The next difference between home and this other world became clear to Geralt while he still swam. Getting the corpse out to shore was to be a difficult task. The Katakan was over a head taller than him. Its body mass was several pounds greater than the Witchers. The vampire had caused him enough trouble, and the sooner it ended, the sooner he could focus on other matters.
His bad luck made itself known again when the Aard, which was supposed to blast the body and head faster to shore, amounted to almost nothing. The water barely rippled, as though a child slapped it. A belch from Zoltan would've done more.
"What the devil...?" He said, staring at his left hand. Again, he thrust, and the result was no better. His potions had yet to run out, nor had he exerted himself by casting too many signs beforehand. Therefore the problem was elsewhere.
Though he was no great sorcerer, to use even a simple sign required a fundamental understanding of how magic functioned. To wield it, one must focus the force around oneself through concentration and varying exertions of their own will. Through said will and no small amount of practice, one could perform many incredible feats.
And so Geralt closed his eyes, nearly halting his own slowed heartbeat and enjoyed the cooling feel of the ocean about him. Letting his senses perceive the force as best he could. It was a practice many young Witchers did early in their sign training. One only tolerated for a short while.
It was here Geralt found the root cause of his diminished sign power: the force of this world was weak. This ocean alone held less of it than a small lake back home. Each scrap was like trying to grab a spilled water between his fingers. Was this world always so starved, or did something weaken it?
Whatever the cause, the effect on Geralt's sign strength remained even after spending up to a minute concentrating. The Aard, though more powerful than before, still nudged the Katakan half the distance it should have.
About fifteen minutes later, the corpse and Witcher finally reached the shore. First, Geralt removed his sword still inside the vampire's body, meeting little resistance. With more force than necessary, he kicked the corpse so that its chest faced the sky.
He stared at it, wondering whether or not to bother removing its bones, heart, and any other parts. Just carrying the head around with no horse was troublesome given its size and weight. Yet the vampire owed him much for the misfortune it wrought and many of its parts were necessary in the crafting of high quality Witcher armor or swords, provided any blacksmith on this world was capable of crafting such things.
His practicality won out. Kneeling at the beast's left side, Geralt put his sword onto the ground. With the silver dagger in-hand, he began carving off the Katakan's claws. Ordinarily, taking off their limbs and extracting from them wholesale was the wiser option. Without Roach around and the saddlebag to place all of those bones in, this would have to suffice.
Luckily, the flesh about the claws showed little resistance. In a few minutes, most of them were off. Through the next hour, there were eight useful bones for alchemy. Geralt wrapped them in a cloth and placed them inside one of the two leather bags of his bandolier. Inside the other, he put the heart after cleaning it in the ocean and wrapping a cloth around it as well.
Knowing he couldn't burn the corpse with a single Igni, Geralt decided a more inventive approach. With a series of sword swings, he removed the vampire's limbs and stuffed them inside its open chest cavity. Next, oil got applied to the lump of blood, mutilated flesh. Even the weakened fire blast found ample fuel with its flame resembling the inside of a furnace.
He remained by the body, watching its flesh peel away, crack and turn black. Though Geralt was tired from the battle, the shock of being on another world and riping the body to pieces, he was mostly satisfied. Though they did not know it, and likely thought him dead, the families of Magdalena, Zvone, Igor, and Petar had received justice. No more sons or daughters of Zrinski would die to the blood-sucking fiend.
The shred of bitterness dulling his sense of accomplishment came from the fact he could not tell them so, not yet. Then there was the fact he took the small bits of jewelry adorning the Katakan. Two golden bracelets, a single ruby ring and some earrings from the head.
Though he had a coin purse, it was unlikely the sentient creatures inhabiting the castle would take them. Ciri and Yennefer would find him, that was beyond question, but how soon wasn't. So, he would have to sell the Katakan's treasures to acquire whatever passed for currency.
It was hard to say who or what inhabited the city looming so distinctly against the moonlight. Save for the seven-massive drum towers, little else besides its impressive size was certain. It didn't help his Cat's potion was wearing off, leaving his Nightvision dulled. Earlier, he spotted lights there, perhaps torches or whatever else they used for illumination.
Perhaps he would encounter humans, from what Ciri told him, they were present in other worlds. The Elves and Dwarves certainly liked to say they arrived back home with the Conjunction. Perhaps this was a domain of the Elves, judging by one of their ruins being present. Or the native species was something else entirely, closer to the Vodyanoy. One of his great regrets from all of the Salamandra business was never visiting their city.
