It was the sharp, metallic report echoing through the silent passages that drew him back to wakefulness. His eyes flew open, and he rose to stare around at his surroundings for the source of the disturbance. There was no light here, but that hadn’t been a problem since he’d changed. Even in the pitch black he could see the grimy granite slabs of the floor, the damp and pitted stone ceiling that was starting to crack with age, and the gloomy dank walls that harboured the alcoves.

Another clang echoed down to him, and another. It was the rhythmic drumming of picks on stone. And there were voices up there as well, human voices. They were sounds that hadn’t reached his ears in a very long time; he’d almost forgotten what they sounded like. Not that it mattered, for his circumstances had changed considerably since his unfortunate incarceration in this place. These newcomers – intruders – meant nothing to him. Perhaps they even knew the ones that had abandoned him down here, those backstabbing louts who had left him behind for dead so long ago.

He had been human once, in a time so distant that he could barely remember it.  He hadn’t been anybody of note, he was a lowly trader of cheap jewelry and other such trinkets, but it had been sufficient for his needs. And then times changed for the worse, and people needed bread more than they needed gems, and he soon found himself resorting to less honorable – but more productive – means for putting food on his plate. Strange that it was so long ago that he could no longer remember what his own name had been, before that fateful venture into this place in search of riches. To this day he had no idea what had caused the cave-in, but they hadn’t even tried to dig him out. They’d just gone, and taken the few copper pieces that had lurked amidst the crumbling sarcophagi as the paltry reward for their efforts. Such was the cost of a life in those times.

Yet another ringing echo spiraled downward, louder this time. The intruders sounded as though they were making progress. He wondered if the price of a life had risen at all since he’d been abandoned, been forgotten.  Not with him it hadn’t, and those who could still enjoy the wealth of the world above owed him a debt. The first few days of his incarceration had been the worst. Some few pools of greasy, stagnant water seeped through into the crypt that had become his tomb from the bright world outside, and the foul waters made him retch, but he had no choice but to drink. It was that or lay down to die, rotting among the unforgiving bones of those who slept. And yet, as the waters permitted him continued existence for some short while, hunger began to gnaw at his insides. Insistent, driving, burning, the hunger started to grow and take hold. And as time passed, the blackened and desiccated remains of those around him grew to resemble delicacies that he had once only dreamt of. Delirious, motivated entirely by his need for sustenance, he had started to feed. And eventually he had started to change.

The ringing had stopped, to be replaced with the scraping rasp of rubble over stone. The normally still and reeking air brought new scents to his nostrils, and he felt the faintest whisper of a breeze against his clammy skin. The voices now echoed down to him, yet the walls of the passages still distorted their meaning sufficiently for their words to be lost. He stretched, and the muscles in his limbs – which would have atrophied from lack of use if not for his altered condition – flexed responsively. Strength that had never been his as a mere man was granted him in this new incarnation, and it would be the instrument of his revenge. Silently he padded through the narrow corridors and past the dusty, fleshless remains of the dead in the direction of the cave-in and the fools who had dared to disturb his slumber. Deep within, the hunger snarled longingly, and the once-man’s predatory instincts began to come to the fore.

Clearly, the idiots were not expecting to find anyone down here. The stuttering, flickering light of a blazing torch bathed the grey, slimy walls of his prison, and he blinked as the blinding fire assaulted his senses. He didn’t need to look around the corner to see the brand; he would let his vision adjust to the light before he taught the intruders a lesson. Now that they were closer, he could hear them well enough to comprehend their words.

“Looks like nobody’s been down here in years!” a man’s rough voice exclaimed.

It was a local accent, and it hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d heard it. Since those plague-ridden bandits had left him here, alone. Laced with greed and ignorant self-importance, the tone brought back unpleasant memories. His stomach gurgled expressively, and the hunger renewed its demands. Patience, he told it silently. I will feed soon enough.

“This place reeks,” declared a second voice irritably in a deep baritone. “We should have waited until the others arrived.”

