A Shard Of Ice 8

VIII

The blow fell unexpectedly, the club swished softly in the darkness, so fast that the Witcher only just managed to protect his head by instinctively raising an arm, and only just managed to cushion the blow by lithely twisting his body. He sprang aside, dropping on one knee, somersaulted, landed on his feet, felt a movement of the air yielding before another swing of the club, evaded the blow with a nimble pirouette, spinning between the two shapes closing in on him in the dark, and reached above his right shoulder. For his sword.

His sword was not there.

Nothing can take these reactions from me, he thought, leaping smoothly aside. Routine? Cellular memory? I’m a mutant, I react like a mutant, he thought, dropping to one knee again, dodging a blow, and reaching into his boot for his dagger. There was no dagger.

He smiled wryly and was hit on the head with a club. A light blazed in his eyes and the pain shot down to his fingertips. He fell, relaxing, still smiling.

Somebody flopped onto him, pressing him against the ground. Somebody else ripped the purse from his belt. His eye caught sight of a knife flashing. The one kneeling on his chest tore open his jerkin at the neck, seized the chain and pulled out his medallion. And immediately let go of it.

‘By Baal-Zebuth,’ Geralt heard somebody pant. ‘It’s a witcher… A real bruiser…’ The other swore, breathing heavily.

‘He didn’t have a sword… O Gods, save us from the Evil… Let’s scarper, Radgast! Don’t touch him.’ For a moment the moon shone through a wispy cloud. Geralt saw just above him a gaunt, ratty face and small, black, shining eyes. He heard the other man’s loud footsteps fading away, vanishing into an alleyway reeking of cats and burnt fat.

The small man with the ratty face slowly removed his knee from Geralt’s chest.

‘Next time…’ Geralt heard the clear whisper, ‘next time you feel like killing yourself, Witcher, don’t drag other people into it. Just hang yourself in the stable from your reins.’