superstitious, and with news of very real monsters and beasts turning up every now and then, these ideas soon became obsessions. Most superstious of all was my grandmother, she was afraid that my father would turn away from her daughter to fancy another woman, maybe even his first love, so that heir to the Aarding estate would not be her daughter's child. To my grandmother, this was an intolerable thought. Something had to be done.
One unhappy day more than a century ago, she sent a messenger together with some mercenaries to the supposed curse weaver, the beautiful may queen of Aarding. Despite her beauty, this proud woman had indeed not chosen a husband for herself yet. Her father obviously had nothing to say in that matter and her mother had died years ago, giving birth to a stillborn child. Some said, the may queen had never married, because my father had broken her heart, others claimed that she had done so out of disappointment and plain stubbornness. That she was dabbling in magic was no great secret, but everybody knew there was not much talent involved - everybody except my grandmother, that is.
The messenger my grandmother had sent offered the may queen a good amount of money, which - instead of turning it down and denying that she was a witch - she gladly took, probably secretly flattered that someone thought her so powerful as to create a real curse. The next year, of course, brought my parent's third child, my sister Perisia. Still no son. No heir to the beautiful estate of Aarding. And that's when things began to go terribly wrong, for, as you may have guessed, my grandmother now felt she had been betrayed by what she thought was a powerful village witch.
This time, she sent a single messenger, a dark character who, as we found out later, had a long history of violence, and who was known in certain circles as a 'man for the dirty work', like threatening debtors or sabotaging the work of a competitor. His misson was simple: threaten the witch, scare her out of her mind, so that she begs for mercy, then tell her to lift the curse. When she has promised to do so, give her this money bag and promise her that there will be more coin 'if all went well'. I am convinced that my grandmother (or whoever she may have told to speak to the thug) did not tell him to lure her out into the woods or to use violence, as he did. She might have been superstitious like a woodland hag, but she was not crazy or murderous.
In his trial many years later, the damn thug claimed that the may queen of Aarding had laughed at him, spit at him and finally attacked him with a dagger, but I think that is just as much a lie as his claim that his 'unknown contractor' had told him to 'kill the fucking witch'. I rather tend to think that at some point of the thug's threatening routine, the animal - the monster - inside him, stirred up by the beauty and the pride of the may queen - just took over. In a frenzy, as he said, he raped the poor woman, strangled her until she didn't move any more and hid the body deep the woods for the wolves to do away with it. Then he disappeared with some jewels he had taken from his victim and the money bag my grandmother had intended for her. That was, of course, what ultimately broke his neck. My grandmother, a distrusting person by nature, had made sure that the coins inside the bag were of a rare kind, with the head of some old king printed on them. And she had her connections. So when those coins and the jewels showed up in Vizima much later, her men could trace them back to the murderer's hiding place. I know from her testimony that it was her who tipped the authorities off, so that they could arrest the murderer in the case of the dead may queen of Aarding (as the whole tragedy became known even in Vizima back then). Probably it was some kind of remorse my grandmother felt, pity for the woman whose death she had unwillingly caused. I can't wash away the blood that my grandmother brought upon herself and on all of us, but I think she had her share of retribution, too.
But all this happened years later, as I said, and we shouldn't fully find out about the role my grandmother had played in this sad tragedy until after her death, when my father found the testimony I spoke of. For the time being, my parents and my three older sisters knew nothing about what had been going on between the may queen and my grandmother. When my father heard that his first love had disappeared right out of her home, he ordered and took part in a thorough search of the fields and woods surrounding the village. Unfailingly, the body was found, half eaten but still with traces of the rape and murder on it. The hunt for the brute that had done this, began at once - there was a pretty good description of him, as he had been seen crossing the fields in the early morning hours - but in the end it seemed that he had escaped. Thus started the Aarding Mystery of the dead may queen, as the ballad goes. You may have heard it, it is still a favourite among ballad singers.
I was born in the spring of the following year, which must have come as a great relief for everyone. At last there was an heir to my father's estate, Reynard of Aarding, his name was. The spell had been broken, it seemed, and after the darkness of the year before, everybody was now looking forward to a bright summer.
My life started promisingly. I was a healthy, good looking boy who grew up fast, bestowed with many talents, both mentally and physical, a fast learner to whom everything seemed to come quite naturally. Soon, I got to be my father's greatest pride and my grandmother's precious. On the day following my seventh birthday, I left the manor to live at the count's castle, where I would be trained for my knighthood. Again, everything went well and soon I won prizes at pages' contests.
In the summer of my fifth year at the castle, they arrested the may queen's murderer in Vizima and the ugly story, thirteen years old by then, came to the surface again. Personally, I did not attend the murder trial, Vizima was still a long way away, and as yet, I had no idea that the murder could have something to do with my own past. But there were news about it almost every day. You couldn't avoid them, even if you weren't interested. Which, like I said, I was. After all, murders and atrocities were not all too uncommon these days, as they are now, even outside the big cities.
A few weeks after they had hung the brute - I had all but forgotten about the whole thing - the rumours began. All of a sudden, my roommates at the count's castle would whisper behind my back or look at me as if there was something unnatural about me. And it was not only the boys, but the old ones, too. Looked at me as if they feared somethig would happen to them if they came to near. Finally, I decided to find out what was going on. I cornered one of my roommates in the castle yard - a boy that I had come to regard as a friend over the years - and threatened to break every last of his bones if he didn't tell me what all the fuss was about. And so he told me, not because he feared I would make my threats true but - as he told me later - because he felt that I had a right to know, even hough he had been forbidden to talk to me about 'these things'.
"What things?" I asked.
"The things the may queen's murderer said to the crowd when they forced him up to the gallows."
I needed a second before I could register that. Then I shook my head. Could that ugly old story have anything to do with me? "So? What did he say?"
My friend sighed deeply as he tried to disappear into the solid castle walls. He had always been good at doing voices and when he began to speak again, he surely recited the exact words that had been reported to him by one of the other boys.That was the way, news spread in those days. He said:
"Asked, if he had some last words to say, the murderer stepped in front of the crowd and spat. 'Yea, I killed the fooking witch for the likes of you, you bastards. You hear that? She knew that some'un payed me for it. I knows it, because she said unto me this: 'Tell that crazy old hag that I let her daughter's spouse fook me, even when they were already engaged. The liar let me down, he discarded me, but I didn't curse him. I let people whisper behind my back and laugh at me, laugh me in the face, but I never cursed anybody for it. But now, hear me, now I curse you. With all my heart and all my will. By the Dark Lord of the Woods! By darkness and death! Now I curse him who betrayed me, I curse you who are selfish and greedy for power. I curse e'rybody who is part of this. The Knight of Aarding will have a son. His only son. But the child shall inherit nothing but insanity and death. And all the blackness in your heart, all the blackness in my heart, and in the heart of that fine, lying bastard of a knight will come over him and all that he touches and loves. Verily, that's what the darn witch said, before the gods led my hands to silence her for all time. You fooking bastards should thank me for that.'"
Gods. To think that in the end, he may have believed that himself. The human mind is a marvellous instrument, but it can make you believe your own lies, too. Oh, well. As you may have guessed, after that day, nothing was ever the same again, although we tried to convince ourselves otherwise. It did not take long before people realized what these strange words, uttered by a murderer facing the gallows, probably meant. The brute himself may have never figured out who 'that crazy old hag' the may queen mentioned was, but for the good people of Aarding, things were all too clear in a hurry. And they spread the word.
It seems strange, but the murderer's words in front of the crowd never turned up in any court scribe's scroll. I know this, because I must've read about every report that has been written on the case. There never was an official investigation into the involvement of our family, nobody ever charged my grandmother of having sent the brute to kill the may queen. But people kept talking and soon, they would avoid my father and call my grandmother a 'murderous old hag'. And of course, they regarded me as some demon or other unnatural creature, for surely, if there had been no curse before the murder, my father must have been 'to weak' to beget a son without the help of some dark magic. Everybody was just waiting for me to grow horns or fangs.
During winter, when I would return to the manor, there was never a single word spoken about the curse. All was swell and shiny, as the saying goes nowadays. When I was thirteen, I was introduced to one of the count's 'lesser daughters', and as my father before me, I obeyed to the will of my parents that she would be the girl I'd wed on the day of my seventeenth birthday. Somehow we managed to live our daily lives without ever thinking of the curse again. My mother's mother by now was the last of my grandparents left. She was still strong, but grew more and more superstitious, to the brink of insanity. But still, she loved me well and called me the joy of her life.
Until, that is, in the early morning hours after my wedding, following a night of exciting relevations and blood-soaked blankets, I awoke from a strange and terrible dream. I can still see the images of that nightmare in my mind: the marvellous buildings and giant trees of some ancient elven realm, brutally destroyed by war and fire. And amidst the chaos and the flames, there had been a giant, like some woodland god made of ebony. Somehow I knew that he had been challenged by an unworthy enemy, maybe our forefathers who had come to take his land. They had tried to bring this formidable creature down in flames, so that the giant was all charred and blackened, and he was roaring with burning pain and wrath. "You are mine," he had roared. "Your soul belongs to me". And now, as I lay there, eyes wide open, breathing hard, my gaze fell on the back of my right hand, which was lying on the white sheets of my bed in the bright moonlight. It was black as soot. And I realized that the nightmare was far from over. It had only just begun.
