The Last: Chapter Six

PART ONE:

“Take the breath in through your nose and hold it in your chest,” Ivar commanded, as a young Roger lay on his knees in the middle of the training grounds. The other boys were around him, and their yellow eyes darted back and forth between the master witcher and the red-haired adept that was shaking with pain. 

Roger looked at the blood that trickled from his arm, and felt the anger rise inside of him as he noticed that Ivar hadn’t even bothered to drop the weapon that cut him. It was a flambered silver longsword: one famous in the witcher circle for not only its design, but the ferocity that Ivar attacked with it on his hunts.  Roger’s own longsword, which was heavy and probably too big for him at that age, lay several feet away on the other side of the Evil-Eye. 

“Hold it in your chest!” Ivar commanded more slowly. Roger didn’t listen, and instead focused on the purple eye that was staring down at him, and his urge to stab it. There was no way to get over to the weapon in the dirt. Instead, he would just do as he was told until he could. Roger pulled air through his nose and felt the dry and cold of it warm through his nasal canal. Instead of letting it out as he would normally, he shut his esophagus and pinned it inside of his body.

“No,” Ivar tapped the tip of his sword on the ground, “You are bleeding. Your heart is trying to tell you that you are in danger, that you aren’t safe. Control it. Your heart doesn’t control your body. You do. Hold it. Don’t trap the breath. Embrace it.” 

Roger was confused, and watched as Ivar mimed flexing his body. 

“Your throat should be relaxed. Your chest should hold the air, and your mind should remain calm,” Ivar’s tone softened. 

Roger closed his eyes. The flat edge of Ivar’s blade slapped the top of his head. Roger lost the breath and jumped to his feet. Before he could decide what to do, the pommel of Ivar’s sword struck the center of Roger’s forehead, crumpling him to the ground. 

“Wasted time,” Ivar lamented. Roger’s vision dimmed to nothingness.

Roger’s kept one hand on the ceiling of the watery tunnel as he paddled with his other and kicked with his legs. Light had completely left the area, and the only way he knew what was up from down was the direction the bubbles leaving his mouth were crawling over his face. He was careful to only release a bit at a time, but also remembered that his body would start to panic well before he was out of oxygen. He would just have to remind himself that he was fine, and that he had plenty more time before he needed to turn around. Although he wasn’t in any fear of drowning at that moment, he was already thinking about a return trip. 

As his feet kicked he felt his knee scrape against the stone floor. The front of his foot instinctively pushed against it and he pressed his hand up and forward to feel for the surface. His heart rate began to quicken as each step was met without his hand breaking the water. Despite the intention of the witcher trials and their dampening of his emotions, fear began to creep into his mind. It caused his muscles to tense and jerk, and his legs started kicking down more frantically. His fingers slapped against the ceiling as they begged for air, and his brain began increasing the alert signals every second. Anger overtook fear and he blew out the rest of the air from his lungs, let his body sink, and primed his legs as they bent in anticipation. With a powerful thrust, he slammed his feet downward and shot himself forward as he kept one hand in front of himself and another tracing the water’s edge above. Blood pounded in his ears over and over until it became a deafening roar. 

Finally, his wrist bent and he felt tendons grind as he hit a rocky incline in front of him. His other hand felt the sharp sting of air against wet fingers, and he powered upwards until he broke the surface. The muscles around his ribs fired and expanded, desperately dragging oxygen into his lungs as quickly as possible. The palms of his hands swung through the air and flattened against the solid surface at the water’s edge. 

In the blink of an eye, he pressed his weight up and he was onto his feet as he blew the water from his face and beard. Wherever he was, there was also no light. However, the noise that his breathing and gasps made as he surfaced did give Roger a sense of the area. It sounded like a small atrium: perhaps the size of a stable in both its length and width. He needed light, and while wet he only knew of one way. 

His fingers traced a nearly complete triangle in the air, and a burst of flame and spark briefly illuminated the room from the minor cast of sorcery. Roger took a quick mental snapshot, and he felt his heart rate stampede as his mind recognized a large, stone coffin covered with a heavy stone slab. Around it were various boxes, bags, and other parcels. 

