The Last: Chapter Five

PART ONE |||

The last time Roger stood in front of a vampire, it had nearly cost him his life. The contract had been for a doppler: a shape-changing creature who was using its abilities to impersonate various monsters over the months in order to scare off traveling merchants for their goods. The rumor amongst the other witchers of the area was that it had amassed a considerable horde from its various victims. On top of the reward for its head was potentially a massive pile of unclaimed wealth. To the surrounding witchers that traversed the roads there, the stockpile was nearly as much a legend as the creature. Neither turned out to be true.

It only took five movements for Roger to get the proper feint to draw out the attack he needed. With a swift counter strike, Roger was able to slash the Alp across her neck. The skin around her throat opened up thanks to the silver inlaid into the blade, and a dark stream of crimson poured down her emaciated torso. It wasn’t until he began removing her head that he noticed the attack she’d inflicted upon him in her brief moments of invisibility. A gash that ran the line of his face, nearly removing his eye, was newly traced in his skin. Without panic, he wrapped a headband around the deepest part near the top of his scalp to keep the blood from pooling around his eye.

There were times after the event that Roger wondered if the Alp knew it was fighting a witcher. Perhaps the ease of her first strike gave her a reciprocated overconfidence that enabled Roger to gain his killing blow. Perhaps it was his own skill that overmatched her inexperience with a true monster hunter. Regardless, Roger was walking away with the head of an Alp with no contract, a continuing legend of a mysterious stockpile, and a new lesson permanently written across his face.

Now, standing before him was a lesson that didn’t need to be taught. Packy was a vampire, a katakan. Mostly known for their bestial prowess, sonic abilities, and the rare ability to mimic the appearance of a human, katakans were no small feat. They were known to tower over human prey, and their bat-like appearances were usually enough to deter any bravery from those foolish enough to seek them out. Roger and Osric had lost their only advantage due to their scuffle in the brush that had given away their position. Once again, Roger found himself preparing to be on the defensive. 

“Found you, cunt!” Osric was taking a different approach. The one-eyed witcher had already reloaded his crossbow, holstered it, and stuck another bolt between his teeth. His silver blade flashed against the hard light of the shattered lantern’s fire as he flourished it free from its scabbard. 

Packy, or whatever the name of this beast actually was, slowly began leaning forward as Osric unsheathed his sword. A sonic blast rippled from the membranes in its head, and caused the flames in front of it to flutter and swell as it rushed towards them. Roger instinctively rolled and got his fingers ready to trace “Quen,” the minor sorcery sign that would have given him a barely visible shield to block some of the blast. Osric, per his form, did no such thing and let the blast slam right into him. 

To his credit, Osric had dropped into a more stable stance and held fast as his body was pushed from the sonic roar. Roger even noticed a small trickle of blood dripping from the bear witcher’s nose. Osric hacked, shook his head, and smiled. 

“Right then,” he yelled. Roger wasn’t certain if he yelled because he was unaware of his own volume after the katakan’s assault, or if he was just generally psyching himself up. “My turn!”

Osric charged. Roger joined the attack and dashed from the side, looking to see if there could be an opening for him after the katakan addressed Osric’s first strike. However, Packy instead leapt high into the air - nearly as tall as the tree tops. The shadow of the canopy would have hidden the beast from a normal person’s sight. Roger and Osric’s enhanced eyes were able to track it perfectly. Roger’s feet danced as he traced where it would land, while his hands gripped the hilt of his silver longsword and brought it to a low, diagonal stance. His muscles tightened and time seemed to slow down as he readied himself to kill the swooping vampire in one blow. 

Osric, once again, tackled Roger with a force so strong that the two were thrown completely clear of Packy’s crashing swipe. Dust and rock scattered like a powder bomb explosion as the impact of the monster’s landing combined with the force of its swinging, sharp claws. 

Roger was back on his feet in a flash and keep his eyes on the vampire and his peripheral on Osric. 

“You’ve gone mad!” Roger roared. “Decided to switch sides on me mid-fight?”

“Gotta talk to him,” Osric replied calmly. The most calm Roger may have ever seen him in their brief time together. “Can you get me his profile?” 

“Sideways?” Roger clarified as he watched the katakan shake the dirt from its claws. 

“Yes,” Osric confirmed. Roger heard more jingling as the bear witcher reached into another large satchel on his lower back and produced a set of weighted, metal orbs attached with a long chain. “You be the sword, if you can. I’ll be this.” 

“‘This?’” Roger questioned. “What is that?” 