Thorn awoke with a scream trying to work its way through his clenched throat. For a second he didn't remember where or even who he was.Then everything fell into place: the old manor ruins on top of the rocky hill above the former border village of Aarding. He had come here, because he knew this was where the prey was hiding. The prey that was a hunter itself. Three young girls had gone missing at Aarding and even before the first disappearance, there had been sightings of a dark creature lurking in the woods. The villagers had been frightened enough to put an extraordinarily high prize on the creature's head that was well worth any witcher's while. And they had sent for help all the way up to Kaer Morhen. So here he was, Dornhardt of Kaer Morhen, called Thorn by a certain exquisitely sweet whore in Novigrad, whom he used to pay a visit as soon as his means allowed him to.
The witcher lifted his right arm, which at first seemed to weigh tons but soon became part of himself again, and touched his throbbing forehead with his fingertips. Through the gaping hole of the manor's upper floor, he could see the night sky, now clear and full of icy stars, where the last time he had looked, there had only been dark and brooding clouds. How long had he been lying here? He felt for his amulet and found it lying still on his chest. Only now he realized that it hadn't warned him in the first place. Was it possible the thing - black demon, bogey man, whatever it was - had broken it or fooled it with some spell? Cautiously, he sat up and looked around for his sword. No luck there. Someone had taken it off him. Thorn cursed and shook his head in utter disbelief. The monsters he had hunted before had been dumb and slow compared to this one. It seemed incomprehensible that someone - something - could have defeated him that easily.
He got up and walked around. Bereft of his silver blade, he had at first felt helpless like a newborn lamb. But of course he had been trained for this unlikely case, too. "If you've got no silver, go for fire. Fire is your friend, it works with beasts both natural and unnatural and it keeps the darkness at bay." The words of his teacher, a very wise man. The fireplace had obviously been left unattended for some time now, as there were no flames and only a little heat left, maybe just enough to get it burning again with some dry wood.. And there, like a gift from the gods, lay his equipment in a little heap, untouched like a virgin in paradise. No big weapons there, to be sure, only a good hunting knife and three torches he had luckily brought, just in case.
In a hurry, he put one of them into the glowing ashes, took a deep breath and breathed hard on the pitch covered cloth its upper end was clad in. This he repeated three or four times, until the flames enshrouded it. Then he fastened the other two torches on his belt, took the knife in his left hand, the torch in his right and stood up. He knew, that his chances to get out of here alive were still minimal, considering the speed with which the monster had moved, but still, this felt much better.
Using his torch and his improved eyesight to observe the dark corners and barely lit spaces between the broken stairs and the pillars of the hall, he confirmed that he was alone in the darkness of what once would have been the manor's entrance hall. But surely, the black monster was still around somewhere, watching him from a distance. Even if the things Thorn had seen in that dream while he had been down and out were true, even if the monster had been human once, the curse must have turned the man into a beast, a killer full of hate and disdain for his former fellow humans who feared him now, tried to hunt him down and kill him. After all, Thorn had found its hiding place. That alone should be reason enough to get rid of him, not to mention the fact that Thorn had already told the monster that he had come here only for the money that its ugly black head would earn him. All in all, Thorn was convinced that the only reason why he was still alive, was that the bogey man hadn't had enough fun with him yet. Lords, it had undergone the pains of touching the silver of his witcher's sword to remove it, only to be able to play a little cat-and-mouse. Well, maybe the clever son of a bitch had used some thick leather to avoid the biting touch of the silver, but still...
"Fuck you," he spat into the darkness. "Let's get this over with."
He didn't like being the one who had to wait for the killing blow. Not even a bit. Death had always been an all too trusty companion on his travels, but not being able to tell when it struck was living hell.
"Come on, bogey man" he called, when there was no answer from the surrounding darkness. "Don't you want to tell me the rest of your sad life's story?"
Half expecting the silence to remain unbroken, Thorn jumped a little, when he heard something. "Help me," a thin, high-pitched voice came out of the dark, seemingly from some place lower than where he was standing. "I'm down here! Help me!"
"Shit," Thorn whispered to himself. "He's kept one of them alive." The fact that he was now talking to himself was a good indication that he was indeed in a state of fear, which was something that had not happened too often in his witcher's career. With fear around, it was hard to think straight, but somehow, talking to himself had always helped, however silly that had seemed. "Let's see, now. There must be a way down somewhere. But what if..." Nonsense. The whole place was a trap. Why bother luring him deeper inside...?
"It wants to show me something. That's why it let me live. One more thing to be seen."
Cursing some more, Thorn searched the staircase for a way down to the basement and found a hole in the stony ground, where once would have been a great wooden trapdoor. The hole was covered with debris, so there had to be another antrance somewhere. Whoever had cried for help down there hadn't come this way. He pricked his ears (not only as a manner of speking) and listened. There were low moaning sounds, barely audible, and sobbing. Slowly, probing the darkness with his torch, the witcher descended into a long staircase. While he was carefully stepping downward, he began humming some old tune he remembered from his childhood. One - two - three - four, the bogey man is at your door. Five - six - seven - eight, don't risk your head or you'll be..."Fuck, this doesn't even rhyme."
The staircase ended alongside a massive stone wall. Thorn's torch barely lit a great vault that in former times had surely held lots of casks, baskets and shelves full of good wine and food. Now there was mostly debris and dust. In the centre of the vault, a burly young man was kneeling with outstretched arms, so that he was forming the letter Y with his body. Both his wrists had been tied to stone pillars with straps of leather. In front of him, lying in a sad heap, was the lifeless looking body of a young girl, her long, black hair covering most of her face. When the light of Thorn's torch penetrated the room, the burly young man looked up, breathing hard. "Witcher. Watch out! The monster is around here somewhere!"
Thorn knew the youngster. He was Pedar, the fat miller's only son. "What are you doing here? And who is the girl?" he asked distrustfully. He tried to pierce the vault's many darknesses with his witcher's eyes, but the room was bigger and much darker than the entrance hall had been. Too many black spots for the bogey man to hide in.
"I...I don't know. She was already lying there, when the monster brought me in here. She must have been its last victim."
Thorn had reached the pillars and knelt down beside the girl to feel for her pulse. He was astonished to find a slow heartbeat. "She's alive! We've got to get her -"
"Sure she is," whispered the bogey man. "I was just in time to keep Pedar from having his way with her. You need not worry about her, she is just having a prolongued nap. I gave her something so she would sleep through all this. If she is lucky, she won't even remember the attack."
"Don't," cried the miller's son, "don't listen to him. He's lying!" The young man's chin sank onto his chest and he startet to sob some more.
"It is always the same," the bogey man whispered. The words seemed to have echoes in all the corners of the room, making it quite hard to understand them and impossible to find out, where the monster was hiding. Thorn knew that the sound inside a vault could do this trick. Most likely, the monster was hiding in one of the corners, from where it knew its voice would be transported all the way to the center.
"Some time after I have settled down in some place," the bogey man continued, "even in the remotest of places, people get a glimpse of me. Sightings are reported. And then, maybe only after a few days, someone thinks he can use me to his advantage. To blame me for his own doing. Cattle stolen in the middle of the night? Must've been the Black One. A gruesome murder in the woods? Yes, the poor lad has had his enemies, but there is something evil out there, I tell you."
"You're telling me that you're innocent? That this boy here abducted the girls and killed them?"
"No. He's only doing the hunting. The dirty work. Maybe he rubs himself a little on them when they are unconscious but he doesn't kill them. Ask him. Ask him, why his mother died so young. She didn't fall down the mill's staircase, if you get my meaning."
Thorn cursed again. The worst was, that it all made some gruesome sense now. That was why Osvaldt the miller hadn't liked the idea of having a witcher around. He needed the monster to cover up his own murderous plans. But he sure as hell hadn't figured how clever this peculiar monster was. This wasn't good at all, Thorn thought. The villagers would pay him well if he brought them the monster's inhuman looking head. But if he instead broght them two human heads, if he even accused two of their finest to be rapists and murderers, they would not be very likely to pay him anything, not even their attention.
"How long has he been holding you here?" Thorn asked the kneeling youngster.
"Dunno," sobbing and sniffing, "must've been a day at least."
"Nearly two days and nights," came the whispering again. "I was hoping you would find this place earlier. As you said, it's quite an obvious hideout."
"Well, you are gruesome, that's for sure." But maybe, just maybe, you're no monster indeed, Thorn thought. That must have been why the amulet hadn't warned him in the first place. There was an aberration, all right, but no evil monstruosity. The witcher braced himself. He was still not fully convinced that the bogey man, having shown him what it had intended him to see, would let him go now, just like that. He stepped in front of the kneeling youngster and cut both of the leather straps that were holding him in that humiliating position. Despite Pedar's burly stature, he collapsed at once beside the girl. Thorn didn't even try to catch him from falling. Two days and nights of fear, despair and sleeplessness, having to kneel and begging for your life could take the strength out of even such a young and sturdy person. But he would recover quickly. Thorn decided to give him some minutes. At least he had ceased sobbing now.