Much as he liked to complain about Dandelion's curiosity, on account of him being unable to control it, Geralt shared it. As often as it led him to danger, it also provided him with many unforgettable experiences. Unlike the places he'd visited during his trip with Avalla'ach, this world wasn't immediately hostile to him either.
Should a great danger present itself, it might hasten his return home more than anything. The bond between Geralt and Ciri was strong, for when one fell into peril, the other became aware of it through dreams and nightmares.
His mind made up, Geralt grabbed the hook he'd ran through the Katakan's head, hoisted it off the ground over a shoulder and made his way into the forest. Lunch or rather, a late-night snack, was due. Keeping an ear out, Geralt already recognized a slew of familiar noises.
From the branches of the tall trees came the distinct hoots of owls, and the screeching of bats. Crickets were abuzz everywhere, chirping unceasingly in a chorus numbering in the dozens or hundreds. Fireflies buzzed through the air, providing illumination the deeper he ventured.
On the ground, Geralt detected the soft rustling of leaves and bushes from mice, hedgehogs, and even foxes. Though he heard no bears prowling the area, the witcher picked up the distinct huffing of a wolf pack some ways off. What had already picked up his scent, or the Katakan's was a wild boar.
Geralt unsheathed his steel blade with the slow softness of a lovers caress. His lunch to be rumbled and hastened its step, each one reverberating through the ground with increasing frequency. Imperceptibly, Geralt bent his knees and tensed the fingers about the hilt. A few heartbeats later, he leaped to the right just as the boar came at him. The sword flashed, blood spurt across the nearby bushes, the boar slammed headfirst into the nearest tree. A moment later, the top of its skull finally landed.
Putting the vampire head down, Geralt grabbed hold of the boars back leg, dragging it away from the tree with some effort. Luckily, they'd run into one another in a small clearing, just big enough for him to set a fire without burning the whole forest down.
He gathered branches and other pieces of wood lying about in the clearing center. Once they were set aflame from a diminutive Igni, he went about sharping one of the longer, sturdier branches with his dagger. Lastly, came skinning the board. It was an impressive beast at full height, nearly reaching Geralt's thighs. Its weight was well over thirty stones, at least. He couldn't hope to eat it all, however. The forest would have to take care of his leftovers.
Judging by its teeth, the animal was perhaps two or three years old. That meant good meat from it. Carving about its necks, Geralt removed a few good-sized chunks and pierced them through with the sharpened stick. Now he simply had to wait a while until it was good and ready to eat. In his youth, the process was a slog Geralt made tolerable through sword fighting practice. Now, with nearly a century of life at his back, there was a mundane pleasure from preparing a meal. It was a practice in its own right.
So he watched and listened as the minutes passed by, the forest life continued despite his presence. One group he noticed earlier and fully expected to visit him did so eventually. They numbered five pack members, quietly they prowled through the forest, sniffing and salivating the smell of cooked and uncooked meat. Geralt watched them without moving, taking note of their yellow eyes watching him at the edges of the campfire.
He didn't feel like fighting anymore for today. So, Geralt rose slowly to his feet, grabbing the boar with both hands, heaving it off into the forest where three of the wolves stood. They snarled and bared their fangs at him but made no move to attack. Their free dinner was waiting. By the time Geralt sat back down, his meal was ready as well.
And so for a while, the six wolves ate together.
Eventually, the pack left, devouring a sizable portion of the boar and with enough left over for later. Geralt listened to them go, sitting down with his back pressed against the nearest tree. Under one arm was the Katakan head, in another the steel sword.
He chose neither to travel further into the forest or sleep. Instead, Geralt closed his eyes, let his breathing fall into a practiced pattern, slowing his heartbeat. The meditation left him relaxed and alert, capable of resting and springing into action at a moment's notice. Hhe laid there, still as a corpse until hours later, when the early morning sunshine warmed his face.
Wiping away the caterpillar which decided to crawl across his brow, Geralt let out a long moan, stretching the muscles of his neck then shoulders. Just as with his world, the sun was bright orange, piercing the retreating night, turning the sky into a collection of purple and blue hues. Assuming it functioned positionally the same, Geralt could finally discern where east and west were.
The large city he spotted was, relative to his position, further west. It would no doubt take him perhaps another day or so to get there. Without delay, he did so. The owls and bats of the woods gave way to seagulls and chirping morning birds. Squirrels and rabbits abandoned their domains to begin foraging for food. They were indistinguishable from the species of his world. As did the trees with many of the plants he came across as well, Mistletoes, Allspice, White Mertle, Fools Parsley to name but a few.