Immediately, he drew the broken silver sword. He held his breath and began to over analyze every sense that he had. His ears picked up on every drop of water from the walls, his nose inspected every molecule of damp air, and his skin felt every goosebump as his hair stood on end. Whatever fear his body was manifesting while in the pitch black of the watery tunnel was now amplified by the brief glimpse he had seen just a moment earlier. 

Packy, the Katakan, was a specific type of vampire. That type of creature was more beast than man, and in only extremely rare circumstances could it take the shape of a human. Roger had met other witchers on the path that had speculated that it was even a different type of vampire altogether. Something that was an evolution of the species and was the direct result of generations needing to hide amongst their prey. However, despite whatever advancements a few mutated individuals were capable of, there was zero record of any Katakan variant using a coffin or tomb.

Light flooded the chamber again as another eruption of fire cast out of Roger’s hand. He could feel his limited energy dropping with each use of the minor spell, but he didn’t have a choice. In two silent bounds he closed the distance between where he came out of the water and where the coffin lay. His fingers traced over the bags and he could hear slight impacts where objects were bumping into each other. Some were metal, others were wood, and there were a few that he felt could have been a crafted material based on the light sound they made when they impacted. The bag was still a bit wet, which meant that it probably came through the water to get here somewhat recently. Roger padded as many of the other parcels as he could, but only found the one bag that was moist. He scooped it up and fastened it to his sword belt that he had across his torso. That’s when he heard the disturbance of the water behind him that he had just entered from. The hairs inside of his ears tingled and danced at the dripping water that accompanied something else following behind him. 

“Osric?” he whispered. Roger let two heartbeats pass and then he traced the nearly complete triangle again in the air. Red flame shot from his fingers, and he saw the lithe, sinewy form of a humanoid-creature cover its face with its arm. Its height was similar to Roger’s, which put it at least a head above the normal height of a man from the continent. And although Skellige men were a bit larger than those from the mainland, most of them were known for having an abundance of hair, not a lack of it like the pale being blocking his exit. 

Roger lunged. He knew he hadn’t been able to confirm what exactly had entered into the stone atrium with him, but given the surroundings he felt comfortable in assuming it was a threat. He swung his longsword, despite its broken tip, blindly in a downward slash meant to either cut into his opponent’s head, or force a defensive maneuver from it. Instead, he hit nothing but air. His ears then detected a new presence behind him where sound had previously bounced against the stone wall behind the tomb. The presence was too far away for him to spin and slash. So instead, he gripped the bag that he’d tied to his sword belt, sprinted forward, and dove back into the black waters of the tunnel. 

He knew he was in trouble. There was only a certain class of vampire that could dissipate in air and move at a speed like he had just heard. The more his mind unwrapped the circumstances the more panicked he became, as all of his gear was sitting completely outside of the cave in the hollow of a rotted log. His legs slashed through the water and his arms scooped the area in front of him, unconcerned with hitting anything other than the other side. The length of the tunnel seemed to have extended since his first trip, and he wasn’t even being mindful about his breath control this time. 

Suddenly, his momentum stopped, and there was a new pressure squeezing around his leg. Something had grabbed him, and was trying to pull him back from the direction he’d come. There was a release of air from his lungs as his voice roared under the water - water which slowed the thrust of his blade as he attempted to strike his pursuer. The same pressure that was wrapped around his leg now slammed around his hand. With his energy already dangerously low, he traced another triangle with a line cut through the middle. He could feel the rush as the toll needed to cast the minor sorcery was paid, and his hearing left him for a brief moment. A blast of energy coarsed through the surrounding liquid, and the hold that was on his appendages released. 

Roger burst through the surface and rolled onto the cold stone floor. His hand flailed for his broken silver sword, but found nothing in his scabbard. He couldn’t remember much after he felt the cast of his Aard sign and the ensuing freedom. The candles from the drawing tables and bookshelves relieved some of the tension on Roger’s eyes, and he saw Packy’s arm still lying on one of the surface on the raised perimeter of the dark pool. 