"So...uh...bogey man, it seems that you don't eat them alive after all. The children you steal from their homes, I mean. I think now's a good time to tell me the rest of your story. And would it be too much to ask for my sword?"
"It would. There are people who say your kind cannot be trusted, because of your monstrous nature. As to my story, it does come as a surprise that I got you interested."
"Just professional interest. Your...transformation. Did it all happen in one night?"
"No. It started with my right hand, as I told you. Then, the blackness would slowly spread, like some rotten disease, but there was no fever, no pain or inflammation. Just more and more blackening and sometimes a throbbing or itching sensation. Grandmother took me to at least a dozen physicians and magicians. She nearly went mad blaming herself, when nobody could help me. And then, one day, she told us that she had found the black mark on herself. All that I loved and touched, you see. Those were the words of the curse.
Osvaldt, the miller of Aarding, a quite wealthy and sociable fellow, had been among the first villagers who had seen monster. One fine summer night, over a year ago, while he had come home from boozing, he had seen its dark, hunched form moving silently in front of the silvery, moonlit band of the river near his mill. In his drunken state, the miller had not at once realized that there was something very wrong about it. "Hey there," he had cried out hilariously (the way he always sounded when he saw an opportunity to have some fun). "What are ye sneakin' around here for?" He groped for the hatchet in his belt and nestled it out. Its weight felt very good in the palm of his hand.
For a second, the thing had looked right at him and he had met the gaze of its eerie black eyes, shiny with reflected moonlight. Only now, the miller saw that there were no light colours about its whole appearance, only shades of black. He noticed the clawlike hands. "What the fuck are you?" he had managed to gasp. Then, fast as lightning, without causing any sounds, the monster had crossed the road and disappeared into the nearby forest.
Already then, Osvaldt had thought that this was no ordinary monster, no brute beast, as it was reported of werewolves and ghouls and the like. That is why, when he later came up with the idea to use it for his plans, he didn't feel too comfortable. What if the monster was intelligent enough to find out whose deeds it was taking the blame for? What if at some time it would stop hiding and come for those who had set it up?
But the opportunity was just too good not to be taken.The first murder had happened in a frenzied rush, yes. That darmn uppity bitch had made him do all those evil, nasty things, that was for sure. She had had it coming for a long time, verily. Then, they had planted the first seeds of rumour about the monster being responsible for the disappearance of the woman. And already the next victim, six months ago, had been hunted down and hidden away according to a well thought-out plan. Osvaldt had done the thinking and Pedar had been his prolongued arm, his instrument, not too sharp, but quite effective.
When his son had not come home the night before, Osvaldt had at ocne thought of the monster. The miller had told his son to keep away from the lowly bitches for as long as the witcher was around. But he knew, Pedar was itching to have some fun. If he had decided to go on the hunt without his old man, he was most likely to be found at the old manor now, where they had brought their last victim, too. And that might be, where either the monster or the witcher would find him.
When the second night had arrived without Pedar turning up at the mill, his bad notions had turned into fear and anger, fuelled by a whole bottle of Temerian vodka. Heavily drunk, cursing and hissing, he went to pay the manor a visit.
All I touch and love.
I still don't know much about the forces that are stirred up when a curse comes to life . But I do know these forces are dumb. I can touch things without anything happening. I can love something from a distance, without risking to stir up the curse. Only when both conditions are given at once, the curse strikes. Nowadays, I can control my feelings. I can even make my body believe I see things that aren't really there, a technique I learnt from a shaman in a faraway eastern country. But back then... whenever I touched something I was fond of - my toy sword, my dog, a piece of clothing even - it would - slowly but unfailingly - turn black. Sometimes that was just laughable, but mostly it made me mad. The thought of killing myself shortly crossed my mind, but as it has always been the case, it didn't outlast my anger and my lust for life. All I could do was try to stay away from everybody and everything I loved. I kept hiding away in one of the manor's towers or in the vaults where we are standing now.
Only a few more years serving as a page at the Count's Castle would have made me a Knight of Aarding, you see. And probably an astoundingly bright and cunning one. Maybe a little boring and selfish, but quite the knight indeed. Well, today I think it's not all too sad, that these high hopes went down the drain. Taught me a little about the ways of the world.
My young wife was the only one I had touched willingly after the curse had struck, namely when I tried to keep her from screaming the morning after our wedding. At that early stage, I just didn't know about the possible consequences. Well, I guess the fact that the curse did not strike her with blackness, means that it had really not been a marriage of love but only of reason.
But that was one of the few good things that year. Otherwise, there had been many bad omens during the "year of the curse", as I call it. Cattle being born with multiple heads, crops lost to dry spell and a strange blackish plant's disease nobody had seen before. And as if that hadn't been enough, the winter set in especially harsh and cold. Wolves came down from the mountains, some people claimed that they were being led by a giant, pitch black female. Quite naturally, people started to blame my father for all this. Because he let this abomination live, that was not really his son but some black demon, brought into the world by a curse.
As to my grandmother, when she told us she had found 'the demon's mark' on her body, I first thought that I must have touched her unwillingly during one of our pointless journeys to those mages and healers all that summer and autumn. That same night, she just wandered out the front gate without taking leave. When her servant eventually alarmed us, she had already disappeared into the driving snow. I have no idea, what she was thinking. Maybe she had finally went over the edge and gone crazy, or maybe she really hoped to end the whole thing by sacrificing herself, I don't know. To cut a long story short, we found her frozen solid in the wintery woods two days later, not too far from the place the may queen's body had been found more than seventeen years ago. And when the physicians examined her body, they didn't find a spot of the blackness. So, either death washes the curse away or - as I can't help thinking - the dark spot she had been afraid of had rather been in her soul than on her body. Needless to say, that she, like the may queen, has become part of the local folklore - the winter hag, who is sometimes seen wandering aimlessly between the snow-clad trees.
Meanwhile, the manor had been all but abandoned. My wife had fled home to her father within days following the dark revelations after our wedding night. My three sisters would not visit the manor any longer but stayed at home with their husbands. And then, my mother fell into a deep depression so that we had to send her to one of Melitele's cloisters, where she remained until she died many years later. Only sheer luck had kept her from being affected by the blackness of the curse, I guess.
Of our servants only a handful, the most loyal ones, stayed with us. The spring after the long winter was dark and cold and it was plain to see, that this year would not be much better than the last. So, finally, the good people of Aarding decided that something had to be done about the black demon in their knight's house who was spoilking the land with his curse. They gathered one night in the early summer, pitchforks, torches and all, and went up to the manor, shouting and chanting. My father died that night, trying to ward the crazed mob off. He was trampled to death, just like that. There was nothing I could do about it, as I had to fight for my own life. Barely, I escaped, using my new physique to disappear into the dark.
I have to admit that I acted out of lowly motives, out of hate vengeance, when I returned to the village some weeks later and killed the three men who had led the mob and caused my father's death. But those were the only atrocities I have made myself guilty of and never again did I allow myself to get carried away by wrath again. As I said, witcher, you are mistaken. I don't kill for fun or lust, like some beast or monster. And I have little desire to eat little children, although I'm not all to comfortable with them, either.
From that day on, I have kept moving. I can't stay too long in one place, for there are always people like Pedar here or his father. But actually that's not too bad a life, when your abilities allow you to take what you want and get away with it. You see, there are two sides to my curse: on the one hand, there is utter loneliness and darkness, there is being feared and being unable to love, but on the other hand there seems to be longevity, fast reflexes, and the ability to become one with the shadows. Quite a neat trick, especially when you are always on the brink of being hunted.
In my time, I've seen more of the world than most people will. I have been to places, you could hardly imagine -
Abruptly, the voice had stopped. There was a grunt and a gurgling sound. For a moment, Thorn feared that Pedar had used the opprtunity and sneaked away, but then he saw him lying where he had been before, only he seemed to be sleeping now. So did the girl.
"Bogey man?" he called, holding the torch up high, turning slowly on his heels and trying to. "What happened? Where..."
He sensed the movement behind the pillars more than he heard or saw it. At once, he turned around and thrust the torch in that direction, only to see the black shape of the bogey man coming at him. But not as if he was attacking, no. Both his hands were cramped around his throat, and blood - red, human blood - was gushing out from between the fingers. Thorn could do nothing but stare as the monster he had come here to kill, collapsed in front of him and started to tremble like it was shaken by some invisible fist.
Thorn had no time to try and help the dying bogey man, as he was now watching his own silver sword being swung at him. The miller must have got unbelievably lucky and found the blade on his way down here, probably leaning against the wall at the far end of the vault, where the second entrance was. And where the bogey man had been standing, causing the echoes. Now the balding fat guy was swinging the silver blade at Thorn in nasty wide curves, grinning triumphantly.