Other he did not see, perhaps because they did not grow there or did not exist at all. He would not use the recognizable herbs for potions without testing them first. Just because they looked and smelled the same didn't mean there weren't differences. Ones he couldn't know of and could turn even a simple Cat potion into an alchemical bomb ready to backfire on him.
Some hours later, Geralt stopped walking. Firstly to let his feet rest for a bit and secondly to spot any water around. Besides seawater, he hadn't drunk a thing since the day before, the thirst was beginning to annoy him. After a few minutes of listening, the witcher heard a creek flowing.
The firstly faint rush of water grew as he traversed the forest southward. Yet his attention on it gave away to another sound Geralt was all too familiar with: the pounding of horse hooves. Several, moving at a leisure pace, accompanied by the creaking and swaying of what seemed a large, heavy wooden carriage.
Moving toward the sound, hastening his speed in turn, Geralt hoped his presence wouldn't elicit violence to erupt. Still, the witcher would take a long, hard look at whoever rode those horses before revealing himself. The closer he got to the horses, the more it became clear he was not the only one to converge on their location.
As all violence did, it happened suddenly and without warning to the recipient. The distinctive cry of a man in pain echoed through the woods soon joined by the neighing of horses, the shouting of commands, and the steel pounding against steel.
Geralt's blade was out in an instant, his body rushing past the trees as fast as his legs could manage. The noise of battle grew stronger: men were dying, a woman screamed, a burst of bone-chilling laughter drowned it all out.
Soon enough, he came upon what was a road, the site of the battle. Before he could join it, Geralt took spotted one of the ambushers keeping a safe distance, striking his targets with a bow and arrow. From a glance, he was an older man with white hair tied into a ponytail, wearing a green jerkin, moving with a precision Milva would've found impressive.
He was also alert, for when Geralt snapped a twig on the ground, the brigand spun around, unleashing an arrow intended for someone else the intruder. Geralt deflected it with a circular motion of his sword. The archer stared, opening his mouth to curse before his head came off following another swing.
Reaching for a silver dagger, Geralt emerged from the forest to the carriages right. Inside it, a woman screamed, trying to fight off another archer clad in black at the door, her tan arms vainly keeping him at bay.
A bit further away, two of his companions fought against a pair of men in black armor adorned with golden cloaks.
With a single knife toss, Geralt attacked the archer harassing the woman, driving the blade clear through the back of his head. The brigand to the witcher's left, wearing a distinct red scarf around his neck, took notice of his fallen comrade first. He even managed to spot Geralt himself a moment before he was beheaded as well.
"Oswyn!" The largest of them so far, a bearded bear of a man with a head wrapped in chainmail, wielding a Warhammer roared. With a single backhand, he knocked the gold cloak to the ground, charging at Geralt.
With an impressive grace and speed to his technique, the bearded bear swung, intending to take Geralt's head off. He struck nothing for the witcher ducked, already launching his counter-attack. With an upward sword swing, the steel blade split the bandits head in two from chin to brow.
A momentary lull fell over the battle, Geralt staring at the dead man falling to his feet, the gold cloaks staring at the witcher as though he were some phantasm. But only for a moment, until the laughter from before came back. From the front of the carriage, clad in black armor, a round shield and fresh blood dripping down his blade, came the ugliest man Geralt had ever seen.
He was without question uglier than Vilgerfortz. His receding hairline exposed a ghastly pale skin rivaling Geralt's own. His eyes had red bags under them, emphasizing the tiny black hateful orbs in their sockets. His teeth were jagged, rotten yellow, eternally fixed into a smile capable of making a drowner piss itself.
With slow, powerful steps, the smiling brigand dressed in a dark perversion of a knight came at Geralt.
"A most welcome surprise," He laughed again. "Perhaps you'll satisfy me now that Hightower cannot!"
Geralt wasted no time on banter, opting to strike him down quickly then move on to the rest. Yet when his blade moved to sever another throat, the smiling brigand demonstrated a speed much greater than one would expect, deflecting the stab.
He tried to bash Geralt with a shield, but the monster hunter already moved aside, swinging back before his feet even touched the ground. Hatori's swordcraft made itself known immediately, carving through the right shoulder plate. The smiling brigand laughed, pressing forward, unleashing a series of quick yet powerful slashes and thrusts.