His feet wasted no time and they bounded up the stairs to the elevated area. He opened the bag he’d swiped from the other atrium and shoved the severed claw inside. Without having the time to inspect the contents that he’d pulled from next to the tomb, he wanted to make sure he had some proof to present about the murder if not the inventory. However, as he dashed back towards the cave’s entrance through the winding tunnels he realized he couldn’t be certain which monster was responsible for any or all of it. Was it Packy, whom he was fairly certain Osric had dispatched of back on the trail? Or, was it this new being that had not only followed him into the cave, but also endured a minor sorcery blast and gone invisible on command? 

Just get to Greyleaf, Roger thought. Get out of this hell-hole, and get to the old man. Maybe check on Osric. Did Osric encounter this other creature? Is Osric dead? 

Roger shook the thoughts from his head and focused on getting out of the cave. This time, there was no thought given to the sound that he made as he raced to the exit. He leapt over tables, kicked over chairs, and knocked down stacks of books that were blocking his direct line to the exit of the circular chamber. 

A burst of water sent droplets scattering across the room, some of which even snuffed out candles that had been the only source of light for the room. The ones that were left cast ominous shadows, and managed to illuminate the table that the invisible presence nearly broke in half as it landed its airborne escape from the murky tunnel. Roger turned and cast another Aard blindly behind him. He heard a screech and items impacting all throughout the room as the kinetic blast ripped through the furniture and objects once neatly organized. Any light that had remained was extinguished. 

Roger had no choice but to sprint his way out.

PART TWO:

The red-hound was sure that if he ever made it out of the cave, then to a tavern, and rented a room that just happened to have a looking-glass, that he would see a face, forehead, and forearms covered in bruises. Bruises only from his exodus from the cave and how many times he slammed into stone walls until the morning light from the cave’s entrance let his cat-like eyes determine his surroundings. There were no claws in his back, or fangs in his neck, and every second he was able to count from the first he was thankful he was alive. 

A few moments was all he needed to reach the end. The tide had fallen since he first entered, and he was able to make his way back to the beach with relative ease. His nose, however, smelled thick blood in the air, and he spied a heap of armor at the water’s edge with a crimson trail coming from the forest. The freshness of it could be seen as it glistened in the dwindling light of the moon. It matted down the grass and soaked into the dark sand. 

“Osric!” Roger rushed to his fellow witcher, whose sputtering and gasping became louder with each step. Blood poured from his face and through his beard as he tried to hold his body up with his arms while lying on his belly. 

“Hound…” the hoarse voice croaked barely above a whisper. 

“We can’t linger,” Roger urged as grabbed Osric’s shoulders and tried to hoist him to his feet. He nervously kept looking over his shoulder to the cave’s entrance hoping that whatever he encountered in the cave remained there. “Are you able to move? Can you make it back to Greyleaf’s cabin?” 

“Cunt...druid,” Osric croaked. 

“You might need that cunt to survive,” Roger pulled Osric’s arm over his shoulder and began dragging him back towards the path in the woods where Roger had stashed his gear.

“No…” Osric moaned. 

“Don’t argue with me,” Roger said, nearly pleading while he looked back behind them at the beach front. The wind coming from the ocean was too strong to pick up any more scents. Osric was heavy, which made it no surprise that he was able to produce such force in his swings. Roger thought he could still feel the sting in his forearm when their blades collided earlier in the night. Now the sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon, and the two’s lives were bound to each other through the hunt. The Path has a funny sense of humor, Roger mused for a moment. 

“Here,” Roger placed his new friend down on the ground near the hollow log he’d hidden his equipment. 

“Hound…” Osric began. 

“Save your breath, we aren’t out of trouble yet,” Roger began slipping his clothing back on layer by layer.

“Hound…” Osric repeated, this time with more breath behind his words. Roger attached his twin short-swords to his chest, and then looked up at Osric’s face as the sun broke the horizon over the ocean. 

“Osric, what happened?” Roger asked, barely able to keep out the quiver in his voice and his shock from alarming the bear-school hunter even more. Where before Osric was operating with one eye, he now had none. A patch of bloody slashes danced across his face, and the socket where his blue eye used to be was still dribbling blood down his face. 

“The cunt…” Osric began, “He got me. The black blood…”

Osric’s head tilted back as slipped into unconsciousness. Roger leaned forward and felt a weak pulse in his neck. 