Osric shrugged as he flourished his silver sword back into the scabbard. “Hilde, if you like.” 

The simplicity of the answer distracted Roger so much that he barely avoided Packy’s next attack. Instead of just attacking with one claw, the katakan charged both witchers at an incredible speed and used both arms simultaneously. Although he wasn’t decapitated, Roger felt a talon cut a line through the side of his face and ear before he could spin back and away. 

The pain had to be tucked away, as he didn’t want to lose this opportunity for a counter strike. In a flash, Roger hopped inside the vampire’s range before it had a chance to recover. He brought his arms high above his head and spun at the waist, slashing the silver weapon in an arc through the air that passed right through the forearm of the creature. The great claw thudded hard into the dirt, and a wide-eyed monster brought the stub of its appendage in front of its face. 

For a moment, Roger was genuinely curious as to what Packy’s reaction would be. He knew that vampires could regenerate to a degree, and was unsure if the loss of an arm was considered a serious injury or not. The answer to which would have to wait until another day, as the rolls of skin that creased and outlined the bat-like face of the beast were beginning to vibrate: a telltale sign of an oncoming sonic blast. 

Again, Roger spun to the side to avoid the attack, but the blast caught the entirety of his left arm, torso, and leg. Combined with his own momentum, the vampiric ability spun him like a top through the air and landed him straight onto the dirt. His lungs collapsed from the impact and he gave a hoarse gasp as he desperately tried to fill them again. The sinewy muscles that he’d spent several normal lifetimes using to hunt monsters seemed to have a difficult time getting him back onto his feet. It was only a matter of seconds before the katakan would be on top of him to peel his flesh from his bones with its remaining good claw. 

The twang of a released cord and the familiar whistle of a crossbow bolt signaled Osric’s reentry into the fight. Packy’s true form screamed as the bolt passed right through it and bounced - tip first - off of the bark of a nearby tree. Roger was able to catch a glimpse of the bolt’s tip, which had become deformed and misshapen as it punctured the creature’s body. Metal that soft could only mean one thing: silver. 

The katakan momentarily dropped to a knee, and a dull “woosh” was coupled with a brief jingling as “Hilde” flew from Osric’s grip. It spun and wrapped around the beast’s head and the two silver orbs crashed into each other and the monster. Packy hunched over, wheezing like Osric with a dull growl emanating from somewhere deep in his wound. As suddenly as Osric’s crossbow had signaled the beginning of their fight, it was just as quick to signal the end. 

“Lovely Hilde,” Osric chuckled in his usual hoarse tone. 

PART TWO |||

Roger picked himself fully upright and sheathed his silver sword, “Thought you’d disappeared back there.” 

Osric walked past both Roger and Packy to where the silver bolt landed after colliding with the tree. He inspected the tip and shook his head from side to side,

“Just had to find this. Grabbed the iron one by mistake. Can’t really see which one I’m grabbing all the time..” he said as he poked where his eye used to be.

“Do we need to worry about...him?” Roger nervously jerked his head in the direction of the rasping and hunched vampire. His confidence in Hilde was not as concrete as Osric’s. 

Osric smiled and shook his head. He plucked some kind of scrap of food out of a small pouch on his shoulder-slung belt and placed it into his mouth. With each chew he took a step towards Packy until he was easily within striking distance. Roger’s muscles stayed tense and his eyes scanned for any sudden movement from the creature. His fingers brushed against each other in anticipation of drawing his silver longsword again. 

“So much silver in the metal that a witcher could snap it. Such a weak substance,” Osric said, imitating flexing out of a hard embrace, “These things can’t stand it.” 

The blonde witcher bent low and looked Packy dead in the eyes. From his mouth, he spit out some inedible piece of whatever he had been chewing on, and tapped the vampire in this forehead. 

“Now then, let’s talk,” Osric took the dulled silver bolt that he fired earlier and began hovering it around Packy’s giant and bat-like face. Roger stood a distance away behind the monster, but was close enough to both hear what was being said, and to close the distance with one advancing step and lunge from his longsword. 

“My friend says you made a mess on the mountain,” Osric thumbed in the direction of Roger. Packy said nothing, but another low rumble emanated from his core. “Said you killed three. Stole some things. Is that right?”

Again, Packy rumbled. 

Osric reached into another one of his belt pockets and pulled out the small jade sculpture. Roger’s hand snapped to his own belt pouch and realized that he never got it back from Osric. There was a moment of brief rage and jealousy as he saw it wasn’t in his possession, but he understood what Osric was trying to accomplish. Therefore, his nerves calmed and he put his focus back on the vampire, whose grumble was becoming louder. 