Only his witcher's reflexes and the fact that he had been slightly alarmed before the attack kept Thorn from sharing the fate of the bogey man at once. Without even thinking about it, he ducked away and threw the blazing torch in a wide arc over the miller's head into the far end of the vault, from where its light could only barely reach them. Because there was no other source of light, the place went dark immediately. Thorn shrank back deeper into the shadows behind him, crouched on the floor and watched his opponent's shape in front of the faraway glimmer of the torch. With his witcher's eyes, he could still make out forms in the dark, where the murderous miller would only see deepest blackness.
The fat guy had obviously lost his triumphant grin. Now, he was swinging the sword aimlessly into the darkness. "Bastard," he whined, "why didn't you just take the coins and walk away? That's what the likes of you are supposed to do. Listen...we can still have an agreement. I've killed the monster, but I'll let you claim the prize on its head. I'll say nothing, hear me? You'll walk out of here a hero."
Slowly, Osvaldt was falling back to reach the torch and the exit. Although he had seen his son lying on the ground, he had decided that for now, he would only care for his own well-being. Damn. Sure as hell the witcher knew about the murders by now. There was no way letting him out of here alive. But how do you kill a witcher, even if you got lucky enough to steal his sword? These bastards were said to be more of a monster than of a man. Their reflexes were legendary.
Panting and sweating like a blacksmith, he took a quick look over his shoulder. A short sprint would take him into the torch's circle of light. Luckily, the flames hadn't just gone out when the witcher had thrown it. There, he would at last be able to see the guy coming at him. Without further thinking about it, Osvaldt turned and ran. He was astonishingly fast, considering the weight he had to move. Within a few seconds, he had reached the torch and picked it up, turning around from where he expected the witcher's attack.
There was movement in the darkness, all right. And the shape of a man, coming closer. "I'll get you yet," Osvaldt cried. "The monsters have killed each other, that's what people will say. It's only a matter off laying out the..."
When the shape rushed at him, uttering words he hardly heard, he thrust the sword at it without a moment of hesitation. The hilt of the sword slipped out of his grip, but still, its blade had gone in deep enough. Osvaldt roared with drunken joy. Then he finally noticed that the bulging eyes of the man he had just run the sword into, where those of his son. The roar stopped abruptly in a sound of utter surprise. Osvaldt, the miller, who had brought his share of death in his time, was caught totally unaware of the fact that he himself, could be the prey. He didn't even try to defend himself, when Thorn ran into him to bring him down. The following fight on the vault's floor was short but ugly.
At last, Thorn stood up from this night's work, breathing hard, soaked in blood. Four bodies were lying on the vault's stony floor. Only one of them needed to be cared for. The two monsters were dead. And the cursed son of the last Knight of Aarding, Reynard of Aarding, who had been around for nearly 120 years, was dead, too. Only the unknown girl, probably brought here by the miller's son, had made it alive, sleeping through the whole mess. Thorn had to get her to the village. And then... well, there was not much sense in trying to explain the three dead bodies, was there? He would be better off if he'd just disappear and let the vilagers sort things out by themselves. At least, he had got one fourth of the reward.
He drew his witcher's sword from where the miller had put it and wiped the blood away on the dead youngster's clothes. Silver swords were for monsters, all right. He belted it, then he turned around to get back to the staircase - and froze.
The unknown black-haired girl, that had nearly become the millers' third victim, was standing in the dancing shadows of the torch's flames. A minute ago, when Thorn had come for Pedar, to force him into his father's sword, she had still been lying on the ground. But here she was, her eyes wide - but not at all unknowing - and her fists clenched around something that looked like a crown made of flowers and twigs. Thorn hadn't seen it before, maybe it had been hidden under her body.
"You bear His mark," the may queen of Aarding said. "The heir is dead, but the curse lives."
"No," Thorn said. "Lords, no."
Thorn, who had been leisurely greasing his sword beside the fire, sitting against what remained of the old manor's walls, looked up, mildly surprised. There were two glowing spots in the dark that hadn't been there a second ago. About seven metres away from him and at least two metres high.
Despite his seemingly relaxed demeanor, Thorn had been waiting for his prey to find him here. Normally he would have attacked at once, but this time something held him back. Never before had the prey talked to him in comprehensible words. Gnarling, roaring, hissing and spitting was what he would get most of the time, sometimes mingled with rudimentary language barely recognizable as such. But this one was interestingly different. Not only did it speak in an educated manner, it also seemed to be quite good at guessing people's names. Or, more likely, reading their minds.
"I know, who you are and what you are, witcher," continued the dark shape that was barely visible in the shadows, even for Thorn's improved eyesight. The voice was deep, calm, reasonable, only the last word had come out hissing, as if it was an insult. "Don't you want to know about me, now?"
Thorn cleared his throat. "No, thank you. You're a monster. That's all I need to know."
He realized that this night's work would be a little more difficult than he had expected it to be. At Kaer Morhen, he had been prepared for the possibility that the strange aberrations he would be hunting for a living might be fitted with the most unlikely traits, such as the ability to breathe fire, shriek in high tones that could render you deaf, confuse your mind with illusions, or maybe even to read your feelings and thoughts. Yet, this was the first time Thorn actually had to face a thing like that. This would complicate things a bit...well, actually a lot - but there were ways to work around the problem. All in all, his chances were that the monster's emphatic or telepathic ability was only rudimentary and that it could read no more than the subconscius mind..
Without a sign of fear or haste, Thorn brought the blade of his sword up in front of his face, breathed on it and began to polish it with a sleeve. He looked at his mirror image in the hardened silver of his witcher's sword - long, dark hair, hard, oblong face, a chin that was in bad need of a shave and those eerie witcher's eyes, once called "dead beast's eyes" by the same girl that had given him his nickname. Strange thing that he had to think of her now.
"A monster, indeed," repeated the dark shape thoughtfully. Sarcasm was another thing you would hardly expect from a witcher's prey. "Sounds a bit harsh, but for the time being, it will do. You're the witcher, I'm the monster. I see."
In spite of what he had been taught at Kaer Morhen, Thorn decided to continue the conversation. After all, the thing was too far away for him to reach it with a single, well placed thrust of his sword. Sure, maybe there were other monsters creeping up on the witcher while the two of them were talking, but judging from what Thorn had learned from the carefully hidden tracks and traces in the old manor ruin, this one lived and lurked alone. And while they were exchanging niceties, Thorn thought, it might just happen that he managed to infuriate his prey, so it would make a final, lethal mistake.
"Why should I care for what you are?" the witcher said in a seemingly light-hearted tone. "You cause fear and death. You don't belong here, my friend."
"Good thing you told me that. Now will you at least tell me your conclusions as to what kind of monster I am? I have seen you sniffing around my old home like a hound dog. So you must be able to try some educated guess..? Humour me, will you?"
Thorn sighed. "Alright, as you wish. Unfortunately the description given to me by the villagers was not very specific: man-like shape, moving silently, like a predator in the dark. Sometimes, glowing eyes were seen, but never anything more conclusive. No beastly stench, that's what puzzled me most. Never hunted a monster that fancied hot baths and perfume. And then I found out a few things about you, when I discovered your hiding place here. Pretty obvious, by the way, but I like the view. Old manor ruin on a rocky hill, overlooking the fields, as if you were one of them locally bound, brainlessly wailing ghosts or a wraith with a romantic attitude. But you leave tracks, so you must be physical. And you're not bound to the place... There is an old legend about some curse here that could have led to the birth of a monster. But that was over a hundred years ago, whereas you cant't have been here for longer than a year, I guess. At least that's when the disappearances started..."
"Is that all?"
"You hunt only by night, if I'm not mistaken. But you don't take the blood of your victims, so you're probably no vampire...although that would explain your rethorical skills. Actually I thought you were some shapeshifter. Like a Werewolf, only less smelly. Until you came up here and began to speak right now, that is."
"Werewolves don't speak?"
"Not the ones I have met, at least not in their bestial form. Their transformation makes it kind of difficult, I guess. Sometimes they try to, though. When they realize they can be defeated."
"What if I just haven't transformed yet?"
"Nah. Never met a werewolf who could control that. Besides, they don't fancy bathing, as I said. I would smell you from here."
For a second, the darkness remained silent. Then it said, "Shame. I was really hoping you could tell me more. Myself, I have been trying for some time now to find out about the nature of my...of this sickness I have. Back in my travelIing days, I asked sorcerers, priests, sages and witches. I read books on the subject. "On Monstres and Aberrations", ignorant witcher's stuff like that. I even tried to find others of my kind. All in vain, of course."
"Well. You know, I'd really like to help you with your taxonomy problem. If you just came a little closer to the fire and showed yourself. My eyes are really good, even in a cloudy night like this, but strangely enough, I still can't seem to see you."
"I'll think about that. How much did the village elders promise you for doing away with me?"
That came as something of a surprise. "Professional secret." Thorn grinned, trying hard not to think of the four men - the village elders of Aarding, indeed - who had sent to Kaer Morhen for help. The mayor, the village scribe, the miller and a rich farmer. Probably, the monster in the darkness was constantly scanning his mind for information like that. "But I can tell you that theydidn't just promise me money. I already got a fourth of the coins."