“I need to get you to Greyleaf, now.”

As Roger finished his sentence, he caught a strong scent of blood rushing past him on the salty wind from the coast. Without any hesitation, his hand latched onto Osric’s crossbow and withdrew a bolt from the quiver on Osric’s hip. He knocked the bolt and aimed it back towards the direction he’d come, but saw nothing. The smell became stronger, and his eyes searched for any kind of disturbance in the sand, shoreline, or grass. Certain vampires were able to blend in with their environments to the point where they were nearly invisible. Those “certain vampires” were extremely dangerous, and didn’t leave Roger much hope for escaping his ordeal alive. 

“Osric, Osric!” Roger shook the unconscious witcher while keeping the side of his gaze focused on the beach. “Where is your sword?! Osric, your sword!”

Osric’s body slumped forward and his breathing struggled and stuttered for a moment. With all of the strength he could muster, Roger ducked his shoulder under the unconscious witcher and stood up with him like a sack of gain. He could feel the tightness in his legs through each strand of muscle that hadn’t been given much time to rest since the arena, the Katakan fight, or the cave. 

“Come on you fat bastard,” he said with much strain in his voice. His small steps had to be careful to avoid the rocks, roots, and holes in the path from the shoreline back to the woods. The scent of blood had disappeared for the time being, and he used that as a sign - be it true or not - that the two weren’t being pursued. 

As he moved through the thickening tree line he could still smell the burnt remains of the foliage that Packy’s shattered lantern caused in their previous fight. The other signs of the skirmish scarred the landscape with matted grass, blood, and charred earth. A mound of monstrous flesh sat in the center of the pathway with various pieces cut from its body, including the arm that Roger had followed into the cave on the shoreline. His eyes scanned the ground looking for anything that he could use to better defend himself, and that’s when he caught a glint of the morning sunlight peeking out from beneath a curtain of blood on the blade of Osric’s silver sword. 

The sword was lying next to Packy’s body, which had remained in its vampiric form as Osric looked to have begun removing its head. Near the silver sword was another spattering of blood, but the direction of it was away from the Katakan, but not in a way that would have come from Osric’s strikes. This was Osric’s blood.  

The familiar scent returned, and Roger rolled Osric’s body onto the ground. He lunged at the silver blade and took it in his hand before springing back up to his feet in a ready stance. The metallic smell seemed to move around him, and was growing stronger and stronger each second. Roger spun and fired, hoping to catch the nearly invisible vampire off-guard with a preemptive shot. Instead, he watched a small man covered in furs and talismans diving to the side and screaming. The bolt soared through the air and struck through where the man had been just moments before dodging. 

“Please stop! Roger! Stop! It’s me!” an older and panicked voice pleaded and held up his hands. 

Roger shook his head and refocused on the familiar face of his druid friend.  

“Help us,” Roger calmly commanded, keeping his eyes on their surroundings and his hands on the hilt of Osric’s sword. Greyleaf began to move forward, but Roger held out his hand. The druid stopped and followed Roger’s eyes as they scanned the woods.

“Hound…” Osric murmured, his voice being barely audible above the increase in wind and rustling of the trees. 

“Try not to move,” Roger replied, still scanning their surroundings as the smell of blood ebbed around them. 

“Hound…” Osric repeated. “The druid…”

“Is here, but the situation has become a bit complicated.” 

Greyleaf began to stand on shaky legs with nervous eyes, “Roger, what is going on?” 

Roger used his same hand and beckoned Greyleaf over to them, hoping he could start healing Osric. He also waited to see if the druid’s movement would cause their pursuer to attack from wherever it was hiding. 

“No…” Osric continued, barely able to speak. “The druid…”

“Osric, I need to focus,” Roger watched as branches and leaves danced around them. Greyleaf was barely able to keep his balance as his knees wobbled and moved towards the safety of the professional monster hunter. 

“Kill…” Osric wheezed, then coughed blood out of his mouth.

“I’m trying to, if you’d let me.” 

“The druid…” 

Greyleaf was only a few steps away from them.

“...kill...the druid…”