“Hey,” Osric poked Packy in the forehead, this time with the silver bolt. “You hear me?”

Now it was Roger’s turn to become impatient. 

“You get two more questions, then I collect his head,” Roger said. 

Osric, unexpectedly, nodded in agreement. He twirled the bolt in his fingers and gently placed it between Packy’s eyes. 

“To the point then,” he replied, and began slowly twisting the projectile. “Where is your home, beasty? BAH!”

Roger watched as Osric cleared his throat and spit a large glob of mucous on the ground to their left. When it landed, it mixed with the wet blood that was on top of the dirt from the vampire’s severed arm: an arm that was not where it had originally thudded into the dirt. Roger’s eyes darted across their surroundings to locate the appendage, and caught sight of the blood trailing away from them down the path. His yellow eyes gazed at Osric and Packy, and thought that Packy may have been purposely trying to keep Osric’s attention focused on his incapacitated self for his arm to escape. For what purpose, Roger intended to discover. 

The sound of saliva bubbled out of Packy’s mandibles as Osric continued to question him and push the damaged silver bolt further into his forehead. Roger, however, bounded off down the trail, making sure to make as little noise as possible and stay out of Packy’s peripheral vision. The crimson trail weaved and traced the path leading away from the ruins of the old watcher and towards the coast. That same cold, salty air became louder and more pungent with each drop that Roger passed. The smell of the blood pierced the wind and rushed through his nostrils until he reached the rocky shores until it was swept away by the white foam of the sea that crashed against stone. 

The shoreline was uneven, both on how deep it sank and far inland it reached. Corners of it disappeared behind cliff faces to both sides of the witcher. A mixture of confusion and irritation swamp through Roger’s mind. There was no reason he could think that an arm would needlessly cast itself away to the depths. He understood it wasn’t the arm thinking for itself, it was Packy trying to accomplish something in his defeat. Blood ran from his own face down his neck where the vampire’s claw tore through his cheek and across his ear. He shook his head and stuck a finger inside his canal to clear the blood that had gathered and partially dried in some areas. When he’d finished, he could hear more clearly than before, and wondered if Osric was making any progress with the majority of Packy’s body.

It was with his newly restored hearing that he detected a soft scratching noise between the smashing of the salty water against the island. At first he wasn’t sure he had heard anything, but as he turned his head in several directions he was able to pinpoint a direction. Behind him, against the higher stones and tides, he was barely able to make out the top of a cave whose entrance had been flooded by the rising tide. Given the amount of water that was pulsating in and out of the gaping hole, he surmised that it would be completely hidden during the highest of tides. Nearly as hidden was the sight of a severed and clawed hand grasping at the wet rock and scrambling like a spider to get inside. This must be where Packy hid. Roger had found it. The thrill of the hunt had returned to him for the first time in a long time. 

The water was too high and deep for him to swim after it with all of the weight of his gear. He quickly stripped down to his pants, tightened his headband, and re-strapped his shoulder belt onto his torso with the silver sword safely fastened inside of the scabbard. A little ways back up the path, he placed his pile of remaining effects in a hollowed out log that seemed to house nothing else other than termites.

Returning to the shoreline, he used his enhanced vision to inspect the water as it rushed in and out of the entrance. The new incoming water swept under the receding foam, and there appeared to be a brief moment where there wasn’t a violent push in one direction or another. 

Roger leapt into the sea and immediately felt a pull of the water that his eyes weren’t able to detect, even before the freezing waters tore the air out of his lungs. His feet were dragged away from the mouth of the cave, as even his own powerful and enhanced muscles weren’t able to withstand the strength of an entire sea. Fingers pressed against the slick stones that he was being pushed into. Roger knew he would need to improvise a new plan other than swimming or scrambling.

He reluctantly pulled his silver sword from its scabbard and stabbed it between a set of two rocks that he was trying to overcome. The tide pulled at his body, then pushed him down with a nearly unbearable force. He could feel the blade flex and bend as it attempted to handle not only his weight, but the weight of the rushing water in both directions. 

There was a momentary pause that he could not only feel, but also hear as the water stopped rushing past his ears. He put his trust into the small calm, and thrust his body forward and tried to pull the blade free. Instead, it remained stuck. The building rush of the incoming water became louder and louder, and he gripped the hilt of the sword and tried pulling as hard as he could. With his fingers wrapped as tight as any witcher could muster, the blade snapped in half. 