"Is that so. Well, well. Were they all in favour of calling a witcher to their home village?"
"Nah, not really. One of them was quite obviously not pleased with it. Kept rambling about calling on one monster to fight the other. And who of 'em - of us two, I mean - was the greater evil."
"That would have been the miller, I suppose? Osvaldt?"
Thorn was caught off guard. He hadn't intended to give away any of his contractor's names, but it seemed that it wasn't even necessary. Obviously the prey knew very well about what was going on in the little village of Aarding. Whatever kind of monster this one was, it surely wasn't dumb. Osvaldt, the fat miller had indeed been the one who had spoken against employing a witcher. He had even secretly offered Thorn a good amount of money if he had left the day after his arrival. Not more than the money for killing the prey, alas. Seemed a little odd, but sometimes people reacted that way to witchers.
"You know, maybe you are right," said the dark shape with the glowing eyes. "Maybe you can give a name to what you can see. So you can stop thinking of me as 'the prey'. You are kind of flattering yourself there, using that word for me, aren't you." With that, the darkness approached the campfire like a gust of dark wind. Thorn had been expecting the movement, but for a part of a second, he could only gaze at the astonishingly quick moving shape of his opponent. He jumped to his feet hastliy, sword held high one moment, swinging it downward in a shimmering silver curve the next. The blade would have doubtlessly hit, cut the dark shape in half, had the same not stopped its movement just outside reach. There it remained, standing silently in the dancing shadows near the fire, now in full sight of the witcher.
Thorn realized why he hadn't been able to see more than a dark silhouette. The monster actually was nothing but a dark silhouette, only now it was discernible because it was outlined by the fire. It was darkness come to life in the form of a slightly hunched man at least two meters tall. Everything about the thing was black, even its long cloak. The skin was an ebony black, not brown or dark, as it was said of the peoples living in the far south of the world, but really black, like pitch or soot. And the hair - there was quite a lot of it, as it seemed - looked like fine strands of coal. Once, during his early journeys, Thorn had seen the statue of some elven woodland god, made of ebony and charred all over in some fire. This thing looked strikingly similar, at least as long as it didn't move. Only its eyes - probably like black marbles in the daylight - seemed to be burning as the moisture on them reflected the nearby flames of the campfire
Thorn let out his breath through his teeth with a hissing sound, staring aghast at the thing in front of him. Eventually, he began to chuckle. "Why, look at you," he said at last, laughing out loud, "I know what you are, all right. You're the meanest of them all."
"Yes?" The thing's eyes seemed to flicker as it cocked its head slightly.
"Not to be found in witcher's books, though, hah. More likely in children's stories. Or rather, in stories made up to keep children from staying up too long or wandering into the woods."
"So..."
"Don't you get it? You're the bogey man. Also called Black Tom where I come from. Other names I've heard were 'djybbyok' or 'svartevair', the Dark Hunter or the Blackened One. Stealing children away from their homes, eating them alive. King of the nasties. Lords, I never expected to see you in person. And that's something to say for a...."
"You are mistaken, witcher," the monster said, its eyes blazing. "I know these names." Now at last there seemed to be a trace of anger in its voice. Before Thorn could bring up the sword again, the monster reached out to him with another astonishingly fast movement and struck the witcher's forehead hard with the palm of his black, clawlike hand. A storm of thoughts, emotions and images invaded the witcher's head, as he lost the grip on his sword. All these years of training at Kaer Morhen, all those unnatural reflexes and mutations, yet here he was, caught by surprise while having a good laugh. As the lights went out and he hit the wall behind him to slowly collapse alongside it, Thorn heard the dark one's voice again, sounding tired now.
"You're mistaken, dear friend. There is no name for what I am."
* * *
See for yourself.
My father was the last Knight of Aarding. In his youth, he vowed eternal love to a village beauty who was rumoured to have elven blood in her veins. Some people even called her a changeling. She had been crowned may queen of Aarding, a traditional title that goes back to an ancient elvish belief. As her beauty seemed unmatched, she held the crown for many years. Her family was quite wealthy, but not of noble offspring, although, as people said, the pride may queen would often behave as if it had been. With all that spoke for her, the beautiful may queen of Aarding was not considered my father's equal, so when the time came, my old man obeyed the will of his parents, discarded her and married the girl his parents had intended for him, the girl that would eventually bring me into this world. My mother was maybe not half as beautiful as the may queen, but a warm and loving person she was nonetheless. There was never a word spoken about my father's first engagement, and oddly enough, the may queen never tried to win him back. My parents' marriage went on well and soon they had their first child, a daughter. Ten months after that, a second daughter came along. The villagers, always obsessed with rumours about their lords (even if they were just knights without any title), began to whisper about the may queen having cursed my father so that he was unable to beget a son. My father and his family did not pay attention to those stories. But my mother's family was quite superstitious, and with news of very real monsters and beasts turning up every now and then, these ideas soon became obsessions. Most superstious of all was my grandmother, she was afraid that my father would turn away from her daughter to fancy another woman, maybe even his first love, so that heir to the Aarding estate would not be her daughter's child. To my grandmother, this was an intolerable thought. Something had to be done.
One unhappy day more than a century ago, she sent a messenger together with some mercenaries to the supposed curse weaver, the beautiful may queen of Aarding. Despite her beauty, this proud woman had indeed not chosen a husband for herself yet. Her father obviously had nothing to say in that matter and her mother had died years ago, giving birth to a stillborn child. Some said, the may queen had never married, because my father had broken her heart, others claimed that she had done so out of disappointment and plain stubbornness. That she was dabbling in magic was no great secret, but everybody knew there was not much talent involved - everybody except my grandmother, that is.
The messenger my grandmother had sent offered the may queen a good amount of money, which - instead of turning it down and denying that she was a witch - she gladly took, probably secretly flattered that someone thought her so powerful as to create a real curse. The next year, of course, brought my parent's third child, my sister Perisia. Still no son. No heir to the beautiful estate of Aarding. And that's when things began to go terribly wrong, for, as you may have guessed, my grandmother now felt she had been betrayed by what she thought was a powerful village witch.
This time, she sent a single messenger, a dark character who, as we found out later, had a long history of violence, and who was known in certain circles as a 'man for the dirty work', like threatening debtors or sabotaging the work of a competitor. His misson was simple: threaten the witch, scare her out of her mind, so that she begs for mercy, then tell her to lift the curse. When she has promised to do so, give her this money bag and promise her that there will be more coin 'if all went well'. I am convinced that my grandmother (or whoever she may have told to speak to the thug) did not tell him to lure her out into the woods or to use violence, as he did. She might have been superstitious like a woodland hag, but she was not crazy or murderous.
In his trial many years later, the damn thug claimed that the may queen of Aarding had laughed at him, spit at him and finally attacked him with a dagger, but I think that is just as much a lie as his claim that his 'unknown contractor' had told him to 'kill the fucking witch'. I rather tend to think that at some point of the thug's threatening routine, the animal - the monster - inside him, stirred up by the beauty and the pride of the may queen - just took over. In a frenzy, as he said, he raped the poor woman, strangled her until she didn't move any more and hid the body deep the woods for the wolves to do away with it. Then he disappeared with some jewels he had taken from his victim and the money bag my grandmother had intended for her. That was, of course, what ultimately broke his neck. My grandmother, a distrusting person by nature, had made sure that the coins inside the bag were of a rare kind, with the head of some old king printed on them. And she had her connections. So when those coins and the jewels showed up in Vizima much later, her men could trace them back to the murderer's hiding place. I know from her testimony that it was her who tipped the authorities off, so that they could arrest the murderer in the case of the dead may queen of Aarding (as the whole tragedy became known even in Vizima back then). Probably it was some kind of remorse my grandmother felt, pity for the woman whose death she had unwillingly caused. I can't wash away the blood that my grandmother brought upon herself and on all of us, but I think she had her share of retribution, too.
But all this happened years later, as I said, and we shouldn't fully find out about the role my grandmother had played in this sad tragedy until after her death, when my father found the testimony I spoke of. For the time being, my parents and my three older sisters knew nothing about what had been going on between the may queen and my grandmother. When my father heard that his first love had disappeared right out of her home, he ordered and took part in a thorough search of the fields and woods surrounding the village. Unfailingly, the body was found, half eaten but still with traces of the rape and murder on it. The hunt for the brute that had done this, began at once - there was a pretty good description of him, as he had been seen crossing the fields in the early morning hours - but in the end it seemed that he had escaped. Thus started the Aarding Mystery of the dead may queen, as the ballad goes. You may have heard it, it is still a favourite among ballad singers.
I was born in the spring of the following year, which must have come as a great relief for everyone. At last there was an heir to my father's estate, Reynard of Aarding, his name was. The spell had been broken, it seemed, and after the darkness of the year before, everybody was now looking forward to a bright summer.