Geralt either met or darted around them, thankful that the two gold cloaks opted to flee instead of getting in his way. With a pirouette, the witcher avoided another thrust, scoring two hits of his own. The first cutting into the right forearm while another slashed the bandit diagonally across his back.
Once again, the brigand laughed, spinning around to strike with even greater ferocity than before. Perhaps he was some strange monster from this world, capable of feeding off the pain of his injuries. Or he was just a man who knew death was close at hand and wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.
Whichever was true, Geralt would end it in a way he knew to work with any man or beast. Leaning to the right, the witcher evaded another swing, pulled his arm back, and thrust it through the brigand's right knee. Even this mad dog howled from the pain, stumbling into a kneeling position.
Pulling the blade out, Geralt intended to cut his head off as well when he picked up a noise. Their battle had moved them past the back of the carriage, out in the open. A third archer awaited them there. Geralt just barely jerked his head back, letting the arrow pass mere inches from his face.
With grit teeth, Geralt grabbed hold of another throwing knife when the smiling brigand shouted. Ripping his round shield away, he roared and tossed it in the direction of the forest.
From there, a woman's yelp came out. "Bloody mad whor*son!"
"Stay out of this Wenda," He took hold of his sword, pointing at Geralt. "I'll suffer no interference in this battle!"
Geralt kept an ear out for her regardless, though by the sound of things Wenda would do as ordered.
"My apologies," The smiling one said with a mocking tone it was hard to gauge the sincerity of it. "A duel like ours should remain ours only."
The witcher stared at him for a moment, then bowed his head in acknowledgment. In the next moment, they were back at it. With an impressive strength of will power, the smiling brigand launched back to his feet, his blade meeting Geralt's in a lock.
The two stared at one another, faces inches apart, one with a forceful grin, the other of a cold professional. The witcher's demeanor broke first with the next strike. With a snarl, Geralt pushed the bandit away, bringing his sword back down with an overhead blow.
His adversary, determined as he was, could not defeat a knee. It gave out from the force of Geralt's blow and the weight of his own armored body. Pressing his advantage, the witcher raised his blade overhead again.
When it came back down, it did so in the company of a coarse, bestial roar from the depths of Geralt's throat. Such was its strength the sound drowned out the sound of a sword snapping, armor giving away to an enemy blow, and finally, flesh being rent.
Blinking, Geralt stared at the right side of the smiling brigand's chest. With a slow-motion, one part of it went to the right, while the rest of him leaned to the left. His sword hand went limp, dropping the snapped blade at Geralt's feet. Blood poured from the massive wound, forming a puddle around them.
Yet the smiling brigand's expression was not one of pain. Instead, the ghastly grin gained a touch of warmth to it, of genuine happiness and humanity before the light dimmed from his eyes forever.
Geralt stood there, observing the corpse even as he heard Wenda curse, fleeing into the woods. Again and again, she shouted, "The Smiling Knight is dead!".
Her companion from the front of the carriage, a man Geralt did not see, tossed his sword to the ground, saying he was surrendering. An older man, wearing a dirtied set of white armor and a bleeding right hand came from the front then halted.
He stared at Geralt, then the Smiling Knight's corpse before returning his gaze to the witcher. There was apprehension there, uncertainty even a bit of fear. There was no disgust or revulsion, however. The look many adopted whenever one of his kind was within sight.
Eventually, the knight ripped his gaze away and moved to the carriage door. The girl from inside came out. She was a frail-looking young woman, no more than two, perhaps three years older than Ciri. Her yellow gown and headband complemented her tan skin. Though she was shaken by what transpired, she managed a warm smile to the knight regardless.
"Princess Elia! Are you alright, your grace?"
"Yes, Ser Gerold," She confirmed, taking a deep breath. "Though, it would not be so if not for this man."
Just as the knight did, there was uncertainty present in her gaze. As though neither one could fully comprehend what this strange, viper-eyed man before them was. Yet, Geralt could not help notice and appreciate the gratitude there as well.
"I only did what anyone else would, your majesty," Geralt bowed, remembering the court courtesies hammered into him by Dandelion, Yennefer, and Triss.
Surprisingly, it was the knight who laughed. Though not mockingly. "Not just anyone could kill the Smiling Knight. Nevermind half of the Kingswood Brotherhood."
"Please, ser, rise," The princess asked, Geralt did so. "I wish to know the name of the man who has done us all such a service today."
"Geralt of Rivia, your highness. I'm a witcher."
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A/N: Yes, I know Geralt was knighted, twice, but he sees himself first and foremost as a witcher. Next time, we see more familiar faces.