Roger was swept with the current and crashed against the rocks further in the cave’s mouth. He felt his skin tear as he tumbled into the shallower parts of the entrance, where he was finally able to stand on his own two feet. Muscles ached and strained as they began giving him feedback to the damage they took from the ordeal. His arm moaned beneath the skin as it brought what remained of his silver sword to his face so he could inspect it.

The light that was able to enter the cave reflected off of the surface of the metal, showing Roger that it had snapped right at the midpoint between the strong and the weak halves. He cursed to himself, reached backwards and placed it in the scabbard, and trudged his way out of the water and into the darkness before him. 

There was too much sea water remaining around his face for his nose to detect any other smells. With a finger on a nostril and a few short blasts he was able to clear some of the stinging salt and let the cooled, moist air that swept through the rocks fill his lungs. His toes clung to the uneven stones leading out of the shallow water, moved as silently as possible. He wasn’t used to moving with this little gear, and especially with only half the weight of his sword. 

The cave turned and weaved out of site around a corner in front of him. His enhanced eyes were able to detect slight traces of blood littered in the pools of water that pocked the stoney ground ahead. A slight sanguine tint that caused them to reflect light slightly different was his cue that he was on the right track. As his toes gripped the ground with each step, he was also able to start picking up other smells that he wasn’t expecting to find deep within a seaside cave. Wood, candle wax, and the musty aroma of parchment began introducing themselves to his olfactory senses. 

What remained of the cave light bounced off of the wet walls of stone as he descended deeper into the depths. His cat-like eyes were able to adjust and find the right footing without him bumping into the sides, but strained with every inch away from the flooded cave mouth. However, as the smells of what could normally be contributed to a library or archive grew stronger, a new light began to flicker off of the streams of water permeating down the sides of the tunnel. 

The familiar scratching noise that he picked up on as Packy’s severed arm scrambled on the walls of the cave entrance were heard again. It skittered and scraped ahead of Roger from a larger room that was clearly where the source of light was coming from. Roger crouched into a stance meant to mitigate the vibration in his steps. He knew that the arm didn’t have any ears to hear him, but he didn’t want to take any chances on whether or not it could feel his steps through the ground as he moved. 

As his nose had alerted him, Roger came around the corner and found a large room in the cave with a circular pool of collected water in the center of it. It was a natural formation, and the ring of elevated stone around it had been furnished and staged as if it were in a lord’s manor. There were tapestries draped across the cave walls, tables arranged in a fashion that showed clear purpose in their stations, and candles stacked on smaller tables that illuminated reading desks and bookshelves that took up the space not occupied by the intricate, woven art. 

On one of the desks near the largest grouping of bookshelves, Roger saw Packy’s arm clawing through a series of chests that each had a key sticking out of their lock. The fingers were plucking and scooping materials out, then going back over them with two fingers that had turned back into something resembling that of a human’s. Roger watched as the two, human-like digits felt and traced over the objects the claws were scooping out of the wooden parcels. Finally, they stopped as they ran their fingertips over a tarnished, bronze-looking coin that was attached to a similarly tarnished chain. The smaller fingers snatched the item and tucked it into the monster’s palm and it used the other three fingers to leap off of the table and crawl across the floor. 

Again, Roger was careful with each step to avoid any scattered objects, puddles, or other potential vibrations that would have alerted the monstrous arm to his presence. He followed it around a small cabinet and down a set of stairs carved into the stone around the pool. Water dripped from the ceiling and made tiny splashes in the dark water that obscured the scurrying noise of the claws on the hard rock. 

The three fingers that retained their monstrous form continued to skitter around the dark pool. Roger scanned the shadowy edges of the large, circular room to try and anticipate where the appendage was moving; but was unable to see any exit, tunnel, or hallway. 

The clawed hand abruptly stopped and violently spasmed. It’s razor sharp talons stretched outwards and then back in on themselves like a spider dying on its back. The palm slapped against the floor as it rhythmically opened and closed its fingers and rolled on the floor. Finally, it stopped. He knew this must have had something to do with Osric. Osric, the bastard, must have killed Packy. 