“What, and let them get the lion’s share of the loot?” the first retorted. “Grow a spine, you half-wit! What are you scared of, ghosts?” Cruel laughter echoed through the dark halls, accompanied by the scraping noises of the pair widening the hole in the obstruction.

Out of sight he waited, lurking in a shadowy alcove around the corner. They were only two, and they were not expecting him. This would be easy. It was just as well really, for he was ravenous now, and he hadn’t tasted fresh food for too long.

“We’re in!” hissed the first man, the excited whisper carrying down into the depths. “Come on, let’s go!”

“You first,” replied the other warily, ignoring the harsh and faintly hollow-sounding laughter that was his companion’s derisive reply.

The sound of boots scraping on dusty slabs grew louder as the intruders approached, and the reflected glow of the blazing torch intensified as the pair drew nearer the corner. Concealed within the alcove, he waited. Motionless and muscles tensed. Adrenaline surged through his powerfully built limbs as he prepared to spring upon the unknowing duo. They will regret their decision to disturb my rest. I hunger, and I will not be satisfied until I feed. 

The two men passed the alcove where he lurked, and at last he was able to see his foes. They were armed, but steel was not something that he feared any more. Once upon a time a blade would have struck terror into his pitiful heart, but he was stronger now. Aside from the blades the men were unprotected. No mail shirts to get between his claws and their flesh; no leather armour to slow the vice-like grip of his fanged jaws. Silent as the dead who slept around them, he left his place of concealment and followed his prey. Greedily speculating on the nature of the treasures that they were about to uncover, neither heard his stealthy approach. Not until he struck.

The first blow was savage, brutal. He leapt, crashing into the closest one from behind, his claws gauging great chunks from the man’s back. The human screamed in agony, and dropped the torch that he’d been holding. The brand flared brightly as it fell, but was extinguished in a pool of black water when it landed with a splash upon the cold floor. All was plunged into darkness save the faintly illuminated hole through which the men had climbed, but his vision adjusted fast. His first victim was on the floor, screaming and crawling blindly, but the man’s comrade was still standing. With a sense of self-preservation that was almost admirable, the pitiful human abandoned all thought of drawing his sword in the darkness, and fled in the direction he’d come from, shrieking at the top of his lungs for aid.

Not so fast, intruder! He turned from his first victim and slashed out at the second with his teeth, clamping down upon the man’s outstretched arm as it passed. Both man and monster wailed as one in agony; the human as his arm was pierced, and the beast in painful surprise as the silver ring on the man’s hand was thrust against the roof of his cavernous mouth. Snarling viciously, he released his second victim, who stumbled back and fled through the hole to the outside world.

It hurts! Accursed coward, resorting to dirty tricks!  He spat, the noxious drool mixing with the tainted and now bloodstained puddles on the floor, trying to get the hated taste of silver from his mouth. He will lead more here for me to feast upon; I can wait for him to return. In the meantime, he turned his attention to the whimpering wretch who was still scrabbling around on the floor, albeit more feebly now from loss of blood. Your friend abandoned you, just as mine abandoned me. Don’t worry; I won’t let you suffer as I did.

The hunger consumed him now; he could not resist it any longer. He was the hunger. Bending over the prostrate figure, he bared his jagged teeth, and let them close around the hapless man’s throat.

The second victim, losing blood rapidly as he stumbled towards the safety of the village with a ruined arm, heard a final, despairing wail from his companion that was suddenly cut off, and he sped up, not daring to look back.

***

“Who’re you? What do you want?”

The stranger stopped before the gate, and the heavily laden mare at his side came to a grateful halt beside him. It was clear that he was no local farmer or tradesman, because none of that sort would bear swords, and certainly not swords slung across their backs.

“Answer me, whitey,” growled the guard ominously, tightening his grip on the halberd he bore. “What business do you have here?”

The white-haired man stared back into the guard’s challenging gaze evenly, as though the abrasive tone was no more than a polite enquiry. “My name is Geralt. I am a witcher.”

“Get going then. We don’t like having your sort around here,” the guard replied, spitting onto the ground.