My life started promisingly. I was a healthy, good looking boy who grew up fast, bestowed with many talents, both mentally and physical, a fast learner to whom everything seemed to come quite naturally. Soon, I got to be my father's greatest pride and my grandmother's precious. On the day following my seventh birthday, I left the manor to live at the count's castle, where I would be trained for my knighthood. Again, everything went well and soon I won prizes at pages' contests.
In the summer of my fifth year at the castle, they arrested the may queen's murderer in Vizima and the ugly story, thirteen years old by then, came to the surface again. Personally, I did not attend the murder trial, Vizima was still a long way away, and as yet, I had no idea that the murder could have something to do with my own past. But there were news about it almost every day. You couldn't avoid them, even if you weren't interested. Which, like I said, I was. After all, murders and atrocities were not all too uncommon these days, as they are now, even outside the big cities.
A few weeks after they had hung the brute - I had all but forgotten about the whole thing - the rumours began. All of a sudden, my roommates at the count's castle would whisper behind my back or look at me as if there was something unnatural about me. And it was not only the boys, but the old ones, too. Looked at me as if they feared somethig would happen to them if they came to near. Finally, I decided to find out what was going on. I cornered one of my roommates in the castle yard - a boy that I had come to regard as a friend over the years - and threatened to break every last of his bones if he didn't tell me what all the fuss was about. And so he told me, not because he feared I would make my threats true but - as he told me later - because he felt that I had a right to know, even hough he had been forbidden to talk to me about 'these things'.
"What things?" I asked.
"The things the may queen's murderer said to the crowd when they forced him up to the gallows."
I needed a second before I could register that. Then I shook my head. Could that ugly old story have anything to do with me? "So? What did he say?"
My friend sighed deeply as he tried to disappear into the solid castle walls. He had always been good at doing voices and when he began to speak again, he surely recited the exact words that had been reported to him by one of the other boys.That was the way, news spread in those days. He said:
"Asked, if he had some last words to say, the murderer stepped in front of the crowd and spat. 'Yea, I killed the fooking witch for the likes of you, you bastards. You hear that? She knew that some'un payed me for it. I knows it, because she said unto me this: 'Tell that crazy old hag that I let her daughter's spouse fook me, even when they were already engaged. The liar let me down, he discarded me, but I didn't curse him. I let people whisper behind my back and laugh at me, laugh me in the face, but I never cursed anybody for it. But now, hear me, now I curse you. With all my heart and all my will. By the Dark Lord of the Woods! By darkness and death! Now I curse him who betrayed me, I curse you who are selfish and greedy for power. I curse e'rybody who is part of this. The Knight of Aarding will have a son. His only son. But the child shall inherit nothing but insanity and death. And all the blackness in your heart, all the blackness in my heart, and in the heart of that fine, lying bastard of a knight will come over him and all that he touches and loves. Verily, that's what the darn witch said, before the gods led my hands to silence her for all time. You fooking bastards should thank me for that.'"
Gods. To think that in the end, he may have believed that himself. The human mind is a marvellous instrument, but it can make you believe your own lies, too. Oh, well. As you may have guessed, after that day, nothing was ever the same again, although we tried to convince ourselves otherwise. It did not take long before people realized what these strange words, uttered by a murderer facing the gallows, probably meant. The brute himself may have never figured out who 'that crazy old hag' the may queen mentioned was, but for the good people of Aarding, things were all too clear in a hurry. And they spread the word.
It seems strange, but the murderer's words in front of the crowd never turned up in any court scribe's scroll. I know this, because I must've read about every report that has been written on the case. There never was an official investigation into the involvement of our family, nobody ever charged my grandmother of having sent the brute to kill the may queen. But people kept talking and soon, they would avoid my father and call my grandmother a 'murderous old hag'. And of course, they regarded me as some demon or other unnatural creature, for surely, if there had been no curse before the murder, my father must have been 'to weak' to beget a son without the help of some dark magic. Everybody was just waiting for me to grow horns or fangs.
During winter, when I would return to the manor, there was never a single word spoken about the curse. All was swell and shiny, as the saying goes nowadays. When I was thirteen, I was introduced to one of the count's 'lesser daughters', and as my father before me, I obeyed to the will of my parents that she would be the girl I'd wed on the day of my seventeenth birthday. Somehow we managed to live our daily lives without ever thinking of the curse again. My mother's mother by now was the last of my grandparents left. She was still strong, but grew more and more superstitious, to the brink of insanity. But still, she loved me well and called me the joy of her life.
Until, that is, in the early morning hours after my wedding, following a night of exciting relevations and blood-soaked blankets, I awoke from a strange and terrible dream. I can still see the images of that nightmare in my mind: the marvellous buildings and giant trees of some ancient elven realm, brutally destroyed by war and fire. And amidst the chaos and the flames, there had been a giant, like some woodland god made of ebony. Somehow I knew that he had been challenged by an unworthy enemy, maybe our forefathers who had come to take his land. They had tried to bring this formidable creature down in flames, so that the giant was all charred and blackened, and he was roaring with burning pain and wrath. "You are mine," he had roared. "Your soul belongs to me". And now, as I lay there, eyes wide open, breathing hard, my gaze fell on the back of my right hand, which was lying on the white sheets of my bed in the bright moonlight. It was black as soot. And I realized that the nightmare was far from over. It had only just begun.
* * *
Thorn awoke with a scream trying to work its way through his clenched throat. For a second he didn't remember where or even who he was.Then everything fell into place: the old manor ruins on top of the rocky hill above the former border village of Aarding. He had come here, because he knew this was where the prey was hiding. The prey that was a hunter itself. Three young girls had gone missing at Aarding and even before the first disappearance, there had been sightings of a dark creature lurking in the woods. The villagers had been frightened enough to put an extraordinarily high prize on the creature's head that was well worth any witcher's while. And they had sent for help all the way up to Kaer Morhen. So here he was, Dornhardt of Kaer Morhen, called Thorn by a certain exquisitely sweet whore in Novigrad, whom he used to pay a visit as soon as his means allowed him to.
The witcher lifted his right arm, which at first seemed to weigh tons but soon became part of himself again, and touched his throbbing forehead with his fingertips. Through the gaping hole of the manor's upper floor, he could see the night sky, now clear and full of icy stars, where the last time he had looked, there had only been dark and brooding clouds. How long had he been lying here? He felt for his amulet and found it lying still on his chest. Only now he realized that it hadn't warned him in the first place. Was it possible the thing - black demon, bogey man, whatever it was - had broken it or fooled it with some spell? Cautiously, he sat up and looked around for his sword. No luck there. Someone had taken it off him. Thorn cursed and shook his head in utter disbelief. The monsters he had hunted before had been dumb and slow compared to this one. It seemed incomprehensible that someone - something - could have defeated him that easily.
He got up and walked around. Bereft of his silver blade, he had at first felt helpless like a newborn lamb. But of course he had been trained for this unlikely case, too. "If you've got no silver, go for fire. Fire is your friend, it works with beasts both natural and unnatural and it keeps the darkness at bay." The words of his teacher, a very wise man. The fireplace had obviously been left unattended for some time now, as there were no flames and only a little heat left, maybe just enough to get it burning again with some dry wood.. And there, like a gift from the gods, lay his equipment in a little heap, untouched like a virgin in paradise. No big weapons there, to be sure, only a good hunting knife and three torches he had luckily brought, just in case.
In a hurry, he put one of them into the glowing ashes, took a deep breath and breathed hard on the pitch covered cloth its upper end was clad in. This he repeated three or four times, until the flames enshrouded it. Then he fastened the other two torches on his belt, took the knife in his left hand, the torch in his right and stood up. He knew, that his chances to get out of here alive were still minimal, considering the speed with which the monster had moved, but still, this felt much better.
Using his torch and his improved eyesight to observe the dark corners and barely lit spaces between the broken stairs and the pillars of the hall, he confirmed that he was alone in the darkness of what once would have been the manor's entrance hall. But surely, the black monster was still around somewhere, watching him from a distance. Even if the things Thorn had seen in that dream while he had been down and out were true, even if the monster had been human once, the curse must have turned the man into a beast, a killer full of hate and disdain for his former fellow humans who feared him now, tried to hunt him down and kill him. After all, Thorn had found its hiding place. That alone should be reason enough to get rid of him, not to mention the fact that Thorn had already told the monster that he had come here only for the money that its ugly black head would earn him. All in all, Thorn was convinced that the only reason why he was still alive, was that the bogey man hadn't had enough fun with him yet. Lords, it had undergone the pains of touching the silver of his witcher's sword to remove it, only to be able to play a little cat-and-mouse. Well, maybe the clever son of a bitch had used some thick leather to avoid the biting touch of the silver, but still...
"Fuck you," he spat into the darkness. "Let's get this over with."
He didn't like being the one who had to wait for the killing blow. Not even a bit. Death had always been an all too trusty companion on his travels, but not being able to tell when it struck was living hell.
"Come on, bogey man" he called, when there was no answer from the surrounding darkness. "Don't you want to tell me the rest of your sad life's story?"