Roger’s hand held his broken silver sword in a ready position as his toes stretched and followed the trail that the arm’s blood had created. It may not have been moving now, but it wouldn’t be the first time that he had been attacked by something that he had thought moved beyond its death throes. The light that flickered from the long candles that illuminated the stacks of books and desks on the other side of the pool was glinting off of the few areas of the coin that weren’t covered in tarnish. Roger wondered if he could ascertain what happened to Packy by the position of the hand, and lowered himself with the sharp, broken edge of his sword hovering overhead like a dagger. In a flash, Roger’s own fingers jabbed into the stiff grip of the katakan’s severed appendage, and plucked the old coin by its chain from its grasp. He watched as the unremarkable metal object spun in place as it dangled from his hand. On either face there seemed to be some rough-looking etchings or imprints that had begun to wear away with time. One face had what Roger guessed was a type of writing, and on the other was a symbol. As he began to try and understand what the picture was he suddenly regained his awareness, and brought the edge of his severed weapon down into the twisted palm of Packy’s hand. There was no movement, no spray of blood, no risk of harming the coin, and so sign of life. Packy – Roger assumed – was dead.

The red-haired witcher walked back to where the candles were glowing on top of their mountains of wax with Packy’s hand still handing from his sword. A part of him was desperate to get back and understand exactly what transpired between Osric and Packy on the trail near the ruins. The other part could not take his eyes off the worn symbol carved into the soft metal of the coin that lay in his palm. He placed the coin onto one of the many desks lining the elevated edges around the pool, and squeezed the wet strands of his hair. With the moisture on his fingers he tried polishing some of the tarnish away from the edges. He was able to make out what looked to be an open palm. Lines that curved and looked to represent fingers stretched from the bottom of the left side to the top, and repeated their pattern in four arches - or fingers as he assumed. There was also another object centered in the palm, but it had been so worn down that he wouldn’t be able to determine any details on it. Regardless, there was something familiar about it. 

Greyleaf had discussed, on more than a few occasions, the men that founded the Island Chain kingdom of Skellige. He had even alluded to the inhabitants that preceded them. Perhaps the old druid would have some knowledge of this symbol that Roger felt he’d somehow seen before. Before he could go back and inquire about the symbol, he would need to find any evidence of the stolen parcel that Aelfred had hired him to track down. It had seemed so long ago that he had his discussion with Aelfred on the mountain as he bartered for his contract surrounded by body parts. Ironically, it was another severed part that led him to this strange and hidden library of sorts. Perhaps the hand was leading him to the stolen stash as well? It would have been odd, Roger thought to himself, that a place as well hidden by the tide as this would require another hiding place inside of it for black market goods. Then again, there was much he didn’t know about - well - any of this. Roger pulled Packy’s claw off of his sword and placed it on the table. Depending on what happened with Osric, he could need this as proof of the kill and completion of his contract. In the meantime, he needed to find more evidence.   

The worn chain was rough around his neck as he placed the coin necklace just above his witcher’s medallion. His feet, now unburdened from the necessity to stay silent, slapped the shallow water that had gathered in the various places around the pool, and carried him to the spot where he’d pierced Packy’s claws. Roger turned his head and squinted his eyes to see if he could make out any markings, holes, or unnatural looking spots in the wall that might give a hint to where the hand was going. He had seen hidden entrances before, but none that could be accessed by only a coin, let alone being held by only a hand. His own fingers traced the outlines of the object hanging from his neck as he thought. The metal of his silver sword tapped against the stone as he paced as he searched for any distinct sounds that might hint at a hollow wall or man-made material. The slow rhythm that he created was only interrupted by the occasional drop of water into the dark pool. 

His feet stopped and pivoted away from the wall. The rest of his body followed suit, and he was now looking directly at the pitch-black waters that filled the naturally formed centerpiece of Packy’s chambers. The surface of the water looked like a sheet of glass, save for the occasional ripples that drops of water from the cave’s ceiling caused. There wasn’t enough light in the room to see into it, even for Roger’s vision. As he leaned over the edge, he could see the reflection of his own face: wet and weary from the journey. His eyes traced the scars that ran over his forehead, nose, and down his right eye through his cheek. He then inspected the new one that had stopped bleeding, but was still swollen around the skin that cut from his left cheek nearly through his entire ear. 

“Might as well,” he said to no one, hearing his voice echo off of the walls despite his low tone. He plunged his face into the water, which felt cold and refreshing on his skin, and slowly opened his eyes. To his surprise, he did not see a rocky bottom, nor did he taste the salt of the ocean. Instead, the blackness that colored the surface of the water seemed to stretch deeper and deeper. He yanked his head from the pool, sending an arch of water spraying behind him. The water was cold, and the idea of submerging himself twice in freezing temperatures wasn’t the most appealing. That’s the job, he told himself, and swung his legs over. After taking a few deep breaths, he held the last one, let out half of it, and began swimming further into the black.