“I heard there was an attack recently,” Geralt pointed out.

“From some no-good prying merchant, no doubt,” the man added unpleasantly. “Fine. Go see the Reverend; he’ll be in the chapel and if he wants to hire the likes of you then that’s his business. Don’t make any side-trips. If I hear of any missing children you’ll wish you’ve never been born, freak.”

“Very well,” Geralt answered irritably, tugging on the reins and leading his mare on into the village.

Perhaps to call it a village was an exaggeration, the witcher amended as he glanced around. Clearly the place didn’t amount to much more than a few hovels, a chapel, and a ramshackle building with a rotting sign outside that he took to be a tavern. It was equally obvious that the man on gate duty had not been alone in his opinion of witchers. The locals to a man gave him mistrustful looks or unfriendly stares, and women called their children inside whilst shooting him sidelong glances of hatred and fear. Even if he was tolerated here, it was barely, and only because they feared the monsters beyond the palisade more than they did him. I am the lesser evil, he thought, and then winced inwardly as the name Blaviken rose up to haunt him. Apparently this town was not one where non-humans were appreciated, and the witcher wondered if the Scoia’tael were responsible for the almost palpable hostility directed at him. Geralt tethered the mare outside the church, knowing that fear of him would overcome any temptation to steal his belongings while he left them untended. Calmly, he stepped over the threshold and into the cool gloomy entrance of the shrine.

It’s quiet in here. The place was empty, save an occupied bier near the altar to the Eternal Fire upon the dais. Keeping an eye out for the priest, Geralt slowly approached the deceased, noting carefully the tooth marks that marred the unfortunate peasant’s right arm, and the blackened greenish tinge to the wound that suggested some toxin at work. Not an agricultural accident, then.

“Who are you?” a voice demanded with a ring of authority.

Geralt turned to see a robed man striding up the aisles towards him. “I’m Geralt, a witcher. I’m looking for work.”

The Reverend’s eyes narrowed at the word ‘witcher’, and he stopped some distance from Geralt as though coming closer would taint him. “Your kind are not wanted here, but I will tolerate you if you deal with the monster that caused this.” The priest gestured at the prone figure. “He and another went into the crypt outside town. His companion didn’t return, and when this poor man came back he was raving about some monster.”

“It’s probably a necrophage. I’ll take care of it, for 250 orens,” suggested Geralt.

“You’ll do it for 100 and be grateful for our generosity, witcher,” snapped the priest in response. “Times are hard, and there’s an alchemist who claims that he can drive the thing out with smoke for only 120. We could take pitchforks to the beast when it emerges, but I’d rather not let it harm any more god-fearing men like these. 100 orens.”

Trust a damned alchemist to start playing around with things he ought to leave well alone. “Very well,” growled Geralt, aware that 100 orens was far better than getting thrown out of town. His services weren’t in demand like they used to be; he couldn’t afford to accept or reject contracts as he pleased any more.

“If you slay the thing, you’ll be permitted to stay in the tavern overnight,” the Reverend added. “Else you’ll have to seek lodgings elsewhere.”

“You’re too kind,” the witcher muttered sarcastically as he stalked past the holy man and headed outside.

***

He awoke to darkness once again, and smiled as he remembered the events of a few days ago. The hunger inside – that which drove him mercilessly – was less intense, at least for the time being. He sniffed the air, relishing the scent of fresh decay that emanated from the bloodied mess of bones and bruised flesh in the corner of the cavernous hallway that had become his bedchamber. Then his eyes narrowed, and he sniffed again. Something is not right here. I sense some new presence.

He growled softly. He’d abandoned words some time back, for he found the sound of raw emotion more pleasing to his hypersensitive ears. From the chamber he stalked, his senses straining for a more tangible trace of that alien presence; something that would permit him to discover its source. And if necessary, dispose of the source. He crept stealthily towards the newly-formed entrance in the hope that he could find a stronger scent there, but froze instantly as a tinkle of shattered glass echoed around the corridors above.

Someone is here.