Half expecting the silence to remain unbroken, Thorn jumped a little, when he heard something. "Help me," a thin, high-pitched voice came out of the dark, seemingly from some place lower than where he was standing. "I'm down here! Help me!"
"Shit," Thorn whispered to himself. "He's kept one of them alive." The fact that he was now talking to himself was a good indication that he was indeed in a state of fear, which was something that had not happened too often in his witcher's career. With fear around, it was hard to think straight, but somehow, talking to himself had always helped, however silly that had seemed. "Let's see, now. There must be a way down somewhere. But what if..." Nonsense. The whole place was a trap. Why bother luring him deeper inside...?
"It wants to show me something. That's why it let me live. One more thing to be seen."
Cursing some more, Thorn searched the staircase for a way down to the basement and found a hole in the stony ground, where once would have been a great wooden trapdoor. The hole was covered with debris, so there had to be another antrance somewhere. Whoever had cried for help down there hadn't come this way. He pricked his ears (not only as a manner of speking) and listened. There were low moaning sounds, barely audible, and sobbing. Slowly, probing the darkness with his torch, the witcher descended into a long staircase. While he was carefully stepping downward, he began humming some old tune he remembered from his childhood. One - two - three - four, the bogey man is at your door. Five - six - seven - eight, don't risk your head or you'll be..."Fuck, this doesn't even rhyme."
The staircase ended alongside a massive stone wall. Thorn's torch barely lit a great vault that in former times had surely held lots of casks, baskets and shelves full of good wine and food. Now there was mostly debris and dust. In the centre of the vault, a burly young man was kneeling with outstretched arms, so that he was forming the letter Y with his body. Both his wrists had been tied to stone pillars with straps of leather. In front of him, lying in a sad heap, was the lifeless looking body of a young girl, her long, black hair covering most of her face. When the light of Thorn's torch penetrated the room, the burly young man looked up, breathing hard. "Witcher. Watch out! The monster is around here somewhere!"
Thorn knew the youngster. He was Pedar, the fat miller's only son. "What are you doing here? And who is the girl?" he asked distrustfully. He tried to pierce the vault's many darknesses with his witcher's eyes, but the room was bigger and much darker than the entrance hall had been. Too many black spots for the bogey man to hide in.
"I...I don't know. She was already lying there, when the monster brought me in here. She must have been its last victim."
Thorn had reached the pillars and knelt down beside the girl to feel for her pulse. He was astonished to find a slow heartbeat. "She's alive! We've got to get her -"
"Sure she is," whispered the bogey man. "I was just in time to keep Pedar from having his way with her. You need not worry about her, she is just having a prolongued nap. I gave her something so she would sleep through all this. If she is lucky, she won't even remember the attack."
"Don't," cried the miller's son, "don't listen to him. He's lying!" The young man's chin sank onto his chest and he startet to sob some more.
"It is always the same," the bogey man whispered. The words seemed to have echoes in all the corners of the room, making it quite hard to understand them and impossible to find out, where the monster was hiding. Thorn knew that the sound inside a vault could do this trick. Most likely, the monster was hiding in one of the corners, from where it knew its voice would be transported all the way to the center.
"Some time after I have settled down in some place," the bogey man continued, "even in the remotest of places, people get a glimpse of me. Sightings are reported. And then, maybe only after a few days, someone thinks he can use me to his advantage. To blame me for his own doing. Cattle stolen in the middle of the night? Must've been the Black One. A gruesome murder in the woods? Yes, the poor lad has had his enemies, but there is something evil out there, I tell you."
"You're telling me that you're innocent? That this boy here abducted the girls and killed them?"
"No. He's only doing the hunting. The dirty work. Maybe he rubs himself a little on them when they are unconscious but he doesn't kill them. Ask him. Ask him, why his mother died so young. She didn't fall down the mill's staircase, if you get my meaning."
Thorn cursed again. The worst was, that it all made some gruesome sense now. That was why Osvaldt the miller hadn't liked the idea of having a witcher around. He needed the monster to cover up his own murderous plans. But he sure as hell hadn't figured how clever this peculiar monster was. This wasn't good at all, Thorn thought. The villagers would pay him well if he brought them the monster's inhuman looking head. But if he instead broght them two human heads, if he even accused two of their finest to be rapists and murderers, they would not be very likely to pay him anything, not even their attention.
"How long has he been holding you here?" Thorn asked the kneeling youngster.
"Dunno," sobbing and sniffing, "must've been a day at least."
"Nearly two days and nights," came the whispering again. "I was hoping you would find this place earlier. As you said, it's quite an obvious hideout."
"Well, you are gruesome, that's for sure." But maybe, just maybe, you're no monster indeed, Thorn thought. That must have been why the amulet hadn't warned him in the first place. There was an aberration, all right, but no evil monstruosity. The witcher braced himself. He was still not fully convinced that the bogey man, having shown him what it had intended him to see, would let him go now, just like that. He stepped in front of the kneeling youngster and cut both of the leather straps that were holding him in that humiliating position. Despite Pedar's burly stature, he collapsed at once beside the girl. Thorn didn't even try to catch him from falling. Two days and nights of fear, despair and sleeplessness, having to kneel and begging for your life could take the strength out of even such a young and sturdy person. But he would recover quickly. Thorn decided to give him some minutes. At least he had ceased sobbing now.
"So...uh...bogey man, it seems that you don't eat them alive after all. The children you steal from their homes, I mean. I think now's a good time to tell me the rest of your story. And would it be too much to ask for my sword?"
"It would. There are people who say your kind cannot be trusted, because of your monstrous nature. As to my story, it does come as a surprise that I got you interested."
"Just professional interest. Your...transformation. Did it all happen in one night?"
"No. It started with my right hand, as I told you. Then, the blackness would slowly spread, like some rotten disease, but there was no fever, no pain or inflammation. Just more and more blackening and sometimes a throbbing or itching sensation. Grandmother took me to at least a dozen physicians and magicians. She nearly went mad blaming herself, when nobody could help me. And then, one day, she told us that she had found the black mark on herself. All that I loved and touched, you see. Those were the words of the curse.
* * *
Osvaldt, the miller of Aarding, a quite wealthy and sociable fellow, had been among the first villagers who had seen monster. One fine summer night, over a year ago, while he had come home from boozing, he had seen its dark, hunched form moving silently in front of the silvery, moonlit band of the river near his mill. In his drunken state, the miller had not at once realized that there was something very wrong about it. "Hey there," he had cried out hilariously (the way he always sounded when he saw an opportunity to have some fun). "What are ye sneakin' around here for?" He groped for the hatchet in his belt and nestled it out. Its weight felt very good in the palm of his hand.
For a second, the thing had looked right at him and he had met the gaze of its eerie black eyes, shiny with reflected moonlight. Only now, the miller saw that there were no light colours about its whole appearance, only shades of black. He noticed the clawlike hands. "What the fuck are you?" he had managed to gasp. Then, fast as lightning, without causing any sounds, the monster had crossed the road and disappeared into the nearby forest.
Already then, Osvaldt had thought that this was no ordinary monster, no brute beast, as it was reported of werewolves and ghouls and the like. That is why, when he later came up with the idea to use it for his plans, he didn't feel too comfortable. What if the monster was intelligent enough to find out whose deeds it was taking the blame for? What if at some time it would stop hiding and come for those who had set it up?
But the opportunity was just too good not to be taken.The first murder had happened in a frenzied rush, yes. That darmn uppity bitch had made him do all those evil, nasty things, that was for sure. She had had it coming for a long time, verily. Then, they had planted the first seeds of rumour about the monster being responsible for the disappearance of the woman. And already the next victim, six months ago, had been hunted down and hidden away according to a well thought-out plan. Osvaldt had done the thinking and Pedar had been his prolongued arm, his instrument, not too sharp, but quite effective.
When his son had not come home the night before, Osvaldt had at ocne thought of the monster. The miller had told his son to keep away from the lowly bitches for as long as the witcher was around. But he knew, Pedar was itching to have some fun. If he had decided to go on the hunt without his old man, he was most likely to be found at the old manor now, where they had brought their last victim, too. And that might be, where either the monster or the witcher would find him.
When the second night had arrived without Pedar turning up at the mill, his bad notions had turned into fear and anger, fuelled by a whole bottle of Temerian vodka. Heavily drunk, cursing and hissing, he went to pay the manor a visit.
* * *
All I touch and love.
I still don't know much about the forces that are stirred up when a curse comes to life . But I do know these forces are dumb. I can touch things without anything happening. I can love something from a distance, without risking to stir up the curse. Only when both conditions are given at once, the curse strikes. Nowadays, I can control my feelings. I can even make my body believe I see things that aren't really there, a technique I learnt from a shaman in a faraway eastern country. But back then... whenever I touched something I was fond of - my toy sword, my dog, a piece of clothing even - it would - slowly but unfailingly - turn black. Sometimes that was just laughable, but mostly it made me mad. The thought of killing myself shortly crossed my mind, but as it has always been the case, it didn't outlast my anger and my lust for life. All I could do was try to stay away from everybody and everything I loved. I kept hiding away in one of the manor's towers or in the vaults where we are standing now.
Only a few more years serving as a page at the Count's Castle would have made me a Knight of Aarding, you see. And probably an astoundingly bright and cunning one. Maybe a little boring and selfish, but quite the knight indeed. Well, today I think it's not all too sad, that these high hopes went down the drain. Taught me a little about the ways of the world.
My young wife was the only one I had touched willingly after the curse had struck, namely when I tried to keep her from screaming the morning after our wedding. At that early stage, I just didn't know about the possible consequences. Well, I guess the fact that the curse did not strike her with blackness, means that it had really not been a marriage of love but only of reason.
But that was one of the few good things that year. Otherwise, there had been many bad omens during the "year of the curse", as I call it. Cattle being born with multiple heads, crops lost to dry spell and a strange blackish plant's disease nobody had seen before. And as if that hadn't been enough, the winter set in especially harsh and cold. Wolves came down from the mountains, some people claimed that they were being led by a giant, pitch black female. Quite naturally, people started to blame my father for all this. Because he let this abomination live, that was not really his son but some black demon, brought into the world by a curse.
As to my grandmother, when she told us she had found 'the demon's mark' on her body, I first thought that I must have touched her unwillingly during one of our pointless journeys to those mages and healers all that summer and autumn. That same night, she just wandered out the front gate without taking leave. When her servant eventually alarmed us, she had already disappeared into the driving snow. I have no idea, what she was thinking. Maybe she had finally went over the edge and gone crazy, or maybe she really hoped to end the whole thing by sacrificing herself, I don't know. To cut a long story short, we found her frozen solid in the wintery woods two days later, not too far from the place the may queen's body had been found more than seventeen years ago. And when the physicians examined her body, they didn't find a spot of the blackness. So, either death washes the curse away or - as I can't help thinking - the dark spot she had been afraid of had rather been in her soul than on her body. Needless to say, that she, like the may queen, has become part of the local folklore - the winter hag, who is sometimes seen wandering aimlessly between the snow-clad trees.
Meanwhile, the manor had been all but abandoned. My wife had fled home to her father within days following the dark revelations after our wedding night. My three sisters would not visit the manor any longer but stayed at home with their husbands. And then, my mother fell into a deep depression so that we had to send her to one of Melitele's cloisters, where she remained until she died many years later. Only sheer luck had kept her from being affected by the blackness of the curse, I guess.
Of our servants only a handful, the most loyal ones, stayed with us. The spring after the long winter was dark and cold and it was plain to see, that this year would not be much better than the last. So, finally, the good people of Aarding decided that something had to be done about the black demon in their knight's house who was spoilking the land with his curse. They gathered one night in the early summer, pitchforks, torches and all, and went up to the manor, shouting and chanting. My father died that night, trying to ward the crazed mob off. He was trampled to death, just like that. There was nothing I could do about it, as I had to fight for my own life. Barely, I escaped, using my new physique to disappear into the dark.
I have to admit that I acted out of lowly motives, out of hate vengeance, when I returned to the village some weeks later and killed the three men who had led the mob and caused my father's death. But those were the only atrocities I have made myself guilty of and never again did I allow myself to get carried away by wrath again. As I said, witcher, you are mistaken. I don't kill for fun or lust, like some beast or monster. And I have little desire to eat little children, although I'm not all to comfortable with them, either.
From that day on, I have kept moving. I can't stay too long in one place, for there are always people like Pedar here or his father. But actually that's not too bad a life, when your abilities allow you to take what you want and get away with it. You see, there are two sides to my curse: on the one hand, there is utter loneliness and darkness, there is being feared and being unable to love, but on the other hand there seems to be longevity, fast reflexes, and the ability to become one with the shadows. Quite a neat trick, especially when you are always on the brink of being hunted.
In my time, I've seen more of the world than most people will. I have been to places, you could hardly imagine -
* * *
Abruptly, the voice had stopped. There was a grunt and a gurgling sound. For a moment, Thorn feared that Pedar had used the opprtunity and sneaked away, but then he saw him lying where he had been before, only he seemed to be sleeping now. So did the girl.
"Bogey man?" he called, holding the torch up high, turning slowly on his heels and trying to. "What happened? Where..."
He sensed the movement behind the pillars more than he heard or saw it. At once, he turned around and thrust the torch in that direction, only to see the black shape of the bogey man coming at him. But not as if he was attacking, no. Both his hands were cramped around his throat, and blood - red, human blood - was gushing out from between the fingers. Thorn could do nothing but stare as the monster he had come here to kill, collapsed in front of him and started to tremble like it was shaken by some invisible fist.
Thorn had no time to try and help the dying bogey man, as he was now watching his own silver sword being swung at him. The miller must have got unbelievably lucky and found the blade on his way down here, probably leaning against the wall at the far end of the vault, where the second entrance was. And where the bogey man had been standing, causing the echoes. Now the balding fat guy was swinging the silver blade at Thorn in nasty wide curves, grinning triumphantly.
Only his witcher's reflexes and the fact that he had been slightly alarmed before the attack kept Thorn from sharing the fate of the bogey man at once. Without even thinking about it, he ducked away and threw the blazing torch in a wide arc over the miller's head into the far end of the vault, from where its light could only barely reach them. Because there was no other source of light, the place went dark immediately. Thorn shrank back deeper into the shadows behind him, crouched on the floor and watched his opponent's shape in front of the faraway glimmer of the torch. With his witcher's eyes, he could still make out forms in the dark, where the murderous miller would only see deepest blackness.
The fat guy had obviously lost his triumphant grin. Now, he was swinging the sword aimlessly into the darkness. "Bastard," he whined, "why didn't you just take the coins and walk away? That's what the likes of you are supposed to do. Listen...we can still have an agreement. I've killed the monster, but I'll let you claim the prize on its head. I'll say nothing, hear me? You'll walk out of here a hero."
Slowly, Osvaldt was falling back to reach the torch and the exit. Although he had seen his son lying on the ground, he had decided that for now, he would only care for his own well-being. Damn. Sure as hell the witcher knew about the murders by now. There was no way letting him out of here alive. But how do you kill a witcher, even if you got lucky enough to steal his sword? These bastards were said to be more of a monster than of a man. Their reflexes were legendary.
Panting and sweating like a blacksmith, he took a quick look over his shoulder. A short sprint would take him into the torch's circle of light. Luckily, the flames hadn't just gone out when the witcher had thrown it. There, he would at last be able to see the guy coming at him. Without further thinking about it, Osvaldt turned and ran. He was astonishingly fast, considering the weight he had to move. Within a few seconds, he had reached the torch and picked it up, turning around from where he expected the witcher's attack.
There was movement in the darkness, all right. And the shape of a man, coming closer. "I'll get you yet," Osvaldt cried. "The monsters have killed each other, that's what people will say. It's only a matter off laying out the..."
When the shape rushed at him, uttering words he hardly heard, he thrust the sword at it without a moment of hesitation. The hilt of the sword slipped out of his grip, but still, its blade had gone in deep enough. Osvaldt roared with drunken joy. Then he finally noticed that the bulging eyes of the man he had just run the sword into, where those of his son. The roar stopped abruptly in a sound of utter surprise. Osvaldt, the miller, who had brought his share of death in his time, was caught totally unaware of the fact that he himself, could be the prey. He didn't even try to defend himself, when Thorn ran into him to bring him down. The following fight on the vault's floor was short but ugly.
At last, Thorn stood up from this night's work, breathing hard, soaked in blood. Four bodies were lying on the vault's stony floor. Only one of them needed to be cared for. The two monsters were dead. And the cursed son of the last Knight of Aarding, Reynard of Aarding, who had been around for nearly 120 years, was dead, too. Only the unknown girl, probably brought here by the miller's son, had made it alive, sleeping through the whole mess. Thorn had to get her to the village. And then... well, there was not much sense in trying to explain the three dead bodies, was there? He would be better off if he'd just disappear and let the vilagers sort things out by themselves. At least, he had got one fourth of the reward.
He drew his witcher's sword from where the miller had put it and wiped the blood away on the dead youngster's clothes. Silver swords were for monsters, all right. He belted it, then he turned around to get back to the staircase - and froze.
The unknown black-haired girl, that had nearly become the millers' third victim, was standing in the dancing shadows of the torch's flames. A minute ago, when Thorn had come for Pedar, to force him into his father's sword, she had still been lying on the ground. But here she was, her eyes wide - but not at all unknowing - and her fists clenched around something that looked like a crown made of flowers and twigs. Thorn hadn't seen it before, maybe it had been hidden under her body.
"You bear His mark," the may queen of Aarding said. "The heir is dead, but the curse lives."
"No," Thorn said. "Lords, no."
* * *
Nowadays, I can control my feelings. I can even make my body believe I see things that aren't really there...
You're mistaken, dear friend.
All I touch and love.
The throbbing pain on his forehead, where Reynard had touched him.
His face in the silver blade. Blackening.
You are mine. Your soul belongs to me.
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