Deftly, and with an agile grace that belied his grotesque appearance, he padded quickly through the pitch-black corridors, heading for the surface and the source of the disturbance. As he reached the corridor leading to the entranceway he slowed, listening, watching avidly for any sign of movement. Coiled like a viper, ready to spring at a moment’s notice, he crept forward.

He needn’t have bothered with stealth, for his adversary was clearly waiting for him. Not bothering to hide, the man stood in the open chamber beyond the newly-cleared obstruction. The figure was gazing serenely towards the dark entranceway to his home, as though waiting for him to emerge. This one knows I am here, then, he reasoned, considering his opponent carefully.

The man was armed with two swords, though one was slung over his back at present. The other was resting comfortably in the human’s right fist, and the broken remains of a small glass vial littered the ground by his tough leather-booted feet. It was no mere peasant that he faced this time; this human seemed to mean business. The hunger within him gurgled in anticipation. His appetite may be satiated for now, but how long would it last? He shifted his weight slightly in the darkness beyond where any light could penetrate as he considered the man, and noticed that he bore neither torch nor any other source of illumination. To his surprise, the scar-faced man blinked when he moved, and smiled grimly, brushing long, white hair back out of his eyes.

“There you are,” he stated. His tone was fearless, almost emotionless. The sharp point of his blade raised a fraction, but otherwise the man made no move to approach.

This one can see me, without needing a light! Perhaps he’s not as harmless as I thought. There was no point in remaining hidden now that he had been seen, so he decided to switch to another tactic.

Rising to his full height, he stalked out of his home towards the newcomer, revealing himself fully to the intruder’s eyes. He saw the man take in his thickly muscled limbs, his dagger-toothed maw, and his bloodshot and hate-filled eyes. He flexed, demonstrating the power of his viciously curved claws, and the jagged spines that now grew from his back and neck. He snarled; a low, rattling sound that was made all the more sinister by the sibilant echoes that it induced. Truly, any mortal should fear to look upon him.

But this one did not, apparently. The man’s smile faded, to be replaced by a look of focussed concentration and calculating analysis as the intruder sized up the monster ahead. One foot shifted slightly as the human adjusted his balance, more flowing into a battle stance than stepping into it. Intimidation was not going to be sufficient.

He howled, spitting flecks of tainted bile at his adversary, and then charged, accelerating at an inhuman pace across the crypt’s granite floor. His opponent stood fearlessly before the thundering monstrosity, ducking and evading his first clawed blow only at the last moment. As his momentum carried him past the human, the man span to one side and lashed out with the long blade, forcing him to leap neatly aside and reconsider his assault. Eyeing up his opponent again, he saw that the blade that had so nearly gutted him was coated with some oily substance, tarnishing the otherwise magnificent blade. He remembered briefly what it felt like to face a better armed opponent in his past life, before the hunger asserted itself and drove him back into the fray. The man sidestepped his first slash, parried the second with a strong, gloved fist, and ducked the third with an agility that defied belief. Then, before he could react, the intruder sprang forwards, upwards, flying gracefully over his shoulder and twisting in mid-air. He turned snarling, but even as he sought his foe the sharp bite of silver cut into his side, and he screamed in agony as the blade scored his ribs.

He jumped back out of range of the swinging blade, avoiding its terrible edge for now as he sought a way past to its owner. The hunger drove him on, and he could not back down, yet fear was beginning to take hold of his withered, rotten heart. Coming forward once again, teeth bared in fury, his eyes narrowed as his adversary made a curious motion with one hand. A powerful blast of air knocked him backwards against the crypt wall, pinning him there.

He cried out vengefully and tried to move forward, but his limbs were not responding! The hunger wailed within him, screamed at him in panic, yet he could not will his arms to strike, or his legs to flee. Stunned, he could only watch through terrified eyes as the man approached swiftly, levelling the blade so that it aimed straight for his neck.

“No hard feelings,” the man said softly, drawing back the blade to strike. “A witcher needs to eat as well.”

Silver sang in the darkness, he felt a white-hot burning sensation rip through his neck, and his vision faded.

~~*~~